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all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/87.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_86_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 12.chapter 8

book 12, chapter 8

{"name": "Book 12, Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-12-chapter-8", "summary": "Now we go into the third part of prosecutor Kirillovich's closing statement. Kirillovich rejects the idea that Smerdyakov murdered Fyodor, because there is no factual evidence. He paints Smerdyakov as essentially a coward, fearful of Dmitri's strength and Ivan's newfangled ideas, unable to muster enough guts to do something as extreme as murder. In his retelling of the events of that night, Kirillovich argues that there was no point at which Smerdyakov could have murdered Fyodor. Then Kirillovich turns to Smerdyakov's suicide note and argues that the absence of any confession to Fyodor's murder is further proof that Smerdyakov didn't do it. He asserts that if Smerdyakov had really confessed to Ivan the night before, as Ivan claimed, Ivan would have gone straight to the police instead of waiting for the trial. Kirillovich said he had information that Ivan had cashed two 5 percent bank notes for 5,000 roubles each a week ago. Kirillovich points to Katerina's letter as further evidence for his version of events. Just as the letter had stated, Dmitri had murdered and robbed his father, leaving the envelope containing the roubles on the floor. This is just how someone who murdered in a fit of passion would act, not caring about leaving key evidence behind. He also dismisses the idea that Dmitri could have checked on Grigory after he attacked him, because such an act of compassion isn't consistent with Dmitri's character.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VIII. A Treatise On Smerdyakov "To begin with, what was the source of this suspicion?" (Ippolit Kirillovitch began.) "The first person who cried out that Smerdyakov had committed the murder was the prisoner himself at the moment of his arrest, yet from that time to this he had not brought forward a single fact to confirm the charge, nor the faintest suggestion of a fact. The charge is confirmed by three persons only--the two brothers of the prisoner and Madame Svyetlov. The elder of these brothers expressed his suspicions only to-day, when he was undoubtedly suffering from brain fever. But we know that for the last two months he has completely shared our conviction of his brother's guilt and did not attempt to combat that idea. But of that later. The younger brother has admitted that he has not the slightest fact to support his notion of Smerdyakov's guilt, and has only been led to that conclusion from the prisoner's own words and the expression of his face. Yes, that astounding piece of evidence has been brought forward twice to- day by him. Madame Svyetlov was even more astounding. 'What the prisoner tells you, you must believe; he is not a man to tell a lie.' That is all the evidence against Smerdyakov produced by these three persons, who are all deeply concerned in the prisoner's fate. And yet the theory of Smerdyakov's guilt has been noised about, has been and is still maintained. Is it credible? Is it conceivable?" Here Ippolit Kirillovitch thought it necessary to describe the personality of Smerdyakov, "who had cut short his life in a fit of insanity." He depicted him as a man of weak intellect, with a smattering of education, who had been thrown off his balance by philosophical ideas above his level and certain modern theories of duty, which he learnt in practice from the reckless life of his master, who was also perhaps his father--Fyodor Pavlovitch; and, theoretically, from various strange philosophical conversations with his master's elder son, Ivan Fyodorovitch, who readily indulged in this diversion, probably feeling dull or wishing to amuse himself at the valet's expense. "He spoke to me himself of his spiritual condition during the last few days at his father's house," Ippolit Kirillovitch explained; "but others too have borne witness to it--the prisoner himself, his brother, and the servant Grigory--that is, all who knew him well. "Moreover, Smerdyakov, whose health was shaken by his attacks of epilepsy, had not the courage of a chicken. 'He fell at my feet and kissed them,' the prisoner himself has told us, before he realized how damaging such a statement was to himself. 'He is an epileptic chicken,' he declared about him in his characteristic language. And the prisoner chose him for his confidant (we have his own word for it) and he frightened him into consenting at last to act as a spy for him. In that capacity he deceived his master, revealing to the prisoner the existence of the envelope with the notes in it and the signals by means of which he could get into the house. How could he help telling him, indeed? 'He would have killed me, I could see that he would have killed me,' he said at the inquiry, trembling and shaking even before us, though his tormentor was by that time arrested and could do him no harm. 'He suspected me at every instant. In fear and trembling I hastened to tell him every secret to pacify him, that he might see that I had not deceived him and let me off alive.' Those are his own words. I wrote them down and I remember them. 'When he began shouting at me, I would fall on my knees.' "He was naturally very honest and enjoyed the complete confidence of his master, ever since he had restored him some money he had lost. So it may be supposed that the poor fellow suffered pangs of remorse at having deceived his master, whom he loved as his benefactor. Persons severely afflicted with epilepsy are, so the most skillful doctors tell us, always prone to continual and morbid self-reproach. They worry over their 'wickedness,' they are tormented by pangs of conscience, often entirely without cause; they exaggerate and often invent all sorts of faults and crimes. And here we have a man of that type who had really been driven to wrong-doing by terror and intimidation. "He had, besides, a strong presentiment that something terrible would be the outcome of the situation that was developing before his eyes. When Ivan Fyodorovitch was leaving for Moscow, just before the catastrophe, Smerdyakov besought him to remain, though he was too timid to tell him plainly what he feared. He confined himself to hints, but his hints were not understood. "It must be observed that he looked on Ivan Fyodorovitch as a protector, whose presence in the house was a guarantee that no harm would come to pass. Remember the phrase in Dmitri Karamazov's drunken letter, 'I shall kill the old man, if only Ivan goes away.' So Ivan Fyodorovitch's presence seemed to every one a guarantee of peace and order in the house. "But he went away, and within an hour of his young master's departure Smerdyakov was taken with an epileptic fit. But that's perfectly intelligible. Here I must mention that Smerdyakov, oppressed by terror and despair of a sort, had felt during those last few days that one of the fits from which he had suffered before at moments of strain, might be coming upon him again. The day and hour of such an attack cannot, of course, be foreseen, but every epileptic can feel beforehand that he is likely to have one. So the doctors tell us. And so, as soon as Ivan Fyodorovitch had driven out of the yard, Smerdyakov, depressed by his lonely and unprotected position, went to the cellar. He went down the stairs wondering if he would have a fit or not, and what if it were to come upon him at once. And that very apprehension, that very wonder, brought on the spasm in his throat that always precedes such attacks, and he fell unconscious into the cellar. And in this perfectly natural occurrence people try to detect a suspicion, a hint that he was shamming an attack _on purpose_. But, if it were on purpose, the question arises at once, what was his motive? What was he reckoning on? What was he aiming at? I say nothing about medicine: science, I am told, may go astray: the doctors were not able to discriminate between the counterfeit and the real. That may be so, but answer me one question: what motive had he for such a counterfeit? Could he, had he been plotting the murder, have desired to attract the attention of the household by having a fit just before? "You see, gentlemen of the jury, on the night of the murder, there were five persons in Fyodor Pavlovitch's--Fyodor Pavlovitch himself (but he did not kill himself, that's evident); then his servant, Grigory, but he was almost killed himself; the third person was Grigory's wife, Marfa Ignatyevna, but it would be simply shameful to imagine her murdering her master. Two persons are left--the prisoner and Smerdyakov. But, if we are to believe the prisoner's statement that he is not the murderer, then Smerdyakov must have been, for there is no other alternative, no one else can be found. That is what accounts for the artful, astounding accusation against the unhappy idiot who committed suicide yesterday. Had a shadow of suspicion rested on any one else, had there been any sixth person, I am persuaded that even the prisoner would have been ashamed to accuse Smerdyakov, and would have accused that sixth person, for to charge Smerdyakov with that murder is perfectly absurd. "Gentlemen, let us lay aside psychology, let us lay aside medicine, let us even lay aside logic, let us turn only to the facts and see what the facts tell us. If Smerdyakov killed him, how did he do it? Alone or with the assistance of the prisoner? Let us consider the first alternative--that he did it alone. If he had killed him it must have been with some object, for some advantage to himself. But not having a shadow of the motive that the prisoner had for the murder--hatred, jealousy, and so on--Smerdyakov could only have murdered him for the sake of gain, in order to appropriate the three thousand roubles he had seen his master put in the envelope. And yet he tells another person--and a person most closely interested, that is, the prisoner--everything about the money and the signals, where the envelope lay, what was written on it, what it was tied up with, and, above all, told him of those signals by which he could enter the house. Did he do this simply to betray himself, or to invite to the same enterprise one who would be anxious to get that envelope for himself? 'Yes,' I shall be told, 'but he betrayed it from fear.' But how do you explain this? A man who could conceive such an audacious, savage act, and carry it out, tells facts which are known to no one else in the world, and which, if he held his tongue, no one would ever have guessed! "No, however cowardly he might be, if he had plotted such a crime, nothing would have induced him to tell any one about the envelope and the signals, for that was as good as betraying himself beforehand. He would have invented something, he would have told some lie if he had been forced to give information, but he would have been silent about that. For, on the other hand, if he had said nothing about the money, but had committed the murder and stolen the money, no one in the world could have charged him with murder for the sake of robbery, since no one but he had seen the money, no one but he knew of its existence in the house. Even if he had been accused of the murder, it could only have been thought that he had committed it from some other motive. But since no one had observed any such motive in him beforehand, and every one saw, on the contrary, that his master was fond of him and honored him with his confidence, he would, of course, have been the last to be suspected. People would have suspected first the man who had a motive, a man who had himself declared he had such motives, who had made no secret of it; they would, in fact, have suspected the son of the murdered man, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Had Smerdyakov killed and robbed him, and the son been accused of it, that would, of course, have suited Smerdyakov. Yet are we to believe that, though plotting the murder, he told that son, Dmitri, about the money, the envelope, and the signals? Is that logical? Is that clear? "When the day of the murder planned by Smerdyakov came, we have him falling downstairs in a _feigned_ fit--with what object? In the first place that Grigory, who had been intending to take his medicine, might put it off and remain on guard, seeing there was no one to look after the house, and, in the second place, I suppose, that his master seeing that there was no one to guard him, and in terror of a visit from his son, might redouble his vigilance and precaution. And, most of all, I suppose that he, Smerdyakov, disabled by the fit, might be carried from the kitchen, where he always slept, apart from all the rest, and where he could go in and out as he liked, to Grigory's room at the other end of the lodge, where he was always put, shut off by a screen three paces from their own bed. This was the immemorial custom established by his master and the kind-hearted Marfa Ignatyevna, whenever he had a fit. There, lying behind the screen, he would most likely, to keep up the sham, have begun groaning, and so keeping them awake all night (as Grigory and his wife testified). And all this, we are to believe, that he might more conveniently get up and murder his master! "But I shall be told that he shammed illness on purpose that he might not be suspected and that he told the prisoner of the money and the signals to tempt him to commit the murder, and when he had murdered him and had gone away with the money, making a noise, most likely, and waking people, Smerdyakov got up, am I to believe, and went in--what for? To murder his master a second time and carry off the money that had already been stolen? Gentlemen, are you laughing? I am ashamed to put forward such suggestions, but, incredible as it seems, that's just what the prisoner alleges. When he had left the house, had knocked Grigory down and raised an alarm, he tells us Smerdyakov got up, went in and murdered his master and stole the money! I won't press the point that Smerdyakov could hardly have reckoned on this beforehand, and have foreseen that the furious and exasperated son would simply come to peep in respectfully, though he knew the signals, and beat a retreat, leaving Smerdyakov his booty. Gentlemen of the jury, I put this question to you in earnest; when was the moment when Smerdyakov could have committed his crime? Name that moment, or you can't accuse him. "But, perhaps, the fit was a real one, the sick man suddenly recovered, heard a shout, and went out. Well--what then? He looked about him and said, 'Why not go and kill the master?' And how did he know what had happened, since he had been lying unconscious till that moment? But there's a limit to these flights of fancy. " 'Quite so,' some astute people will tell me, 'but what if they were in agreement? What if they murdered him together and shared the money--what then?' A weighty question, truly! And the facts to confirm it are astounding. One commits the murder and takes all the trouble while his accomplice lies on one side shamming a fit, apparently to arouse suspicion in every one, alarm in his master and alarm in Grigory. It would be interesting to know what motives could have induced the two accomplices to form such an insane plan. "But perhaps it was not a case of active complicity on Smerdyakov's part, but only of passive acquiescence; perhaps Smerdyakov was intimidated and agreed not to prevent the murder, and foreseeing that he would be blamed for letting his master be murdered, without screaming for help or resisting, he may have obtained permission from Dmitri Karamazov to get out of the way by shamming a fit--'you may murder him as you like; it's nothing to me.' But as this attack of Smerdyakov's was bound to throw the household into confusion, Dmitri Karamazov could never have agreed to such a plan. I will waive that point however. Supposing that he did agree, it would still follow that Dmitri Karamazov is the murderer and the instigator, and Smerdyakov is only a passive accomplice, and not even an accomplice, but merely acquiesced against his will through terror. "But what do we see? As soon as he is arrested the prisoner instantly throws all the blame on Smerdyakov, not accusing him of being his accomplice, but of being himself the murderer. 'He did it alone,' he says. 'He murdered and robbed him. It was the work of his hands.' Strange sort of accomplices who begin to accuse one another at once! And think of the risk for Karamazov. After committing the murder while his accomplice lay in bed, he throws the blame on the invalid, who might well have resented it and in self-preservation might well have confessed the truth. For he might well have seen that the court would at once judge how far he was responsible, and so he might well have reckoned that if he were punished, it would be far less severely than the real murderer. But in that case he would have been certain to make a confession, yet he has not done so. Smerdyakov never hinted at their complicity, though the actual murderer persisted in accusing him and declaring that he had committed the crime alone. "What's more, Smerdyakov at the inquiry volunteered the statement that it was _he_ who had told the prisoner of the envelope of notes and of the signals, and that, but for him, he would have known nothing about them. If he had really been a guilty accomplice, would he so readily have made this statement at the inquiry? On the contrary, he would have tried to conceal it, to distort the facts or minimize them. But he was far from distorting or minimizing them. No one but an innocent man, who had no fear of being charged with complicity, could have acted as he did. And in a fit of melancholy arising from his disease and this catastrophe he hanged himself yesterday. He left a note written in his peculiar language, 'I destroy myself of my own will and inclination so as to throw no blame on any one.' What would it have cost him to add: 'I am the murderer, not Karamazov'? But that he did not add. Did his conscience lead him to suicide and not to avowing his guilt? "And what followed? Notes for three thousand roubles were brought into the court just now, and we were told that they were the same that lay in the envelope now on the table before us, and that the witness had received them from Smerdyakov the day before. But I need not recall the painful scene, though I will make one or two comments, selecting such trivial ones as might not be obvious at first sight to every one, and so may be overlooked. In the first place, Smerdyakov must have given back the money and hanged himself yesterday from remorse. And only yesterday he confessed his guilt to Ivan Karamazov, as the latter informs us. If it were not so, indeed, why should Ivan Fyodorovitch have kept silence till now? And so, if he has confessed, then why, I ask again, did he not avow the whole truth in the last letter he left behind, knowing that the innocent prisoner had to face this terrible ordeal the next day? "The money alone is no proof. A week ago, quite by chance, the fact came to the knowledge of myself and two other persons in this court that Ivan Fyodorovitch had sent two five per cent. coupons of five thousand each--that is, ten thousand in all--to the chief town of the province to be changed. I only mention this to point out that any one may have money, and that it can't be proved that these notes are the same as were in Fyodor Pavlovitch's envelope. "Ivan Karamazov, after receiving yesterday a communication of such importance from the real murderer, did not stir. Why didn't he report it at once? Why did he put it all off till morning? I think I have a right to conjecture why. His health had been giving way for a week past: he had admitted to a doctor and to his most intimate friends that he was suffering from hallucinations and seeing phantoms of the dead: he was on the eve of the attack of brain fever by which he has been stricken down to-day. In this condition he suddenly heard of Smerdyakov's death, and at once reflected, 'The man is dead, I can throw the blame on him and save my brother. I have money. I will take a roll of notes and say that Smerdyakov gave them me before his death.' You will say that was dishonorable: it's dishonorable to slander even the dead, and even to save a brother. True, but what if he slandered him unconsciously? What if, finally unhinged by the sudden news of the valet's death, he imagined it really was so? You saw the recent scene: you have seen the witness's condition. He was standing up and was speaking, but where was his mind? "Then followed the document, the prisoner's letter written two days before the crime, and containing a complete program of the murder. Why, then, are we looking for any other program? The crime was committed precisely according to this program, and by no other than the writer of it. Yes, gentlemen of the jury, it went off without a hitch! He did not run respectfully and timidly away from his father's window, though he was firmly convinced that the object of his affections was with him. No, that is absurd and unlikely! He went in and murdered him. Most likely he killed him in anger, burning with resentment, as soon as he looked on his hated rival. But having killed him, probably with one blow of the brass pestle, and having convinced himself, after careful search, that she was not there, he did not, however, forget to put his hand under the pillow and take out the envelope, the torn cover of which lies now on the table before us. "I mention this fact that you may note one, to my thinking, very characteristic circumstance. Had he been an experienced murderer and had he committed the murder for the sake of gain only, would he have left the torn envelope on the floor as it was found, beside the corpse? Had it been Smerdyakov, for instance, murdering his master to rob him, he would have simply carried away the envelope with him, without troubling himself to open it over his victim's corpse, for he would have known for certain that the notes were in the envelope--they had been put in and sealed up in his presence--and had he taken the envelope with him, no one would ever have known of the robbery. I ask you, gentlemen, would Smerdyakov have behaved in that way? Would he have left the envelope on the floor? "No, this was the action of a frantic murderer, a murderer who was not a thief and had never stolen before that day, who snatched the notes from under the pillow, not like a thief stealing them, but as though seizing his own property from the thief who had stolen it. For that was the idea which had become almost an insane obsession in Dmitri Karamazov in regard to that money. And pouncing upon the envelope, which he had never seen before, he tore it open to make sure whether the money was in it, and ran away with the money in his pocket, even forgetting to consider that he had left an astounding piece of evidence against himself in that torn envelope on the floor. All because it was Karamazov, not Smerdyakov, he didn't think, he didn't reflect, and how should he? He ran away; he heard behind him the servant cry out; the old man caught him, stopped him and was felled to the ground by the brass pestle. "The prisoner, moved by pity, leapt down to look at him. Would you believe it, he tells us that he leapt down out of pity, out of compassion, to see whether he could do anything for him. Was that a moment to show compassion? No; he jumped down simply to make certain whether the only witness of his crime were dead or alive. Any other feeling, any other motive would be unnatural. Note that he took trouble over Grigory, wiped his head with his handkerchief and, convincing himself he was dead, he ran to the house of his mistress, dazed and covered with blood. How was it he never thought that he was covered with blood and would be at once detected? But the prisoner himself assures us that he did not even notice that he was covered with blood. That may be believed, that is very possible, that always happens at such moments with criminals. On one point they will show diabolical cunning, while another will escape them altogether. But he was thinking at that moment of one thing only--where was _she_? He wanted to find out at once where she was, so he ran to her lodging and learnt an unexpected and astounding piece of news--she had gone off to Mokroe to meet her first lover."

Book 12, Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-12-chapter-8

Now we go into the third part of prosecutor Kirillovich's closing statement. Kirillovich rejects the idea that Smerdyakov murdered Fyodor, because there is no factual evidence. He paints Smerdyakov as essentially a coward, fearful of Dmitri's strength and Ivan's newfangled ideas, unable to muster enough guts to do something as extreme as murder. In his retelling of the events of that night, Kirillovich argues that there was no point at which Smerdyakov could have murdered Fyodor. Then Kirillovich turns to Smerdyakov's suicide note and argues that the absence of any confession to Fyodor's murder is further proof that Smerdyakov didn't do it. He asserts that if Smerdyakov had really confessed to Ivan the night before, as Ivan claimed, Ivan would have gone straight to the police instead of waiting for the trial. Kirillovich said he had information that Ivan had cashed two 5 percent bank notes for 5,000 roubles each a week ago. Kirillovich points to Katerina's letter as further evidence for his version of events. Just as the letter had stated, Dmitri had murdered and robbed his father, leaving the envelope containing the roubles on the floor. This is just how someone who murdered in a fit of passion would act, not caring about leaving key evidence behind. He also dismisses the idea that Dmitri could have checked on Grigory after he attacked him, because such an act of compassion isn't consistent with Dmitri's character.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/78.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_77_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 11.chapter 9

book 11, chapter 9

{"name": "Book 11, Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-11-chapter-9", "summary": "Poof! The devil! Well, not with the horns and pitchfork and flames and all that. Ivan's Satan appears in the manner of a mild-mannered, impoverished, elderly gentleman sitting amiably on his sofa. Ivan sternly tells the nice old man that he's just a figment of everything that's base and, above all, stupid in his imagination, but the devil insists on his reality. The devil reminds him that he had gone to see Smerdyakov to find out what he had told Katerina, which he still doesn't know. But Ivan tells the devil that this is no proof of the devil's existence: the devil only remembers this point because Ivan was about to. Ivan then decides to wet a towel and place it on his head. Of course - wouldn't you if you were sitting across from the devil? The devil then reminds Ivan that he had once accused Alyosha of spying on their conversations . Ivan admits that this was a momentary lapse, but insists that the devil is still a hallucination. The devil goes on to tell some silly stories about himself and his adventures incarnated on earth. He wants nothing more than to be a simple \"fat, 250-pound merchant's wife\" and light candles to God, but instead he ends up with rheumatism. Ivan decides the wet towel is useless and throws it away. The devil complains about catching a cold while flying through the freezing heavens. But he was fortunately cured by Hoff's extract of malt. Ivan rejects all of these anecdotes as stupid. The devil justifies his existence by claiming he exists only to \"negate,\" to create doubt, because if everything was meaningful, there would be no more events. He tells the story of a philosopher who all his life denied the existence of an afterlife. Upon his death, he discovered there was an afterlife, but he refused to go to heaven because it went against his convictions. He was then sentenced to walk a quadrillion kilometers as punishment, but since this also went against his convictions, he refused to walk. After a thousand years, he decided, oh heck, I'll walk. Once he got to heaven he sang its praises enthusiastically. Ivan again rejects the devil - the anecdote wasn't his, it was a story Ivan made up when he was 17. The devil tells another couple of stories: the first is about a man who lost his nose to some dreadful disease. The man complained to his priest that he wanted his nose back, but the priest told him that, hey, at least without your nose you won't have to worry about your nose being \"out of joint\" about its being out of joint ever again. Pretty punny. The second story is about a young floozy who confesses to her priest that she has slept with a man. After her confession, the priest and the floozy set up a booty call. Ivan just becomes more and more infuriated by the devil's stupid stories . The devil continues to mock his philosophy and his writings to his face, including the one about the Grand Inquisitor. At his wit's end, Ivan throws an inkstand at the devil. Their conversation is interrupted by a knock at the window. Suddenly Ivan feels as if he's been tied to his chair. He breaks free from what seem to be imaginary bonds and opens the window. It's Alyosha, and Ivan lets him in. Alyosha announces that Smerdyakov has hanged himself.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter IX. The Devil. Ivan's Nightmare I am not a doctor, but yet I feel that the moment has come when I must inevitably give the reader some account of the nature of Ivan's illness. Anticipating events I can say at least one thing: he was at that moment on the very eve of an attack of brain fever. Though his health had long been affected, it had offered a stubborn resistance to the fever which in the end gained complete mastery over it. Though I know nothing of medicine, I venture to hazard the suggestion that he really had perhaps, by a terrible effort of will, succeeded in delaying the attack for a time, hoping, of course, to check it completely. He knew that he was unwell, but he loathed the thought of being ill at that fatal time, at the approaching crisis in his life, when he needed to have all his wits about him, to say what he had to say boldly and resolutely and "to justify himself to himself." He had, however, consulted the new doctor, who had been brought from Moscow by a fantastic notion of Katerina Ivanovna's to which I have referred already. After listening to him and examining him the doctor came to the conclusion that he was actually suffering from some disorder of the brain, and was not at all surprised by an admission which Ivan had reluctantly made him. "Hallucinations are quite likely in your condition," the doctor opined, "though it would be better to verify them ... you must take steps at once, without a moment's delay, or things will go badly with you." But Ivan did not follow this judicious advice and did not take to his bed to be nursed. "I am walking about, so I am strong enough, if I drop, it'll be different then, any one may nurse me who likes," he decided, dismissing the subject. And so he was sitting almost conscious himself of his delirium and, as I have said already, looking persistently at some object on the sofa against the opposite wall. Some one appeared to be sitting there, though goodness knows how he had come in, for he had not been in the room when Ivan came into it, on his return from Smerdyakov. This was a person or, more accurately speaking, a Russian gentleman of a particular kind, no longer young, _qui faisait la cinquantaine_, as the French say, with rather long, still thick, dark hair, slightly streaked with gray and a small pointed beard. He was wearing a brownish reefer jacket, rather shabby, evidently made by a good tailor though, and of a fashion at least three years old, that had been discarded by smart and well-to-do people for the last two years. His linen and his long scarf-like neck-tie were all such as are worn by people who aim at being stylish, but on closer inspection his linen was not over-clean and his wide scarf was very threadbare. The visitor's check trousers were of excellent cut, but were too light in color and too tight for the present fashion. His soft fluffy white hat was out of keeping with the season. In brief there was every appearance of gentility on straitened means. It looked as though the gentleman belonged to that class of idle landowners who used to flourish in the times of serfdom. He had unmistakably been, at some time, in good and fashionable society, had once had good connections, had possibly preserved them indeed, but, after a gay youth, becoming gradually impoverished on the abolition of serfdom, he had sunk into the position of a poor relation of the best class, wandering from one good old friend to another and received by them for his companionable and accommodating disposition and as being, after all, a gentleman who could be asked to sit down with any one, though, of course, not in a place of honor. Such gentlemen of accommodating temper and dependent position, who can tell a story, take a hand at cards, and who have a distinct aversion for any duties that may be forced upon them, are usually solitary creatures, either bachelors or widowers. Sometimes they have children, but if so, the children are always being brought up at a distance, at some aunt's, to whom these gentlemen never allude in good society, seeming ashamed of the relationship. They gradually lose sight of their children altogether, though at intervals they receive a birthday or Christmas letter from them and sometimes even answer it. The countenance of the unexpected visitor was not so much good-natured, as accommodating and ready to assume any amiable expression as occasion might arise. He had no watch, but he had a tortoise-shell lorgnette on a black ribbon. On the middle finger of his right hand was a massive gold ring with a cheap opal stone in it. Ivan was angrily silent and would not begin the conversation. The visitor waited and sat exactly like a poor relation who had come down from his room to keep his host company at tea, and was discreetly silent, seeing that his host was frowning and preoccupied. But he was ready for any affable conversation as soon as his host should begin it. All at once his face expressed a sudden solicitude. "I say," he began to Ivan, "excuse me, I only mention it to remind you. You went to Smerdyakov's to find out about Katerina Ivanovna, but you came away without finding out anything about her, you probably forgot--" "Ah, yes," broke from Ivan and his face grew gloomy with uneasiness. "Yes, I'd forgotten ... but it doesn't matter now, never mind, till to-morrow," he muttered to himself, "and you," he added, addressing his visitor, "I should have remembered that myself in a minute, for that was just what was tormenting me! Why do you interfere, as if I should believe that you prompted me, and that I didn't remember it of myself?" "Don't believe it then," said the gentleman, smiling amicably, "what's the good of believing against your will? Besides, proofs are no help to believing, especially material proofs. Thomas believed, not because he saw Christ risen, but because he wanted to believe, before he saw. Look at the spiritualists, for instance.... I am very fond of them ... only fancy, they imagine that they are serving the cause of religion, because the devils show them their horns from the other world. That, they say, is a material proof, so to speak, of the existence of another world. The other world and material proofs, what next! And if you come to that, does proving there's a devil prove that there's a God? I want to join an idealist society, I'll lead the opposition in it, I'll say I am a realist, but not a materialist, he he!" "Listen," Ivan suddenly got up from the table. "I seem to be delirious.... I am delirious, in fact, talk any nonsense you like, I don't care! You won't drive me to fury, as you did last time. But I feel somehow ashamed.... I want to walk about the room.... I sometimes don't see you and don't even hear your voice as I did last time, but I always guess what you are prating, for it's I, _I myself speaking, not you_. Only I don't know whether I was dreaming last time or whether I really saw you. I'll wet a towel and put it on my head and perhaps you'll vanish into air." Ivan went into the corner, took a towel, and did as he said, and with a wet towel on his head began walking up and down the room. "I am so glad you treat me so familiarly," the visitor began. "Fool," laughed Ivan, "do you suppose I should stand on ceremony with you? I am in good spirits now, though I've a pain in my forehead ... and in the top of my head ... only please don't talk philosophy, as you did last time. If you can't take yourself off, talk of something amusing. Talk gossip, you are a poor relation, you ought to talk gossip. What a nightmare to have! But I am not afraid of you. I'll get the better of you. I won't be taken to a mad-house!" "_C'est charmant_, poor relation. Yes, I am in my natural shape. For what am I on earth but a poor relation? By the way, I am listening to you and am rather surprised to find you are actually beginning to take me for something real, not simply your fancy, as you persisted in declaring last time--" "Never for one minute have I taken you for reality," Ivan cried with a sort of fury. "You are a lie, you are my illness, you are a phantom. It's only that I don't know how to destroy you and I see I must suffer for a time. You are my hallucination. You are the incarnation of myself, but only of one side of me ... of my thoughts and feelings, but only the nastiest and stupidest of them. From that point of view you might be of interest to me, if only I had time to waste on you--" "Excuse me, excuse me, I'll catch you. When you flew out at Alyosha under the lamp-post this evening and shouted to him, 'You learnt it from _him_! How do you know that _he_ visits me?' you were thinking of me then. So for one brief moment you did believe that I really exist," the gentleman laughed blandly. "Yes, that was a moment of weakness ... but I couldn't believe in you. I don't know whether I was asleep or awake last time. Perhaps I was only dreaming then and didn't see you really at all--" "And why were you so surly with Alyosha just now? He is a dear; I've treated him badly over Father Zossima." "Don't talk of Alyosha! How dare you, you flunkey!" Ivan laughed again. "You scold me, but you laugh--that's a good sign. But you are ever so much more polite than you were last time and I know why: that great resolution of yours--" "Don't speak of my resolution," cried Ivan, savagely. "I understand, I understand, _c'est noble, c'est charmant_, you are going to defend your brother and to sacrifice yourself ... _C'est chevaleresque_." "Hold your tongue, I'll kick you!" "I shan't be altogether sorry, for then my object will be attained. If you kick me, you must believe in my reality, for people don't kick ghosts. Joking apart, it doesn't matter to me, scold if you like, though it's better to be a trifle more polite even to me. 'Fool, flunkey!' what words!" "Scolding you, I scold myself," Ivan laughed again, "you are myself, myself, only with a different face. You just say what I am thinking ... and are incapable of saying anything new!" "If I am like you in my way of thinking, it's all to my credit," the gentleman declared, with delicacy and dignity. "You choose out only my worst thoughts, and what's more, the stupid ones. You are stupid and vulgar. You are awfully stupid. No, I can't put up with you! What am I to do, what am I to do?" Ivan said through his clenched teeth. "My dear friend, above all things I want to behave like a gentleman and to be recognized as such," the visitor began in an excess of deprecating and simple-hearted pride, typical of a poor relation. "I am poor, but ... I won't say very honest, but ... it's an axiom generally accepted in society that I am a fallen angel. I certainly can't conceive how I can ever have been an angel. If I ever was, it must have been so long ago that there's no harm in forgetting it. Now I only prize the reputation of being a gentlemanly person and live as I can, trying to make myself agreeable. I love men genuinely, I've been greatly calumniated! Here when I stay with you from time to time, my life gains a kind of reality and that's what I like most of all. You see, like you, I suffer from the fantastic and so I love the realism of earth. Here, with you, everything is circumscribed, here all is formulated and geometrical, while we have nothing but indeterminate equations! I wander about here dreaming. I like dreaming. Besides, on earth I become superstitious. Please don't laugh, that's just what I like, to become superstitious. I adopt all your habits here: I've grown fond of going to the public baths, would you believe it? and I go and steam myself with merchants and priests. What I dream of is becoming incarnate once for all and irrevocably in the form of some merchant's wife weighing eighteen stone, and of believing all she believes. My ideal is to go to church and offer a candle in simple-hearted faith, upon my word it is. Then there would be an end to my sufferings. I like being doctored too; in the spring there was an outbreak of smallpox and I went and was vaccinated in a foundling hospital--if only you knew how I enjoyed myself that day. I subscribed ten roubles in the cause of the Slavs!... But you are not listening. Do you know, you are not at all well this evening? I know you went yesterday to that doctor ... well, what about your health? What did the doctor say?" "Fool!" Ivan snapped out. "But you are clever, anyway. You are scolding again? I didn't ask out of sympathy. You needn't answer. Now rheumatism has come in again--" "Fool!" repeated Ivan. "You keep saying the same thing; but I had such an attack of rheumatism last year that I remember it to this day." "The devil have rheumatism!" "Why not, if I sometimes put on fleshly form? I put on fleshly form and I take the consequences. Satan _sum et nihil humanum a me alienum puto_." "What, what, Satan _sum et nihil humanum_ ... that's not bad for the devil!" "I am glad I've pleased you at last." "But you didn't get that from me." Ivan stopped suddenly, seeming struck. "That never entered my head, that's strange." "_C'est du nouveau, n'est-ce pas?_ This time I'll act honestly and explain to you. Listen, in dreams and especially in nightmares, from indigestion or anything, a man sees sometimes such artistic visions, such complex and real actuality, such events, even a whole world of events, woven into such a plot, with such unexpected details from the most exalted matters to the last button on a cuff, as I swear Leo Tolstoy has never invented. Yet such dreams are sometimes seen not by writers, but by the most ordinary people, officials, journalists, priests.... The subject is a complete enigma. A statesman confessed to me, indeed, that all his best ideas came to him when he was asleep. Well, that's how it is now, though I am your hallucination, yet just as in a nightmare, I say original things which had not entered your head before. So I don't repeat your ideas, yet I am only your nightmare, nothing more." "You are lying, your aim is to convince me you exist apart and are not my nightmare, and now you are asserting you are a dream." "My dear fellow, I've adopted a special method to-day, I'll explain it to you afterwards. Stay, where did I break off? Oh, yes! I caught cold then, only not here but yonder." "Where is yonder? Tell me, will you be here long? Can't you go away?" Ivan exclaimed almost in despair. He ceased walking to and fro, sat down on the sofa, leaned his elbows on the table again and held his head tight in both hands. He pulled the wet towel off and flung it away in vexation. It was evidently of no use. "Your nerves are out of order," observed the gentleman, with a carelessly easy, though perfectly polite, air. "You are angry with me even for being able to catch cold, though it happened in a most natural way. I was hurrying then to a diplomatic _soiree_ at the house of a lady of high rank in Petersburg, who was aiming at influence in the Ministry. Well, an evening suit, white tie, gloves, though I was God knows where and had to fly through space to reach your earth.... Of course, it took only an instant, but you know a ray of light from the sun takes full eight minutes, and fancy in an evening suit and open waistcoat. Spirits don't freeze, but when one's in fleshly form, well ... in brief, I didn't think, and set off, and you know in those ethereal spaces, in the water that is above the firmament, there's such a frost ... at least one can't call it frost, you can fancy, 150 degrees below zero! You know the game the village girls play--they invite the unwary to lick an ax in thirty degrees of frost, the tongue instantly freezes to it and the dupe tears the skin off, so it bleeds. But that's only in 30 degrees, in 150 degrees I imagine it would be enough to put your finger on the ax and it would be the end of it ... if only there could be an ax there." "And can there be an ax there?" Ivan interrupted, carelessly and disdainfully. He was exerting himself to the utmost not to believe in the delusion and not to sink into complete insanity. "An ax?" the guest interrupted in surprise. "Yes, what would become of an ax there?" Ivan cried suddenly, with a sort of savage and insistent obstinacy. "What would become of an ax in space? _Quelle idee!_ If it were to fall to any distance, it would begin, I think, flying round the earth without knowing why, like a satellite. The astronomers would calculate the rising and the setting of the ax, _Gatzuk_ would put it in his calendar, that's all." "You are stupid, awfully stupid," said Ivan peevishly. "Fib more cleverly or I won't listen. You want to get the better of me by realism, to convince me that you exist, but I don't want to believe you exist! I won't believe it!" "But I am not fibbing, it's all the truth; the truth is unhappily hardly ever amusing. I see you persist in expecting something big of me, and perhaps something fine. That's a great pity, for I only give what I can--" "Don't talk philosophy, you ass!" "Philosophy, indeed, when all my right side is numb and I am moaning and groaning. I've tried all the medical faculty: they can diagnose beautifully, they have the whole of your disease at their finger-tips, but they've no idea how to cure you. There was an enthusiastic little student here, 'You may die,' said he, 'but you'll know perfectly what disease you are dying of!' And then what a way they have sending people to specialists! 'We only diagnose,' they say, 'but go to such-and-such a specialist, he'll cure you.' The old doctor who used to cure all sorts of disease has completely disappeared, I assure you, now there are only specialists and they all advertise in the newspapers. If anything is wrong with your nose, they send you to Paris: there, they say, is a European specialist who cures noses. If you go to Paris, he'll look at your nose; I can only cure your right nostril, he'll tell you, for I don't cure the left nostril, that's not my speciality, but go to Vienna, there there's a specialist who will cure your left nostril. What are you to do? I fell back on popular remedies, a German doctor advised me to rub myself with honey and salt in the bath-house. Solely to get an extra bath I went, smeared myself all over and it did me no good at all. In despair I wrote to Count Mattei in Milan. He sent me a book and some drops, bless him, and, only fancy, Hoff's malt extract cured me! I bought it by accident, drank a bottle and a half of it, and I was ready to dance, it took it away completely. I made up my mind to write to the papers to thank him, I was prompted by a feeling of gratitude, and only fancy, it led to no end of a bother: not a single paper would take my letter. 'It would be very reactionary,' they said, 'no one will believe it. _Le diable n'existe point._ You'd better remain anonymous,' they advised me. What use is a letter of thanks if it's anonymous? I laughed with the men at the newspaper office; 'It's reactionary to believe in God in our days,' I said, 'but I am the devil, so I may be believed in.' 'We quite understand that,' they said. 'Who doesn't believe in the devil? Yet it won't do, it might injure our reputation. As a joke, if you like.' But I thought as a joke it wouldn't be very witty. So it wasn't printed. And do you know, I have felt sore about it to this day. My best feelings, gratitude, for instance, are literally denied me simply from my social position." "Philosophical reflections again?" Ivan snarled malignantly. "God preserve me from it, but one can't help complaining sometimes. I am a slandered man. You upbraid me every moment with being stupid. One can see you are young. My dear fellow, intelligence isn't the only thing! I have naturally a kind and merry heart. 'I also write vaudevilles of all sorts.' You seem to take me for Hlestakov grown old, but my fate is a far more serious one. Before time was, by some decree which I could never make out, I was pre-destined 'to deny' and yet I am genuinely good-hearted and not at all inclined to negation. 'No, you must go and deny, without denial there's no criticism and what would a journal be without a column of criticism?' Without criticism it would be nothing but one 'hosannah.' But nothing but hosannah is not enough for life, the hosannah must be tried in the crucible of doubt and so on, in the same style. But I don't meddle in that, I didn't create it, I am not answerable for it. Well, they've chosen their scapegoat, they've made me write the column of criticism and so life was made possible. We understand that comedy; I, for instance, simply ask for annihilation. No, live, I am told, for there'd be nothing without you. If everything in the universe were sensible, nothing would happen. There would be no events without you, and there must be events. So against the grain I serve to produce events and do what's irrational because I am commanded to. For all their indisputable intelligence, men take this farce as something serious, and that is their tragedy. They suffer, of course ... but then they live, they live a real life, not a fantastic one, for suffering is life. Without suffering what would be the pleasure of it? It would be transformed into an endless church service; it would be holy, but tedious. But what about me? I suffer, but still, I don't live. I am x in an indeterminate equation. I am a sort of phantom in life who has lost all beginning and end, and who has even forgotten his own name. You are laughing-- no, you are not laughing, you are angry again. You are for ever angry, all you care about is intelligence, but I repeat again that I would give away all this super-stellar life, all the ranks and honors, simply to be transformed into the soul of a merchant's wife weighing eighteen stone and set candles at God's shrine." "Then even you don't believe in God?" said Ivan, with a smile of hatred. "What can I say?--that is, if you are in earnest--" "Is there a God or not?" Ivan cried with the same savage intensity. "Ah, then you are in earnest! My dear fellow, upon my word I don't know. There! I've said it now!" "You don't know, but you see God? No, you are not some one apart, you are myself, you are I and nothing more! You are rubbish, you are my fancy!" "Well, if you like, I have the same philosophy as you, that would be true. _Je pense, donc je suis_, I know that for a fact; all the rest, all these worlds, God and even Satan--all that is not proved, to my mind. Does all that exist of itself, or is it only an emanation of myself, a logical development of my ego which alone has existed for ever: but I make haste to stop, for I believe you will be jumping up to beat me directly." "You'd better tell me some anecdote!" said Ivan miserably. "There is an anecdote precisely on our subject, or rather a legend, not an anecdote. You reproach me with unbelief, you see, you say, yet you don't believe. But, my dear fellow, I am not the only one like that. We are all in a muddle over there now and all through your science. Once there used to be atoms, five senses, four elements, and then everything hung together somehow. There were atoms in the ancient world even, but since we've learned that you've discovered the chemical molecule and protoplasm and the devil knows what, we had to lower our crest. There's a regular muddle, and, above all, superstition, scandal; there's as much scandal among us as among you, you know; a little more in fact, and spying, indeed, for we have our secret police department where private information is received. Well, this wild legend belongs to our middle ages--not yours, but ours--and no one believes it even among us, except the old ladies of eighteen stone, not your old ladies I mean, but ours. We've everything you have, I am revealing one of our secrets out of friendship for you; though it's forbidden. This legend is about Paradise. There was, they say, here on earth a thinker and philosopher. He rejected everything, 'laws, conscience, faith,' and, above all, the future life. He died; he expected to go straight to darkness and death and he found a future life before him. He was astounded and indignant. 'This is against my principles!' he said. And he was punished for that ... that is, you must excuse me, I am just repeating what I heard myself, it's only a legend ... he was sentenced to walk a quadrillion kilometers in the dark (we've adopted the metric system, you know) and when he has finished that quadrillion, the gates of heaven would be opened to him and he'll be forgiven--" "And what tortures have you in the other world besides the quadrillion kilometers?" asked Ivan, with a strange eagerness. "What tortures? Ah, don't ask. In old days we had all sorts, but now they have taken chiefly to moral punishments--'the stings of conscience' and all that nonsense. We got that, too, from you, from the softening of your manners. And who's the better for it? Only those who have got no conscience, for how can they be tortured by conscience when they have none? But decent people who have conscience and a sense of honor suffer for it. Reforms, when the ground has not been prepared for them, especially if they are institutions copied from abroad, do nothing but mischief! The ancient fire was better. Well, this man, who was condemned to the quadrillion kilometers, stood still, looked round and lay down across the road. 'I won't go, I refuse on principle!' Take the soul of an enlightened Russian atheist and mix it with the soul of the prophet Jonah, who sulked for three days and nights in the belly of the whale, and you get the character of that thinker who lay across the road." "What did he lie on there?" "Well, I suppose there was something to lie on. You are not laughing?" "Bravo!" cried Ivan, still with the same strange eagerness. Now he was listening with an unexpected curiosity. "Well, is he lying there now?" "That's the point, that he isn't. He lay there almost a thousand years and then he got up and went on." "What an ass!" cried Ivan, laughing nervously and still seeming to be pondering something intently. "Does it make any difference whether he lies there for ever or walks the quadrillion kilometers? It would take a billion years to walk it?" "Much more than that. I haven't got a pencil and paper or I could work it out. But he got there long ago, and that's where the story begins." "What, he got there? But how did he get the billion years to do it?" "Why, you keep thinking of our present earth! But our present earth may have been repeated a billion times. Why, it's become extinct, been frozen; cracked, broken to bits, disintegrated into its elements, again 'the water above the firmament,' then again a comet, again a sun, again from the sun it becomes earth--and the same sequence may have been repeated endlessly and exactly the same to every detail, most unseemly and insufferably tedious--" "Well, well, what happened when he arrived?" "Why, the moment the gates of Paradise were open and he walked in, before he had been there two seconds, by his watch (though to my thinking his watch must have long dissolved into its elements on the way), he cried out that those two seconds were worth walking not a quadrillion kilometers but a quadrillion of quadrillions, raised to the quadrillionth power! In fact, he sang 'hosannah' and overdid it so, that some persons there of lofty ideas wouldn't shake hands with him at first--he'd become too rapidly reactionary, they said. The Russian temperament. I repeat, it's a legend. I give it for what it's worth. So that's the sort of ideas we have on such subjects even now." "I've caught you!" Ivan cried, with an almost childish delight, as though he had succeeded in remembering something at last. "That anecdote about the quadrillion years, I made up myself! I was seventeen then, I was at the high school. I made up that anecdote and told it to a schoolfellow called Korovkin, it was at Moscow.... The anecdote is so characteristic that I couldn't have taken it from anywhere. I thought I'd forgotten it ... but I've unconsciously recalled it--I recalled it myself--it was not you telling it! Thousands of things are unconsciously remembered like that even when people are being taken to execution ... it's come back to me in a dream. You are that dream! You are a dream, not a living creature!" "From the vehemence with which you deny my existence," laughed the gentleman, "I am convinced that you believe in me." "Not in the slightest! I haven't a hundredth part of a grain of faith in you!" "But you have the thousandth of a grain. Homeopathic doses perhaps are the strongest. Confess that you have faith even to the ten-thousandth of a grain." "Not for one minute," cried Ivan furiously. "But I should like to believe in you," he added strangely. "Aha! There's an admission! But I am good-natured. I'll come to your assistance again. Listen, it was I caught you, not you me. I told you your anecdote you'd forgotten, on purpose, so as to destroy your faith in me completely." "You are lying. The object of your visit is to convince me of your existence!" "Just so. But hesitation, suspense, conflict between belief and disbelief--is sometimes such torture to a conscientious man, such as you are, that it's better to hang oneself at once. Knowing that you are inclined to believe in me, I administered some disbelief by telling you that anecdote. I lead you to belief and disbelief by turns, and I have my motive in it. It's the new method. As soon as you disbelieve in me completely, you'll begin assuring me to my face that I am not a dream but a reality. I know you. Then I shall have attained my object, which is an honorable one. I shall sow in you only a tiny grain of faith and it will grow into an oak-tree--and such an oak-tree that, sitting on it, you will long to enter the ranks of 'the hermits in the wilderness and the saintly women,' for that is what you are secretly longing for. You'll dine on locusts, you'll wander into the wilderness to save your soul!" "Then it's for the salvation of my soul you are working, is it, you scoundrel?" "One must do a good work sometimes. How ill-humored you are!" "Fool! did you ever tempt those holy men who ate locusts and prayed seventeen years in the wilderness till they were overgrown with moss?" "My dear fellow, I've done nothing else. One forgets the whole world and all the worlds, and sticks to one such saint, because he is a very precious diamond. One such soul, you know, is sometimes worth a whole constellation. We have our system of reckoning, you know. The conquest is priceless! And some of them, on my word, are not inferior to you in culture, though you won't believe it. They can contemplate such depths of belief and disbelief at the same moment that sometimes it really seems that they are within a hair's-breadth of being 'turned upside down,' as the actor Gorbunov says." "Well, did you get your nose pulled?"(8) "My dear fellow," observed the visitor sententiously, "it's better to get off with your nose pulled than without a nose at all. As an afflicted marquis observed not long ago (he must have been treated by a specialist) in confession to his spiritual father--a Jesuit. I was present, it was simply charming. 'Give me back my nose!' he said, and he beat his breast. 'My son,' said the priest evasively, 'all things are accomplished in accordance with the inscrutable decrees of Providence, and what seems a misfortune sometimes leads to extraordinary, though unapparent, benefits. If stern destiny has deprived you of your nose, it's to your advantage that no one can ever pull you by your nose.' 'Holy father, that's no comfort,' cried the despairing marquis. 'I'd be delighted to have my nose pulled every day of my life, if it were only in its proper place.' 'My son,' sighs the priest, 'you can't expect every blessing at once. This is murmuring against Providence, who even in this has not forgotten you, for if you repine as you repined just now, declaring you'd be glad to have your nose pulled for the rest of your life, your desire has already been fulfilled indirectly, for when you lost your nose, you were led by the nose.' " "Fool, how stupid!" cried Ivan. "My dear friend, I only wanted to amuse you. But I swear that's the genuine Jesuit casuistry and I swear that it all happened word for word as I've told you. It happened lately and gave me a great deal of trouble. The unhappy young man shot himself that very night when he got home. I was by his side till the very last moment. Those Jesuit confessionals are really my most delightful diversion at melancholy moments. Here's another incident that happened only the other day. A little blonde Norman girl of twenty--a buxom, unsophisticated beauty that would make your mouth water--comes to an old priest. She bends down and whispers her sin into the grating. 'Why, my daughter, have you fallen again already?' cries the priest. 'O Sancta Maria, what do I hear! Not the same man this time, how long is this going on? Aren't you ashamed!' '_Ah, mon pere_,' answers the sinner with tears of penitence, '_ca lui fait tant de plaisir, et a moi si peu de peine!_' Fancy, such an answer! I drew back. It was the cry of nature, better than innocence itself, if you like. I absolved her sin on the spot and was turning to go, but I was forced to turn back. I heard the priest at the grating making an appointment with her for the evening--though he was an old man hard as flint, he fell in an instant! It was nature, the truth of nature asserted its rights! What, you are turning up your nose again? Angry again? I don't know how to please you--" "Leave me alone, you are beating on my brain like a haunting nightmare," Ivan moaned miserably, helpless before his apparition. "I am bored with you, agonizingly and insufferably. I would give anything to be able to shake you off!" "I repeat, moderate your expectations, don't demand of me 'everything great and noble' and you'll see how well we shall get on," said the gentleman impressively. "You are really angry with me for not having appeared to you in a red glow, with thunder and lightning, with scorched wings, but have shown myself in such a modest form. You are wounded, in the first place, in your esthetic feelings, and, secondly, in your pride. How could such a vulgar devil visit such a great man as you! Yes, there is that romantic strain in you, that was so derided by Byelinsky. I can't help it, young man, as I got ready to come to you I did think as a joke of appearing in the figure of a retired general who had served in the Caucasus, with a star of the Lion and the Sun on my coat. But I was positively afraid of doing it, for you'd have thrashed me for daring to pin the Lion and the Sun on my coat, instead of, at least, the Polar Star or the Sirius. And you keep on saying I am stupid, but, mercy on us! I make no claim to be equal to you in intelligence. Mephistopheles declared to Faust that he desired evil, but did only good. Well, he can say what he likes, it's quite the opposite with me. I am perhaps the one man in all creation who loves the truth and genuinely desires good. I was there when the Word, Who died on the Cross, rose up into heaven bearing on His bosom the soul of the penitent thief. I heard the glad shrieks of the cherubim singing and shouting hosannah and the thunderous rapture of the seraphim which shook heaven and all creation, and I swear to you by all that's sacred, I longed to join the choir and shout hosannah with them all. The word had almost escaped me, had almost broken from my lips ... you know how susceptible and esthetically impressionable I am. But common sense--oh, a most unhappy trait in my character--kept me in due bounds and I let the moment pass! For what would have happened, I reflected, what would have happened after my hosannah? Everything on earth would have been extinguished at once and no events could have occurred. And so, solely from a sense of duty and my social position, I was forced to suppress the good moment and to stick to my nasty task. Somebody takes all the credit of what's good for Himself, and nothing but nastiness is left for me. But I don't envy the honor of a life of idle imposture, I am not ambitious. Why am I, of all creatures in the world, doomed to be cursed by all decent people and even to be kicked, for if I put on mortal form I am bound to take such consequences sometimes? I know, of course, there's a secret in it, but they won't tell me the secret for anything, for then perhaps, seeing the meaning of it, I might bawl hosannah, and the indispensable minus would disappear at once, and good sense would reign supreme throughout the whole world. And that, of course, would mean the end of everything, even of magazines and newspapers, for who would take them in? I know that at the end of all things I shall be reconciled. I, too, shall walk my quadrillion and learn the secret. But till that happens I am sulking and fulfill my destiny though it's against the grain--that is, to ruin thousands for the sake of saving one. How many souls have had to be ruined and how many honorable reputations destroyed for the sake of that one righteous man, Job, over whom they made such a fool of me in old days! Yes, till the secret is revealed, there are two sorts of truths for me--one, their truth, yonder, which I know nothing about so far, and the other my own. And there's no knowing which will turn out the better.... Are you asleep?" "I might well be," Ivan groaned angrily. "All my stupid ideas--outgrown, thrashed out long ago, and flung aside like a dead carcass--you present to me as something new!" "There's no pleasing you! And I thought I should fascinate you by my literary style. That hosannah in the skies really wasn't bad, was it? And then that ironical tone _a la_ Heine, eh?" "No, I was never such a flunkey! How then could my soul beget a flunkey like you?" "My dear fellow, I know a most charming and attractive young Russian gentleman, a young thinker and a great lover of literature and art, the author of a promising poem entitled _The Grand Inquisitor_. I was only thinking of him!" "I forbid you to speak of _The Grand Inquisitor_," cried Ivan, crimson with shame. "And the _Geological Cataclysm_. Do you remember? That was a poem, now!" "Hold your tongue, or I'll kill you!" "You'll kill me? No, excuse me, I will speak. I came to treat myself to that pleasure. Oh, I love the dreams of my ardent young friends, quivering with eagerness for life! 'There are new men,' you decided last spring, when you were meaning to come here, 'they propose to destroy everything and begin with cannibalism. Stupid fellows! they didn't ask my advice! I maintain that nothing need be destroyed, that we only need to destroy the idea of God in man, that's how we have to set to work. It's that, that we must begin with. Oh, blind race of men who have no understanding! As soon as men have all of them denied God--and I believe that period, analogous with geological periods, will come to pass--the old conception of the universe will fall of itself without cannibalism, and, what's more, the old morality, and everything will begin anew. Men will unite to take from life all it can give, but only for joy and happiness in the present world. Man will be lifted up with a spirit of divine Titanic pride and the man- god will appear. From hour to hour extending his conquest of nature infinitely by his will and his science, man will feel such lofty joy from hour to hour in doing it that it will make up for all his old dreams of the joys of heaven. Every one will know that he is mortal and will accept death proudly and serenely like a god. His pride will teach him that it's useless for him to repine at life's being a moment, and he will love his brother without need of reward. Love will be sufficient only for a moment of life, but the very consciousness of its momentariness will intensify its fire, which now is dissipated in dreams of eternal love beyond the grave'... and so on and so on in the same style. Charming!" Ivan sat with his eyes on the floor, and his hands pressed to his ears, but he began trembling all over. The voice continued. "The question now is, my young thinker reflected, is it possible that such a period will ever come? If it does, everything is determined and humanity is settled for ever. But as, owing to man's inveterate stupidity, this cannot come about for at least a thousand years, every one who recognizes the truth even now may legitimately order his life as he pleases, on the new principles. In that sense, 'all things are lawful' for him. What's more, even if this period never comes to pass, since there is anyway no God and no immortality, the new man may well become the man-god, even if he is the only one in the whole world, and promoted to his new position, he may lightheartedly overstep all the barriers of the old morality of the old slave-man, if necessary. There is no law for God. Where God stands, the place is holy. Where I stand will be at once the foremost place ... 'all things are lawful' and that's the end of it! That's all very charming; but if you want to swindle why do you want a moral sanction for doing it? But that's our modern Russian all over. He can't bring himself to swindle without a moral sanction. He is so in love with truth--" The visitor talked, obviously carried away by his own eloquence, speaking louder and louder and looking ironically at his host. But he did not succeed in finishing; Ivan suddenly snatched a glass from the table and flung it at the orator. "_Ah, mais c'est bete enfin_," cried the latter, jumping up from the sofa and shaking the drops of tea off himself. "He remembers Luther's inkstand! He takes me for a dream and throws glasses at a dream! It's like a woman! I suspected you were only pretending to stop up your ears." A loud, persistent knocking was suddenly heard at the window. Ivan jumped up from the sofa. "Do you hear? You'd better open," cried the visitor; "it's your brother Alyosha with the most interesting and surprising news, I'll be bound!" "Be silent, deceiver, I knew it was Alyosha, I felt he was coming, and of course he has not come for nothing; of course he brings 'news,' " Ivan exclaimed frantically. "Open, open to him. There's a snowstorm and he is your brother. _Monsieur sait-il le temps qu'il fait? C'est a ne pas mettre un chien dehors_." The knocking continued. Ivan wanted to rush to the window, but something seemed to fetter his arms and legs. He strained every effort to break his chains, but in vain. The knocking at the window grew louder and louder. At last the chains were broken and Ivan leapt up from the sofa. He looked round him wildly. Both candles had almost burnt out, the glass he had just thrown at his visitor stood before him on the table, and there was no one on the sofa opposite. The knocking on the window frame went on persistently, but it was by no means so loud as it had seemed in his dream; on the contrary, it was quite subdued. "It was not a dream! No, I swear it was not a dream, it all happened just now!" cried Ivan. He rushed to the window and opened the movable pane. "Alyosha, I told you not to come," he cried fiercely to his brother. "In two words, what do you want? In two words, do you hear?" "An hour ago Smerdyakov hanged himself," Alyosha answered from the yard. "Come round to the steps, I'll open at once," said Ivan, going to open the door to Alyosha.

Book 11, Chapter 9

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-11-chapter-9

Poof! The devil! Well, not with the horns and pitchfork and flames and all that. Ivan's Satan appears in the manner of a mild-mannered, impoverished, elderly gentleman sitting amiably on his sofa. Ivan sternly tells the nice old man that he's just a figment of everything that's base and, above all, stupid in his imagination, but the devil insists on his reality. The devil reminds him that he had gone to see Smerdyakov to find out what he had told Katerina, which he still doesn't know. But Ivan tells the devil that this is no proof of the devil's existence: the devil only remembers this point because Ivan was about to. Ivan then decides to wet a towel and place it on his head. Of course - wouldn't you if you were sitting across from the devil? The devil then reminds Ivan that he had once accused Alyosha of spying on their conversations . Ivan admits that this was a momentary lapse, but insists that the devil is still a hallucination. The devil goes on to tell some silly stories about himself and his adventures incarnated on earth. He wants nothing more than to be a simple "fat, 250-pound merchant's wife" and light candles to God, but instead he ends up with rheumatism. Ivan decides the wet towel is useless and throws it away. The devil complains about catching a cold while flying through the freezing heavens. But he was fortunately cured by Hoff's extract of malt. Ivan rejects all of these anecdotes as stupid. The devil justifies his existence by claiming he exists only to "negate," to create doubt, because if everything was meaningful, there would be no more events. He tells the story of a philosopher who all his life denied the existence of an afterlife. Upon his death, he discovered there was an afterlife, but he refused to go to heaven because it went against his convictions. He was then sentenced to walk a quadrillion kilometers as punishment, but since this also went against his convictions, he refused to walk. After a thousand years, he decided, oh heck, I'll walk. Once he got to heaven he sang its praises enthusiastically. Ivan again rejects the devil - the anecdote wasn't his, it was a story Ivan made up when he was 17. The devil tells another couple of stories: the first is about a man who lost his nose to some dreadful disease. The man complained to his priest that he wanted his nose back, but the priest told him that, hey, at least without your nose you won't have to worry about your nose being "out of joint" about its being out of joint ever again. Pretty punny. The second story is about a young floozy who confesses to her priest that she has slept with a man. After her confession, the priest and the floozy set up a booty call. Ivan just becomes more and more infuriated by the devil's stupid stories . The devil continues to mock his philosophy and his writings to his face, including the one about the Grand Inquisitor. At his wit's end, Ivan throws an inkstand at the devil. Their conversation is interrupted by a knock at the window. Suddenly Ivan feels as if he's been tied to his chair. He breaks free from what seem to be imaginary bonds and opens the window. It's Alyosha, and Ivan lets him in. Alyosha announces that Smerdyakov has hanged himself.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1756-chapters/act_ii.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Uncle Vanya/section_2_part_0.txt

Uncle Vanya.act ii

act ii

{"name": "Act II - Part One", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210227035013/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/unclevanya/section3/", "summary": "Act II begins at night with the professor and Yelena asleep and sitting next to each other in the dining room. A night watchman can be heard tapping in the garden. The two awaken, Serebryakov complains of his gout and rheumatism. He damns old age, declaring that he has become detestable to himself and those around him. He accuses Yelena in particular of hating him; how could such a young beauty not resent the corpse to which she is attached? Claiming weariness, Yelena begs him to be quiet. Serebryakov sarcastically replies that it seems he has worn everyone out; he, on the other hand, is having a great time. Continuing his lament, Serebryakov complains that while everyone listens to Voynitsky and Maria, they find his own voice abhorrent. In his old age, he has a right to egoism, and people must attend to him. He has spent his life in scholarship and suddenly finds himself in a \"tomb,\" plagued by the \"good-for-nothing talk, talk, talk\" of fools. Serebryakov feels as if in \"exile\" and spends his days yearning for the past and fearing death. With deep resignation, Yelena consoles him: soon she too will be old. Sonya then enters and reproaches her father for abusing Dr. Astrov--apparently Serebryakov holds him in nothing but contempt. Voynitsky then enters, noting the storm brewing outside. He has come to relieve Yelena and Sonya of their night watch over the professor; the professor reacts in terror--\"He'll talk my head off!\" he exclaims. Marina then enters and, speaking of her own aches, tenderly takes Serebryakov to bed. She recalls the years when his first wife, Vera Petrovna, slaved away to care for him; deeply moved, the professor exits the dining room with Sonya and Marina, leaving Yelena and Voynitsky alone. Complaining of yet another sleepless night with the professor, Yelena cries that the house is \"going to rack and ruin\" and enjoins Voynitsky to help bring its members together. Much to her dismay, he bends to kiss her hand. When Yelena recoils, Voynitsky once again laments the many wasted years, during which he has had nothing to do with his life and love. Whereas the storm will renew nature, it will not help Voynitsky. His thoughts will haunt him like an \"evil spirit.\" \"My feelings are wasting away in vain,\" he cries, \"like a ray of sunlight failing into a pit, and I too am wasting away.\" Yelena is numb to his entreaty. When Voynitsky persists, she accuses him of being a drunken bore; Voynitsky rejoins that at least drink makes one feel alive. Yelena leaves, and Voynitsky makes a soliloquy that mourns what might have been had he married Yelena when they first met ten years ago. He also reveals that he once worshipped the professor and has worked the estate to provide him with an income, the summation of his wasted life. Some disconcerting comic relief ensues. A tipsy Astrov--philosopher and visionary no longer--enters with a guitar-playing Telegin. As Telegin continually warns that everyone is sleeping, one could speculate that this scene is spoken in a whisper. Astrov sings a folk song about the master of the house having no place to go to bed. Asking Voynitsky about Yelena, he coarsely suggests that Voynitsky is in love with her and has perhaps already been her lover. Upon being reproached, he admits to being arrogant and shameless when drunk. Only then does he feel \"monumental\" rather than \"eccentric,\" able to effect his great plans for the future.", "analysis": "Act II begins with two parallel night watches: that of the tapping guard outside and the vigil the members of the household keep for the aging professor within. In turn-of-the-century provincial Russia, the night watchman would tap the grounds with his stick to signal that all was well and warn potential trespassers that the residents were home. As we will discuss in detail, we find the opposite case with the night watch inside: nothing is well in this household \"gone to rack and ruin\" and no one feels quite at home. We can best chart this ruin and sense of dislocation with the dialogue between the professor and Yelena. Here we find the telltale motif of estrangement discussed earlier. The egotistical, almost infantile Serebryakov describes a sense of alienation in his body becoming detestable and foreign with age. Indeed, he even dreams that his left leg belongs to someone else. His sense of estrangement, however, does not only refer to the body but to place as well: retirement has sent him into \"exile.\" Unwelcome and unwanted, he is not at home at his own estate, disrupting its routine with his arrival. Here we might thus recall Astrov's folk song, which ends with the phrase: \"There's no place for the master to go to bed\" Serebryakov also describes himself as having been consigned to a \"tomb\"; notably, the motif of death appears throughout this scene. To recall Voynitsky's accusation from Act I, it appears that living takes too much effort for Yelena. She appears \"dead\" to the world, numb to the laments of her husband and of Voynitsky. Voynitsky, haunted by the \"evil spirit\" of his thoughts, drinks to feel alive and finds himself wasting away. We might wonder then--particularly in light of the brewing storm--if the sound from the night watchman outside is more ominous than reassuring, something akin to death's knock on the door. Along with these dying characters, the scene conjures the memory of a ghost--that of Serebryakov's first wife, Vera Petrovna . In this scene, the memory of Vera causes a marked shift in the dialogue's tone: Marina conjures the years past, and the sardonic Serebryakov is moved to near-silence. As Vera is never discussed in detail, however, her significance remains elusive. To some extent, the opening dialogue in Act I marks the time before Astrov's ruin as the time when Vera still lived. On his own part, Voynitsky is haunted by memories of Vera: in the exchange with Sonya in the following scene, he will grow teary when he sees Vera's look in hers. Moreover, his envy of the professor's success with women--a success he describes in reference to his angelic sister above all--points to an almost incestuous obsession with her ghost. In this play about time past, the dead woman comes to emblematize the unrecoverable losses that each character seems to harbor."}

ACT II The dining-room of SEREBRAKOFF'S house. It is night. The tapping of the WATCHMAN'S rattle is heard in the garden. SEREBRAKOFF is dozing in an arm-chair by an open window and HELENA is sitting beside him, also half asleep. SEREBRAKOFF. [Rousing himself] Who is here? Is it you, Sonia? HELENA. It is I. SEREBRAKOFF. Oh, it is you, Nelly. This pain is intolerable. HELENA. Your shawl has slipped down. [She wraps up his legs in the shawl] Let me shut the window. SEREBRAKOFF. No, leave it open; I am suffocating. I dreamt just now that my left leg belonged to some one else, and it hurt so that I woke. I don't believe this is gout, it is more like rheumatism. What time is it? HELENA. Half past twelve. [A pause.] SEREBRAKOFF. I want you to look for Batushka's works in the library to-morrow. I think we have him. HELENA. What is that? SEREBRAKOFF. Look for Batushka to-morrow morning; we used to have him, I remember. Why do I find it so hard to breathe? HELENA. You are tired; this is the second night you have had no sleep. SEREBRAKOFF. They say that Turgenieff got angina of the heart from gout. I am afraid I am getting angina too. Oh, damn this horrible, accursed old age! Ever since I have been old I have been hateful to myself, and I am sure, hateful to you all as well. HELENA. You speak as if we were to blame for your being old. SEREBRAKOFF. I am more hateful to you than to any one. HELENA gets up and walks away from him, sitting down at a distance. SEREBRAKOFF. You are quite right, of course. I am not an idiot; I can understand you. You are young and healthy and beautiful, and longing for life, and I am an old dotard, almost a dead man already. Don't I know it? Of course I see that it is foolish for me to live so long, but wait! I shall soon set you all free. My life cannot drag on much longer. HELENA. You are overtaxing my powers of endurance. Be quiet, for God's sake! SEREBRAKOFF. It appears that, thanks to me, everybody's power of endurance is being overtaxed; everybody is miserable, only I am blissfully triumphant. Oh, yes, of course! HELENA. Be quiet! You are torturing me. SEREBRAKOFF. I torture everybody. Of course. HELENA. [Weeping] This is unbearable! Tell me, what is it you want me to do? SEREBRAKOFF. Nothing. HELENA. Then be quiet, please. SEREBRAKOFF. It is funny that everybody listens to Ivan and his old idiot of a mother, but the moment I open my lips you all begin to feel ill-treated. You can't even stand the sound of my voice. Even if I am hateful, even if I am a selfish tyrant, haven't I the right to be one at my age? Haven't I deserved it? Haven't I, I ask you, the right to be respected, now that I am old? HELENA. No one is disputing your rights. [The window slams in the wind] The wind is rising, I must shut the window. [She shuts it] We shall have rain in a moment. Your rights have never been questioned by anybody. The WATCHMAN in the garden sounds his rattle. SEREBRAKOFF. I have spent my life working in the interests of learning. I am used to my library and the lecture hall and to the esteem and admiration of my colleagues. Now I suddenly find myself plunged in this wilderness, condemned to see the same stupid people from morning till night and listen to their futile conversation. I want to live; I long for success and fame and the stir of the world, and here I am in exile! Oh, it is dreadful to spend every moment grieving for the lost past, to see the success of others and sit here with nothing to do but to fear death. I cannot stand it! It is more than I can bear. And you will not even forgive me for being old! HELENA. Wait, have patience; I shall be old myself in four or five years. SONIA comes in. SONIA. Father, you sent for Dr. Astroff, and now when he comes you refuse to see him. It is not nice to give a man so much trouble for nothing. SEREBRAKOFF. What do I care about your Astroff? He understands medicine about as well as I understand astronomy. SONIA. We can't send for the whole medical faculty, can we, to treat your gout? SEREBRAKOFF. I won't talk to that madman! SONIA. Do as you please. It's all the same to me. [She sits down.] SEREBRAKOFF. What time is it? HELENA. One o'clock. SEREBRAKOFF. It is stifling in here. Sonia, hand me that bottle on the table. SONIA. Here it is. [She hands him a bottle of medicine.] SEREBRAKOFF. [Crossly] No, not that one! Can't you understand me? Can't I ask you to do a thing? SONIA. Please don't be captious with me. Some people may like it, but you must spare me, if you please, because I don't. Besides, I haven't the time; we are cutting the hay to-morrow and I must get up early. VOITSKI comes in dressed in a long gown and carrying a candle. VOITSKI. A thunderstorm is coming up. [The lightning flashes] There it is! Go to bed, Helena and Sonia. I have come to take your place. SEREBRAKOFF. [Frightened] No, n-o, no! Don't leave me alone with him! Oh, don't. He will begin to lecture me. VOITSKI. But you must give them a little rest. They have not slept for two nights. SEREBRAKOFF. Then let them go to bed, but you go away too! Thank you. I implore you to go. For the sake of our former friendship do not protest against going. We will talk some other time---- VOITSKI. Our former friendship! Our former---- SONIA. Hush, Uncle Vanya! SEREBRAKOFF. [To his wife] My darling, don't leave me alone with him. He will begin to lecture me. VOITSKI. This is ridiculous. MARINA comes in carrying a candle. SONIA. You must go to bed, nurse, it is late. MARINA. I haven't cleared away the tea things. Can't go to bed yet. SEREBRAKOFF. No one can go to bed. They are all worn out, only I enjoy perfect happiness. MARINA. [Goes up to SEREBRAKOFF and speaks tenderly] What's the matter, master? Does it hurt? My own legs are aching too, oh, so badly. [Arranges his shawl about his legs] You have had this illness such a long time. Sonia's dead mother used to stay awake with you too, and wear herself out for you. She loved you dearly. [A pause] Old people want to be pitied as much as young ones, but nobody cares about them somehow. [She kisses SEREBRAKOFF'S shoulder] Come, master, let me give you some linden-tea and warm your poor feet for you. I shall pray to God for you. SEREBRAKOFF. [Touched] Let us go, Marina. MARINA. My own feet are aching so badly, oh, so badly! [She and SONIA lead SEREBRAKOFF out] Sonia's mother used to wear herself out with sorrow and weeping. You were still little and foolish then, Sonia. Come, come, master. SEREBRAKOFF, SONIA and MARINA go out. HELENA. I am absolutely exhausted by him, and can hardly stand. VOITSKI. You are exhausted by him, and I am exhausted by my own self. I have not slept for three nights. HELENA. Something is wrong in this house. Your mother hates everything but her pamphlets and the professor; the professor is vexed, he won't trust me, and fears you; Sonia is angry with her father, and with me, and hasn't spoken to me for two weeks; I am at the end of my strength, and have come near bursting into tears at least twenty times to-day. Something is wrong in this house. VOITSKI. Leave speculating alone. HELENA. You are cultured and intelligent, Ivan, and you surely understand that the world is not destroyed by villains and conflagrations, but by hate and malice and all this spiteful tattling. It is your duty to make peace, and not to growl at everything. VOITSKI. Help me first to make peace with myself. My darling! [Seizes her hand.] HELENA. Let go! [She drags her hand away] Go away! VOITSKI. Soon the rain will be over, and all nature will sigh and awake refreshed. Only I am not refreshed by the storm. Day and night the thought haunts me like a fiend, that my life is lost for ever. My past does not count, because I frittered it away on trifles, and the present has so terribly miscarried! What shall I do with my life and my love? What is to become of them? This wonderful feeling of mine will be wasted and lost as a ray of sunlight is lost that falls into a dark chasm, and my life will go with it. HELENA. I am as it were benumbed when you speak to me of your love, and I don't know how to answer you. Forgive me, I have nothing to say to you. [She tries to go out] Good-night! VOITSKI. [Barring the way] If you only knew how I am tortured by the thought that beside me in this house is another life that is being lost forever--it is yours! What are you waiting for? What accursed philosophy stands in your way? Oh, understand, understand---- HELENA. [Looking at him intently] Ivan, you are drunk! VOITSKI. Perhaps. Perhaps. HELENA. Where is the doctor? VOITSKI. In there, spending the night with me. Perhaps I am drunk, perhaps I am; nothing is impossible. HELENA. Have you just been drinking together? Why do you do that? VOITSKI. Because in that way I get a taste of life. Let me do it, Helena! HELENA. You never used to drink, and you never used to talk so much. Go to bed, I am tired of you. VOITSKI. [Falling on his knees before her] My sweetheart, my beautiful one---- HELENA. [Angrily] Leave me alone! Really, this has become too disagreeable. HELENA goes out. A pause. VOITSKI [Alone] She is gone! I met her first ten years ago, at her sister's house, when she was seventeen and I was thirty-seven. Why did I not fall in love with her then and propose to her? It would have been so easy! And now she would have been my wife. Yes, we would both have been waked to-night by the thunderstorm, and she would have been frightened, but I would have held her in my arms and whispered: "Don't be afraid! I am here." Oh, enchanting dream, so sweet that I laugh to think of it. [He laughs] But my God! My head reels! Why am I so old? Why won't she understand me? I hate all that rhetoric of hers, that morality of indolence, that absurd talk about the destruction of the world----[A pause] Oh, how I have been deceived! For years I have worshipped that miserable gout-ridden professor. Sonia and I have squeezed this estate dry for his sake. We have bartered our butter and curds and peas like misers, and have never kept a morsel for ourselves, so that we could scrape enough pennies together to send to him. I was proud of him and of his learning; I received all his words and writings as inspired, and now? Now he has retired, and what is the total of his life? A blank! He is absolutely unknown, and his fame has burst like a soap-bubble. I have been deceived; I see that now, basely deceived. ASTROFF comes in. He has his coat on, but is without his waistcoat or collar, and is slightly drunk. TELEGIN follows him, carrying a guitar. ASTROFF. Play! TELEGIN. But every one is asleep. ASTROFF. Play! TELEGIN begins to play softly. ASTROFF. Are you alone here? No women about? [Sings with his arms akimbo.] "The hut is cold, the fire is dead; Where shall the master lay his head?" The thunderstorm woke me. It was a heavy shower. What time is it? VOITSKI. The devil only knows. ASTROFF. I thought I heard Helena's voice. VOITSKI. She was here a moment ago. ASTROFF. What a beautiful woman! [Looking at the medicine bottles on the table] Medicine, is it? What a variety we have; prescriptions from Moscow, from Kharkoff, from Tula! Why, he has been pestering all the towns of Russia with his gout! Is he ill, or simply shamming? VOITSKI. He is really ill. ASTROFF. What is the matter with you to-night? You seem sad. Is it because you are sorry for the professor? VOITSKI. Leave me alone. ASTROFF. Or in love with the professor's wife? VOITSKI. She is my friend. ASTROFF. Already? VOITSKI. What do you mean by "already"? ASTROFF. A woman can only become a man's friend after having first been his acquaintance and then his beloved--then she becomes his friend. VOITSKI. What vulgar philosophy! ASTROFF. What do you mean? Yes, I must confess I am getting vulgar, but then, you see, I am drunk. I usually only drink like this once a month. At such times my audacity and temerity know no bounds. I feel capable of anything. I attempt the most difficult operations and do them magnificently. The most brilliant plans for the future take shape in my head. I am no longer a poor fool of a doctor, but mankind's greatest benefactor. I evolve my own system of philosophy and all of you seem to crawl at my feet like so many insects or microbes. [To TELEGIN] Play, Waffles! TELEGIN. My dear boy, I would with all my heart, but do listen to reason; everybody in the house is asleep. ASTROFF. Play! TELEGIN plays softly. ASTROFF. I want a drink. Come, we still have some brandy left. And then, as soon as it is day, you will come home with me. [He sees SONIA, who comes in at that moment.] ASTROFF. I beg your pardon, I have no collar on. [He goes out quickly, followed by TELEGIN.] SONIA. Uncle Vanya, you and the doctor have been drinking! The good fellows have been getting together! It is all very well for him, he has always done it, but why do you follow his example? It looks dreadfully at your age. VOITSKI. Age has nothing to do with it. When real life is wanting one must create an illusion. It is better than nothing. SONIA. Our hay is all cut and rotting in these daily rains, and here you are busy creating illusions! You have given up the farm altogether. I have done all the work alone until I am at the end of my strength--[Frightened] Uncle! Your eyes are full of tears! VOITSKI. Tears? Nonsense, there are no tears in my eyes. You looked at me then just as your dead mother used to, my darling--[He eagerly kisses her face and hands] My sister, my dearest sister, where are you now? Ah, if you only knew, if you only knew! SONIA. If she only knew what, Uncle? VOITSKI. My heart is bursting. It is awful. No matter, though. I must go. [He goes out.] SONIA. [Knocks at the door] Dr. Astroff! Are you awake? Please come here for a minute. ASTROFF. [Behind the door] In a moment. He appears in a few seconds. He has put on his collar and waistcoat. ASTROFF. What do you want? SONIA. Drink as much as you please yourself if you don't find it revolting, but I implore you not to let my uncle do it. It is bad for him. ASTROFF. Very well; we won't drink any more. I am going home at once. That is settled. It will be dawn by the time the horses are harnessed. SONIA. It is still raining; wait till morning. ASTROFF. The storm is blowing over. This is only the edge of it. I must go. And please don't ask me to come and see your father any more. I tell him he has gout, and he says it is rheumatism. I tell him to lie down, and he sits up. To-day he refused to see me at all. SONIA. He has been spoilt. [She looks in the sideboard] Won't you have a bite to eat? ASTROFF. Yes, please. I believe I will. SONIA. I love to eat at night. I am sure we shall find something in here. They say that he has made a great many conquests in his life, and that the women have spoiled him. Here is some cheese for you. [They stand eating by the sideboard.] ASTROFF. I haven't eaten anything to-day. Your father has a very difficult nature. [He takes a bottle out of the sideboard] May I? [He pours himself a glass of vodka] We are alone here, and I can speak frankly. Do you know, I could not stand living in this house for even a month? This atmosphere would stifle me. There is your father, entirely absorbed in his books, and his gout; there is your Uncle Vanya with his hypochondria, your grandmother, and finally, your step-mother-- SONIA. What about her? ASTROFF. A human being should be entirely beautiful: the face, the clothes, the mind, the thoughts. Your step-mother is, of course, beautiful to look at, but don't you see? She does nothing but sleep and eat and walk and bewitch us, and that is all. She has no responsibilities, everything is done for her--am I not right? And an idle life can never be a pure one. [A pause] However, I may be judging her too severely. Like your Uncle Vanya, I am discontented, and so we are both grumblers. SONIA. Aren't you satisfied with life? ASTROFF. I like life as life, but I hate and despise it in a little Russian country village, and as far as my own personal life goes, by heaven! there is absolutely no redeeming feature about it. Haven't you noticed if you are riding through a dark wood at night and see a little light shining ahead, how you forget your fatigue and the darkness and the sharp twigs that whip your face? I work, that you know--as no one else in the country works. Fate beats me on without rest; at times I suffer unendurably and I see no light ahead. I have no hope; I do not like people. It is long since I have loved any one. SONIA. You love no one? ASTROFF. Not a soul. I only feel a sort of tenderness for your old nurse for old-times' sake. The peasants are all alike; they are stupid and live in dirt, and the educated people are hard to get along with. One gets tired of them. All our good friends are petty and shallow and see no farther than their own noses; in one word, they are dull. Those that have brains are hysterical, devoured with a mania for self-analysis. They whine, they hate, they pick faults everywhere with unhealthy sharpness. They sneak up to me sideways, look at me out of a corner of the eye, and say: "That man is a lunatic," "That man is a wind-bag." Or, if they don't know what else to label me with, they say I am strange. I like the woods; that is strange. I don't eat meat; that is strange, too. Simple, natural relations between man and man or man and nature do not exist. [He tries to go out; SONIA prevents him.] SONIA. I beg you, I implore you, not to drink any more! ASTROFF. Why not? SONIA. It is so unworthy of you. You are well-bred, your voice is sweet, you are even--more than any one I know--handsome. Why do you want to resemble the common people that drink and play cards? Oh, don't, I beg you! You always say that people do not create anything, but only destroy what heaven has given them. Why, oh, why, do you destroy yourself? Oh, don't, I implore you not to! I entreat you! ASTROFF. [Gives her his hand] I won't drink any more. SONIA. Promise me. ASTROFF. I give you my word of honour. SONIA. [Squeezing his hand] Thank you. ASTROFF. I have done with it. You see, I am perfectly sober again, and so I shall stay till the end of my life. [He looks his watch] But, as I was saying, life holds nothing for me; my race is run. I am old, I am tired, I am trivial; my sensibilities are dead. I could never attach myself to any one again. I love no one, and never shall! Beauty alone has the power to touch me still. I am deeply moved by it. Helena could turn my head in a day if she wanted to, but that is not love, that is not affection-- [He shudders and covers his face with his hands.] SONIA. What is it? ASTROFF. Nothing. During Lent one of my patients died under chloroform. SONIA. It is time to forget that. [A pause] Tell me, doctor, if I had a friend or a younger sister, and if you knew that she, well--loved you, what would you do? ASTROFF. [Shrugging his shoulders] I don't know. I don't think I should do anything. I should make her understand that I could not return her love--however, my mind is not bothered about those things now. I must start at once if I am ever to get off. Good-bye, my dear girl. At this rate we shall stand here talking till morning. [He shakes hands with her] I shall go out through the sitting-room, because I am afraid your uncle might detain me. [He goes out.] SONIA. [Alone] Not a word! His heart and soul are still locked from me, and yet for some reason I am strangely happy. I wonder why? [She laughs with pleasure] I told him that he was well-bred and handsome and that his voice was sweet. Was that a mistake? I can still feel his voice vibrating in the air; it caresses me. [Wringing her hands] Oh! how terrible it is to be plain! I am plain, I know it. As I came out of church last Sunday I overheard a woman say, "She is a dear, noble girl, but what a pity she is so ugly!" So ugly! HELENA comes in and throws open the window. HELENA. The storm is over. What delicious air! [A pause] Where is the doctor? SONIA. He has gone. [A pause.] HELENA. Sonia! SONIA. Yes? HELENA. How much longer are you going to sulk at me? We have not hurt each other. Why not be friends? We have had enough of this. SONIA. I myself--[She embraces HELENA] Let us make peace. HELENA. With all my heart. [They are both moved.] SONIA. Has papa gone to bed? HELENA. No, he is sitting up in the drawing-room. Heaven knows what reason you and I had for not speaking to each other for weeks. [Sees the open sideboard] Who left the sideboard open? SONIA. Dr. Astroff has just had supper. HELENA. There is some wine. Let us seal our friendship. SONIA. Yes, let us. HELENA. Out of one glass. [She fills a wine-glass] So, we are friends, are we? SONIA. Yes. [They drink and kiss each other] I have long wanted to make friends, but somehow, I was ashamed to. [She weeps.] HELENA. Why are you crying? SONIA. I don't know. It is nothing. HELENA. There, there, don't cry. [She weeps] Silly! Now I am crying too. [A pause] You are angry with me because I seem to have married your father for his money, but don't believe the gossip you hear. I swear to you I married him for love. I was fascinated by his fame and learning. I know now that it was not real love, but it seemed real at the time. I am innocent, and yet your clever, suspicious eyes have been punishing me for an imaginary crime ever since my marriage. SONIA. Peace, peace! Let us forget the past. HELENA. You must not look so at people. It is not becoming to you. You must trust people, or life becomes impossible. SONIA. Tell me truly, as a friend, are you happy? HELENA. Truly, no. SONIA. I knew it. One more question: do you wish your husband were young? HELENA. What a child you are! Of course I do. Go on, ask something else. SONIA. Do you like the doctor? HELENA. Yes, very much indeed. SONIA. [Laughing] I have a stupid face, haven't I? He has just gone out, and his voice is still in my ears; I hear his step; I see his face in the dark window. Let me say all I have in my heart! But no, I cannot speak of it so loudly. I am ashamed. Come to my room and let me tell you there. I seem foolish to you, don't I? Talk to me of him. HELENA. What can I say? SONIA. He is clever. He can do everything. He can cure the sick, and plant woods. HELENA. It is not a question of medicine and woods, my dear, he is a man of genius. Do you know what that means? It means he is brave, profound, and of clear insight. He plants a tree and his mind travels a thousand years into the future, and he sees visions of the happiness of the human race. People like him are rare and should be loved. What if he does drink and act roughly at times? A man of genius cannot be a saint in Russia. There he lives, cut off from the world by cold and storm and endless roads of bottomless mud, surrounded by a rough people who are crushed by poverty and disease, his life one continuous struggle, with never a day's respite; how can a man live like that for forty years and keep himself sober and unspotted? [Kissing SONIA] I wish you happiness with all my heart; you deserve it. [She gets up] As for me, I am a worthless, futile woman. I have always been futile; in music, in love, in my husband's house--in a word, in everything. When you come to think of it, Sonia, I am really very, very unhappy. [Walks excitedly up and down] Happiness can never exist for me in this world. Never. Why do you laugh? SONIA. [Laughing and covering her face with her hands] I am so happy, so happy! HELENA. I want to hear music. I might play a little. SONIA. Oh, do, do! [She embraces her] I could not possibly go to sleep now. Do play! HELENA. Yes, I will. Your father is still awake. Music irritates him when he is ill, but if he says I may, then I shall play a little. Go, Sonia, and ask him. SONIA. Very well. [She goes out. The WATCHMAN'S rattle is heard in the garden.] HELENA. It is long since I have heard music. And now, I shall sit and play, and weep like a fool. [Speaking out of the window] Is that you rattling out there, Ephim? VOICE OF THE WATCHMAN. It is I. HELENA. Don't make such a noise. Your master is ill. VOICE OF THE WATCHMAN. I am going away this minute. [Whistles a tune.] SONIA. [Comes back] He says, no. The curtain falls.

Act II - Part One

https://web.archive.org/web/20210227035013/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/unclevanya/section3/

Act II begins at night with the professor and Yelena asleep and sitting next to each other in the dining room. A night watchman can be heard tapping in the garden. The two awaken, Serebryakov complains of his gout and rheumatism. He damns old age, declaring that he has become detestable to himself and those around him. He accuses Yelena in particular of hating him; how could such a young beauty not resent the corpse to which she is attached? Claiming weariness, Yelena begs him to be quiet. Serebryakov sarcastically replies that it seems he has worn everyone out; he, on the other hand, is having a great time. Continuing his lament, Serebryakov complains that while everyone listens to Voynitsky and Maria, they find his own voice abhorrent. In his old age, he has a right to egoism, and people must attend to him. He has spent his life in scholarship and suddenly finds himself in a "tomb," plagued by the "good-for-nothing talk, talk, talk" of fools. Serebryakov feels as if in "exile" and spends his days yearning for the past and fearing death. With deep resignation, Yelena consoles him: soon she too will be old. Sonya then enters and reproaches her father for abusing Dr. Astrov--apparently Serebryakov holds him in nothing but contempt. Voynitsky then enters, noting the storm brewing outside. He has come to relieve Yelena and Sonya of their night watch over the professor; the professor reacts in terror--"He'll talk my head off!" he exclaims. Marina then enters and, speaking of her own aches, tenderly takes Serebryakov to bed. She recalls the years when his first wife, Vera Petrovna, slaved away to care for him; deeply moved, the professor exits the dining room with Sonya and Marina, leaving Yelena and Voynitsky alone. Complaining of yet another sleepless night with the professor, Yelena cries that the house is "going to rack and ruin" and enjoins Voynitsky to help bring its members together. Much to her dismay, he bends to kiss her hand. When Yelena recoils, Voynitsky once again laments the many wasted years, during which he has had nothing to do with his life and love. Whereas the storm will renew nature, it will not help Voynitsky. His thoughts will haunt him like an "evil spirit." "My feelings are wasting away in vain," he cries, "like a ray of sunlight failing into a pit, and I too am wasting away." Yelena is numb to his entreaty. When Voynitsky persists, she accuses him of being a drunken bore; Voynitsky rejoins that at least drink makes one feel alive. Yelena leaves, and Voynitsky makes a soliloquy that mourns what might have been had he married Yelena when they first met ten years ago. He also reveals that he once worshipped the professor and has worked the estate to provide him with an income, the summation of his wasted life. Some disconcerting comic relief ensues. A tipsy Astrov--philosopher and visionary no longer--enters with a guitar-playing Telegin. As Telegin continually warns that everyone is sleeping, one could speculate that this scene is spoken in a whisper. Astrov sings a folk song about the master of the house having no place to go to bed. Asking Voynitsky about Yelena, he coarsely suggests that Voynitsky is in love with her and has perhaps already been her lover. Upon being reproached, he admits to being arrogant and shameless when drunk. Only then does he feel "monumental" rather than "eccentric," able to effect his great plans for the future.

Act II begins with two parallel night watches: that of the tapping guard outside and the vigil the members of the household keep for the aging professor within. In turn-of-the-century provincial Russia, the night watchman would tap the grounds with his stick to signal that all was well and warn potential trespassers that the residents were home. As we will discuss in detail, we find the opposite case with the night watch inside: nothing is well in this household "gone to rack and ruin" and no one feels quite at home. We can best chart this ruin and sense of dislocation with the dialogue between the professor and Yelena. Here we find the telltale motif of estrangement discussed earlier. The egotistical, almost infantile Serebryakov describes a sense of alienation in his body becoming detestable and foreign with age. Indeed, he even dreams that his left leg belongs to someone else. His sense of estrangement, however, does not only refer to the body but to place as well: retirement has sent him into "exile." Unwelcome and unwanted, he is not at home at his own estate, disrupting its routine with his arrival. Here we might thus recall Astrov's folk song, which ends with the phrase: "There's no place for the master to go to bed" Serebryakov also describes himself as having been consigned to a "tomb"; notably, the motif of death appears throughout this scene. To recall Voynitsky's accusation from Act I, it appears that living takes too much effort for Yelena. She appears "dead" to the world, numb to the laments of her husband and of Voynitsky. Voynitsky, haunted by the "evil spirit" of his thoughts, drinks to feel alive and finds himself wasting away. We might wonder then--particularly in light of the brewing storm--if the sound from the night watchman outside is more ominous than reassuring, something akin to death's knock on the door. Along with these dying characters, the scene conjures the memory of a ghost--that of Serebryakov's first wife, Vera Petrovna . In this scene, the memory of Vera causes a marked shift in the dialogue's tone: Marina conjures the years past, and the sardonic Serebryakov is moved to near-silence. As Vera is never discussed in detail, however, her significance remains elusive. To some extent, the opening dialogue in Act I marks the time before Astrov's ruin as the time when Vera still lived. On his own part, Voynitsky is haunted by memories of Vera: in the exchange with Sonya in the following scene, he will grow teary when he sees Vera's look in hers. Moreover, his envy of the professor's success with women--a success he describes in reference to his angelic sister above all--points to an almost incestuous obsession with her ghost. In this play about time past, the dead woman comes to emblematize the unrecoverable losses that each character seems to harbor.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1929-chapters/act_iv.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The School for Scandal/section_3_part_0.txt

The School for Scandal.act iv.scene i-scene iii

act iv

{"name": "Act IV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409073536/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-school-for-scandal/study-guide/summary-act-iv", "summary": "Charles sells every painting of his ancestors except for a portrait of Sir Oliver. When \"Mr. Premium\" offers to pay a large sum of money for it, Charles still refuses to sell it. After the deal is done, Charles sends a sum of money for the relief of Mr. Stanley, despite's Rowley's objections. Sir Oliver thinks about Charles' behavior when Rowley comes with the money Charles sent for Mr. Stanley. After this, Sir Oliver decides to go and visit Joseph as Mr. Stanley to see how he will behave. Meanwhile, Lady Teazle is paying a visit to Joseph. A servant announces that Sir Peter has also come to call on Joseph, and Lady Teazle hides behind a screen. Sir Peter tells Joseph about the rumored relationship between his wife and Charles and also urges Joseph to marry Maria--much to Joseph's displeasure, since he had just been trying to convince Lady Teazle to cheat on her husband with him. Charles is announced, and Sir Peter decides to hide as well behind the screen. Sir Peter sees a woman behind the screen, but Joseph convinces him that it is just some random woman--a French milliner. Sir Peter hides in a closet instead. Charles enters; and he and Joseph start talking about Lady Teazle, and how Charles thinks that Joseph and her are in a relationship. Joseph tries to get him off the subject, but Charles does not understand, so Joseph tells him quietly that Sir Peter is hiding in the room. Charles immediately lets Sir Peter come out, and Sir Peter apologizes for believing that there is something between his wife and him. Lady Sneerwell is announced, and Joseph leaves to stop her from entering the room. Thinking it will be a good joke to reveal a woman hiding in the room to Joseph's own brother, Sir Peter pulls down the screen to finds that his wife behind it. She confesses that she came to Joseph with the intention of having an affair with him, but that after she found that Sir Peter wanted to let her have a large sum of money, she decided against it. Lady Teazle leaves and Joseph tries to explain to Sir Peter why she was in the room. Sir Peter refuses to listen to him and they leave stage together arguing.", "analysis": "Dramatic irony appears in two major scenes of this act. First, Sir Oliver completes his second nephew-visit in disguise. This visit, spread across multiple scenes, is quite dynamic; Sir Oliver ends Act III promising to himself and the audience that he will never forgive his nephew for selling the family's portraits, but by the end of Act IV he has completely forgiven Charles, since the young man refused to sell the portrait of Sir Oliver for any price. He has even come to see Charles as perhaps more moral than his brother, since Charles sends money after his relative Mr. Stanley as soon as he has some to give. The scenes between Charles and Sir Oliver in disguise as Mr. Premium are full of dramatic irony and humor because Sir Oliver does not do a particularly good job of acting the part nor hiding his emotional reactions, and yet Charles seems to be none the wiser, even when talking directly about Sir Oliver. The second case of dramatic irony in this act comes from the series of people hiding in Joseph's rooms and then being revealed. The rising action and building of suspense in the scene directly follows the number of people, all tied together in a dense knot of love triangles and rumors. The climax, ironically, comes precisely from Sir Peter trying to make fun of his friend publicly: in attempting to do so by pulling down the screen that he believes is hiding a simple woman from the town, he actually publicly humiliates himself. It is important to note the symbolism of the portraits in Charles's Surface's house, as well as the symbolism of the various other items he has sold. Since social class was so tied to wealth and lineage, Charles was not only disrespecting his family's memory by selling their goods, but also upsetting the usual respect for social class. While the portraits of the family are clear representations of the family members themselves, having a portrait made is also something only the wealthiest people and families would be able to do, and that these portraits go back for many generations shows the strong lineage of the Surface family. This can also be seen in Sir Oliver's shock at Charles selling the books from the family library: since education, especially higher education, was reserved for wealthy males at the time, selling the library can be seen as not upholding this archaic system of keeping knowledge in the upper class. Similarly to Act III, repetition is used in Act IV in a conversation between Sir Oliver and Mr. Moses. However, instead repeating the words of Mr. Moses for comedic effect as Sir Oliver took on the role of a money-lender, the repetition in Act IV shows Sir Oliver attempting to make up his mind about Charles. Sir Oliver repeats the exact same line three times: \"But he would not sell my picture\" . In the end, the audience finds that Sir Oliver does see this as a good enough showing of love and loyalty to make the boy his heir. This could be seen as a commentary on the public weighing of peoples' morality: rather than putting all of their actions on a scale, perhaps great loyalty to one person or value makes them moral, at least in the eyes of those who value that same thing. While Sir Oliver seems to believe Charles moral and worthy of his inheritance because of his loyalty, the audience may also feel that Charles Surface is a refreshing presence for his unwillingness to play social games, especially those of disguise and deceit. This can be seen in his action of pulling Sir Peter out of hiding as soon as he finds out the situation. This type of quick, almost abrasive honesty has perhaps only been seen so far in Act I Scene I when Lady Sneerwell laid out her intentions for Snake, but even that was a more private situation than this public act of openness."}

ACT IV SCENE I. --A Picture Room in CHARLES SURFACE'S House Enter CHARLES, SIR OLIVER, MOSES, and CARELESS CHARLES. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in;--here they are, the family of the Surfaces, up to the Conquest. SIR OLIVER. And, in my opinion, a goodly collection. CHARLES. Ay, ay, these are done in the true spirit of portrait-painting; no volontiere grace or expression. Not like the works of your modern Raphaels, who give you the strongest resemblance, yet contrive to make your portrait independent of you; so that you may sink the original and not hurt the picture. No, no; the merit of these is the inveterate likeness--all stiff and awkward as the originals, and like nothing in human nature besides. SIR OLIVER. Ah! we shall never see such figures of men again. CHARLES. I hope not. Well, you see, Master Premium, what a domestic character I am; here I sit of an evening surrounded by my family. But come, get to your pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer; here's an old gouty chair of my grandfather's will answer the purpose. CARELESS. Ay, ay, this will do. But, Charles, I haven't a hammer; and what's an auctioneer without his hammer? CHARLES. Egad, that's true. What parchment have we here? Oh, our genealogy in full. [Taking pedigree down.] Here, Careless, you shall have no common bit of mahogany, here's the family tree for you, you rogue! This shall be your hammer, and now you may knock down my ancestors with their own pedigree. SIR OLIVER. What an unnatural rogue!--an ex post facto parricide! [Aside.] CARELESS. Yes, yes, here's a list of your generation indeed;--faith, Charles, this is the most convenient thing you could have found for the business, for 'twill not only serve as a hammer, but a catalogue into the bargain. Come, begin--A-going, a-going, a-going! CHARLES. Bravo, Careless! Well, here's my great uncle, Sir Richard Ravelin, a marvellous good general in his day, I assure you. He served in all the Duke of Marlborough's wars, and got that cut over his eye at the battle of Malplaquet. What say you, Mr. Premium? look at him--there's a hero! not cut out of his feathers, as your modern clipped captains are, but enveloped in wig and regimentals, as a general should be. What do you bid? SIR OLIVER. [Aside to Moses.] Bid him speak. MOSES. Mr. Premium would have you speak. CHARLES. Why, then, he shall have him for ten pounds, and I'm sure that's not dear for a staff-officer. SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Heaven deliver me! his famous uncle Richard for ten pounds!--[Aloud.] Very well, sir, I take him at that. CHARLES. Careless, knock down my uncle Richard.--Here, now, is a maiden sister of his, my great-aunt Deborah, done by Kneller, in his best manner, and esteemed a very formidable likeness. There she is, you see, a shepherdess feeding her flock. You shall have her for five pounds ten--the sheep are worth the money. SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Ah! poor Deborah! a woman who set such a value on herself!--[Aloud.] Five pounds ten--she's mine. CHARLES. Knock down my aunt Deborah! Here, now, are two that were a sort of cousins of theirs.--You see, Moses, these pictures were done some time ago, when beaux wore wigs, and the ladies their own hair. SIR OLIVER. Yes, truly, head-dresses appear to have been a little lower in those days. CHARLES. Well, take that couple for the same. MOSES. 'Tis a good bargain. CHARLES. Careless!--This, now, is a grandfather of my mother's, a learned judge, well known on the western circuit,--What do you rate him at, Moses? MOSES. Four guineas. CHARLES. Four guineas! Gad's life, you don't bid me the price of his wig.--Mr. Premium, you have more respect for the woolsack; do let us knock his lordship down at fifteen. SIR OLIVER. By all means. CARELESS. Gone! CHARLES. And there are two brothers of his, William and Walter Blunt, Esquires, both members of Parliament, and noted speakers; and, what's very extraordinary, I believe, this is the first time they were ever bought or sold. SIR OLIVER. That is very extraordinary, indeed! I'll take them at your own price, for the honour of Parliament. CARELESS. Well said, little Premium! I'll knock them down at forty. CHARLES. Here's a jolly fellow--I don't know what relation, but he was mayor of Norwich: take him at eight pounds. SIR OLIVER. No, no; six will do for the mayor. CHARLES. Come, make it guineas, and I'll throw you the two aldermen here into the bargain. SIR OLIVER. They're mine. CHARLES. Careless, knock down the mayor and aldermen. But, plague on't! we shall be all day retailing in this manner; do let us deal wholesale: what say you, little Premium? Give me three hundred pounds for the rest of the family in the lump. CARELESS. Ay, ay, that will be the best way. SIR OLIVER. Well, well, anything to accommodate you; they are mine. But there is one portrait which you have always passed over. CARELESS. What, that ill-looking little fellow over the settee? SIR OLIVER. Yes, sir, I mean that; though I don't think him so ill-looking a little fellow, by any means. CHARLES. What, that? Oh; that's my uncle Oliver! 'Twas done before he went to India. CARELESS. Your uncle Oliver! Gad, then you'll never be friends, Charles. That, now, to me, is as stern a looking rogue as ever I saw; an unforgiving eye, and a damned disinheriting countenance! an inveterate knave, depend on't. Don't you think so, little Premium? SIR OLIVER. Upon my soul, Sir, I do not; I think it is as honest a looking face as any in the room, dead or alive. But I suppose uncle Oliver goes with the rest of the lumber? CHARLES. No, hang it! I'll not part with poor Noll. The old fellow has been very good to me, and, egad, I'll keep his picture while I've a room to put it in. SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] The rogue's my nephew after all!--[Aloud.] But, sir, I have somehow taken a fancy to that picture. CHARLES. I'm sorry for't, for you certainly will not have it. Oons, haven't you got enough of them? SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] I forgive him everything!--[Aloud.] But, Sir, when I take a whim in my head, I don't value money. I'll give you as much for that as for all the rest. CHARLES. Don't tease me, master broker; I tell you I'll not part with it, and there's an end of it. SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] How like his father the dog is.--[Aloud.] Well, well, I have done.--[Aside.] I did not perceive it before, but I think I never saw such a striking resemblance.--[Aloud.] Here is a draught for your sum. CHARLES. Why, 'tis for eight hundred pounds! SIR OLIVER. You will not let Sir Oliver go? CHARLES. Zounds! no! I tell you, once more. SIR OLIVER. Then never mind the difference, we'll balance that another time. But give me your hand on the bargain; you are an honest fellow, Charles--I beg pardon, sir, for being so free.--Come, Moses. CHARLES. Egad, this is a whimsical old fellow!--But hark'ee, Premium, you'll prepare lodgings for these gentlemen. SIR OLIVER. Yes, yes, I'll send for them in a day or two. CHARLES. But, hold; do now send a genteel conveyance for them, for, I assure you, they were most of them used to ride in their own carriages. SIR OLIVER. I will, I will--for all but Oliver. CHARLES. Ay, all but the little nabob. SIR OLIVER. You're fixed on that? CHARLES. Peremptorily. SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] A dear extravagant rogue!--[Aloud.] Good day! Come, Moses.--[Aside.] Let me hear now who dares call him profligate! [Exit with MOSES.] CARELESS. Why, this is the oddest genius of the sort I ever met with! CHARLES. Egad, he's the prince of brokers, I think. I wonder how the devil Moses got acquainted with so honest a fellow.--Ha! here's Rowley.--Do, Careless, say I'll join the company in a few moments. CARELESS. I will--but don't let that old blockhead persuade you to squander any of that money on old musty debts, or any such nonsense; for tradesmen, Charles, are the most exorbitant fellows. CHARLES. Very true, and paying them is only encouraging them. CARELESS. Nothing else. CHARLES. Ay, ay, never fear.-- [Exit CARELESS.] So! this was an odd old fellow, indeed. Let me see, two-thirds of these five hundred and thirty odd pounds are mine by right. Fore Heaven! I find one's ancestors are more valuable relations than I took them for!--Ladies and gentlemen, your most obedient and very grateful servant. [Bows ceremoniously to the pictures.] Enter ROWLEY Ha! old Rowley! egad, you are just come in time to take leave of your old acquaintance. ROWLEY. Yes, I heard they were a-going. But I wonder you can have such spirits under so many distresses. CHARLES. Why, there's the point! my distresses are so many, that I can't affort to part with my spirits; but I shall be rich and splenetic, all in good time. However, I suppose you are surprised that I am not more sorrowful at parting with so many near relations; to be sure, 'tis very affecting; but you see they never move a muscle, so why should I? ROWLEY. There's no making you serious a moment. CHARLES. Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, my honest Rowley, here, get me this changed directly, and take a hundred pounds of it immediately to old Stanley. ROWLEY. A hundred pounds! Consider only---- CHARLES. Gad's life, don't talk about it! poor Stanley's wants are pressing, and, if you don't make haste, we shall have some one call that has a better right to the money. ROWLEY. Ah! there's the point! I never will cease dunning you with the old proverb---- CHARLES. BE JUST BEFORE YOU'RE GENEROUS.--Why, so I would if I could; but Justice is an old hobbling beldame, and I can't get her to keep pace with Generosity, for the soul of me. ROWLEY. Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour's reflection---- CHARLES. Ay, ay, it's very true; but, hark'ee, Rowley, while I have, by Heaven I'll give; so, damn your economy! and now for hazard. [Exeunt.] SCENE II. --The Parlour Enter SIR OLIVER and MOSES MOSES. Well sir, I think as Sir Peter said you have seen Mr. Charles in high Glory--'tis great Pity He's so extravagant. SIR OLIVER. True--but he would not sell my Picture-- MOSES. And loves wine and women so much-- SIR OLIVER. But He wouldn't sell my Picture. MOSES. And game so deep-- SIR OLIVER. But He wouldn't sell my Picture. O--here's Rowley! Enter ROWLEY ROWLEY. So--Sir Oliver--I find you have made a Purchase---- SIR OLIVER. Yes--yes--our young Rake has parted with his Ancestors like old Tapestry--sold Judges and Generals by the foot--and maiden Aunts as cheap as broken China.-- ROWLEY. And here has he commissioned me to re-deliver you Part of the purchase-money--I mean tho' in your necessitous character of old Stanley---- MOSES. Ah! there is the Pity of all! He is so damned charitable. ROWLEY. And I left a Hosier and two Tailors in the Hall--who I'm sure won't be paid, and this hundred would satisfy 'em. SIR OLIVER. Well--well--I'll pay his debts and his Benevolences too--I'll take care of old Stanley--myself--But now I am no more a Broker, and you shall introduce me to the elder Brother as Stanley---- ROWLEY. Not yet a while--Sir Peter I know means to call there about this time. Enter TRIP TRIP. O Gentlemen--I beg Pardon for not showing you out--this way--Moses, a word. [Exit TRIP with MOSES.] SIR OLIVER. There's a Fellow for you--Would you believe it that Puppy intercepted the Jew, on our coming, and wanted to raise money before he got to his master! ROWLEY. Indeed! SIR OLIVER. Yes--they are now planning an annuity Business--Ah Master Rowley[,] in my Day Servants were content with the Follies of their Masters when they were worn a little Thread Bare but now they have their Vices like their Birth Day cloaths with the gloss on. [Exeunt.] SCENE III. --A Library SURFACE and SERVANT SURFACE. No letter from Lady Teazle? SERVANT. No Sir-- SURFACE. I am surprised she hasn't sent if she is prevented from coming--! Sir Peter certainly does not suspect me--yet I wish I may not lose the Heiress, thro' the scrape I have drawn myself in with the wife--However, Charles's imprudence and bad character are great Points in my Favour. SERVANT. Sir--I believe that must be Lady Teazle-- SURFACE. Hold[!] see--whether it is or not before you go to the Door--I have a particular Message for you if it should be my Brother. SERVANT. 'Tis her ladyship Sir--She always leaves her Chair at the milliner's in the next Street. SURFACE. Stay--stay--draw that Screen before the Window--that will do--my opposite Neighbour is a maiden Lady of so curious a temper!-- [SERVANT draws the screen and exit.] I have a difficult Hand to play in this Affair--Lady Teazle as lately suspected my Views on Maria--but She must by no means be let into that secret, at least till I have her more in my Power. Enter LADY TEAZLE LADY TEAZLE. What[!] Sentiment in soliloquy--have you been very impatient now?--O Lud! don't pretend to look grave--I vow I couldn't come before---- SURFACE. O Madam[,] Punctuality is a species of Constancy, a very unfashionable quality in a Lady. LADY TEAZLE. Upon my word you ought to pity me, do you now Sir Peter is grown so ill-tempered to me of Late! and so jealous! of Charles too that's the best of the story isn't it? SURFACE. I am glad my scandalous Friends keep that up. [Aside.] LADY TEAZLE. I am sure I wish He would let Maria marry him--and then perhaps He would be convinced--don't you--Mr. Surface? SURFACE. Indeed I do not.--[Aside.] O certainly I do--for then my dear Lady Teazle would also be convinced how wrong her suspicions were of my having any design on the silly Girl---- LADY TEAZLE. Well--well I'm inclined to believe you--besides I really never could perceive why she should have so any admirers. SURFACE. O for her Fortune--nothing else-- LADY TEAZLE. I believe so for tho' she is certainly very pretty--yet she has no conversation in the world--and is so grave and reserved--that I declare I think she'd have made an excellent wife for Sir Peter.-- SURFACE. So she would. LADY TEAZLE. Then--one never hears her speak ill of anybody--which you know is mighty dull-- SURFACE. Yet she doesn't want understanding-- LADY TEAZLE. No more she does--yet one is always disapointed when one hears [her] speak--For though her Eyes have no kind of meaning in them--she very seldom talks Nonsense. SURFACE. Nay--nay surely--she has very fine eyes-- LADY TEAZLE. Why so she has--tho' sometimes one fancies there's a little sort of a squint-- SURFACE. A squint--O fie--Lady Teazle. LADY TEAZLE. Yes yes--I vow now--come there is a left-handed Cupid in one eye--that's the Truth on't. SURFACE. Well--his aim is very direct however--but Lady Sneerwell has quite corrupted you. LADY TEAZLE. No indeed--I have not opinion enough of her to be taught by her, and I know that she has lately rais'd many scandalous hints of me--which you know one always hears from one common Friend, or other. SURFACE. Why to say truth I believe you are not more obliged to her than others of her acquaintance. LADY TEAZLE. But isn't [it] provoking to hear the most ill-natured Things said to one and there's my friend Lady Sneerwell has circulated I don't know how many scandalous tales of me, and all without any foundation, too; that's what vexes me. SURFACE. Aye Madam to be sure that is the Provoking circumstance--without Foundation--yes yes--there's the mortification indeed--for when a slanderous story is believed against one--there certainly is no comfort like the consciousness of having deserved it---- LADY TEAZLE. No to be sure--then I'd forgive their malice--but to attack me, who am really so innocent--and who never say an ill-natured thing of anybody--that is, of any Friend--! and then Sir Peter too--to have him so peevish--and so suspicious--when I know the integrity of my own Heart--indeed 'tis monstrous. SURFACE. But my dear Lady Teazle 'tis your own fault if you suffer it--when a Husband entertains a groundless suspicion of his Wife and withdraws his confidence from her--the original compact is broke and she owes it to the Honour of her sex to endeavour to outwit him-- LADY TEAZLE. Indeed--So that if He suspects me without cause it follows that the best way of curing his jealousy is to give him reason for't-- SURFACE. Undoubtedly--for your Husband [should] never be deceived in you--and in that case it becomes you to be frail in compliment to his discernment-- LADY TEAZLE. To be sure what you say is very reasonable--and when the consciousness of my own Innocence---- SURFACE. Ah: my dear--Madam there is the great mistake--'tis this very conscious Innocence that is of the greatest Prejudice to you--what is it makes you negligent of Forms and careless of the world's opinion--why the consciousness of your Innocence--what makes you thoughtless in your Conduct and apt to run into a thousand little imprudences--why the consciousness of your Innocence--what makes you impatient of Sir Peter's temper, and outrageous at his suspicions--why the consciousness of your own Innocence-- LADY TEAZLE. 'Tis very true. SURFACE. Now my dear Lady Teazle if you but once make a trifling Faux Pas you can't conceive how cautious you would grow, and how ready to humour and agree with your Husband. LADY TEAZLE. Do you think so-- SURFACE. O I'm sure on't; and then you'd find all scandal would cease at once--for in short your Character at Present is like a Person in a Plethora, absolutely dying of too much Health-- LADY TEAZLE. So--so--then I perceive your Prescription is that I must sin in my own Defence--and part with my virtue to preserve my Reputation.-- SURFACE. Exactly so upon my credit Ma'am[.] LADY TEAZLE. Well certainly this is the oddest Doctrine--and the newest Receipt for avoiding calumny. SURFACE. An infallible one believe me--Prudence like experience must be paid for-- LADY TEAZLE. Why if my understanding were once convinced---- SURFACE. Oh, certainly Madam, your understanding SHOULD be convinced--yes--yes--Heaven forbid I should persuade you to do anything you THOUGHT wrong--no--no--I have too much honor to desire it-- LADY TEAZLE. Don't--you think we may as well leave Honor out of the Argument? [Rises.] SURFACE. Ah--the ill effects of your country education I see still remain with you. LADY TEAZLE. I doubt they do indeed--and I will fairly own to you, that If I could be persuaded to do wrong it would be by Sir Peter's ill-usage--sooner than your honourable Logic, after all. SURFACE. Then by this Hand, which He is unworthy of---- Enter SERVANT Sdeath, you Blockhead--what do you want? SERVANT. I beg your Pardon Sir, but I thought you wouldn't chuse Sir Peter to come up without announcing him? SURFACE. Sir Peter--Oons--the Devil! LADY TEAZLE. Sir Peter! O Lud! I'm ruined! I'm ruin'd! SERVANT. Sir, 'twasn't I let him in. LADY TEAZLE. O I'm undone--what will become of me now Mr. Logick.--Oh! mercy, He's on the Stairs--I'll get behind here--and if ever I'm so imprudent again---- [Goes behind the screen--] SURFACE. Give me that--Book!---- [Sits down--SERVANT pretends to adjust his Hair--] Enter SIR PETER SIR PETER. Aye--ever improving himself!--Mr. Surface-- SURFACE. Oh! my dear Sir Peter--I beg your Pardon--[Gaping and throws away the Book.] I have been dosing [dozing] over a stupid Book! well--I am much obliged to you for this Call--You haven't been here I believe since I fitted up this Room--Books you know are the only Things I am a Coxcomb in-- SIR PETER. 'Tis very neat indeed--well well that's proper--and you make even your Screen a source of knowledge--hung I perceive with Maps-- SURFACE. O yes--I find great use in that Screen. SIR PETER. I dare say you must--certainly--when you want to find out anything in a Hurry. SURFACE. Aye or to hide anything in a Hurry either-- SIR PETER. Well I have a little private Business--if we were alone-- SURFACE. You needn't stay. SERVANT. No--Sir---- [Exit SERVANT.] SURFACE. Here's a Chair--Sir Peter--I beg---- SIR PETER. Well--now we are alone--there IS a subject--my dear Friend--on which I wish to unburthen my Mind to you--a Point of the greatest moment to my Peace--in short, my good Friend--Lady Teazle's conduct of late has made me very unhappy. SURFACE. Indeed I'm very sorry to hear it-- SIR PETER. Yes 'tis but too plain she has not the least regard for me--but what's worse, I have pretty good Authority to suspect that she must have formed an attachment to another. SURFACE. Indeed! you astonish me. SIR PETER. Yes--and between ourselves--I think I have discover'd the Person. SURFACE. How--you alarm me exceedingly! SIR PETER. Ah: my dear Friend I knew you would sympathize with me.-- SURFACE. Yes--believe me Sir Peter--such a discovery would hurt me just as much as it would you-- SIR PETER. I am convinced of it--ah--it is a happiness to have a Friend whom one can trust even with one's Family secrets--but have you no guess who I mean? SURFACE. I haven't the most distant Idea--it can't be Sir Benjamin Backbite. SIR PETER. O--No. What say you to Charles? SURFACE. My Brother--impossible!--O no Sir Peter you mustn't credit the scandalous insinuations you hear--no no--Charles to be sure has been charged with many things but go I can never think He would meditate so gross an injury-- SIR PETER. Ah! my dear Friend--the goodness of your own Heart misleads you--you judge of others by yourself. SURFACE. Certainly Sir Peter--the Heart that is conscious of its own integrity is ever slowest to credit another's Treachery.-- SIR PETER. True--but your Brother has no sentiment[--]you never hear him talk so.-- SURFACE. Well there certainly is no knowing what men are capable of--no--there is no knowing--yet I can't but think Lady Teazle herself has too much Principle---- SIR PETER. Aye but what's Principle against the Flattery of a handsome--lively young Fellow-- SURFACE. That's very true-- SIR PETER. And then you know the difference of our ages makes it very improbable that she should have any great affection for me--and if she were to be frail and I were to make it Public--why the Town would only laugh at the foolish old Batchelor, who had married a girl---- SURFACE. That's true--to be sure People would laugh. SIR PETER. Laugh--aye and make Ballads--and Paragraphs and the Devil knows what of me-- SURFACE. No--you must never make it public-- SIR PETER. But then again that the Nephew of my old Friend, Sir Oliver[,] should be the Person to attempt such an injury--hurts me more nearly-- SURFACE. Undoubtedly--when Ingratitude barbs the Dart of Injury--the wound has double danger in it-- SIR PETER. Aye--I that was in a manner left his Guardian--in his House he had been so often entertain'd--who never in my Life denied him my advice-- SURFACE. O 'tis not to be credited--There may be a man capable of such Baseness, to be sure--but for my Part till you can give me positive Proofs you must excuse me withholding my Belief. However, if this should be proved on him He is no longer a brother of mine I disclaim kindred with him--for the man who can break thro' the Laws of Hospitality--and attempt the wife of his Friend deserves to be branded as the Pest of Society. SIR PETER. What a difference there is between you--what noble sentiments!-- SURFACE. But I cannot suspect Lady Teazle's honor. SIR PETER. I'm sure I wish to think well of her--and to remove all ground of Quarrel between us--She has lately reproach'd me more than once with having made no settlement on her--and, in our last Quarrel, she almost hinted that she should not break her Heart if I was dead.--now as we seem to differ in our Ideas of Expense I have resolved she shall be her own Mistress in that Respect for the future--and if I were to die--she shall find that I have not been inattentive to her Interests while living--Here my Friend are the Draughts of two Deeds which I wish to have your opinion on--by one she will enjoy eight hundred a year independent while I live--and by the other the bulk of my Fortune after my Death. SURFACE. This conduct Sir Peter is indeed truly Generous! I wish it may not corrupt my pupil.--[Aside.] SIR PETER. Yes I am determined she shall have no cause to complain--tho' I would not have her acquainted with the latter instance of my affection yet awhile. SURFACE. Nor I--if I could help it. SIR PETER. And now my dear Friend if you please we will talk over the situation of your Hopes with Maria. SURFACE. No--no--Sir Peter--another Time if you Please--[softly]. SIR PETER. I am sensibly chagrined at the little Progress you seem to make in her affection. SURFACE. I beg you will not mention it--What are my Disappointments when your Happiness is in Debate [softly]. 'Sdeath I shall be ruined every way. SIR PETER. And tho' you are so averse to my acquainting Lady Teazle with YOUR passion, I am sure she's not your Enemy in the Affair. SURFACE. Pray Sir Peter, now oblige me.--I am really too much affected by the subject we have been speaking of to bestow a thought on my own concerns--The Man who is entrusted with his Friend's Distresses can never---- Enter SERVANT Well, Sir? SERVANT. Your Brother Sir, is--speaking to a Gentleman in the Street, and says He knows you're within. SURFACE. 'Sdeath, Blockhead--I'm NOT within--I'm out for the Day. SIR PETER. Stay--hold--a thought has struck me--you shall be at home. SURFACE. Well--well--let him up.-- [Exit SERVANT.] He'll interrupt Sir Peter, however. [Aside.] SIR PETER. Now, my good Friend--oblige me I Intreat you--before Charles comes--let me conceal myself somewhere--Then do you tax him on the Point we have been talking on--and his answers may satisfy me at once.-- SURFACE. O Fie--Sir Peter--would you have ME join in so mean a Trick? to trepan my Brother too? SIR PETER. Nay you tell me you are SURE He is innocent--if so you do him the greatest service in giving him an opportunity to clear himself--and--you will set my Heart at rest--come you shall not refuse me--here behind this Screen will be--hey! what the Devil--there seems to be one listener here already--I'll swear I saw a Petticoat.-- SURFACE. Ha! ha! ha! Well this is ridiculous enough--I'll tell you, Sir Peter--tho' I hold a man of Intrigue to be a most despicable Character--yet you know it doesn't follow that a man is to be an absolute Joseph either--hark'ee--'tis a little French Milliner--a silly Rogue that plagues me--and having some character, on your coming she ran behind the Screen.-- SIR PETER. Ah a Rogue--but 'egad she has overheard all I have been saying of my Wife. SURFACE. O 'twill never go any farther, you may depend on't. SIR PETER. No!--then efaith let her hear it out.--Here's a Closet will do as well.-- SURFACE. Well, go in there.-- SIR PETER. Sly rogue--sly Rogue.-- SURFACE. Gad's my Life what an Escape--! and a curious situation I'm in!--to part man and wife in this manner.-- LADY TEAZLE. [peeps out.] Couldn't I steal off-- SURFACE. Keep close, my Angel! SIR PETER. [Peeping out.] Joseph--tax him home. SURFACE. Back--my dear Friend LADY TEAZLE. [Peeping out.] Couldn't you lock Sir Peter in?-- SURFACE. Be still--my Life! SIR PETER. [Peeping.] You're sure the little Milliner won't blab? SURFACE. In! in! my good Sir Peter--'Fore Gad, I wish I had a key to the Door. Enter CHARLES CHARLES. Hollo! Brother--what has been the matter? your Fellow wouldn't let me up at first--What[?] have you had a Jew or a wench with you.-- SURFACE. Neither Brother I assure you. CHARLES. But--what has made Sir Peter steal off--I thought He had been with you-- SURFACE. He WAS Brother--but hearing you were coming He didn't chuse to stay-- CHARLES. What[!] was the old Gentleman afraid I wanted to borrow money of him? SURFACE. No Sir--but I am sorry to find[,] Charles--you have lately given that worthy man grounds for great Uneasiness. CHARLES. Yes they tell me I do that to a great many worthy men--but how so Pray? SURFACE. To be plain with you Brother He thinks you are endeavouring to gain Lady Teazle's Affections from him. CHARLES. Who I--O Lud! not I upon my word.--Ha! ha! ha! so the old Fellow has found out that He has got a young wife has He? or what's worse she has discover'd that she has an old Husband? SURFACE. This is no subject to jest on Brother--He who can laugh---- CHARLES. True true as you were going to say--then seriously I never had the least idea of what you charge me with, upon my honour. SURFACE. Well it will give Sir Peter great satisfaction to hear this. CHARLES. [Aloud.] To be sure, I once thought the lady seemed to have taken a fancy--but upon my soul I never gave her the least encouragement.--Beside you know my Attachment to Maria-- SURFACE. But sure Brother even if Lady Teazle had betray'd the fondest Partiality for you---- CHARLES. Why--look'ee Joseph--I hope I shall never deliberately do a dishonourable Action--but if a pretty woman was purposely to throw herself in my way--and that pretty woman married to a man old enough to be her Father---- SURFACE. Well? CHARLES. Why I believe I should be obliged to borrow a little of your Morality, that's all.--but, Brother do you know now that you surprize me exceedingly by naming me with Lady Teazle--for faith I always understood YOU were her Favourite-- SURFACE. O for shame--Charles--This retort is Foolish. CHARLES. Nay I swear I have seen you exchange such significant Glances---- SURFACE. Nay--nay--Sir--this is no jest-- CHARLES. Egad--I'm serious--Don't you remember--one Day, when I called here---- SURFACE. Nay--prithee--Charles CHARLES. And found you together---- SURFACE. Zounds, Sir--I insist---- CHARLES. And another time when your Servant---- SURFACE. Brother--brother a word with you--Gad I must stop him--[Aside.] CHARLES. Informed--me that---- SURFACE. Hush!--I beg your Pardon but Sir Peter has overheard all we have been saying--I knew you would clear yourself, or I shouldn't have consented-- CHARLES. How Sir Peter--Where is He-- SURFACE. Softly, there! [Points to the closet.] CHARLES. [In the Closet!] O 'fore Heaven I'll have him out--Sir Peter come forth! SURFACE. No--no---- CHARLES. I say Sir Peter--come into court.-- [Pulls in SIR PETER.] What--my old Guardian--what[!] turn inquisitor and take evidence incog.-- SIR PETER. Give me your hand--Charles--I believe I have suspected you wrongfully; but you mustn't be angry with Joseph--'twas my Plan-- CHARLES. Indeed!-- SIR PETER. But I acquit you--I promise you I don't think near so ill of you as I did--what I have heard has given me great satisfaction. CHARLES. Egad then 'twas lucky you didn't hear any more. Wasn't it Joseph? SIR PETER. Ah! you would have retorted on him. CHARLES. Aye--aye--that was a Joke. SIR PETER. Yes, yes, I know his honor too well. CHARLES. Yet you might as well have suspected him as me in this matter, for all that--mightn't He, Joseph? SIR PETER. Well well I believe you-- SURFACE. Would they were both out of the Room! Enter SERVANT, whispers SURFACE SIR PETER. And in future perhaps we may not be such Strangers. SURFACE. Gentlemen--I beg Pardon--I must wait on you downstairs--Here is a Person come on particular Business---- CHARLES. Well you can see him in another Room--Sir Peter and I haven't met a long time and I have something to say [to] him. SURFACE. They must not be left together.--I'll send this man away and return directly-- [SURFACE goes out.] SIR PETER. Ah--Charles if you associated more with your Brother, one might indeed hope for your reformation--He is a man of Sentiment--Well! there is nothing in the world so noble as a man of Sentiment! CHARLES. Pshaw! He is too moral by half--and so apprehensive of his good Name, as he calls it, that I suppose He would as soon let a Priest in his House as a Girl-- SIR PETER. No--no--come come,--you wrong him. No, no, Joseph is no Rake but he is no such Saint in that respect either. I have a great mind to tell him--we should have such a Laugh! CHARLES. Oh, hang him? He's a very Anchorite--a young Hermit! SIR PETER. Harkee--you must not abuse him, he may chance to hear of it again I promise you. CHARLES. Why you won't tell him? SIR PETER. No--but--this way. Egad, I'll tell him--Harkee, have you a mind to have a good laugh against Joseph? CHARLES. I should like it of all things-- SIR PETER. Then, E'faith, we will--I'll be quit with him for discovering me.--He had a girl with him when I called. [Whispers.] CHARLES. What[!] Joseph[!] you jest-- SIR PETER. Hush!--a little French Milliner--and the best of the jest is--she's in the room now. CHARLES. The devil she is-- SIR PETER. Hush! I tell you. [Points.] CHARLES. Behind the screen! Odds Life, let's unveil her! SIR PETER. No--no! He's coming--you shan't indeed! CHARLES. Oh, egad, we'll have a peep at the little milliner! SIR PETER. Not for the world--Joseph will never forgive me. CHARLES. I'll stand by you---- SIR PETER. Odds Life! Here He's coming-- [SURFACE enters just as CHARLES throws down the Screen.] Re-enter JOSEPH SURFACE CHARLES. Lady Teazle! by all that's wonderful! SIR PETER. Lady Teazle! by all that's Horrible! CHARLES. Sir Peter--This is one of the smartest French Milliners I ever saw!--Egad, you seem all to have been diverting yourselves here at Hide and Seek--and I don't see who is out of the Secret!--Shall I beg your Ladyship to inform me!--Not a word!--Brother!--will you please to explain this matter? What! is Honesty Dumb too?--Sir Peter, though I found you in the Dark--perhaps you are not so now--all mute! Well tho' I can make nothing of the Affair, I make no doubt but you perfectly understand one another--so I'll leave you to yourselves.--[Going.] Brother I'm sorry to find you have given that worthy man grounds for so much uneasiness!--Sir Peter--there's nothing in the world so noble as a man of Sentiment!-- [Stand for some time looking at one another. Exit CHARLES.] SURFACE. Sir Peter--notwithstanding I confess that appearances are against me. If you will afford me your Patience I make no doubt but I shall explain everything to your satisfaction.-- SIR PETER. If you please--Sir-- SURFACE. The Fact is Sir--that Lady Teazle knowing my Pretensions to your ward Maria--I say Sir Lady Teazle--being apprehensive of the Jealousy of your Temper--and knowing my Friendship to the Family. S he Sir--I say call'd here--in order that I might explain those Pretensions--but on your coming being apprehensive--as I said of your Jealousy--she withdrew--and this, you may depend on't is the whole truth of the Matter. SIR PETER. A very clear account upon the [my] word and I dare swear the Lady will vouch for every article of it. LADY TEAZLE. For not one word of it Sir Peter-- SIR PETER. How[!] don't you think it worthwhile to agree in the lie. LADY TEAZLE. There is not one Syllable of Truth in what that Gentleman has told you. SIR PETER. I believe you upon my soul Ma'am-- SURFACE. 'Sdeath, madam, will you betray me! [Aside.] LADY TEAZLE. Good Mr. Hypocrite by your leave I will speak for myself-- SIR PETER. Aye let her alone Sir--you'll find she'll make out a better story than you without Prompting. LADY TEAZLE. Hear me Sir Peter--I came hither on no matter relating to your ward and even ignorant of this Gentleman's pretensions to her--but I came--seduced by his insidious arguments--and pretended Passion[--]at least to listen to his dishonourable Love if not to sacrifice your Honour to his Baseness. SIR PETER. Now, I believe, the Truth is coming indeed[.] SURFACE. The Woman's mad-- LADY TEAZLE. No Sir--she has recovered her Senses. Your own Arts have furnished her with the means. Sir Peter--I do not expect you to credit me--but the Tenderness you express'd for me, when I am sure you could not think I was a witness to it, has penetrated so to my Heart that had I left the Place without the Shame of this discovery--my future life should have spoken the sincerity of my Gratitude--as for that smooth-tongued Hypocrite--who would have seduced the wife of his too credulous Friend while he pretended honourable addresses to his ward--I behold him now in a light so truly despicable that I shall never again Respect myself for having Listened to him. [Exit.] SURFACE. Notwithstanding all this Sir Peter--Heaven knows---- SIR PETER. That you are a Villain!--and so I leave you to your conscience-- SURFACE. You are too Rash Sir Peter--you SHALL hear me--The man who shuts out conviction by refusing to---- [Exeunt, SURFACE following and speaking.] END OF THE FOURTH

Act IV

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

Charles sells every painting of his ancestors except for a portrait of Sir Oliver. When "Mr. Premium" offers to pay a large sum of money for it, Charles still refuses to sell it. After the deal is done, Charles sends a sum of money for the relief of Mr. Stanley, despite's Rowley's objections. Sir Oliver thinks about Charles' behavior when Rowley comes with the money Charles sent for Mr. Stanley. After this, Sir Oliver decides to go and visit Joseph as Mr. Stanley to see how he will behave. Meanwhile, Lady Teazle is paying a visit to Joseph. A servant announces that Sir Peter has also come to call on Joseph, and Lady Teazle hides behind a screen. Sir Peter tells Joseph about the rumored relationship between his wife and Charles and also urges Joseph to marry Maria--much to Joseph's displeasure, since he had just been trying to convince Lady Teazle to cheat on her husband with him. Charles is announced, and Sir Peter decides to hide as well behind the screen. Sir Peter sees a woman behind the screen, but Joseph convinces him that it is just some random woman--a French milliner. Sir Peter hides in a closet instead. Charles enters; and he and Joseph start talking about Lady Teazle, and how Charles thinks that Joseph and her are in a relationship. Joseph tries to get him off the subject, but Charles does not understand, so Joseph tells him quietly that Sir Peter is hiding in the room. Charles immediately lets Sir Peter come out, and Sir Peter apologizes for believing that there is something between his wife and him. Lady Sneerwell is announced, and Joseph leaves to stop her from entering the room. Thinking it will be a good joke to reveal a woman hiding in the room to Joseph's own brother, Sir Peter pulls down the screen to finds that his wife behind it. She confesses that she came to Joseph with the intention of having an affair with him, but that after she found that Sir Peter wanted to let her have a large sum of money, she decided against it. Lady Teazle leaves and Joseph tries to explain to Sir Peter why she was in the room. Sir Peter refuses to listen to him and they leave stage together arguing.

Dramatic irony appears in two major scenes of this act. First, Sir Oliver completes his second nephew-visit in disguise. This visit, spread across multiple scenes, is quite dynamic; Sir Oliver ends Act III promising to himself and the audience that he will never forgive his nephew for selling the family's portraits, but by the end of Act IV he has completely forgiven Charles, since the young man refused to sell the portrait of Sir Oliver for any price. He has even come to see Charles as perhaps more moral than his brother, since Charles sends money after his relative Mr. Stanley as soon as he has some to give. The scenes between Charles and Sir Oliver in disguise as Mr. Premium are full of dramatic irony and humor because Sir Oliver does not do a particularly good job of acting the part nor hiding his emotional reactions, and yet Charles seems to be none the wiser, even when talking directly about Sir Oliver. The second case of dramatic irony in this act comes from the series of people hiding in Joseph's rooms and then being revealed. The rising action and building of suspense in the scene directly follows the number of people, all tied together in a dense knot of love triangles and rumors. The climax, ironically, comes precisely from Sir Peter trying to make fun of his friend publicly: in attempting to do so by pulling down the screen that he believes is hiding a simple woman from the town, he actually publicly humiliates himself. It is important to note the symbolism of the portraits in Charles's Surface's house, as well as the symbolism of the various other items he has sold. Since social class was so tied to wealth and lineage, Charles was not only disrespecting his family's memory by selling their goods, but also upsetting the usual respect for social class. While the portraits of the family are clear representations of the family members themselves, having a portrait made is also something only the wealthiest people and families would be able to do, and that these portraits go back for many generations shows the strong lineage of the Surface family. This can also be seen in Sir Oliver's shock at Charles selling the books from the family library: since education, especially higher education, was reserved for wealthy males at the time, selling the library can be seen as not upholding this archaic system of keeping knowledge in the upper class. Similarly to Act III, repetition is used in Act IV in a conversation between Sir Oliver and Mr. Moses. However, instead repeating the words of Mr. Moses for comedic effect as Sir Oliver took on the role of a money-lender, the repetition in Act IV shows Sir Oliver attempting to make up his mind about Charles. Sir Oliver repeats the exact same line three times: "But he would not sell my picture" . In the end, the audience finds that Sir Oliver does see this as a good enough showing of love and loyalty to make the boy his heir. This could be seen as a commentary on the public weighing of peoples' morality: rather than putting all of their actions on a scale, perhaps great loyalty to one person or value makes them moral, at least in the eyes of those who value that same thing. While Sir Oliver seems to believe Charles moral and worthy of his inheritance because of his loyalty, the audience may also feel that Charles Surface is a refreshing presence for his unwillingness to play social games, especially those of disguise and deceit. This can be seen in his action of pulling Sir Peter out of hiding as soon as he finds out the situation. This type of quick, almost abrasive honesty has perhaps only been seen so far in Act I Scene I when Lady Sneerwell laid out her intentions for Snake, but even that was a more private situation than this public act of openness.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/56.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_11_part_3.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 9.chapter 3

book 9, chapter 3

{"name": "book 9, Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section12/", "summary": "The Soul's Journey Through Torments. The First Torment Suspicion immediately falls on Dmitri, and he is quickly arrested. Dmitri protests his innocence, but no one believes him. Grushenka vows that she loves him despite his crime and even says that she is to blame for having deliberately toyed with both Dmitri's and Fyodor Pavlovich's affections", "analysis": ""}

Chapter III. The Sufferings Of A Soul, The First Ordeal And so Mitya sat looking wildly at the people round him, not understanding what was said to him. Suddenly he got up, flung up his hands, and shouted aloud: "I'm not guilty! I'm not guilty of that blood! I'm not guilty of my father's blood.... I meant to kill him. But I'm not guilty. Not I." But he had hardly said this, before Grushenka rushed from behind the curtain and flung herself at the police captain's feet. "It was my fault! Mine! My wickedness!" she cried, in a heartrending voice, bathed in tears, stretching out her clasped hands towards them. "He did it through me. I tortured him and drove him to it. I tortured that poor old man that's dead, too, in my wickedness, and brought him to this! It's my fault, mine first, mine most, my fault!" "Yes, it's your fault! You're the chief criminal! You fury! You harlot! You're the most to blame!" shouted the police captain, threatening her with his hand. But he was quickly and resolutely suppressed. The prosecutor positively seized hold of him. "This is absolutely irregular, Mihail Makarovitch!" he cried. "You are positively hindering the inquiry.... You're ruining the case...." he almost gasped. "Follow the regular course! Follow the regular course!" cried Nikolay Parfenovitch, fearfully excited too, "otherwise it's absolutely impossible!..." "Judge us together!" Grushenka cried frantically, still kneeling. "Punish us together. I will go with him now, if it's to death!" "Grusha, my life, my blood, my holy one!" Mitya fell on his knees beside her and held her tight in his arms. "Don't believe her," he cried, "she's not guilty of anything, of any blood, of anything!" He remembered afterwards that he was forcibly dragged away from her by several men, and that she was led out, and that when he recovered himself he was sitting at the table. Beside him and behind him stood the men with metal plates. Facing him on the other side of the table sat Nikolay Parfenovitch, the investigating lawyer. He kept persuading him to drink a little water out of a glass that stood on the table. "That will refresh you, that will calm you. Be calm, don't be frightened," he added, extremely politely. Mitya (he remembered it afterwards) became suddenly intensely interested in his big rings, one with an amethyst, and another with a transparent bright yellow stone, of great brilliance. And long afterwards he remembered with wonder how those rings had riveted his attention through all those terrible hours of interrogation, so that he was utterly unable to tear himself away from them and dismiss them, as things that had nothing to do with his position. On Mitya's left side, in the place where Maximov had been sitting at the beginning of the evening, the prosecutor was now seated, and on Mitya's right hand, where Grushenka had been, was a rosy-cheeked young man in a sort of shabby hunting-jacket, with ink and paper before him. This was the secretary of the investigating lawyer, who had brought him with him. The police captain was now standing by the window at the other end of the room, beside Kalganov, who was sitting there. "Drink some water," said the investigating lawyer softly, for the tenth time. "I have drunk it, gentlemen, I have ... but ... come, gentlemen, crush me, punish me, decide my fate!" cried Mitya, staring with terribly fixed wide- open eyes at the investigating lawyer. "So you positively declare that you are not guilty of the death of your father, Fyodor Pavlovitch?" asked the investigating lawyer, softly but insistently. "I am not guilty. I am guilty of the blood of another old man but not of my father's. And I weep for it! I killed, I killed the old man and knocked him down.... But it's hard to have to answer for that murder with another, a terrible murder of which I am not guilty.... It's a terrible accusation, gentlemen, a knock-down blow. But who has killed my father, who has killed him? Who can have killed him if I didn't? It's marvelous, extraordinary, impossible." "Yes, who can have killed him?" the investigating lawyer was beginning, but Ippolit Kirillovitch, the prosecutor, glancing at him, addressed Mitya. "You need not worry yourself about the old servant, Grigory Vassilyevitch. He is alive, he has recovered, and in spite of the terrible blows inflicted, according to his own and your evidence, by you, there seems no doubt that he will live, so the doctor says, at least." "Alive? He's alive?" cried Mitya, flinging up his hands. His face beamed. "Lord, I thank Thee for the miracle Thou has wrought for me, a sinner and evildoer. That's an answer to my prayer. I've been praying all night." And he crossed himself three times. He was almost breathless. "So from this Grigory we have received such important evidence concerning you, that--" The prosecutor would have continued, but Mitya suddenly jumped up from his chair. "One minute, gentlemen, for God's sake, one minute; I will run to her--" "Excuse me, at this moment it's quite impossible," Nikolay Parfenovitch almost shrieked. He, too, leapt to his feet. Mitya was seized by the men with the metal plates, but he sat down of his own accord.... "Gentlemen, what a pity! I wanted to see her for one minute only; I wanted to tell her that it has been washed away, it has gone, that blood that was weighing on my heart all night, and that I am not a murderer now! Gentlemen, she is my betrothed!" he said ecstatically and reverently, looking round at them all. "Oh, thank you, gentlemen! Oh, in one minute you have given me new life, new heart!... That old man used to carry me in his arms, gentlemen. He used to wash me in the tub when I was a baby three years old, abandoned by every one, he was like a father to me!..." "And so you--" the investigating lawyer began. "Allow me, gentlemen, allow me one minute more," interposed Mitya, putting his elbows on the table and covering his face with his hands. "Let me have a moment to think, let me breathe, gentlemen. All this is horribly upsetting, horribly. A man is not a drum, gentlemen!" "Drink a little more water," murmured Nikolay Parfenovitch. Mitya took his hands from his face and laughed. His eyes were confident. He seemed completely transformed in a moment. His whole bearing was changed; he was once more the equal of these men, with all of whom he was acquainted, as though they had all met the day before, when nothing had happened, at some social gathering. We may note in passing that, on his first arrival, Mitya had been made very welcome at the police captain's, but later, during the last month especially, Mitya had hardly called at all, and when the police captain met him, in the street, for instance, Mitya noticed that he frowned and only bowed out of politeness. His acquaintance with the prosecutor was less intimate, though he sometimes paid his wife, a nervous and fanciful lady, visits of politeness, without quite knowing why, and she always received him graciously and had, for some reason, taken an interest in him up to the last. He had not had time to get to know the investigating lawyer, though he had met him and talked to him twice, each time about the fair sex. "You're a most skillful lawyer, I see, Nikolay Parfenovitch," cried Mitya, laughing gayly, "but I can help you now. Oh, gentlemen, I feel like a new man, and don't be offended at my addressing you so simply and directly. I'm rather drunk, too, I'll tell you that frankly. I believe I've had the honor and pleasure of meeting you, Nikolay Parfenovitch, at my kinsman Miuesov's. Gentlemen, gentlemen, I don't pretend to be on equal terms with you. I understand, of course, in what character I am sitting before you. Oh, of course, there's a horrible suspicion ... hanging over me ... if Grigory has given evidence.... A horrible suspicion! It's awful, awful, I understand that! But to business, gentlemen, I am ready, and we will make an end of it in one moment; for, listen, listen, gentlemen! Since I know I'm innocent, we can put an end to it in a minute. Can't we? Can't we?" Mitya spoke much and quickly, nervously and effusively, as though he positively took his listeners to be his best friends. "So, for the present, we will write that you absolutely deny the charge brought against you," said Nikolay Parfenovitch, impressively, and bending down to the secretary he dictated to him in an undertone what to write. "Write it down? You want to write that down? Well, write it; I consent, I give my full consent, gentlemen, only ... do you see?... Stay, stay, write this. Of disorderly conduct I am guilty, of violence on a poor old man I am guilty. And there is something else at the bottom of my heart, of which I am guilty, too--but that you need not write down" (he turned suddenly to the secretary); "that's my personal life, gentlemen, that doesn't concern you, the bottom of my heart, that's to say.... But of the murder of my old father I'm not guilty. That's a wild idea. It's quite a wild idea!... I will prove you that and you'll be convinced directly.... You will laugh, gentlemen. You'll laugh yourselves at your suspicion!..." "Be calm, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," said the investigating lawyer evidently trying to allay Mitya's excitement by his own composure. "Before we go on with our inquiry, I should like, if you will consent to answer, to hear you confirm the statement that you disliked your father, Fyodor Pavlovitch, that you were involved in continual disputes with him. Here at least, a quarter of an hour ago, you exclaimed that you wanted to kill him: 'I didn't kill him,' you said, 'but I wanted to kill him.' " "Did I exclaim that? Ach, that may be so, gentlemen! Yes, unhappily, I did want to kill him ... many times I wanted to ... unhappily, unhappily!" "You wanted to. Would you consent to explain what motives precisely led you to such a sentiment of hatred for your parent?" "What is there to explain, gentlemen?" Mitya shrugged his shoulders sullenly, looking down. "I have never concealed my feelings. All the town knows about it--every one knows in the tavern. Only lately I declared them in Father Zossima's cell.... And the very same day, in the evening I beat my father. I nearly killed him, and I swore I'd come again and kill him, before witnesses.... Oh, a thousand witnesses! I've been shouting it aloud for the last month, any one can tell you that!... The fact stares you in the face, it speaks for itself, it cries aloud, but feelings, gentlemen, feelings are another matter. You see, gentlemen"--Mitya frowned--"it seems to me that about feelings you've no right to question me. I know that you are bound by your office, I quite understand that, but that's my affair, my private, intimate affair, yet ... since I haven't concealed my feelings in the past ... in the tavern, for instance, I've talked to every one, so ... so I won't make a secret of it now. You see, I understand, gentlemen, that there are terrible facts against me in this business. I told every one that I'd kill him, and now, all of a sudden, he's been killed. So it must have been me! Ha ha! I can make allowances for you, gentlemen, I can quite make allowances. I'm struck all of a heap myself, for who can have murdered him, if not I? That's what it comes to, isn't it? If not I, who can it be, who? Gentlemen, I want to know, I insist on knowing!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Where was he murdered? How was he murdered? How, and with what? Tell me," he asked quickly, looking at the two lawyers. "We found him in his study, lying on his back on the floor, with his head battered in," said the prosecutor. "That's horrible!" Mitya shuddered and, putting his elbows on the table, hid his face in his right hand. "We will continue," interposed Nikolay Parfenovitch. "So what was it that impelled you to this sentiment of hatred? You have asserted in public, I believe, that it was based upon jealousy?" "Well, yes, jealousy. And not only jealousy." "Disputes about money?" "Yes, about money, too." "There was a dispute about three thousand roubles, I think, which you claimed as part of your inheritance?" "Three thousand! More, more," cried Mitya hotly; "more than six thousand, more than ten, perhaps. I told every one so, shouted it at them. But I made up my mind to let it go at three thousand. I was desperately in need of that three thousand ... so the bundle of notes for three thousand that I knew he kept under his pillow, ready for Grushenka, I considered as simply stolen from me. Yes, gentlemen, I looked upon it as mine, as my own property...." The prosecutor looked significantly at the investigating lawyer, and had time to wink at him on the sly. "We will return to that subject later," said the lawyer promptly. "You will allow us to note that point and write it down; that you looked upon that money as your own property?" "Write it down, by all means. I know that's another fact that tells against me, but I'm not afraid of facts and I tell them against myself. Do you hear? Do you know, gentlemen, you take me for a different sort of man from what I am," he added, suddenly gloomy and dejected. "You have to deal with a man of honor, a man of the highest honor; above all--don't lose sight of it--a man who's done a lot of nasty things, but has always been, and still is, honorable at bottom, in his inner being. I don't know how to express it. That's just what's made me wretched all my life, that I yearned to be honorable, that I was, so to say, a martyr to a sense of honor, seeking for it with a lantern, with the lantern of Diogenes, and yet all my life I've been doing filthy things like all of us, gentlemen ... that is like me alone. That was a mistake, like me alone, me alone!... Gentlemen, my head aches ..." His brows contracted with pain. "You see, gentlemen, I couldn't bear the look of him, there was something in him ignoble, impudent, trampling on everything sacred, something sneering and irreverent, loathsome, loathsome. But now that he's dead, I feel differently." "How do you mean?" "I don't feel differently, but I wish I hadn't hated him so." "You feel penitent?" "No, not penitent, don't write that. I'm not much good myself, I'm not very beautiful, so I had no right to consider him repulsive. That's what I mean. Write that down, if you like." Saying this Mitya became very mournful. He had grown more and more gloomy as the inquiry continued. At that moment another unexpected scene followed. Though Grushenka had been removed, she had not been taken far away, only into the room next but one from the blue room, in which the examination was proceeding. It was a little room with one window, next beyond the large room in which they had danced and feasted so lavishly. She was sitting there with no one by her but Maximov, who was terribly depressed, terribly scared, and clung to her side, as though for security. At their door stood one of the peasants with a metal plate on his breast. Grushenka was crying, and suddenly her grief was too much for her, she jumped up, flung up her arms and, with a loud wail of sorrow, rushed out of the room to him, to her Mitya, and so unexpectedly that they had not time to stop her. Mitya, hearing her cry, trembled, jumped up, and with a yell rushed impetuously to meet her, not knowing what he was doing. But they were not allowed to come together, though they saw one another. He was seized by the arms. He struggled, and tried to tear himself away. It took three or four men to hold him. She was seized too, and he saw her stretching out her arms to him, crying aloud as they carried her away. When the scene was over, he came to himself again, sitting in the same place as before, opposite the investigating lawyer, and crying out to them: "What do you want with her? Why do you torment her? She's done nothing, nothing!..." The lawyers tried to soothe him. About ten minutes passed like this. At last Mihail Makarovitch, who had been absent, came hurriedly into the room, and said in a loud and excited voice to the prosecutor: "She's been removed, she's downstairs. Will you allow me to say one word to this unhappy man, gentlemen? In your presence, gentlemen, in your presence." "By all means, Mihail Makarovitch," answered the investigating lawyer. "In the present case we have nothing against it." "Listen, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, my dear fellow," began the police captain, and there was a look of warm, almost fatherly, feeling for the luckless prisoner on his excited face. "I took your Agrafena Alexandrovna downstairs myself, and confided her to the care of the landlord's daughters, and that old fellow Maximov is with her all the time. And I soothed her, do you hear? I soothed and calmed her. I impressed on her that you have to clear yourself, so she mustn't hinder you, must not depress you, or you may lose your head and say the wrong thing in your evidence. In fact, I talked to her and she understood. She's a sensible girl, my boy, a good-hearted girl, she would have kissed my old hands, begging help for you. She sent me herself, to tell you not to worry about her. And I must go, my dear fellow, I must go and tell her that you are calm and comforted about her. And so you must be calm, do you understand? I was unfair to her; she is a Christian soul, gentlemen, yes, I tell you, she's a gentle soul, and not to blame for anything. So what am I to tell her, Dmitri Fyodorovitch? Will you sit quiet or not?" The good-natured police captain said a great deal that was irregular, but Grushenka's suffering, a fellow creature's suffering, touched his good- natured heart, and tears stood in his eyes. Mitya jumped up and rushed towards him. "Forgive me, gentlemen, oh, allow me, allow me!" he cried. "You've the heart of an angel, an angel, Mihail Makarovitch, I thank you for her. I will, I will be calm, cheerful, in fact. Tell her, in the kindness of your heart, that I am cheerful, quite cheerful, that I shall be laughing in a minute, knowing that she has a guardian angel like you. I shall have done with all this directly, and as soon as I'm free, I'll be with her, she'll see, let her wait. Gentlemen," he said, turning to the two lawyers, "now I'll open my whole soul to you; I'll pour out everything. We'll finish this off directly, finish it off gayly. We shall laugh at it in the end, shan't we? But, gentlemen, that woman is the queen of my heart. Oh, let me tell you that. That one thing I'll tell you now.... I see I'm with honorable men. She is my light, she is my holy one, and if only you knew! Did you hear her cry, 'I'll go to death with you'? And what have I, a penniless beggar, done for her? Why such love for me? How can a clumsy, ugly brute like me, with my ugly face, deserve such love, that she is ready to go to exile with me? And how she fell down at your feet for my sake, just now!... and yet she's proud and has done nothing! How can I help adoring her, how can I help crying out and rushing to her as I did just now? Gentlemen, forgive me! But now, now I am comforted." And he sank back in his chair and, covering his face with his hands, burst into tears. But they were happy tears. He recovered himself instantly. The old police captain seemed much pleased, and the lawyers also. They felt that the examination was passing into a new phase. When the police captain went out, Mitya was positively gay. "Now, gentlemen, I am at your disposal, entirely at your disposal. And if it were not for all these trivial details, we should understand one another in a minute. I'm at those details again. I'm at your disposal, gentlemen, but I declare that we must have mutual confidence, you in me and I in you, or there'll be no end to it. I speak in your interests. To business, gentlemen, to business, and don't rummage in my soul; don't tease me with trifles, but only ask me about facts and what matters, and I will satisfy you at once. And damn the details!" So spoke Mitya. The interrogation began again.

book 9, Chapter 3

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

The Soul's Journey Through Torments. The First Torment Suspicion immediately falls on Dmitri, and he is quickly arrested. Dmitri protests his innocence, but no one believes him. Grushenka vows that she loves him despite his crime and even says that she is to blame for having deliberately toyed with both Dmitri's and Fyodor Pavlovich's affections

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/12915-chapters/act_5.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The White Devil/section_4_part_0.txt

The White Devil.act 5.scene 1-scene 6

act 5

{"name": "Act 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409073731/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-white-devil/study-guide/summary-act-5", "summary": "Act 5 opens in Padua, where Brachiano and Vittoria have fled. Brachiano and Vittoria cross the stage in a glorious wedding procession, followed by Flamineo, Marcelo, Hortensio, Cornelia, Zanche, and the ambassadors. The party exits, but Flamineo and Hortensio remain behind. Hortensio and Flamineo discuss the Moor, named Mulinassar, who has recently arrived at court, and Flamineo expresses approval of the Moor's experience with state affairs and warfare. His is further pleased that Mulinassar has agreed to aid Brachiano in the impending war with Francisco. He finally explains the presence of the two gentlemen accompanying Mulinassar: they are Hungarian noblemen who are entering a Capuchin monastery after having fought in a crusade. As the audience alone knows, Mulinassar is actually Francisco in disguise, and the Hungarian gentleman are Lodovico, Gasparo, and Antonelli in disguise. Brachiano enters with Mulinassar, the Hungarian gentlemen, Fernese, Carlo, and Pedro. Brachiano welcomes the Moor and asks him to stay for his wedding festivities. Brachiano, Flamineo, and Hortensio leave, and Carlo and Pedro welcome the conspirators. Together, they all discuss how to best kill Brachiano. Hearing Flamineo returning, all the conspirators exit, except for Francisco. Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche enter. Marcello asks why Zanche follows them, and Flamineo makes an off-color joke about his erection and her ability to end it. Zanche resolves to later speak to her \"countryman\" Mulinassar, and exits the stage. Flamineo asks Mulinassar for some war stories, but the latter refuses to brag about himself. Flamineo then advises the Moor on how to best obtain his payment from Brachiano. Hortensio, a young lord, and Zanche re-enter. The former informs Flamineo that the games are about to begin, and Flamineo then badmouths him behind his back to Mulinassar . Hortensio tells Flamineo that his lover, Zanche, has arrived, and Flamineo admits that they sleep together but also that he cannot trust her. He had promised to marry her, but he now regrets that promise and wants to avoid her. Zanche accuses him of falling out of love with her, and he claims that he is a better lover because his lack of \"heat\" prevents him from contracting venereal disease. When Zanche accuses him of falling in love with the \"painted\" courtiers, he replies that only a fool gives up what he has for what he wants. Cornelia then enters, and immediately assaults Zanche. Flamineo leaps to the Moor's defense, threatening to lock his mother in the stocks. Marcello aids Cornelia, striking Zanche again and calling her a whore. He then explains that she has been bragging that Flamineo will marry her. While the two brothers argue with one other, Mulinassar enters, distracting Zanche. Zanche, clearly attracted to him, admits that she has fallen in love with Flamineo, which he explains is unwise. She promises him a dowry to offset her lack of virtue, and Francisco remarks aside that Zanche's confidence may be very helpful in aiding his schemes. Scene 2 Marcello and Cornelia are together alone on stage. Cornelia confronts her son about court gossip claiming Marcello is set to duel with someone. He denies it, and asks his mother to back off. Suddenly, Flamineo appears brandishing Marcello's sword. He fatally stabs his brother, and leaves. Hortensio, Carlo, and Pedro arrive right after Marcello dies. Cornelia refuses to admit that Marcello is dead, and pleads with Hortensio and Carlo to fetch help. Brachiano enters, sees Marcello dead, and asks Flamineo if he committed the crime. Cornelia, however, asserts that it was Hortensio's crime, since he refused to aid the dying man. Clearly mentally unhinged, she then begs Flamineo for his forgiveness. Brachiano tells Flamineo that he cannot pardon the murder, but will allow a lease on Flamineo's life which the man must renew every evening. While Brachiano delivers this sentence, Lodovico poisons his helmet's mouthpiece, which evokes the method of Isabella's death. Scene 3 As Scene 3 opens, several unnamed knights are engaged in battle as part of the tournament being held to celebrate the wedding. Brachiano, Flamineo, Giovanni, Vittoria, and the disguised Francisco enter. Brachiano desperately calls for an armorer because he feels like his head is on fire. He soon realizes he has been poisoned, and he sends the armorer to be tortured. Doctors arrive and discover the poison is fatal, at which point Brachiano delivers a speech blaming Francisco and Fate/Death. Lodovico and Gasparo arrive dressed as Franciscan monks, seemingly to deliver the last rites, and all but Mulinassar and Flamineo withdraw. Flamineo remarks how quickly great men lose friends and flatterers once they are in trouble, telling the disguised Francisco that the Duke cared more for money than he did for his subject's lives. Lodovico re-enters to tell them that Brachiano is delirious and dying. Brachiano is then brought in on a bed alongside Vittoria and the disguised murderers. He rails against Vittoria, accusing her of causing him misery. He hallucinates images of the devil and of Flamineo dancing with money on a tightrope. Gasparo and Lodovico begin to hypocritically intone Brachiano's last rites in Latin. They ask everyone to leave so that they may have religious privacy. Once everyone has left, they reveal their true identities to Brachiano, and curse him. He desperately calls for Vittoria, who rushes in but is quickly sent away again by Gasparo and Lodovico. To speed the death, Lodovico strangles Brachiano, and then everyone else re-enters. Flamineo and Mulinassar discuss Brachiano's death; they suggest Francisco as the likely murderer, and Flamineo admits he would like to speak with Brachiano once more. Flamineo exits, and Lodovico enters from the shadows to suggest Francisco manipulate Zanche, who is attracted to him and thinks him a Moor like her, to learn secrets. Zanche and Francisco flirt, talking of their dreams. Francisco claims he had a dream in which he placed a blanket over Zanche's naked body, which tickled her. Zanche then tells Francisco how Isabella and Camillo died, and explains how she and Vittoria are planning to sneak out later that night. She gives the disguised Francisco a dowry, and asks him to meet her later. She exits, only to immediately re-enter to specify that he should meet her at midnight in the chapel. When she finally exits, Francisco explains to Lodovico that they will achieve great glory through their actions, and use that glory to get rid of the crime's taint. Scene 4 Giovanni enters to find Flamineo and Gasparo speaking. Giovanni asks Flamineo to leave him, but Flamineo instead tells a fable emphasizing how great Giovanni can become now that his father is dead and he is \"in the saddle.\" Giovanni chastizes him for insufficient grief, and exits. Flamineo remarks that he does not trust Giovanni, and a courtier enters, telling Flamineo that Giovanni has ordered him to leave court. After the courtier exits, Francisco enters to tell Flamineo that Cornelia is currently distraught and burying Marcello. Cornelia, Zanche, and other assorted women enter. Cornelia, clearly somewhat insane, is murmuring distractedly about flowers for Marcello's grave. She does not recognize Flamineo, although she does call him the \"grave-maker,\" a pun on grave-digger and murderer. She sings a song over Marcello's body in an attempt to bless and protect his grave. She then leaves with the rest of the women, and Flamineo asks Francisco to let him be alone. In a soliloquy, Flamineo contemplates his corrupt life at court and his own failed plans. Suddenly, Brachiano's ghost appears, holding a pot of lilies with a skull buried beneath them. Flamineo unleashes a flurry of questions to the ghost, questioning what hell is like and whether Flamineo will also soon die. The ghost remains silent, but throws dirt on Flamineo, revealing the skull underneath the lilies. Frightened by all the misfortune around him, Flamineo runs off to kill his sister, hoping that will resolve everything. Scene 5 Francisco and Lodovico enter, unaware that Hortensio hides behind them. Lodovico advises Francisco to leave the city before he gets caught or dragged into further evil. Francisco agrees, and promises to immortalize Lodovico's name if the latter dies in carrying out their plan. The two men exit, and Hortensio, now aware of the deception and conspiracies, races off to raise an army of men. Scene 6 Vittoria and Zanche enter, followed by Flamineo. Flamineo interrupts Vittoria's prayers to demand payment for his service to Brachiano. Vittoria, outraged over his murder of Marcello, writes down that she will give him what God gave Cain. Angered, Flamineo storms out, and Zanche cautions Vittoria to be kinder to him. Flamineo rushes back in with a pair of pistols, and threatens Vittoria. She asks him to calm down, reminding him that she has no children and so he will inherit all that she owns. Flamineo explains to her that he swore an oath to Brachiano that neither he nor Vittoria would outlive him by longer than four hours, and that it is unlikely that any other authority will allow them to live. When Vittoria recognizes his resolve, she argues they should commit a dual suicide, and that Flamineo should go first. Zache adds that she will join them, but that Flamineo must show them how to properly kill themselves. Flamineo agrees, and instructs Zanche to shoot him and then Vittoria. The two women promise to follow the plan, and Flamineo gives them the guns. They then admit they have deceived him, and Vittoria ignores his insults to invoke the Furies, triumphant in her revenge. Zanche tells him that they will frame his murder like a suicide and thereby avoid any punishment for his death. Zanche shoots him. In the midst of a murmuring speech about hellish burning, Flamineo reveals that he has deceived them by not actually loading the guns with bullets. He curses both them and womankind in general before brandishing different weapons towards them. Lodovico, Gasparo, Carlo and Pedro suddenly barge in. They reveal their true identities, as well as that of the departed Mulinassar. Flamineo pleads with them to let him kill Vittoria, but they tie him to a pillar. Vittoria asks that Francisco kill her himself, but Gasparo explains nastily that great men recruit others to do their dirty work. Lodovico lashes out at Flamineo, explaining that he wishes he could kill him over and over again. When he says he will kill Zanche first, Vittoria begs him to kill her first. The women bravely confront their executioners, taunting that they will never cry. Simultaneously, the three men stab Flamineo, Vittoria, and Zanche. Vittoria and Flamineo taunt their executioners before reconciling with one another. Zanche dies, then Vittoria. As Flamineo finally dies, the English Ambassador bursts onto the stage, followed by Giovanni and the rest of the guards and ambassadors. The guards uses guns to capture the conspirators, and then announce their intention to incarcerate them in the dungeon. All exit.", "analysis": "Act 5 serves to both conclude the play's plot and offer a final expression of its primary themes. In particular, the play explores the distinction between appearance and reality, and the way that corruption breeds corruption. The distinction between appearance and reality, which has been present from the play's title through all of the acts thus far, gets explicit manifestation in the disguises used by the conspirators. Francisco does not only don a disguise but he also dresses as a Moor, a black man, through his Mulinassar persona. By dressing as a social inferior, a black man, he particularly evades suspicion. All of the deceit is quite fitting, considering that Brachiano has wrought such a situation. The presence of these traitors within Brachiano's own court suggests the self-destructive nature of Brachiano's love and consequent death. Brachiano's foolish actions have brought his tragedy upon himself by engendering a court of distrust and corruption. It is fitting that his court and wife die by the same vices that defined him. Further, Brachiano's death reflects the hypocrisy and irony with which he lived. Brachiano's death occurs during a game of barriers, a jousting game played in celebration of his wedding. Barriers were often staged as symbolic battles between allegorical forces like Truth versus Opinion. In performance, these games provide a spectacle for the audience as well as for the play's characters, but they also function as a source of irony, since their chivalric values contrast so sharply with the Machiavellian plotting. Additionally, the method of his death has a poetic justice, in that he is killed by a mouthpiece, which evokes Isabella's murder. This repeated motif suggests the retributive nature of revenge. When Brachiano realizes that he has been fatally poisoned, he admits Francisco as the likely culprit, but saves his greatest ire for Fate. He claims that, as a \"great man,\" he is above petty mortal squabbles, but that his fate is unalterably written in the stars. While this method of his death convinces him he is correct, the audience knows the truth - the motif does not reflect the justice of the heavens, but rather of man. He dies because of what he has done, but it is fitting with his hypocritical delusions of grandeur that he does not initially consider his own actions as the cause. The depth of Flamineo's resentful, ugly character are also explored in this final act. He is driven by no loyalties save those he feels he owes to himself. He kills his brother over an argument concerning a woman he has only recently described as annoying, and becomes desperate in his plotting once Giovanni banishes him. Ultimately, despite his great wit and facility for machinations, he is powerless, and this realization drives him to desperately commit greater evil. In killing Marcello, he reveals his inflated sense of power and pride, but after Brachiano, the only person who grants him any power at all, dies, he is unseated. His encounter with Brachiano's ghost reminds him of how little power he truly has. The image of the lilies reinforces this point, since lilies are beautiful despite their foul odor. Flamineo is reminded of the truly deceptive nature of appearances, for what looks fair actually hides evil and death. Of course, if he were to have missed that point, Webster's grotesque streak makes sure that it is unavoidable through the skull that lies beneath the flowers. Of course, Flamineo's most desperate act is to pursue his sister's death. Though she was once his primary tool towards achieving a higher status, he now views her as the cause of his problems, so much so that he is willing to kill himself to end her life. In their encounter, Vittoria reveals a stronger moral sense than his; she seems genuinely upset about Marcello's death, and will no longer tolerate his scheming. Of course, one could argue that this is itself a tactic, considering how self-interested all of the play's characters are. Nevertheless, Flamineo remains a schemer till the end. His feigned death is not only a trick played on Vittoria, but also one played on the audience. This meta-theatrical device reminds the audience of the illusive nature of plays and appearance, which of course reinforces the story's themes. Ultimately, Webster's critique of our reliance on appearance involves even his own work and the theater itself. There are also several allusions made during Flamineo's desperation, revealing Webster's love of that device. At Marcello's funeral. Cornelia, very \"distracted,\" gives Flamineo a speech about the proper flowers for burial, and then sings a little song. All of this is incredibly reminiscent of Hamlet's Ophelia, and her behavior after Laertes's death. When Vittoria denies Flamineo, she makes a biblical allusion by comparing him to Cain because of his fratricide. Finally, when Flamineo claims he vowed he and Vittoria would die soon after Brachiano, it is a reference to King Herod, who supposedly decreed that his beloved wife would be killed upon his death. The White Devil is full of such allusions, and Webster constantly references the work of other playwrights, the writing of antiquity, and historical events. Finally, the play ends with the success of the scheme, but without offering any hope for humanity. The audience has naturally come to root for the conspirators, since they are ostensibly the arm of Francisco, who has become the protagonist since Isabella's death. However, they are quickly captured and imprisoned for their act, reminding us that they too commit evil. Revenge, being part of a vicious cycle, never breeds virtue. Francisco has promised to immortalize Lodovico's name, but we have every reason to doubt him, considering how self-interested everyone is. Webster leaves his story with a strong plot resolution, but a thematic uncertainty. Nobody has learned anything in the play, and nobody has grown more virtuous. Instead, they maintained the same selfish and hypocritical behaviors until circumstances ended the story, which reveals the true depth of Webster's pessimism."}

ACT V SCENE I A passage over the stage of Brachiano, Flamineo, Marcello, Hortensio, Corombona, Cornelia, Zanche, and others: Flamineo and Hortensio remain. Flam. In all the weary minutes of my life, Day ne'er broke up till now. This marriage Confirms me happy. Hort. 'Tis a good assurance. Saw you not yet the Moor that 's come to court? Flam. Yes, and conferr'd with him i' th' duke's closet. I have not seen a goodlier personage, Nor ever talk'd with man better experience'd In State affairs, or rudiments of war. He hath, by report, serv'd the Venetian In Candy these twice seven years, and been chief In many a bold design. Hort. What are those two That bear him company? Flam. Two noblemen of Hungary, that, living in the emperor's service as commanders, eight years since, contrary to the strict Order of Capuchins; but, being not well settled in their undertaking, they left their Order, and returned to court; for which, being after troubled in conscience, they vowed their service against the enemies of Christ, went to Malta, were there knighted, and in their return back, at this great solemnity, they are resolved for ever to forsake the world, and settle themselves here in a house of Capuchins in Padua. Hort. 'Tis strange. Flam. One thing makes it so: they have vowed for ever to wear, next their bare bodies, those coats of mail they served in. Hort. Hard penance! Is the Moor a Christian? Flam. He is. Hort. Why proffers he his service to our duke? Flam. Because he understands there 's like to grow Some wars between us and the Duke of Florence, In which he hopes employment. I never saw one in a stern bold look Wear more command, nor in a lofty phrase Express more knowing, or more deep contempt As if he travell'd all the princes' courts Of Christendom: in all things strives t' express, That all, that should dispute with him, may know, Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. The duke. Enter Brachiano, Francisco disguised like Mulinassar, Lodovico and Gasparo, bearing their swords, their helmets down, Antonelli, Farnese. Brach. You are nobly welcome. We have heard at full Your honourable service 'gainst the Turk. To you, brave Mulinassar, we assign A competent pension: and are inly sorry, The vows of those two worthy gentlemen Make them incapable of our proffer'd bounty. Your wish is, you may leave your warlike swords For monuments in our chapel: I accept it, As a great honour done me, and must crave Your leave to furnish out our duchess' revels. Only one thing, as the last vanity You e'er shall view, deny me not to stay To see a barriers prepar'd to-night: You shall have private standings. It hath pleas'd The great ambassadors of several princes, In their return from Rome to their own countries, To grace our marriage, and to honour me With such a kind of sport. Fran. I shall persuade them to stay, my lord. Brach. Set on there to the presence. [Exeunt Brachiano, Flamineo, and Hortensio. Lodo. Noble my lord, most fortunately welcome; [The conspirators her embrace. You have our vows, seal'd with the sacrament, To second your attempts. Gas. And all things ready; He could not have invented his own ruin (Had he despair'd) with more propriety. Lodo. You would not take my way. Fran. 'Tis better order'd. Lodo. T' have poison'd his prayer-book, or a pair of beads, The pummel of his saddle, his looking-glass, Or th' handle of his racket,--O, that, that! That while he had been bandying at tennis, He might have sworn himself to hell, and strook His soul into the hazard! Oh, my lord, I would have our plot be ingenious, And have it hereafter recorded for example, Rather than borrow example. Fran. There 's now way More speeding that this thought on. Lodo. On, then. Fran. And yet methinks that this revenge is poor, Because it steals upon him like a thief: To have ta'en him by the casque in a pitch'd field, Led him to Florence---- Lodo. It had been rare: and there Have crown'd him with a wreath of stinking garlic, T' have shown the sharpness of his government, And rankness of his lust. Flamineo comes. [Exeunt Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo. Enter Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche Marc. Why doth this devil haunt you, say? Flam. I know not: For by this light, I do not conjure for her. 'Tis not so great a cunning as men think, To raise the devil; for here 's one up already; The greatest cunning were to lay him down. Marc. She is your shame. Flam. I pray thee pardon her. In faith, you see, women are like to burs, Where their affection throws them, there they 'll stick. Zan. That is my countryman, a goodly person; When he 's at leisure, I 'll discourse with him In our own language. Flam. I beseech you do. [Exit Zanche. How is 't, brave soldier? Oh, that I had seen Some of your iron days! I pray relate Some of your service to us. Fran. 'Tis a ridiculous thing for a man to be his own chronicle: I did never wash my mouth with mine own praise, for fear of getting a stinking breath. Marc. You 're too stoical. The duke will expect other discourse from you. Fran. I shall never flatter him: I have studied man too much to do that. What difference is between the duke and I? no more than between two bricks, all made of one clay: only 't may be one is placed in top of a turret, the other in the bottom of a well, by mere chance. If I were placed as high as the duke, I should stick as fast, make as fair a show, and bear out weather equally. Flam. If this soldier had a patent to beg in churches, then he would tell them stories. Marc. I have been a soldier too. Fran. How have you thrived? Marc. Faith, poorly. Fran. That 's the misery of peace: only outsides are then respected. As ships seem very great upon the river, which show very little upon the seas, so some men i' th' court seem Colossuses in a chamber, who, if they came into the field, would appear pitiful pigmies. Flam. Give me a fair room yet hung with arras, and some great cardinal to lug me by th' ears, as his endeared minion. Fran. And thou mayest do the devil knows what villainy. Flam. And safely. Fran. Right: you shall see in the country, in harvest-time, pigeons, though they destroy never so much corn, the farmer dare not present the fowling-piece to them: why? because they belong to the lord of the manor; whilst your poor sparrows, that belong to the Lord of Heaven, they go to the pot for 't. Flam. I will now give you some politic instruction. The duke says he will give you pension; that 's but bare promise; get it under his hand. For I have known men that have come from serving against the Turk, for three or four months they have had pension to buy them new wooden legs, and fresh plasters; but after, 'twas not to be had. And this miserable courtesy shows as if a tormentor should give hot cordial drinks to one three-quarters dead o' th' rack, only to fetch the miserable soul again to endure more dog-days. [Exit Francisco. Enter Hortensio, a young Lord, Zanche, and two more. How now, gallants? what, are they ready for the barriers? Young Lord. Yes: the lords are putting on their armour. Hort. What 's he? Flam. A new upstart; one that swears like a falconer, and will lie in the duke's ear day by day, like a maker of almanacs: and yet I knew him, since he came to th' court, smell worse of sweat than an under tennis-court keeper. Hort. Look you, yonder 's your sweet mistress. Flam. Thou art my sworn brother: I 'll tell thee, I do love that Moor, that witch, very constrainedly. She knows some of my villainy. I do love her just as a man holds a wolf by the ears; but for fear of her turning upon me, and pulling out my throat, I would let her go to the devil. Hort. I hear she claims marriage of thee. Flam. 'Faith, I made to her some such dark promise; and, in seeking to fly from 't, I run on, like a frighted dog with a bottle at 's tail, that fain would bite it off, and yet dares not look behind him. Now, my precious gipsy. Zan. Ay, your love to me rather cools than heats. Flam. Marry, I am the sounder lover; we have many wenches about the town heat too fast. Hort. What do you think of these perfumed gallants, then? Flam. Their satin cannot save them: I am confident They have a certain spice of the disease; For they that sleep with dogs shall rise with fleas. Zan. Believe it, a little painting and gay clothes make you loathe me. Flam. How, love a lady for painting or gay apparel? I 'll unkennel one example more for thee. AEsop had a foolish dog that let go the flesh to catch the shadow; I would have courtiers be better diners. Zan. You remember your oaths? Flam. Lovers' oaths are like mariners' prayers, uttered in extremity; but when the tempest is o'er, and that the vessel leaves tumbling, they fall from protesting to drinking. And yet, amongst gentlemen, protesting and drinking go together, and agree as well as shoemakers and Westphalia bacon: they are both drawers on; for drink draws on protestation, and protestation draws on more drink. Is not this discourse better now than the morality of your sunburnt gentleman? Enter Cornelia Corn. Is this your perch, you haggard? fly to th' stews. [Strikes Zanche. Flam. You should be clapped by th' heels now: strike i' th' court! [Exit Cornelia. Zan. She 's good for nothing, but to make her maids Catch cold a-nights: they dare not use a bedstaff, For fear of her light fingers. Marc. You 're a strumpet, An impudent one. [Kicks Zanche. Flam. Why do you kick her, say? Do you think that she 's like a walnut tree? Must she be cudgell'd ere she bear good fruit? Marc. She brags that you shall marry her. Flam. What then? Marc. I had rather she were pitch'd upon a stake, In some new-seeded garden, to affright Her fellow crows thence. Flam. You 're a boy, a fool, Be guardian to your hound; I am of age. Marc. If I take her near you, I 'll cut her throat. Flam. With a fan of feather? Marc. And, for you, I 'll whip This folly from you. Flam. Are you choleric? I 'll purge it with rhubarb. Hort. Oh, your brother! Flam. Hang him, He wrongs me most, that ought t' offend me least: I do suspect my mother play'd foul play, When she conceiv'd thee. Marc. Now, by all my hopes, Like the two slaughter'd sons of OEdipus, The very flames of our affection Shall turn two ways. Those words I 'll make thee answer With thy heart-blood. Flam. Do, like the geese in the progress; You know where you shall find me. Marc. Very good. [Exit Flamineo. And thou be'st a noble friend, bear him my sword, And bid him fit the length on 't. Young Lord. Sir, I shall. [Exeunt all but Zanche. Zan. He comes. Hence petty thought of my disgrace! [Enter Francisco. I ne'er lov'd my complexion till now, 'Cause I may boldly say, without a blush, I love you. Fran. Your love is untimely sown; there 's a spring at Michaelmas, but 'tis but a faint one: I am sunk in years, and I have vowed never to marry. Zan. Alas! poor maids get more lovers than husbands: yet you may mistake my wealth. For, as when ambassadors are sent to congratulate princes, there 's commonly sent along with them a rich present, so that, though the prince like not the ambassador's person, nor words, yet he likes well of the presentment; so I may come to you in the same manner, and be better loved for my dowry than my virtue. Fran. I 'll think on the motion. Zan. Do; I 'll now detain you no longer. At your better leisure, I 'll tell you things shall startle your blood: Nor blame me that this passion I reveal; Lovers die inward that their flames conceal. Fran. Of all intelligence this may prove the best: Sure I shall draw strange fowl from this foul nest. [Exeunt. SCENE II Enter Marcello and Cornelia Corn. I hear a whispering all about the court, You are to fight: who is your opposite? What is the quarrel? Marc. 'Tis an idle rumour. Corn. Will you dissemble? sure you do not well To fright me thus: you never look thus pale, But when you are most angry. I do charge you, Upon my blessing--nay, I 'll call the duke, And he shall school you. Marc. Publish not a fear, Which would convert to laughter: 'tis not so. Was not this crucifix my father's? Corn. Yes. Marc. I have heard you say, giving my brother suck He took the crucifix between his hands, [Enter Flamineo. And broke a limb off. Corn. Yes, but 'tis mended. Flam. I have brought your weapon back. [Flamineo runs Marcello through. Corn. Ha! Oh, my horror! Marc. You have brought it home, indeed. Corn. Help! Oh, he 's murder'd! Flam. Do you turn your gall up? I 'll to sanctuary, And send a surgeon to you. [Exit. Enter Lodovico, Hortensio, and Gasparo Hort. How! o' th' ground! Marc. Oh, mother, now remember what I told Of breaking of the crucifix! Farewell. There are some sins, which heaven doth duly punish In a whole family. This it is to rise By all dishonest means! Let all men know, That tree shall long time keep a steady foot, Whose branches spread no wider than the root. [Dies. Corn. Oh, my perpetual sorrow! Hort. Virtuous Marcello! He 's dead. Pray leave him, lady: come, you shall. Corn. Alas! he is not dead; he 's in a trance. Why, here 's nobody shall get anything by his death. Let me call him again, for God's sake! Lodo. I would you were deceived. Corn. Oh, you abuse me, you abuse me, you abuse me! how many have gone away thus, for lack of 'tendance! rear up 's head, rear up 's head! his bleeding inward will kill him. Hort. You see he is departed. Corn. Let me come to him; give me him as he is, if he be turn'd to earth; let me but give him one hearty kiss, and you shall put us both in one coffin. Fetch a looking-glass: see if his breath will not stain it; or pull out some feathers from my pillow, and lay them to his lips. Will you lose him for a little painstaking? Hort. Your kindest office is to pray for him. Corn. Alas! I would not pray for him yet. He may live to lay me i' th' ground, and pray for me, if you 'll let me come to him. Enter Brachiano, all armed, save the beaver, with Flamineo and others Brach. Was this your handiwork? Flam. It was my misfortune. Corn. He lies, he lies! he did not kill him: these have killed him, that would not let him be better looked to. Brach. Have comfort, my griev'd mother. Corn. Oh, you screech-owl! Hort. Forbear, good madam. Corn. Let me go, let me go. [She runs to Flamineo with her knife drawn, and coming to him lets it fall. The God of heaven forgive thee! Dost not wonder I pray for thee? I 'll tell thee what 's the reason, I have scarce breath to number twenty minutes; I 'd not spend that in cursing. Fare thee well: Half of thyself lies there; and mayst thou live To fill an hour-glass with his moulder'd ashes, To tell how thou shouldst spend the time to come In blessed repentance! Brach. Mother, pray tell me How came he by his death? what was the quarrel? Corn. Indeed, my younger boy presum'd too much Upon his manhood, gave him bitter words, Drew his sword first; and so, I know not how, For I was out of my wits, he fell with 's head Just in my bosom. Page. That is not true, madam. Corn. I pray thee, peace. One arrow 's graze'd already; it were vain T' lose this, for that will ne'er be found again. Brach. Go, bear the body to Cornelia's lodging: And we command that none acquaint our duchess With this sad accident. For you, Flamineo, Hark you, I will not grant your pardon. Flam. No? Brach. Only a lease of your life; and that shall last But for one day: thou shalt be forc'd each evening To renew it, or be hang'd. Flam. At your pleasure. [Lodovico sprinkles Brachiano's beaver with a poison. Enter Francisco Your will is law now, I 'll not meddle with it. Brach. You once did brave me in your sister's lodging: I 'll now keep you in awe for 't. Where 's our beaver? Fran. [Aside.] He calls for his destruction. Noble youth, I pity thy sad fate! Now to the barriers. This shall his passage to the black lake further; The last good deed he did, he pardon'd murder. [Exeunt. SCENE III Charges and shouts. They fight at barriers; first single pairs, then three to three Enter Brachiano and Flamineo, with others Brach. An armourer! ud's death, an armourer! Flam. Armourer! where 's the armourer? Brach. Tear off my beaver. Flam. Are you hurt, my lord? Brach. Oh, my brain 's on fire! [Enter Armourer. The helmet is poison'd. Armourer. My lord, upon my soul---- Brach. Away with him to torture. There are some great ones that have hand in this, And near about me. Enter Vittoria Corombona Vit. Oh, my lov'd lord! poison'd! Flam. Remove the bar. Here 's unfortunate revels! Call the physicians. [Enter two Physicians. A plague upon you! We have too much of your cunning here already: I fear the ambassadors are likewise poison'd. Brach. Oh, I am gone already! the infection Flies to the brain and heart. O thou strong heart! There 's such a covenant 'tween the world and it, They 're loath to break. Giov. Oh, my most loved father! Brach. Remove the boy away. Where 's this good woman? Had I infinite worlds, They were too little for thee: must I leave thee? What say you, screech-owls, is the venom mortal? Physicians. Most deadly. Brach. Most corrupted politic hangman, You kill without book; but your art to save Fails you as oft as great men's needy friends. I that have given life to offending slaves, And wretched murderers, have I not power To lengthen mine own a twelvemonth? [To Vittoria.] Do not kiss me, for I shall poison thee. This unctions 's sent from the great Duke of Florence. Fran. Sir, be of comfort. Brach. O thou soft natural death, that art joint-twin To sweetest slumber! no rough-bearded comet Stares on thy mild departure; the dull owl Bears not against thy casement; the hoarse wolf Scents not thy carrion: pity winds thy corse, Whilst horror waits on princes'. Vit. I am lost for ever. Brach. How miserable a thing it is to die 'Mongst women howling! [Enter Lodovico and Gasparo, as Capuchins. What are those? Flam. Franciscans: They have brought the extreme unction. Brach. On pain of death, let no man name death to me: It is a word infinitely terrible. Withdraw into our cabinet. [Exeunt all but Francisco and Flamineo. Flam. To see what solitariness is about dying princes! as heretofore they have unpeopled towns, divorced friends, and made great houses unhospitable, so now, O justice! where are their flatterers now? flatterers are but the shadows of princes' bodies; the least thick cloud makes them invisible. Fran. There 's great moan made for him. Flam. 'Faith, for some few hours salt-water will run most plentifully in every office o' th' court; but, believe it, most of them do weep over their stepmothers' graves. Fran. How mean you? Flam. Why, they dissemble; as some men do that live without compass o' th' verge. Fran. Come, you have thrived well under him. Flam. 'Faith, like a wolf in a woman's breast; I have been fed with poultry: but for money, understand me, I had as good a will to cozen him as e'er an officer of them all; but I had not cunning enough to do it. Fran. What didst thou think of him? 'faith, speak freely. Flam. He was a kind of statesman, that would sooner have reckoned how many cannon-bullets he had discharged against a town, to count his expense that way, than think how many of his valiant and deserving subjects he lost before it. Fran. Oh, speak well of the duke! Flam. I have done. [Enter Lodovico. Wilt hear some of my court-wisdom? To reprehend princes is dangerous; and to over-commend some of them is palpable lying. Fran. How is it with the duke? Lodo. Most deadly ill. He 's fallen into a strange distraction: He talks of battles and monopolies, Levying of taxes; and from that descends To the most brain-sick language. His mind fastens On twenty several objects, which confound Deep sense with folly. Such a fearful end May teach some men that bear too lofty crest, Though they live happiest yet they die not best. He hath conferr'd the whole state of the dukedom Upon your sister, till the prince arrive At mature age. Flam. There 's some good luck in that yet. Fran. See, here he comes. [Enter Brachiano, presented in a bed, Vittoria and others. There 's death in 's face already. Vit. Oh, my good lord! Brach. Away, you have abus'd me: [These speeches are several kinds of distractions, and in the action should appear so. You have convey'd coin forth our territories, Bought and sold offices, oppress'd the poor, And I ne'er dreamt on 't. Make up your accounts, I 'll now be mine own steward. Flam. Sir, have patience. Brach. Indeed, I am to blame: For did you ever hear the dusky raven Chide blackness? or was 't ever known the devil Rail'd against cloven creatures? Vit. Oh, my lord! Brach. Let me have some quails to supper. Flam. Sir, you shall. Brach. No, some fried dog-fish; your quails feed on poison. That old dog-fox, that politician, Florence! I 'll forswear hunting, and turn dog-killer. Rare! I 'll be friends with him; for, mark you, sir, one dog Still sets another a-barking. Peace, peace! Yonder 's a fine slave come in now. Flam. Where? Brach. Why, there, In a blue bonnet, and a pair of breeches With a great cod-piece: ha, ha, ha! Look you, his cod-piece is stuck full of pins, With pearls o' th' head of them. Do you not know him? Flam. No, my lord. Brach. Why, 'tis the devil. I know him by a great rose he wears on 's shoe, To hide his cloven foot. I 'll dispute with him; He 's a rare linguist. Vit. My lord, here 's nothing. Brach. Nothing! rare! nothing! when I want money, Our treasury is empty, there is nothing: I 'll not be use'd thus. Vit. Oh, lie still, my lord! Brach. See, see Flamineo, that kill'd his brother, Is dancing on the ropes there, and he carries A money-bag in each hand, to keep him even, For fear of breaking 's neck: and there 's a lawyer, In a gown whipped with velvet, stares and gapes When the money will fall. How the rogue cuts capers! It should have been in a halter. 'Tis there; what 's she? Flam. Vittoria, my lord. Brach. Ha, ha, ha! her hair is sprinkl'd with orris powder, That makes her look as if she had sinn'd in the pastry. What 's he? Flam. A divine, my lord. [Brachiano seems here near his end; Lodovico and Gasparo, in the habit of Capuchins, present him in his bed with a crucifix and hallowed candle. Brach. He will be drunk; avoid him: th' argument Is fearful, when churchmen stagger in 't. Look you, six grey rats that have lost their tails Crawl upon the pillow; send for a rat-catcher: I 'll do a miracle, I 'll free the court From all foul vermin. Where 's Flamineo? Flam. I do not like that he names me so often, Especially on 's death-bed; 'tis a sign I shall not live long. See, he 's near his end. Lodo. Pray, give us leave. Attende, domine Brachiane. Flam. See how firmly he doth fix his eye Upon the crucifix. Vit. Oh, hold it constant! It settles his wild spirits; and so his eyes Melt into tears. Lodo. Domine Brachiane, solebas in bello tutus esse tuo clypeo; nunc hunc clypeum hosti tuo opponas infernali. [By the crucifix. Gas. Olim hasta valuisti in bello; nunc hanc sacram hastam vibrabis contra hostem animarum. [By the hallowed taper. Lodo. Attende, Domine Brachiane, si nunc quoque probes ea, quae acta sunt inter nos, flecte caput in dextrum. Gas. Esto securus, Domine Brachiane; cogita, quantum habeas meritorum; denique memineris mean animam pro tua oppignoratum si quid esset periculi. Lodo. Si nunc quoque probas ea, quae acta sunt inter nos, flecte caput in loevum. He is departing: pray stand all apart, And let us only whisper in his ears Some private meditations, which our order Permits you not to hear. [Here, the rest being departed, Lodovico and Gasparo discover themselves. Gas. Brachiano. Lodo. Devil Brachiano, thou art damn'd. Gas. Perpetually. Lodo. A slave condemn'd and given up to the gallows, Is thy great lord and master. Gas. True; for thou Art given up to the devil. Lodo. Oh, you slave! You that were held the famous politician, Whose art was poison. Gas. And whose conscience, murder. Lodo. That would have broke your wife's neck down the stairs, Ere she was poison'd. Gas. That had your villainous sallets. Lodo. And fine embroider'd bottles, and perfumes, Equally mortal with a winter plague. Gas. Now there 's mercury---- Lodo. And copperas---- Gas. And quicksilver---- Lodo. With other devilish 'pothecary stuff, A-melting in your politic brains: dost hear? Gas. This is Count Lodovico. Lodo. This, Gasparo: And thou shalt die like a poor rogue. Gas. And stink Like a dead fly-blown dog. Lodo. And be forgotten Before the funeral sermon. Brach. Vittoria! Vittoria! Lodo. Oh, the cursed devil Comes to himself a gain! we are undone. Gas. Strangle him in private. [Enter Vittoria and the Attendants. Lodo. You would prate, sir? This is a true-love knot Sent from the Duke of Florence. [Brachiano is strangled. Gas. What, is it done? Lodo. The snuff is out. No woman-keeper i' th' world, Though she had practis'd seven year at the pest-house, Could have done 't quaintlier. My lords, he 's dead. Vittoria and the others come forward Omnes. Rest to his soul! Vit. Oh me! this place is hell. Fran. How heavily she takes it! Flam. Oh, yes, yes; Had women navigable rivers in their eyes, They would dispend them all. Surely, I wonder Why we should wish more rivers to the city, When they sell water so good cheap. I 'll tell theen These are but Moorish shades of griefs or fears; There 's nothing sooner dry than women's tears. Why, here 's an end of all my harvest; he has given me nothing. Court promises! let wise men count them curs'd; For while you live, he that scores best, pays worst. Fran. Sure this was Florence' doing. Flam. Very likely: Those are found weighty strokes which come from th' hand, But those are killing strokes which come from th' head. Oh, the rare tricks of a Machiavellian! He doth not come, like a gross plodding slave, And buffet you to death; no, my quaint knave, He tickles you to death, makes you die laughing, As if you had swallow'd down a pound of saffron. You see the feat, 'tis practis'd in a trice; To teach court honesty, it jumps on ice. Fran. Now have the people liberty to talk, And descant on his vices. Flam. Misery of princes, That must of force be censur'd by their slaves! Not only blam'd for doing things are ill, But for not doing all that all men will: One were better be a thresher. Ud's death! I would fain speak with this duke yet. Fran. Now he 's dead? Flam. I cannot conjure; but if prayers or oaths Will get to th' speech of him, though forty devils Wait on him in his livery of flames, I 'll speak to him, and shake him by the hand, Though I be blasted. [Exit. Fran. Excellent Lodovico! What! did you terrify him at the last gasp? Lodo. Yes, and so idly, that the duke had like T' have terrified us. Fran. How? Enter the Moor Lodo. You shall hear that hereafter. See, yon 's the infernal, that would make up sport. Now to the revelation of that secret She promis'd when she fell in love with you. Fran. You 're passionately met in this sad world. Zan. I would have you look up, sir; these court tears Claim not your tribute to them: let those weep, That guiltily partake in the sad cause. I knew last night, by a sad dream I had, Some mischief would ensue: yet, to say truth, My dream most concern'd you. Lodo. Shall 's fall a-dreaming? Fran. Yes, and for fashion sake I 'll dream with her. Zan. Methought, sir, you came stealing to my bed. Fran. Wilt thou believe me, sweeting? by this light I was a-dreamt on thee too; for methought I saw thee naked. Zan. Fie, sir! as I told you, Methought you lay down by me. Fran. So dreamt I; And lest thou shouldst take cold, I cover'd thee With this Irish mantle. Zan. Verily I did dream You were somewhat bold with me: but to come to 't---- Lodo. How! how! I hope you will not got to 't here. Fran. Nay, you must hear my dream out. Zan. Well, sir, forth. Fran. When I threw the mantle o'er thee, thou didst laugh Exceedingly, methought. Zan. Laugh! Fran. And criedst out, the hair did tickle thee. Zan. There was a dream indeed! Lodo. Mark her, I pray thee, she simpers like the suds A collier hath been wash'd in. Zan. Come, sir; good fortune tends you. I did tell you I would reveal a secret: Isabella, The Duke of Florence' sister, was empoisone'd By a fum'd picture; and Camillo's neck Was broke by damn'd Flamineo, the mischance Laid on a vaulting-horse. Fran. Most strange! Zan. Most true. Lodo. The bed of snakes is broke. Zan. I sadly do confess, I had a hand In the black deed. Fran. Thou kept'st their counsel. Zan. Right; For which, urg'd with contrition, I intend This night to rob Vittoria. Lodo. Excellent penitence! Usurers dream on 't while they sleep out sermons. Zan. To further our escape, I have entreated Leave to retire me, till the funeral, Unto a friend i' th' country: that excuse Will further our escape. In coin and jewels I shall at least make good unto your use An hundred thousand crowns. Fran. Oh, noble wench! Lodo. Those crowns we 'll share. Zan. It is a dowry, Methinks, should make that sun-burnt proverb false, And was the AEthiop white. Fran. It shall; away. Zan. Be ready for our flight. Fran. An hour 'fore day. [Exit Zanche. Oh, strange discovery! why, till now we knew not The circumstances of either of their deaths. Re-enter Zanche Zan. You 'll wait about midnight in the chapel? Fran. There. [Exit Zanche. Lodo. Why, now our action 's justified. Fran. Tush for justice! What harms it justice? we now, like the partridge, Purge the disease with laurel; for the fame Shall crown the enterprise, and quit the shame. [Exeunt. SCENE IV Enter Flamineo and Gasparo, at one door; another way, Giovanni, attended Gas. The young duke: did you e'er see a sweeter prince? Flam. I have known a poor woman's bastard better favoured--this is behind him. Now, to his face--all comparisons were hateful. Wise was the courtly peacock, that, being a great minion, and being compared for beauty by some dottrels that stood by to the kingly eagle, said the eagle was a far fairer bird than herself, not in respect of her feathers, but in respect of her long talons: his will grow out in time. --My gracious lord. Giov. I pray leave me, sir. Flam. Your grace must be merry; 'tis I have cause to mourn; for wot you, what said the little boy that rode behind his father on horseback? Giov. Why, what said he? Flam. When you are dead, father, said he, I hope that I shall ride in the saddle. Oh, 'tis a brave thing for a man to sit by himself! he may stretch himself in the stirrups, look about, and see the whole compass of the hemisphere. You 're now, my lord, i' th' saddle. Giov. Study your prayers, sir, and be penitent: 'Twere fit you 'd think on what hath former been; I have heard grief nam'd the eldest child of sin. [Exit. Flam. Study my prayers! he threatens me divinely! I am falling to pieces already. I care not, though, like Anacharsis, I were pounded to death in a mortar: and yet that death were fitter for usurers, gold and themselves to be beaten together, to make a most cordial cullis for the devil. He hath his uncle's villainous look already, In decimo-sexto. [Enter Courtier.] Now, sir, what are you? Court. It is the pleasure, sir, of the young duke, That you forbear the presence, and all rooms That owe him reverence. Flam. So the wolf and the raven are very pretty fools when they are young. It is your office, sir, to keep me out? Court. So the duke wills. Flam. Verily, Master Courtier, extremity is not to be used in all offices: say, that a gentlewoman were taken out of her bed about midnight, and committed to Castle Angelo, to the tower yonder, with nothing about her but her smock, would it not show a cruel part in the gentleman-porter to lay claim to her upper garment, pull it o'er her head and ears, and put her in naked? Court. Very good: you are merry. [Exit. Flam. Doth he make a court-ejectment of me? a flaming fire-brand casts more smoke without a chimney than within 't. I 'll smoor some of them. [Enter Francisco de Medicis. How now? thou art sad. Fran. I met even now with the most piteous sight. Flam. Thou meet'st another here, a pitiful Degraded courtier. Fran. Your reverend mother Is grown a very old woman in two hours. I found them winding of Marcello's corse; And there is such a solemn melody, 'Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies; Such as old granddames, watching by the dead, Were wont t' outwear the nights with that, believe me, I had no eyes to guide me forth the room, They were so o'ercharg'd with water. Flam. I will see them. Fran. 'Twere much uncharity in you; for your sight Will add unto their tears. Flam. I will see them: They are behind the traverse; I 'll discover Their superstitions howling. [He draws the traverse. Cornelia, the Moor, and three other Ladies discovered winding Marcello's corse. A song. Corn. This rosemary is wither'd; pray, get fresh. I would have these herbs grow upon his grave, When I am dead and rotten. Reach the bays, I 'll tie a garland here about his head; I have kept this twenty year, and every day Hallow'd it with my prayers; I did not think He should have wore it. Zan. Look you, who are yonder? Corn. Oh, reach me the flowers! Zan. Her ladyship 's foolish. Woman. Alas, her grief Hath turn'd her child again! Corn. You 're very welcome: [To Flamineo. There 's rosemary for you, and rue for you, Heart's-ease for you; I pray make much of it, I have left more for myself. Fran. Lady, who 's this? Corn. You are, I take it, the grave-maker. Flam. So. Zan. 'Tis Flamineo. Corn. Will you make me such a fool? here 's a white hand: Can blood so soon be washed out? let me see; When screech-owls croak upon the chimney-tops, And the strange cricket i' th' oven sings and hops, When yellow spots do on your hands appear, Be certain then you of a corse shall hear. Out upon 't, how 'tis speckled! h' 'as handled a toad sure. Cowslip water is good for the memory: Pray, buy me three ounces of 't. Flam. I would I were from hence. Corn. Do you hear, sir? I 'll give you a saying which my grandmother Was wont, when she heard the bell toll, to sing o'er Unto her lute. Flam. Do, an you will, do. Corn. Call for the robin redbreast, and the wren, [Cornelia doth this in several forms of distraction. Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the fieldmouse, and the mole, To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that 's foe to men, For with his nails he 'll dig them up again. They would not bury him 'cause he died in a quarrel; But I have an answer for them: Let holy Church receive him duly, Since he paid the church-tithes truly. His wealth is summ'd, and this is all his store, This poor men get, and great men get no more. Now the wares are gone, we may shut up shop. Bless you all, good people. [Exeunt Cornelia and Ladies. Flam. I have a strange thing in me, to th' which I cannot give a name, without it be Compassion. I pray leave me. [Enter Francisco. This night I 'll know the utmost of my fate; I 'll be resolv'd what my rich sister means T' assign me for my service. I have liv'd Riotously ill, like some that live in court, And sometimes when my face was full of smiles, Have felt the maze of conscience in my breast. Oft gay and honour'd robes those tortures try: We think cag'd birds sing, when indeed they cry. Enter Brachiano's Ghost, in his leather cassock and breeches, boots, a cowl, a pot of lily flowers, with a skull in 't Ha! I can stand thee: nearer, nearer yet. What a mockery hath death made thee! thou look'st sad. In what place art thou? in yon starry gallery? Or in the cursed dungeon? No? not speak? Pray, sir, resolve me, what religion 's best For a man to die in? or is it in your knowledge To answer me how long I have to live? That 's the most necessary question. Not answer? are you still, like some great men That only walk like shadows up and down, And to no purpose; say---- [The Ghost throws earth upon him, and shows him the skull. What 's that? O fatal! he throws earth upon me. A dead man's skull beneath the roots of flowers! I pray speak, sir: our Italian churchmen Make us believe dead men hold conference With their familiars, and many times Will come to bed with them, and eat with them. [Exit Ghost. He 's gone; and see, the skull and earth are vanish'd. This is beyond melancholy. I do dare my fate To do its worst. Now to my sister's lodging, And sum up all those horrors: the disgrace The prince threw on me; next the piteous sight Of my dead brother; and my mother's dotage; And last this terrible vision: all these Shall with Vittoria's bounty turn to good, Or I will drown this weapon in her blood. [Exit. SCENE V Enter Francisco, Lodovico, and Hortensio Lodo. My lord, upon my soul you shall no further; You have most ridiculously engag'd yourself Too far already. For my part, I have paid All my debts: so, if I should chance to fall, My creditors fall not with me; and I vow, To quit all in this bold assembly, To the meanest follower. My lord, leave the city, Or I 'll forswear the murder. [Exit. Fran. Farewell, Lodovico: If thou dost perish in this glorious act, I 'll rear unto thy memory that fame, Shall in the ashes keep alive thy name. [Exit. Hort. There 's some black deed on foot. I 'll presently Down to the citadel, and raise some force. These strong court-factions, that do brook no checks, In the career oft break the riders' necks. [Exit. SCENE VI Enter Vittoria with a book in her hand, Zanche; Flamineo following them Flam. What, are you at your prayers? Give o'er. Vit. How, ruffian? Flam. I come to you 'bout worldly business. Sit down, sit down. Nay, stay, blowze, you may hear it: The doors are fast enough. Vit. Ha! are you drunk? Flam. Yes, yes, with wormwood water; you shall taste Some of it presently. Vit. What intends the fury? Flam. You are my lord's executrix; and I claim Reward for my long service. Vit. For your service! Flam. Come, therefore, here is pen and ink, set down What you will give me. Vit. There. [She writes. Flam. Ha! have you done already? 'Tis a most short conveyance. Vit. I will read it: I give that portion to thee, and no other, Which Cain groan'd under, having slain his brother. Flam. A most courtly patent to beg by. Vit. You are a villain! Flam. Is 't come to this? they say affrights cure agues: Thou hast a devil in thee; I will try If I can scare him from thee. Nay, sit still: My lord hath left me yet two cases of jewels, Shall make me scorn your bounty; you shall see them. [Exit. Vit. Sure he 's distracted. Zan. Oh, he 's desperate! For your own safety give him gentle language. [He enters with two cases of pistols. Flam. Look, these are better far at a dead lift, Than all your jewel house. Vit. And yet, methinks, These stones have no fair lustre, they are ill set. Flam. I 'll turn the right side towards you: you shall see How they will sparkle. Vit. Turn this horror from me! What do you want? what would you have me do? Is not all mine yours? have I any children? Flam. Pray thee, good woman, do not trouble me With this vain worldly business; say your prayers: Neither yourself nor I should outlive him The numbering of four hours. Vit. Did he enjoin it? Flam. He did, and 'twas a deadly jealousy, Lest any should enjoy thee after him, That urged him vow me to it. For my death, I did propound it voluntarily, knowing, If he could not be safe in his own court, Being a great duke, what hope then for us? Vit. This is your melancholy, and despair. Flam. Away: Fool thou art, to think that politicians DO use to kill the effects or injuries And let the cause live. Shall we groan in irons, Or be a shameful and a weighty burthen To a public scaffold? This is my resolve: I would not live at any man's entreaty, Nor die at any's bidding. Vit. Will you hear me? Flam. My life hath done service to other men, My death shall serve mine own turn: make you ready. Vit. Do you mean to die indeed? Flam. With as much pleasure, As e'er my father gat me. Vit. Are the doors lock'd? Zan. Yes, madam. Vit. Are you grown an atheist? will you turn your body, Which is the goodly palace of the soul, To the soul's slaughter-house? Oh, the cursed devil, Which doth present us with all other sins Thrice candied o'er, despair with gall and stibium; Yet we carouse it off. [Aside to Zanche.] Cry out for help! Makes us forsake that which was made for man, The world, to sink to that was made for devils, Eternal darkness! Zan. Help, help! Flam. I 'll stop your throat With winter plums. Vit. I pray thee yet remember, Millions are now in graves, which at last day Like mandrakes shall rise shrieking. Flam. Leave your prating, For these are but grammatical laments, Feminine arguments: and they move me, As some in pulpits move their auditory, More with their exclamation than sense Of reason, or sound doctrine. Zan. [Aside.] Gentle madam, Seem to consent, only persuade him to teach The way to death; let him die first. Vit. 'Tis good, I apprehend it.-- To kill one's self is meat that we must take Like pills, not chew'd, but quickly swallow it; The smart o' th' wound, or weakness of the hand, May else bring treble torments. Flam. I have held it A wretched and most miserable life, Which is not able to die. Vit. Oh, but frailty! Yet I am now resolv'd; farewell, affliction! Behold, Brachiano, I that while you liv'd Did make a flaming altar of my heart To sacrifice unto you, now am ready To sacrifice heart and all. Farewell, Zanche! Zan. How, madam! do you think that I 'll outlive you; Especially when my best self, Flamineo, Goes the same voyage? Flam. O most loved Moor! Zan. Only, by all my love, let me entreat you, Since it is most necessary one of us Do violence on ourselves, let you or I Be her sad taster, teach her how to die. Flam. Thou dost instruct me nobly; take these pistols, Because my hand is stain'd with blood already: Two of these you shall level at my breast, The other 'gainst your own, and so we 'll die Most equally contented: but first swear Not to outlive me. Vit. and Zan. Most religiously. Flam. Then here 's an end of me; farewell, daylight. And, O contemptible physic! that dost take So long a study, only to preserve So short a life, I take my leave of thee. [Showing the pistols. These are two cupping-glasses, that shall draw All my infected blood out. Are you ready? Both. Ready. Flam. Whither shall I go now? O Lucian, thy ridiculous purgatory! to find Alexander the Great cobbling shoes, Pompey tagging points, and Julius Caesar making hair-buttons, Hannibal selling blacking, and Augustus crying garlic, Charlemagne selling lists by the dozen, and King Pepin crying apples in a cart drawn with one horse! Whether I resolve to fire, earth, water, air, Or all the elements by scruples, I know not, Nor greatly care.--Shoot! shoot! Of all deaths, the violent death is best; For from ourselves it steals ourselves so fast, The pain, once apprehended, is quite past. [They shoot, and run to him, and tread upon him. Vit. What, are you dropped? Flam. I am mix'd with earth already: as you are noble, Perform your vows, and bravely follow me. Vit. Whither? to hell? Zan. To most assur'd damnation? Vit. Oh, thou most cursed devil! Zan. Thou art caught---- Vit. In thine own engine. I tread the fire out That would have been my ruin. Flam. Will you be perjured? what a religious oath was Styx, that the gods never durst swear by, and violate! Oh, that we had such an oath to minister, and to be so well kept in our courts of justice! Vit. Think whither thou art going. Zan. And remember What villainies thou hast acted. Vit. This thy death Shall make me, like a blazing ominous star, Look up and tremble. Flam. Oh, I am caught with a spring! Vit. You see the fox comes many times short home; 'Tis here prov'd true. Flam. Kill'd with a couple of braches! Vit. No fitter offing for the infernal furies, Than one in whom they reign'd while he was living. Flam. Oh, the way 's dark and horrid! I cannot see: Shall I have no company? Vit. Oh, yes, thy sins Do run before thee to fetch fire from hell, To light thee thither. Flam. Oh, I smell soot, Most stinking soot! the chimney 's afire: My liver 's parboil'd, like Scotch holly-bread; There 's a plumber laying pipes in my guts, it scalds. Wilt thou outlive me? Zan. Yes, and drive a stake Through thy body; for we 'll give it out, Thou didst this violence upon thyself. Flam. Oh, cunning devils! now I have tried your love, And doubled all your reaches: I am not wounded. [Flamineo riseth. The pistols held no bullets; 'twas a plot To prove your kindness to me; and I live To punish your ingratitude. I knew, One time or other, you would find a way To give a strong potion. O men, That lie upon your death-beds, and are haunted With howling wives! ne'er trust them; they 'll re-marry Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs. How cunning you were to discharge! do you practise at the Artillery yard? Trust a woman? never, never; Brachiano be my precedent. We lay our souls to pawn to the devil for a little pleasure, and a woman makes the bill of sale. That ever man should marry! For one Hypermnestra that saved her lord and husband, forty-nine of her sisters cut their husbands' throats all in one night. There was a shoal of virtuous horse leeches! Here are two other instruments. Enter Lodovico, Gasparo, still disguised as Capuchins Vit. Help, help! Flam. What noise is that? ha! false keys i' th 'court! Lodo. We have brought you a mask. Flam. A matachin it seems by your drawn swords. Churchmen turned revelers! Gas. Isabella! Isabella! Lodo. Do you know us now? Flam. Lodovico! and Gasparo! Lodo. Yes; and that Moor the duke gave pension to Was the great Duke of Florence. Vit. Oh, we are lost! Flam. You shall not take justice forth from my hands, Oh, let me kill her!--I 'll cut my safety Through your coats of steel. Fate 's a spaniel, We cannot beat it from us. What remains now? Let all that do ill, take this precedent: Man may his fate foresee, but not prevent; And of all axioms this shall win the prize: 'Tis better to be fortunate than wise. Gas. Bind him to the pillar. Vit. Oh, your gentle pity! I have seen a blackbird that would sooner fly To a man's bosom, than to stay the gripe Of the fierce sparrow-hawk. Gas. Your hope deceives you. Vit. If Florence be i' th' court, would he kill me! Gas. Fool! Princes give rewards with their own hands, But death or punishment by the hands of other. Lodo. Sirrah, you once did strike me; I 'll strike you Unto the centre. Flam. Thou 'lt do it like a hangman, a base hangman, Not like a noble fellow, for thou see'st I cannot strike again. Lodo. Dost laugh? Flam. Wouldst have me die, as I was born, in whining? Gas. Recommend yourself to heaven. Flam. No, I will carry mine own commendations thither. Lodo. Oh, I could kill you forty times a day, And use 't four years together, 'twere too little! Naught grieves but that you are too few to feed The famine of our vengeance. What dost think on? Flam. Nothing; of nothing: leave thy idle questions. I am i' th' way to study a long silence: To prate were idle. I remember nothing. There 's nothing of so infinite vexation As man's own thoughts. Lodo. O thou glorious strumpet! Could I divide thy breath from this pure air When 't leaves thy body, I would suck it up, And breathe 't upon some dunghill. Vit. You, my death's-man! Methinks thou dost not look horrid enough, Thou hast too good a face to be a hangman: If thou be, do thy office in right form; Fall down upon thy knees, and ask forgiveness. Lodo. Oh, thou hast been a most prodigious comet! But I 'll cut off your train. Kill the Moor first. Vit. You shall not kill her first; behold my breast: I will be waited on in death; my servant Shall never go before me. Gas. Are you so brave? Vit. Yes, I shall welcome death, As princes do some great ambassadors; I 'll meet thy weapon half-way. Lodo. Thou dost tremble: Methinks, fear should dissolve thee into air. Vit. Oh, thou art deceiv'd, I am too true a woman! Conceit can never kill me. I 'll tell thee what, I will not in my death shed one base tear; Or if look pale, for want of blood, not fear. Gas. Thou art my task, black fury. Zan. I have blood As red as either of theirs: wilt drink some? 'Tis good for the falling-sickness. I am proud: Death cannot alter my complexion, For I shall ne'er look pale. Lodo. Strike, strike, With a joint motion. [They strike. Vit. 'Twas a manly blow; The next thou giv'st, murder some sucking infant; And then thou wilt be famous. Flam. Oh, what blade is 't? A Toledo, or an English fox? I ever thought a culter should distinguish The cause of my death, rather than a doctor. Search my wound deeper; tent it with the steel That made it. Vit. Oh, my greatest sin lay in my blood! Now my blood pays for 't. Flam. Th' art a noble sister! I love thee now; if woman do breed man, She ought to teach him manhood. Fare thee well. Know, many glorious women that are fam'd For masculine virtue, have been vicious, Only a happier silence did betide them: She hath no faults, who hath the art to hide them. Vit. My soul, like to a ship in a black storm, Is driven, I know not whither. Flam. Then cast anchor. Prosperity doth bewitch men, seeming clear; But seas do laugh, show white, when rocks are near. We cease to grieve, cease to be fortune's slaves, Nay, cease to die by dying. Art thou gone? And thou so near the bottom? false report, Which says that women vie with the nine Muses, For nine tough durable lives! I do not look Who went before, nor who shall follow me; No, at my self I will begin the end. While we look up to heaven, we confound Knowledge with knowledge. Oh, I am in a mist! Vit. Oh, happy they that never saw the court, Nor ever knew great men but by report! [Vittoria dies. Flam. I recover like a spent taper, for a flash, And instantly go out. Let all that belong to great men remember th' old wives' tradition, to be like the lions i' th' Tower on Candlemas-day; to mourn if the sun shine, for fear of the pitiful remainder of winter to come. 'Tis well yet there 's some goodness in my death; My life was a black charnel. I have caught An everlasting cold; I have lost my voice Most irrecoverably. Farewell, glorious villains. This busy trade of life appears most vain, Since rest breeds rest, where all seek pain by pain. Let no harsh flattering bells resound my knell; Strike, thunder, and strike loud, to my farewell! [Dies. Enter Ambassadors and Giovanni Eng. Ambass. This way, this way! break open the doors! this way! Lodo. Ha! are we betray'd? Why then let 's constantly all die together; And having finish'd this most noble deed, Defy the worst of fate, nor fear to bleed. Eng. Ambass. Keep back the prince: shoot! shoot! Lodo. Oh, I am wounded! I fear I shall be ta'en. Giov. You bloody villains, By what authority have you committed This massacre? Lodo. By thine. Giov. Mine! Lodo. Yes; thy uncle, which is a part of thee, enjoined us to 't: Thou know'st me, I am sure; I am Count Lodowick; And thy most noble uncle in disguise Was last night in thy court. Giov. Ha! Lodo. Yes, that Moor thy father chose his pensioner. Giov. He turn'd murderer! Away with them to prison, and to torture: All that have hands in this shall taste our justice, As I hope heaven. Lodo. I do glory yet, That I can call this act mine own. For my part, The rack, the gallows, and the torturing wheel, Shall be but sound sleeps to me: here 's my rest; I limn'd this night-piece, and it was my best. Giov. Remove these bodies. See, my honour'd lord, What use you ought make of their punishment. Let guilty men remember, their black deeds Do lean on crutches made of slender reeds. * * * * Instead of an epilogue, only this of Martial supplies me: Haec fuerint nobis praemia, si placui. For the action of the play, 'twas generally well, and I dare affirm, with the joint testimony of some of their own quality (for the true imitation of life, without striving to make nature a monster,) the best that ever became them: whereof as I make a general acknowledgment, so in particular I must remember the well-approved industry of my friend Master Perkins, and confess the worth of his action did crown both the beginning and end.

Act 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20180409073731/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-white-devil/study-guide/summary-act-5

Act 5 opens in Padua, where Brachiano and Vittoria have fled. Brachiano and Vittoria cross the stage in a glorious wedding procession, followed by Flamineo, Marcelo, Hortensio, Cornelia, Zanche, and the ambassadors. The party exits, but Flamineo and Hortensio remain behind. Hortensio and Flamineo discuss the Moor, named Mulinassar, who has recently arrived at court, and Flamineo expresses approval of the Moor's experience with state affairs and warfare. His is further pleased that Mulinassar has agreed to aid Brachiano in the impending war with Francisco. He finally explains the presence of the two gentlemen accompanying Mulinassar: they are Hungarian noblemen who are entering a Capuchin monastery after having fought in a crusade. As the audience alone knows, Mulinassar is actually Francisco in disguise, and the Hungarian gentleman are Lodovico, Gasparo, and Antonelli in disguise. Brachiano enters with Mulinassar, the Hungarian gentlemen, Fernese, Carlo, and Pedro. Brachiano welcomes the Moor and asks him to stay for his wedding festivities. Brachiano, Flamineo, and Hortensio leave, and Carlo and Pedro welcome the conspirators. Together, they all discuss how to best kill Brachiano. Hearing Flamineo returning, all the conspirators exit, except for Francisco. Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche enter. Marcello asks why Zanche follows them, and Flamineo makes an off-color joke about his erection and her ability to end it. Zanche resolves to later speak to her "countryman" Mulinassar, and exits the stage. Flamineo asks Mulinassar for some war stories, but the latter refuses to brag about himself. Flamineo then advises the Moor on how to best obtain his payment from Brachiano. Hortensio, a young lord, and Zanche re-enter. The former informs Flamineo that the games are about to begin, and Flamineo then badmouths him behind his back to Mulinassar . Hortensio tells Flamineo that his lover, Zanche, has arrived, and Flamineo admits that they sleep together but also that he cannot trust her. He had promised to marry her, but he now regrets that promise and wants to avoid her. Zanche accuses him of falling out of love with her, and he claims that he is a better lover because his lack of "heat" prevents him from contracting venereal disease. When Zanche accuses him of falling in love with the "painted" courtiers, he replies that only a fool gives up what he has for what he wants. Cornelia then enters, and immediately assaults Zanche. Flamineo leaps to the Moor's defense, threatening to lock his mother in the stocks. Marcello aids Cornelia, striking Zanche again and calling her a whore. He then explains that she has been bragging that Flamineo will marry her. While the two brothers argue with one other, Mulinassar enters, distracting Zanche. Zanche, clearly attracted to him, admits that she has fallen in love with Flamineo, which he explains is unwise. She promises him a dowry to offset her lack of virtue, and Francisco remarks aside that Zanche's confidence may be very helpful in aiding his schemes. Scene 2 Marcello and Cornelia are together alone on stage. Cornelia confronts her son about court gossip claiming Marcello is set to duel with someone. He denies it, and asks his mother to back off. Suddenly, Flamineo appears brandishing Marcello's sword. He fatally stabs his brother, and leaves. Hortensio, Carlo, and Pedro arrive right after Marcello dies. Cornelia refuses to admit that Marcello is dead, and pleads with Hortensio and Carlo to fetch help. Brachiano enters, sees Marcello dead, and asks Flamineo if he committed the crime. Cornelia, however, asserts that it was Hortensio's crime, since he refused to aid the dying man. Clearly mentally unhinged, she then begs Flamineo for his forgiveness. Brachiano tells Flamineo that he cannot pardon the murder, but will allow a lease on Flamineo's life which the man must renew every evening. While Brachiano delivers this sentence, Lodovico poisons his helmet's mouthpiece, which evokes the method of Isabella's death. Scene 3 As Scene 3 opens, several unnamed knights are engaged in battle as part of the tournament being held to celebrate the wedding. Brachiano, Flamineo, Giovanni, Vittoria, and the disguised Francisco enter. Brachiano desperately calls for an armorer because he feels like his head is on fire. He soon realizes he has been poisoned, and he sends the armorer to be tortured. Doctors arrive and discover the poison is fatal, at which point Brachiano delivers a speech blaming Francisco and Fate/Death. Lodovico and Gasparo arrive dressed as Franciscan monks, seemingly to deliver the last rites, and all but Mulinassar and Flamineo withdraw. Flamineo remarks how quickly great men lose friends and flatterers once they are in trouble, telling the disguised Francisco that the Duke cared more for money than he did for his subject's lives. Lodovico re-enters to tell them that Brachiano is delirious and dying. Brachiano is then brought in on a bed alongside Vittoria and the disguised murderers. He rails against Vittoria, accusing her of causing him misery. He hallucinates images of the devil and of Flamineo dancing with money on a tightrope. Gasparo and Lodovico begin to hypocritically intone Brachiano's last rites in Latin. They ask everyone to leave so that they may have religious privacy. Once everyone has left, they reveal their true identities to Brachiano, and curse him. He desperately calls for Vittoria, who rushes in but is quickly sent away again by Gasparo and Lodovico. To speed the death, Lodovico strangles Brachiano, and then everyone else re-enters. Flamineo and Mulinassar discuss Brachiano's death; they suggest Francisco as the likely murderer, and Flamineo admits he would like to speak with Brachiano once more. Flamineo exits, and Lodovico enters from the shadows to suggest Francisco manipulate Zanche, who is attracted to him and thinks him a Moor like her, to learn secrets. Zanche and Francisco flirt, talking of their dreams. Francisco claims he had a dream in which he placed a blanket over Zanche's naked body, which tickled her. Zanche then tells Francisco how Isabella and Camillo died, and explains how she and Vittoria are planning to sneak out later that night. She gives the disguised Francisco a dowry, and asks him to meet her later. She exits, only to immediately re-enter to specify that he should meet her at midnight in the chapel. When she finally exits, Francisco explains to Lodovico that they will achieve great glory through their actions, and use that glory to get rid of the crime's taint. Scene 4 Giovanni enters to find Flamineo and Gasparo speaking. Giovanni asks Flamineo to leave him, but Flamineo instead tells a fable emphasizing how great Giovanni can become now that his father is dead and he is "in the saddle." Giovanni chastizes him for insufficient grief, and exits. Flamineo remarks that he does not trust Giovanni, and a courtier enters, telling Flamineo that Giovanni has ordered him to leave court. After the courtier exits, Francisco enters to tell Flamineo that Cornelia is currently distraught and burying Marcello. Cornelia, Zanche, and other assorted women enter. Cornelia, clearly somewhat insane, is murmuring distractedly about flowers for Marcello's grave. She does not recognize Flamineo, although she does call him the "grave-maker," a pun on grave-digger and murderer. She sings a song over Marcello's body in an attempt to bless and protect his grave. She then leaves with the rest of the women, and Flamineo asks Francisco to let him be alone. In a soliloquy, Flamineo contemplates his corrupt life at court and his own failed plans. Suddenly, Brachiano's ghost appears, holding a pot of lilies with a skull buried beneath them. Flamineo unleashes a flurry of questions to the ghost, questioning what hell is like and whether Flamineo will also soon die. The ghost remains silent, but throws dirt on Flamineo, revealing the skull underneath the lilies. Frightened by all the misfortune around him, Flamineo runs off to kill his sister, hoping that will resolve everything. Scene 5 Francisco and Lodovico enter, unaware that Hortensio hides behind them. Lodovico advises Francisco to leave the city before he gets caught or dragged into further evil. Francisco agrees, and promises to immortalize Lodovico's name if the latter dies in carrying out their plan. The two men exit, and Hortensio, now aware of the deception and conspiracies, races off to raise an army of men. Scene 6 Vittoria and Zanche enter, followed by Flamineo. Flamineo interrupts Vittoria's prayers to demand payment for his service to Brachiano. Vittoria, outraged over his murder of Marcello, writes down that she will give him what God gave Cain. Angered, Flamineo storms out, and Zanche cautions Vittoria to be kinder to him. Flamineo rushes back in with a pair of pistols, and threatens Vittoria. She asks him to calm down, reminding him that she has no children and so he will inherit all that she owns. Flamineo explains to her that he swore an oath to Brachiano that neither he nor Vittoria would outlive him by longer than four hours, and that it is unlikely that any other authority will allow them to live. When Vittoria recognizes his resolve, she argues they should commit a dual suicide, and that Flamineo should go first. Zache adds that she will join them, but that Flamineo must show them how to properly kill themselves. Flamineo agrees, and instructs Zanche to shoot him and then Vittoria. The two women promise to follow the plan, and Flamineo gives them the guns. They then admit they have deceived him, and Vittoria ignores his insults to invoke the Furies, triumphant in her revenge. Zanche tells him that they will frame his murder like a suicide and thereby avoid any punishment for his death. Zanche shoots him. In the midst of a murmuring speech about hellish burning, Flamineo reveals that he has deceived them by not actually loading the guns with bullets. He curses both them and womankind in general before brandishing different weapons towards them. Lodovico, Gasparo, Carlo and Pedro suddenly barge in. They reveal their true identities, as well as that of the departed Mulinassar. Flamineo pleads with them to let him kill Vittoria, but they tie him to a pillar. Vittoria asks that Francisco kill her himself, but Gasparo explains nastily that great men recruit others to do their dirty work. Lodovico lashes out at Flamineo, explaining that he wishes he could kill him over and over again. When he says he will kill Zanche first, Vittoria begs him to kill her first. The women bravely confront their executioners, taunting that they will never cry. Simultaneously, the three men stab Flamineo, Vittoria, and Zanche. Vittoria and Flamineo taunt their executioners before reconciling with one another. Zanche dies, then Vittoria. As Flamineo finally dies, the English Ambassador bursts onto the stage, followed by Giovanni and the rest of the guards and ambassadors. The guards uses guns to capture the conspirators, and then announce their intention to incarcerate them in the dungeon. All exit.

Act 5 serves to both conclude the play's plot and offer a final expression of its primary themes. In particular, the play explores the distinction between appearance and reality, and the way that corruption breeds corruption. The distinction between appearance and reality, which has been present from the play's title through all of the acts thus far, gets explicit manifestation in the disguises used by the conspirators. Francisco does not only don a disguise but he also dresses as a Moor, a black man, through his Mulinassar persona. By dressing as a social inferior, a black man, he particularly evades suspicion. All of the deceit is quite fitting, considering that Brachiano has wrought such a situation. The presence of these traitors within Brachiano's own court suggests the self-destructive nature of Brachiano's love and consequent death. Brachiano's foolish actions have brought his tragedy upon himself by engendering a court of distrust and corruption. It is fitting that his court and wife die by the same vices that defined him. Further, Brachiano's death reflects the hypocrisy and irony with which he lived. Brachiano's death occurs during a game of barriers, a jousting game played in celebration of his wedding. Barriers were often staged as symbolic battles between allegorical forces like Truth versus Opinion. In performance, these games provide a spectacle for the audience as well as for the play's characters, but they also function as a source of irony, since their chivalric values contrast so sharply with the Machiavellian plotting. Additionally, the method of his death has a poetic justice, in that he is killed by a mouthpiece, which evokes Isabella's murder. This repeated motif suggests the retributive nature of revenge. When Brachiano realizes that he has been fatally poisoned, he admits Francisco as the likely culprit, but saves his greatest ire for Fate. He claims that, as a "great man," he is above petty mortal squabbles, but that his fate is unalterably written in the stars. While this method of his death convinces him he is correct, the audience knows the truth - the motif does not reflect the justice of the heavens, but rather of man. He dies because of what he has done, but it is fitting with his hypocritical delusions of grandeur that he does not initially consider his own actions as the cause. The depth of Flamineo's resentful, ugly character are also explored in this final act. He is driven by no loyalties save those he feels he owes to himself. He kills his brother over an argument concerning a woman he has only recently described as annoying, and becomes desperate in his plotting once Giovanni banishes him. Ultimately, despite his great wit and facility for machinations, he is powerless, and this realization drives him to desperately commit greater evil. In killing Marcello, he reveals his inflated sense of power and pride, but after Brachiano, the only person who grants him any power at all, dies, he is unseated. His encounter with Brachiano's ghost reminds him of how little power he truly has. The image of the lilies reinforces this point, since lilies are beautiful despite their foul odor. Flamineo is reminded of the truly deceptive nature of appearances, for what looks fair actually hides evil and death. Of course, if he were to have missed that point, Webster's grotesque streak makes sure that it is unavoidable through the skull that lies beneath the flowers. Of course, Flamineo's most desperate act is to pursue his sister's death. Though she was once his primary tool towards achieving a higher status, he now views her as the cause of his problems, so much so that he is willing to kill himself to end her life. In their encounter, Vittoria reveals a stronger moral sense than his; she seems genuinely upset about Marcello's death, and will no longer tolerate his scheming. Of course, one could argue that this is itself a tactic, considering how self-interested all of the play's characters are. Nevertheless, Flamineo remains a schemer till the end. His feigned death is not only a trick played on Vittoria, but also one played on the audience. This meta-theatrical device reminds the audience of the illusive nature of plays and appearance, which of course reinforces the story's themes. Ultimately, Webster's critique of our reliance on appearance involves even his own work and the theater itself. There are also several allusions made during Flamineo's desperation, revealing Webster's love of that device. At Marcello's funeral. Cornelia, very "distracted," gives Flamineo a speech about the proper flowers for burial, and then sings a little song. All of this is incredibly reminiscent of Hamlet's Ophelia, and her behavior after Laertes's death. When Vittoria denies Flamineo, she makes a biblical allusion by comparing him to Cain because of his fratricide. Finally, when Flamineo claims he vowed he and Vittoria would die soon after Brachiano, it is a reference to King Herod, who supposedly decreed that his beloved wife would be killed upon his death. The White Devil is full of such allusions, and Webster constantly references the work of other playwrights, the writing of antiquity, and historical events. Finally, the play ends with the success of the scheme, but without offering any hope for humanity. The audience has naturally come to root for the conspirators, since they are ostensibly the arm of Francisco, who has become the protagonist since Isabella's death. However, they are quickly captured and imprisoned for their act, reminding us that they too commit evil. Revenge, being part of a vicious cycle, never breeds virtue. Francisco has promised to immortalize Lodovico's name, but we have every reason to doubt him, considering how self-interested everyone is. Webster leaves his story with a strong plot resolution, but a thematic uncertainty. Nobody has learned anything in the play, and nobody has grown more virtuous. Instead, they maintained the same selfish and hypocritical behaviors until circumstances ended the story, which reveals the true depth of Webster's pessimism.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/27.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_26_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 27

chapter 27

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HIVING THE BEES The Weatherbury bees were late in their swarming this year. It was in the latter part of June, and the day after the interview with Troy in the hayfield, that Bathsheba was standing in her garden, watching a swarm in the air and guessing their probable settling place. Not only were they late this year, but unruly. Sometimes throughout a whole season all the swarms would alight on the lowest attainable bough--such as part of a currant-bush or espalier apple-tree; next year they would, with just the same unanimity, make straight off to the uppermost member of some tall, gaunt costard, or quarrenden, and there defy all invaders who did not come armed with ladders and staves to take them. This was the case at present. Bathsheba's eyes, shaded by one hand, were following the ascending multitude against the unexplorable stretch of blue till they ultimately halted by one of the unwieldy trees spoken of. A process somewhat analogous to that of alleged formations of the universe, time and times ago, was observable. The bustling swarm had swept the sky in a scattered and uniform haze, which now thickened to a nebulous centre: this glided on to a bough and grew still denser, till it formed a solid black spot upon the light. The men and women being all busily engaged in saving the hay--even Liddy had left the house for the purpose of lending a hand--Bathsheba resolved to hive the bees herself, if possible. She had dressed the hive with herbs and honey, fetched a ladder, brush, and crook, made herself impregnable with armour of leather gloves, straw hat, and large gauze veil--once green but now faded to snuff colour--and ascended a dozen rungs of the ladder. At once she heard, not ten yards off, a voice that was beginning to have a strange power in agitating her. "Miss Everdene, let me assist you; you should not attempt such a thing alone." Troy was just opening the garden gate. Bathsheba flung down the brush, crook, and empty hive, pulled the skirt of her dress tightly round her ankles in a tremendous flurry, and as well as she could slid down the ladder. By the time she reached the bottom Troy was there also, and he stooped to pick up the hive. "How fortunate I am to have dropped in at this moment!" exclaimed the sergeant. She found her voice in a minute. "What! and will you shake them in for me?" she asked, in what, for a defiant girl, was a faltering way; though, for a timid girl, it would have seemed a brave way enough. "Will I!" said Troy. "Why, of course I will. How blooming you are to-day!" Troy flung down his cane and put his foot on the ladder to ascend. "But you must have on the veil and gloves, or you'll be stung fearfully!" "Ah, yes. I must put on the veil and gloves. Will you kindly show me how to fix them properly?" "And you must have the broad-brimmed hat, too, for your cap has no brim to keep the veil off, and they'd reach your face." "The broad-brimmed hat, too, by all means." So a whimsical fate ordered that her hat should be taken off--veil and all attached--and placed upon his head, Troy tossing his own into a gooseberry bush. Then the veil had to be tied at its lower edge round his collar and the gloves put on him. He looked such an extraordinary object in this guise that, flurried as she was, she could not avoid laughing outright. It was the removal of yet another stake from the palisade of cold manners which had kept him off. Bathsheba looked on from the ground whilst he was busy sweeping and shaking the bees from the tree, holding up the hive with the other hand for them to fall into. She made use of an unobserved minute whilst his attention was absorbed in the operation to arrange her plumes a little. He came down holding the hive at arm's length, behind which trailed a cloud of bees. "Upon my life," said Troy, through the veil, "holding up this hive makes one's arm ache worse than a week of sword-exercise." When the manoeuvre was complete he approached her. "Would you be good enough to untie me and let me out? I am nearly stifled inside this silk cage." To hide her embarrassment during the unwonted process of untying the string about his neck, she said:-- "I have never seen that you spoke of." "What?" "The sword-exercise." "Ah! would you like to?" said Troy. Bathsheba hesitated. She had heard wondrous reports from time to time by dwellers in Weatherbury, who had by chance sojourned awhile in Casterbridge, near the barracks, of this strange and glorious performance, the sword-exercise. Men and boys who had peeped through chinks or over walls into the barrack-yard returned with accounts of its being the most flashing affair conceivable; accoutrements and weapons glistening like stars--here, there, around--yet all by rule and compass. So she said mildly what she felt strongly. "Yes; I should like to see it very much." "And so you shall; you shall see me go through it." "No! How?" "Let me consider." "Not with a walking-stick--I don't care to see that. It must be a real sword." "Yes, I know; and I have no sword here; but I think I could get one by the evening. Now, will you do this?" Troy bent over her and murmured some suggestion in a low voice. "Oh no, indeed!" said Bathsheba, blushing. "Thank you very much, but I couldn't on any account." "Surely you might? Nobody would know." She shook her head, but with a weakened negation. "If I were to," she said, "I must bring Liddy too. Might I not?" Troy looked far away. "I don't see why you want to bring her," he said coldly. An unconscious look of assent in Bathsheba's eyes betrayed that something more than his coldness had made her also feel that Liddy would be superfluous in the suggested scene. She had felt it, even whilst making the proposal. "Well, I won't bring Liddy--and I'll come. But only for a very short time," she added; "a very short time." "It will not take five minutes," said Troy.

Chapter 27

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-27

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.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_10_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 15

chapter 15

{"name": "Chapter 15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapter-15", "summary": "When the Dashwoods went to call on Lady Middleton the next day, Marianne stayed behind \"under some trifling pretext of employment.\" On their return, Marianne emerged from the parlor \"apparently in violent affliction.\" Willoughby, looking upset, announced that his rich relative, Mrs. Smith, was sending him to London on business. He told them that he had \"no idea of returning into Devonshire immediately\" and was evasive when Mrs. Dashwood assured him that he would always be welcome at Barton Cottage. After he left, Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor discussed the probable reasons for his departure. Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that Willoughby was sincere. She conjectured that Mrs. Smith suspected Willoughby's interest in Marianne and thus invented the business \"as an excuse to dismiss him.\" Elinor, however, questioned Willoughby's taciturnity. She spoke of her concern over the secrecy maintained by the young couple regarding their engagement but expressed the hope that her mother might be right in her conjecture. When Marianne came down to dinner, she \"avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time . . . burst into tears and left the room.\"", "analysis": "Willoughby, who has been indignantly outspoken in his feelings and opinions heretofore, seems strangely silent now. Some explanation of his departure is required in this situation -- and although he may have accomplished this with Marianne, her family, who has been witness to their affair, deserves to know the truth. Therefore, Elinor is justified in doubting Willoughby's intentions. The pair have flaunted their feelings for each other, which would be considered indiscreet were no public engagement forthcoming. His leaving without making this avowal is as good as a renunciation, although the naive Mrs. Dashwood refuses to see this."}

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

Chapter 15

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapter-15

When the Dashwoods went to call on Lady Middleton the next day, Marianne stayed behind "under some trifling pretext of employment." On their return, Marianne emerged from the parlor "apparently in violent affliction." Willoughby, looking upset, announced that his rich relative, Mrs. Smith, was sending him to London on business. He told them that he had "no idea of returning into Devonshire immediately" and was evasive when Mrs. Dashwood assured him that he would always be welcome at Barton Cottage. After he left, Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor discussed the probable reasons for his departure. Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that Willoughby was sincere. She conjectured that Mrs. Smith suspected Willoughby's interest in Marianne and thus invented the business "as an excuse to dismiss him." Elinor, however, questioned Willoughby's taciturnity. She spoke of her concern over the secrecy maintained by the young couple regarding their engagement but expressed the hope that her mother might be right in her conjecture. When Marianne came down to dinner, she "avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time . . . burst into tears and left the room."

Willoughby, who has been indignantly outspoken in his feelings and opinions heretofore, seems strangely silent now. Some explanation of his departure is required in this situation -- and although he may have accomplished this with Marianne, her family, who has been witness to their affair, deserves to know the truth. Therefore, Elinor is justified in doubting Willoughby's intentions. The pair have flaunted their feelings for each other, which would be considered indiscreet were no public engagement forthcoming. His leaving without making this avowal is as good as a renunciation, although the naive Mrs. Dashwood refuses to see this.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/chapters_22_to_23.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Prince/section_20_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapters 22-23

chapters 22-23

{"name": "Chapters 22-23", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapters-2223", "summary": "Choosing good ministers is vital, because a ruler shows his intelligence in his choice of the men around him. If a man cannot have good ideas himself, he must be smart enough to distinguish his minister's good ideas from his bad ones. The minister must think always of the prince, not of himself. The prince should honor and reward his minister, so that the minister will be dependent on the prince. Unless rulers are shrewd about choosing their advisors, they will find themselves surrounded by flatterers. The only way to guard against flattery is to show that you are not offended by the truth. But if anyone can speak their mind to you, you will not be respected. A wise prince will pick intelligent advisors and allow only them to speak frankly, and only when he asks for their opinions. He should listen carefully, but make his own decisions and stick to them. A prince who is not wise can never get good counsel, unless he puts himself completely in the hands of a wise man; but such a man will soon take over his state. An ignorant prince who takes advice from several counselors will never be able to reconcile their conflicting opinions, for each minister will think of his own interests. Men will always be disloyal unless a prince forces them to be faithful.", "analysis": "These two brief chapters deal with the advisors and ministers whom a prince chooses to aid him. Machiavelli's discussion of the topic is direct and yet contradictory. A prudent ruler, even if he is not unusually intelligent, may choose a brilliant advisor, and so be thought wise. Then again, a ruler who is not wise can never get good advice, because he cannot evaluate it properly. A good minister will be dedicated to the state and think of nothing but the prince's interests; but ministers will always forward their own interests unless a prince compels them to be loyal to him. Machiavelli's typically dark view of human nature runs up against his view that good ministers are indispensable to a prince. Because Machiavelli himself had been a \"good minister\" in the Florentine republic and genuinely hoped to get that position back, it is not surprising that he emphasizes the value of a minister who is truly devoted to the affairs of state. As in Chapter 21, Machiavelli states that a prince should display decisiveness, directness, and dignity. Princes must value--and even insist on--complete candor from their advisors. Then again, if they allow too much freedom of opinion, they compromise their dignity by making themselves too approachable. The warning against flatterers was a standard caution in Renaissance advice books. Glossary Antonio da Venafro Antonio Giordani was a lawyer employed as a minister by Pandolfo Petrucci, ruler of Siena. Maximilian Emperor Maximilian I , ruler of the Holy Roman Empire. Father Luca Raimondi was one of his advisors. Machiavelli had an opportunity to observe Maximillian when Machiavelli visited Maximillian's court on a diplomatic mission from 1507 to 1508."}

The choice of servants is of no little importance to a prince, and they are good or not according to the discrimination of the prince. And the first opinion which one forms of a prince, and of his understanding, is by observing the men he has around him; and when they are capable and faithful he may always be considered wise, because he has known how to recognize the capable and to keep them faithful. But when they are otherwise one cannot form a good opinion of him, for the prime error which he made was in choosing them. There were none who knew Messer Antonio da Venafro as the servant of Pandolfo Petrucci, Prince of Siena, who would not consider Pandolfo to be a very clever man in having Venafro for his servant. Because there are three classes of intellects: one which comprehends by itself; another which appreciates what others comprehended; and a third which neither comprehends by itself nor by the showing of others; the first is the most excellent, the second is good, the third is useless. Therefore, it follows necessarily that, if Pandolfo was not in the first rank, he was in the second, for whenever one has judgment to know good and bad when it is said and done, although he himself may not have the initiative, yet he can recognize the good and the bad in his servant, and the one he can praise and the other correct; thus the servant cannot hope to deceive him, and is kept honest. But to enable a prince to form an opinion of his servant there is one test which never fails; when you see the servant thinking more of his own interests than of yours, and seeking inwardly his own profit in everything, such a man will never make a good servant, nor will you ever be able to trust him; because he who has the state of another in his hands ought never to think of himself, but always of his prince, and never pay any attention to matters in which the prince is not concerned. On the other hand, to keep his servant honest the prince ought to study him, honouring him, enriching him, doing him kindnesses, sharing with him the honours and cares; and at the same time let him see that he cannot stand alone, so that many honours may not make him desire more, many riches make him wish for more, and that many cares may make him dread chances. When, therefore, servants, and princes towards servants, are thus disposed, they can trust each other, but when it is otherwise, the end will always be disastrous for either one or the other. I do not wish to leave out an important branch of this subject, for it is a danger from which princes are with difficulty preserved, unless they are very careful and discriminating. It is that of flatterers, of whom courts are full, because men are so self-complacent in their own affairs, and in a way so deceived in them, that they are preserved with difficulty from this pest, and if they wish to defend themselves they run the danger of falling into contempt. Because there is no other way of guarding oneself from flatterers except letting men understand that to tell you the truth does not offend you; but when every one may tell you the truth, respect for you abates. Therefore a wise prince ought to hold a third course by choosing the wise men in his state, and giving to them only the liberty of speaking the truth to him, and then only of those things of which he inquires, and of none others; but he ought to question them upon everything, and listen to their opinions, and afterwards form his own conclusions. With these councillors, separately and collectively, he ought to carry himself in such a way that each of them should know that, the more freely he shall speak, the more he shall be preferred; outside of these, he should listen to no one, pursue the thing resolved on, and be steadfast in his resolutions. He who does otherwise is either overthrown by flatterers, or is so often changed by varying opinions that he falls into contempt. I wish on this subject to adduce a modern example. Fra Luca, the man of affairs to Maximilian,(*) the present emperor, speaking of his majesty, said: He consulted with no one, yet never got his own way in anything. This arose because of his following a practice the opposite to the above; for the emperor is a secretive man--he does not communicate his designs to any one, nor does he receive opinions on them. But as in carrying them into effect they become revealed and known, they are at once obstructed by those men whom he has around him, and he, being pliant, is diverted from them. Hence it follows that those things he does one day he undoes the next, and no one ever understands what he wishes or intends to do, and no one can rely on his resolutions. (*) Maximilian I, born in 1459, died 1519, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. He married, first, Mary, daughter of Charles the Bold; after her death, Bianca Sforza; and thus became involved in Italian politics. A prince, therefore, ought always to take counsel, but only when he wishes and not when others wish; he ought rather to discourage every one from offering advice unless he asks it; but, however, he ought to be a constant inquirer, and afterwards a patient listener concerning the things of which he inquired; also, on learning that any one, on any consideration, has not told him the truth, he should let his anger be felt. And if there are some who think that a prince who conveys an impression of his wisdom is not so through his own ability, but through the good advisers that he has around him, beyond doubt they are deceived, because this is an axiom which never fails: that a prince who is not wise himself will never take good advice, unless by chance he has yielded his affairs entirely to one person who happens to be a very prudent man. In this case indeed he may be well governed, but it would not be for long, because such a governor would in a short time take away his state from him. But if a prince who is not inexperienced should take counsel from more than one he will never get united counsels, nor will he know how to unite them. Each of the counsellors will think of his own interests, and the prince will not know how to control them or to see through them. And they are not to be found otherwise, because men will always prove untrue to you unless they are kept honest by constraint. Therefore it must be inferred that good counsels, whencesoever they come, are born of the wisdom of the prince, and not the wisdom of the prince from good counsels.

Chapters 22-23

https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapters-2223

Choosing good ministers is vital, because a ruler shows his intelligence in his choice of the men around him. If a man cannot have good ideas himself, he must be smart enough to distinguish his minister's good ideas from his bad ones. The minister must think always of the prince, not of himself. The prince should honor and reward his minister, so that the minister will be dependent on the prince. Unless rulers are shrewd about choosing their advisors, they will find themselves surrounded by flatterers. The only way to guard against flattery is to show that you are not offended by the truth. But if anyone can speak their mind to you, you will not be respected. A wise prince will pick intelligent advisors and allow only them to speak frankly, and only when he asks for their opinions. He should listen carefully, but make his own decisions and stick to them. A prince who is not wise can never get good counsel, unless he puts himself completely in the hands of a wise man; but such a man will soon take over his state. An ignorant prince who takes advice from several counselors will never be able to reconcile their conflicting opinions, for each minister will think of his own interests. Men will always be disloyal unless a prince forces them to be faithful.

These two brief chapters deal with the advisors and ministers whom a prince chooses to aid him. Machiavelli's discussion of the topic is direct and yet contradictory. A prudent ruler, even if he is not unusually intelligent, may choose a brilliant advisor, and so be thought wise. Then again, a ruler who is not wise can never get good advice, because he cannot evaluate it properly. A good minister will be dedicated to the state and think of nothing but the prince's interests; but ministers will always forward their own interests unless a prince compels them to be loyal to him. Machiavelli's typically dark view of human nature runs up against his view that good ministers are indispensable to a prince. Because Machiavelli himself had been a "good minister" in the Florentine republic and genuinely hoped to get that position back, it is not surprising that he emphasizes the value of a minister who is truly devoted to the affairs of state. As in Chapter 21, Machiavelli states that a prince should display decisiveness, directness, and dignity. Princes must value--and even insist on--complete candor from their advisors. Then again, if they allow too much freedom of opinion, they compromise their dignity by making themselves too approachable. The warning against flatterers was a standard caution in Renaissance advice books. Glossary Antonio da Venafro Antonio Giordani was a lawyer employed as a minister by Pandolfo Petrucci, ruler of Siena. Maximilian Emperor Maximilian I , ruler of the Holy Roman Empire. Father Luca Raimondi was one of his advisors. Machiavelli had an opportunity to observe Maximillian when Machiavelli visited Maximillian's court on a diplomatic mission from 1507 to 1508.

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The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 8

chapter 8

{"name": "Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-8", "summary": "When Dorian wakes later that day, he goes about his usual business--he peruses his mail , gets dressed, and has a pleasant breakfast. During his meal, Dorian's eye falls upon the screen that hides the portrait. He worries that the frightening change he saw in it last night might still be there in the clear morning light. As soon as his valet leaves the room, Dorian locks the doors and takes another look at his picture. His impression the night before was right--the portrait has changed. He can't understand or explain it: does the painting have some kind of link to his own soul? He's horrified. Regarding his altered image, Dorian feels terrible about what he's done to Sibyl. He decides to go back to her and devote his life to loving her--the portrait's embodiment of his sins serves as a kind of conscience. He immediately sits down to write her a long, melodramatically passionate letter; when he's done, he already feels forgiven. At that moment, Lord Henry shows up. He wants to make sure Dorian's not too worried about the whole Sibyl thing; Dorian tells him that he's not sorry for any of it, and that it's taught him more about himself. He announces that he wants to be good from now on to keep his soul from growing hideous, and says he'll start by marrying Sibyl Vane. Henry is taken aback--it turns out that the letter he wrote to Dorian contains some terrible, terrible news: Sibyl Vane is dead. Dorian is understandably distraught, but Henry mostly wants to make sure that Dorian's in the clear, and that he won't be scandalously involved in the death. It turns out that Sybil almost certainly committed suicide by poison . Dorian is incredibly upset, but Henry callously starts talking about the opera--he wants Dorian to come out with him and his sister. Dorian can't get over the shock, and hashes out all of his feelings--he's guilty and sad and angry all at the same time. Henry convinces him that the whole Sibyl thing was a mistake to begin with, and that they would never have been happy had they gotten married. Dorian is alarmed by the fact that he doesn't exactly feel this event as much as he should--rather, he's starting to look at it like the completion of a beautifully tragic work of art. Henry seizes upon this moment of weakness to convince Dorian even more fully that this was how things had to play out; he even claims that Sibyl proved just how special she was by killing herself over Dorian. Wow, if that's not warped, we don't know what is. Henry ends by claiming grandiosely that since Sybil never \"really\" lived, she didn't really die, either. This logic seems a little flawed to us, but Dorian buys it. He gives in to Henry's torrent of words, and agrees to go to the opera. Once his friend leaves, Dorian takes another look at the portrait. The cruelty in the painted figure's face has a new meaning now--it's associated with Sibyl's death. He gets all emotional about the idea of Sibyl's tragic sacrifice . Regarding the portrait, Dorian thinks for a moment that maybe he should pray to try and stop the weird, symbiotic relationship between his soul and the picture. He decides, however, that he should leave the portrait as it is, so he can watch what happens to his soul. All that matters to him is that his own physical beauty remains unmarred.", "analysis": ""}

It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows. "Monsieur has well slept this morning," he said, smiling. "What o'clock is it, Victor?" asked Dorian Gray drowsily. "One hour and a quarter, Monsieur." How late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The others he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young men every morning during the season. There was a rather heavy bill for a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities; and there were several very courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moment's notice and at the most reasonable rates of interest. After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the onyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it. As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a light French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round table close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before him. He felt perfectly happy. Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the portrait, and he started. "Too cold for Monsieur?" asked his valet, putting an omelette on the table. "I shut the window?" Dorian shook his head. "I am not cold," he murmured. Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It would make him smile. And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of cruelty round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to tell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him back. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a moment. "I am not at home to any one, Victor," he said with a sigh. The man bowed and retired. Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously, wondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man's life. Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it was not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or deadlier chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change? What should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own picture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be examined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt. He got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he looked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside and saw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had altered. As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost scientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be that what that soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, they made true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror. One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. Three o'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry's voice outside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can't bear your shutting yourself up like this." He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry as he entered. "But you must not think too much about it." "Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad. "Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry--perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don't sneer at it, Harry, any more--at least not before me. I want to be good. I can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian--" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don't say it. Don't ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife." "Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn't you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man." "Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn't like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one's _debut_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one's old age. I suppose they don't know your name at the theatre? If they don't, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl--? Oh, Harry, I can't bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don't know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn't let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister's box. She has got some smart women with her." "So I have murdered Sibyl Vane," said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night--was it really only last night?--when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me afraid. I can't tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don't know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her." "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case and producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been wretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman's husband has to pay for. I say nothing about the social mistake, which would have been abject--which, of course, I would not have allowed--but I assure you that in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure." "I suppose it would," muttered the lad, walking up and down the room and looking horribly pale. "But I thought it was my duty. It is not my fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right. I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions--that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were." "Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely _nil_. They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said for them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they have no account." "Harry," cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, "why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I don't think I am heartless. Do you?" "You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be entitled to give yourself that name, Dorian," answered Lord Henry with his sweet melancholy smile. The lad frowned. "I don't like that explanation, Harry," he rejoined, "but I am glad you don't think I am heartless. I am nothing of the kind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible beauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but by which I have not been wounded." "It is an interesting question," said Lord Henry, who found an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism, "an extremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation is this: It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes, however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that has really happened? Some one has killed herself for love of you. I wish that I had ever had such an experience. It would have made me in love with love for the rest of my life. The people who have adored me--there have not been very many, but there have been some--have always insisted on living on, long after I had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. They have become stout and tedious, and when I meet them, they go in at once for reminiscences. That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is! And what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar." "I must sow poppies in my garden," sighed Dorian. "There is no necessity," rejoined his companion. "Life has always poppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did die. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity. Well--would you believe it?--a week ago, at Lady Hampshire's, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again and assured me that I had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you. Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going in for sentimental colours. Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. Others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one's face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me, and I can quite understand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes; there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one." "What is that, Harry?" said the lad listlessly. "Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else's admirer when one loses one's own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her death. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. They make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with, such as romance, passion, and love." "I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that." "I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I have never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but that I see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key to everything." "What was that, Harry?" "You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of romance--that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that if she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen." "She will never come to life again now," muttered the lad, burying his face in his hands. "No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived, and so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare's plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare's music sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio died. But don't waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real than they are." There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colours faded wearily out of things. After some time Dorian Gray looked up. "You have explained me to myself, Harry," he murmured with something of a sigh of relief. "I felt all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again of what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all. I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous." "Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do." "But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What then?" "Ah, then," said Lord Henry, rising to go, "then, my dear Dorian, you would have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to you. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We cannot spare you. And now you had better dress and drive down to the club. We are rather late, as it is." "I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat anything. What is the number of your sister's box?" "Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her name on the door. But I am sorry you won't come and dine." "I don't feel up to it," said Dorian listlessly. "But I am awfully obliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my best friend. No one has ever understood me as you have." "We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian," answered Lord Henry, shaking him by the hand. "Good-bye. I shall see you before nine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing." As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and in a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an interminable time over everything. As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen and drew it back. No; there was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of Sibyl Vane's death before he had known of it himself. It was conscious of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed within the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it. Poor Sibyl! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked death on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her and taken her with him. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed him, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything by the sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what she had made him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre. When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent on to the world's stage to show the supreme reality of love. A wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her childlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. He brushed them away hastily and looked again at the picture. He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him--life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins--he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that was all. A feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips that now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to which he yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? The pity of it! the pity of it! For a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged. And yet, who, that knew anything about life, would surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught? Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer that had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity? But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to alter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it? For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the coloured image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything. He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture, smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord Henry was leaning over his chair.

Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-8

When Dorian wakes later that day, he goes about his usual business--he peruses his mail , gets dressed, and has a pleasant breakfast. During his meal, Dorian's eye falls upon the screen that hides the portrait. He worries that the frightening change he saw in it last night might still be there in the clear morning light. As soon as his valet leaves the room, Dorian locks the doors and takes another look at his picture. His impression the night before was right--the portrait has changed. He can't understand or explain it: does the painting have some kind of link to his own soul? He's horrified. Regarding his altered image, Dorian feels terrible about what he's done to Sibyl. He decides to go back to her and devote his life to loving her--the portrait's embodiment of his sins serves as a kind of conscience. He immediately sits down to write her a long, melodramatically passionate letter; when he's done, he already feels forgiven. At that moment, Lord Henry shows up. He wants to make sure Dorian's not too worried about the whole Sibyl thing; Dorian tells him that he's not sorry for any of it, and that it's taught him more about himself. He announces that he wants to be good from now on to keep his soul from growing hideous, and says he'll start by marrying Sibyl Vane. Henry is taken aback--it turns out that the letter he wrote to Dorian contains some terrible, terrible news: Sibyl Vane is dead. Dorian is understandably distraught, but Henry mostly wants to make sure that Dorian's in the clear, and that he won't be scandalously involved in the death. It turns out that Sybil almost certainly committed suicide by poison . Dorian is incredibly upset, but Henry callously starts talking about the opera--he wants Dorian to come out with him and his sister. Dorian can't get over the shock, and hashes out all of his feelings--he's guilty and sad and angry all at the same time. Henry convinces him that the whole Sibyl thing was a mistake to begin with, and that they would never have been happy had they gotten married. Dorian is alarmed by the fact that he doesn't exactly feel this event as much as he should--rather, he's starting to look at it like the completion of a beautifully tragic work of art. Henry seizes upon this moment of weakness to convince Dorian even more fully that this was how things had to play out; he even claims that Sibyl proved just how special she was by killing herself over Dorian. Wow, if that's not warped, we don't know what is. Henry ends by claiming grandiosely that since Sybil never "really" lived, she didn't really die, either. This logic seems a little flawed to us, but Dorian buys it. He gives in to Henry's torrent of words, and agrees to go to the opera. Once his friend leaves, Dorian takes another look at the portrait. The cruelty in the painted figure's face has a new meaning now--it's associated with Sibyl's death. He gets all emotional about the idea of Sibyl's tragic sacrifice . Regarding the portrait, Dorian thinks for a moment that maybe he should pray to try and stop the weird, symbiotic relationship between his soul and the picture. He decides, however, that he should leave the portrait as it is, so he can watch what happens to his soul. All that matters to him is that his own physical beauty remains unmarred.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_3_part_1.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 25

chapter 25

{"name": "Chapter 25", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-4-chapters-25-34", "summary": "That night, after Tess retires to her chamber, Angel goes outside, not knowing what to think of himself. Angel and Tess had kept apart since their embrace that afternoon. Angel is shocked to find how great the obscure dairy where he works means to him. To Angel, everything exists through Tess. Angel decides to discuss Tess with his friends, thinking that in less than five months his term at Talbothays will be over and after a few months at other farms he will be fully equipped in agricultural knowledge and in a position to start a farm himself. At that point he would want a wife who would understand farming. One morning Dairyman Crick tells his milkers that Angel has gone to Emminster to spend a few days with his family. Crick expects that Angel will not remain long at Talbothays. Angel returns home, where he finds near his father's church a woman wearing a broad-brimmed hat and attempts to avoid her. The young lady is Mercy Chant, whom his parents hoped would marry Angel. Reverend Clare is a clergymen of a type that had nearly died out, a spiritual descendant of Luther and Calvin, an Evangelical of Evangelicals. Among his family, Angel has become to seem more like a farmer and behaves less in the manner of a scholar. After breakfast Angel walks with his brothers, two men who wear whatever glasses are fashionable without reference to their affect on their vision, and who carry pocket copies of Wordsworth when he is fashionable, and Shelley when he is. His brothers notice Angel's growing social ineptness as he notice their growing mental limitations. At dinner that night, Mrs. Clare tells Angel that she has given away the black-pudding that Mrs. Crick sent as a gift to local children, while they will not drink the mead that Mrs. Crick sent, for it is too alcoholic and they never drink spirits at the table on principle. When Angel suggests that he will say to the Cricks that the family enjoyed the gifts, Mr. Clare insists that Angel tell them the truth.", "analysis": "Hardy once again frames a chapter from the point of view of Angel Clare, as he leaves Talbothays dairy so that he may speak to his parents about Tess. This visit to his family at Emminster serves to illustrate the origin of various character traits that Angel Clare possesses. The members of the Clare family, particularly the parents, hold very strict religious and moral views at the expense of courtesy or consideration; they even suggest that Angel voice the family's displeasure at the supposedly immoral gift that the Cricks sent the family. Furthermore, Reverend Clare has very strict expectations for Angel, particularly with reference to the type of women he will marry. Reverend Clare demands that Angel marry a woman such as Mercy Chant who has the proper religious beliefs; Hardy thus constructs an obstacle for the possible marriage between Angel Clare and Tess Durbeyfield. However, the obstacles that Hardy places concerning the romance between Angel and Tess in this chapter prove ephemeral. Hardy introduces the character of Mercy Chant as a possible rival, yet Angel professes no interest in her. Whatever religious objections that the Clares pose concerning Tess's beliefs soon fade as Angel convinces them that Tess certain has the proper belief systems. However, the possible obstacles that the Clares may pose to Tess fade quickly once Angel successfully argues his case. The relative ease with which Angel secures his parents' blessing for marriage does nevertheless contain some indication of future problems that the perpetually afflicted Tess will face. These obstacles will come in the form of Angel Clare himself and not from his family; the chapter establishes a family history of dogmatic beliefs and inflexibility. This once again shifts the possible obstacle to the romance back to Tess's family and personal histories. The one hope that Hardy allows exists in the contrast that he makes between Angel Clare and the rest of his family. Angel has come to bear less resemblance to his family than before his stay at Talbothays; the possibility for a successful romance between Tess and Angel thus rests on the degree to which Angel departs from his own family's characteristics"}

Clare, restless, went out into the dusk when evening drew on, she who had won him having retired to her chamber. The night was as sultry as the day. There was no coolness after dark unless on the grass. Roads, garden-paths, the house-fronts, the barton-walls were warm as hearths, and reflected the noontime temperature into the noctambulist's face. He sat on the east gate of the dairy-yard, and knew not what to think of himself. Feeling had indeed smothered judgement that day. Since the sudden embrace, three hours before, the twain had kept apart. She seemed stilled, almost alarmed, at what had occurred, while the novelty, unpremeditation, mastery of circumstance disquieted him--palpitating, contemplative being that he was. He could hardly realize their true relations to each other as yet, and what their mutual bearing should be before third parties thenceforward. Angel had come as pupil to this dairy in the idea that his temporary existence here was to be the merest episode in his life, soon passed through and early forgotten; he had come as to a place from which as from a screened alcove he could calmly view the absorbing world without, and, apostrophizing it with Walt Whitman-- Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, How curious you are to me!-- resolve upon a plan for plunging into that world anew. But behold, the absorbing scene had been imported hither. What had been the engrossing world had dissolved into an uninteresting outer dumb-show; while here, in this apparently dim and unimpassioned place, novelty had volcanically started up, as it had never, for him, started up elsewhere. Every window of the house being open, Clare could hear across the yard each trivial sound of the retiring household. The dairy-house, so humble, so insignificant, so purely to him a place of constrained sojourn that he had never hitherto deemed it of sufficient importance to be reconnoitred as an object of any quality whatever in the landscape; what was it now? The aged and lichened brick gables breathed forth "Stay!" The windows smiled, the door coaxed and beckoned, the creeper blushed confederacy. A personality within it was so far-reaching in her influence as to spread into and make the bricks, mortar, and whole overhanging sky throb with a burning sensibility. Whose was this mighty personality? A milkmaid's. It was amazing, indeed, to find how great a matter the life of the obscure dairy had become to him. And though new love was to be held partly responsible for this, it was not solely so. Many besides Angel have learnt that the magnitude of lives is not as to their external displacements, but as to their subjective experiences. The impressionable peasant leads a larger, fuller, more dramatic life than the pachydermatous king. Looking at it thus, he found that life was to be seen of the same magnitude here as elsewhere. Despite his heterodoxy, faults, and weaknesses, Clare was a man with a conscience. Tess was no insignificant creature to toy with and dismiss; but a woman living her precious life--a life which, to herself who endured or enjoyed it, possessed as great a dimension as the life of the mightiest to himself. Upon her sensations the whole world depended to Tess; through her existence all her fellow-creatures existed, to her. The universe itself only came into being for Tess on the particular day in the particular year in which she was born. This consciousness upon which he had intruded was the single opportunity of existence ever vouchsafed to Tess by an unsympathetic First Cause--her all; her every and only chance. How then should he look upon her as of less consequence than himself; as a pretty trifle to caress and grow weary of; and not deal in the greatest seriousness with the affection which he knew that he had awakened in her--so fervid and so impressionable as she was under her reserve--in order that it might not agonize and wreck her? To encounter her daily in the accustomed manner would be to develop what had begun. Living in such close relations, to meet meant to fall into endearment; flesh and blood could not resist it; and, having arrived at no conclusion as to the issue of such a tendency, he decided to hold aloof for the present from occupations in which they would be mutually engaged. As yet the harm done was small. But it was not easy to carry out the resolution never to approach her. He was driven towards her by every heave of his pulse. He thought he would go and see his friends. It might be possible to sound them upon this. In less than five months his term here would have ended, and after a few additional months spent upon other farms he would be fully equipped in agricultural knowledge and in a position to start on his own account. Would not a farmer want a wife, and should a farmer's wife be a drawing-room wax-figure, or a woman who understood farming? Notwithstanding the pleasing answer returned to him by the silence, he resolved to go his journey. One morning when they sat down to breakfast at Talbothays Dairy some maid observed that she had not seen anything of Mr Clare that day. "O no," said Dairyman Crick. "Mr Clare has gone hwome to Emminster to spend a few days wi' his kinsfolk." For four impassioned ones around that table the sunshine of the morning went out at a stroke, and the birds muffled their song. But neither girl by word or gesture revealed her blankness. "He's getting on towards the end of his time wi' me," added the dairyman, with a phlegm which unconsciously was brutal; "and so I suppose he is beginning to see about his plans elsewhere." "How much longer is he to bide here?" asked Izz Huett, the only one of the gloom-stricken bevy who could trust her voice with the question. The others waited for the dairyman's answer as if their lives hung upon it; Retty, with parted lips, gazing on the tablecloth, Marian with heat added to her redness, Tess throbbing and looking out at the meads. "Well, I can't mind the exact day without looking at my memorandum-book," replied Crick, with the same intolerable unconcern. "And even that may be altered a bit. He'll bide to get a little practice in the calving out at the straw-yard, for certain. He'll hang on till the end of the year I should say." Four months or so of torturing ecstasy in his society--of "pleasure girdled about with pain". After that the blackness of unutterable night. At this moment of the morning Angel Clare was riding along a narrow lane ten miles distant from the breakfasters, in the direction of his father's Vicarage at Emminster, carrying, as well as he could, a little basket which contained some black-puddings and a bottle of mead, sent by Mrs Crick, with her kind respects, to his parents. The white lane stretched before him, and his eyes were upon it; but they were staring into next year, and not at the lane. He loved her; ought he to marry her? Dared he to marry her? What would his mother and his brothers say? What would he himself say a couple of years after the event? That would depend upon whether the germs of staunch comradeship underlay the temporary emotion, or whether it were a sensuous joy in her form only, with no substratum of everlastingness. His father's hill-surrounded little town, the Tudor church-tower of red stone, the clump of trees near the Vicarage, came at last into view beneath him, and he rode down towards the well-known gate. Casting a glance in the direction of the church before entering his home, he beheld standing by the vestry-door a group of girls, of ages between twelve and sixteen, apparently awaiting the arrival of some other one, who in a moment became visible; a figure somewhat older than the school-girls, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and highly-starched cambric morning-gown, with a couple of books in her hand. Clare knew her well. He could not be sure that she observed him; he hoped she did not, so as to render it unnecessary that he should go and speak to her, blameless creature that she was. An overpowering reluctance to greet her made him decide that she had not seen him. The young lady was Miss Mercy Chant, the only daughter of his father's neighbour and friend, whom it was his parents' quiet hope that he might wed some day. She was great at Antinomianism and Bible-classes, and was plainly going to hold a class now. Clare's mind flew to the impassioned, summer-steeped heathens in the Var Vale, their rosy faces court-patched with cow-droppings; and to one the most impassioned of them all. It was on the impulse of the moment that he had resolved to trot over to Emminster, and hence had not written to apprise his mother and father, aiming, however, to arrive about the breakfast hour, before they should have gone out to their parish duties. He was a little late, and they had already sat down to the morning meal. The group at the table jumped up to welcome him as soon as he entered. They were his father and mother, his brother the Reverend Felix--curate at a town in the adjoining county, home for the inside of a fortnight--and his other brother, the Reverend Cuthbert, the classical scholar, and Fellow and Dean of his College, down from Cambridge for the long vacation. His mother appeared in a cap and silver spectacles, and his father looked what in fact he was--an earnest, God-fearing man, somewhat gaunt, in years about sixty-five, his pale face lined with thought and purpose. Over their heads hung the picture of Angel's sister, the eldest of the family, sixteen years his senior, who had married a missionary and gone out to Africa. Old Mr Clare was a clergyman of a type which, within the last twenty years, has well nigh dropped out of contemporary life. A spiritual descendant in the direct line from Wycliff, Huss, Luther, Calvin; an Evangelical of the Evangelicals, a Conversionist, a man of Apostolic simplicity in life and thought, he had in his raw youth made up his mind once for all in the deeper questions of existence, and admitted no further reasoning on them thenceforward. He was regarded even by those of his own date and school of thinking as extreme; while, on the other hand, those totally opposed to him were unwillingly won to admiration for his thoroughness, and for the remarkable power he showed in dismissing all question as to principles in his energy for applying them. He loved Paul of Tarsus, liked St John, hated St James as much as he dared, and regarded with mixed feelings Timothy, Titus, and Philemon. The New Testament was less a Christiad then a Pauliad to his intelligence--less an argument than an intoxication. His creed of determinism was such that it almost amounted to a vice, and quite amounted, on its negative side, to a renunciative philosophy which had cousinship with that of Schopenhauer and Leopardi. He despised the Canons and Rubric, swore by the Articles, and deemed himself consistent through the whole category--which in a way he might have been. One thing he certainly was--sincere. To the aesthetic, sensuous, pagan pleasure in natural life and lush womanhood which his son Angel had lately been experiencing in Var Vale, his temper would have been antipathetic in a high degree, had he either by inquiry or imagination been able to apprehend it. Once upon a time Angel had been so unlucky as to say to his father, in a moment of irritation, that it might have resulted far better for mankind if Greece had been the source of the religion of modern civilization, and not Palestine; and his father's grief was of that blank description which could not realize that there might lurk a thousandth part of a truth, much less a half truth or a whole truth, in such a proposition. He had simply preached austerely at Angel for some time after. But the kindness of his heart was such that he never resented anything for long, and welcomed his son to-day with a smile which was as candidly sweet as a child's. Angel sat down, and the place felt like home; yet he did not so much as formerly feel himself one of the family gathered there. Every time that he returned hither he was conscious of this divergence, and since he had last shared in the Vicarage life it had grown even more distinctly foreign to his own than usual. Its transcendental aspirations--still unconsciously based on the geocentric view of things, a zenithal paradise, a nadiral hell--were as foreign to his own as if they had been the dreams of people on another planet. Latterly he had seen only Life, felt only the great passionate pulse of existence, unwarped, uncontorted, untrammelled by those creeds which futilely attempt to check what wisdom would be content to regulate. On their part they saw a great difference in him, a growing divergence from the Angel Clare of former times. It was chiefly a difference in his manner that they noticed just now, particularly his brothers. He was getting to behave like a farmer; he flung his legs about; the muscles of his face had grown more expressive; his eyes looked as much information as his tongue spoke, and more. The manner of the scholar had nearly disappeared; still more the manner of the drawing-room young man. A prig would have said that he had lost culture, and a prude that he had become coarse. Such was the contagion of domiciliary fellowship with the Talbothays nymphs and swains. After breakfast he walked with his two brothers, non-evangelical, well-educated, hall-marked young men, correct to their remotest fibre, such unimpeachable models as are turned out yearly by the lathe of a systematic tuition. They were both somewhat short-sighted, and when it was the custom to wear a single eyeglass and string they wore a single eyeglass and string; when it was the custom to wear a double glass they wore a double glass; when it was the custom to wear spectacles they wore spectacles straightway, all without reference to the particular variety of defect in their own vision. When Wordsworth was enthroned they carried pocket copies; and when Shelley was belittled they allowed him to grow dusty on their shelves. When Correggio's Holy Families were admired, they admired Correggio's Holy Families; when he was decried in favour of Velasquez, they sedulously followed suit without any personal objection. If these two noticed Angel's growing social ineptness, he noticed their growing mental limitations. Felix seemed to him all Church; Cuthbert all College. His Diocesan Synod and Visitations were the mainsprings of the world to the one; Cambridge to the other. Each brother candidly recognized that there were a few unimportant score of millions of outsiders in civilized society, persons who were neither University men nor churchmen; but they were to be tolerated rather than reckoned with and respected. They were both dutiful and attentive sons, and were regular in their visits to their parents. Felix, though an offshoot from a far more recent point in the devolution of theology than his father, was less self-sacrificing and disinterested. More tolerant than his father of a contradictory opinion, in its aspect as a danger to its holder, he was less ready than his father to pardon it as a slight to his own teaching. Cuthbert was, upon the whole, the more liberal-minded, though, with greater subtlety, he had not so much heart. As they walked along the hillside Angel's former feeling revived in him--that whatever their advantages by comparison with himself, neither saw or set forth life as it really was lived. Perhaps, as with many men, their opportunities of observation were not so good as their opportunities of expression. Neither had an adequate conception of the complicated forces at work outside the smooth and gentle current in which they and their associates floated. Neither saw the difference between local truth and universal truth; that what the inner world said in their clerical and academic hearing was quite a different thing from what the outer world was thinking. "I suppose it is farming or nothing for you now, my dear fellow," Felix was saying, among other things, to his youngest brother, as he looked through his spectacles at the distant fields with sad austerity. "And, therefore, we must make the best of it. But I do entreat you to endeavour to keep as much as possible in touch with moral ideals. Farming, of course, means roughing it externally; but high thinking may go with plain living, nevertheless." "Of course it may," said Angel. "Was it not proved nineteen hundred years ago--if I may trespass upon your domain a little? Why should you think, Felix, that I am likely to drop my high thinking and my moral ideals?" "Well, I fancied, from the tone of your letters and our conversation--it may be fancy only--that you were somehow losing intellectual grasp. Hasn't it struck you, Cuthbert?" "Now, Felix," said Angel drily, "we are very good friends, you know; each of us treading our allotted circles; but if it comes to intellectual grasp, I think you, as a contented dogmatist, had better leave mine alone, and inquire what has become of yours." They returned down the hill to dinner, which was fixed at any time at which their father's and mother's morning work in the parish usually concluded. Convenience as regarded afternoon callers was the last thing to enter into the consideration of unselfish Mr and Mrs Clare; though the three sons were sufficiently in unison on this matter to wish that their parents would conform a little to modern notions. The walk had made them hungry, Angel in particular, who was now an outdoor man, accustomed to the profuse _dapes inemptae_ of the dairyman's somewhat coarsely-laden table. But neither of the old people had arrived, and it was not till the sons were almost tired of waiting that their parents entered. The self-denying pair had been occupied in coaxing the appetites of some of their sick parishioners, whom they, somewhat inconsistently, tried to keep imprisoned in the flesh, their own appetites being quite forgotten. The family sat down to table, and a frugal meal of cold viands was deposited before them. Angel looked round for Mrs Crick's black-puddings, which he had directed to be nicely grilled as they did them at the dairy, and of which he wished his father and mother to appreciate the marvellous herbal savours as highly as he did himself. "Ah! you are looking for the black-puddings, my dear boy," observed Clare's mother. "But I am sure you will not mind doing without them as I am sure your father and I shall not, when you know the reason. I suggested to him that we should take Mrs Crick's kind present to the children of the man who can earn nothing just now because of his attacks of delirium tremens; and he agreed that it would be a great pleasure to them; so we did." "Of course," said Angel cheerfully, looking round for the mead. "I found the mead so extremely alcoholic," continued his mother, "that it was quite unfit for use as a beverage, but as valuable as rum or brandy in an emergency; so I have put it in my medicine-closet." "We never drink spirits at this table, on principle," added his father. "But what shall I tell the dairyman's wife?" said Angel. "The truth, of course," said his father. "I rather wanted to say we enjoyed the mead and the black-puddings very much. She is a kind, jolly sort of body, and is sure to ask me directly I return." "You cannot, if we did not," Mr Clare answered lucidly. "Ah--no; though that mead was a drop of pretty tipple." "A what?" said Cuthbert and Felix both. "Oh--'tis an expression they use down at Talbothays," replied Angel, blushing. He felt that his parents were right in their practice if wrong in their want of sentiment, and said no more.

Chapter 25

https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-4-chapters-25-34

That night, after Tess retires to her chamber, Angel goes outside, not knowing what to think of himself. Angel and Tess had kept apart since their embrace that afternoon. Angel is shocked to find how great the obscure dairy where he works means to him. To Angel, everything exists through Tess. Angel decides to discuss Tess with his friends, thinking that in less than five months his term at Talbothays will be over and after a few months at other farms he will be fully equipped in agricultural knowledge and in a position to start a farm himself. At that point he would want a wife who would understand farming. One morning Dairyman Crick tells his milkers that Angel has gone to Emminster to spend a few days with his family. Crick expects that Angel will not remain long at Talbothays. Angel returns home, where he finds near his father's church a woman wearing a broad-brimmed hat and attempts to avoid her. The young lady is Mercy Chant, whom his parents hoped would marry Angel. Reverend Clare is a clergymen of a type that had nearly died out, a spiritual descendant of Luther and Calvin, an Evangelical of Evangelicals. Among his family, Angel has become to seem more like a farmer and behaves less in the manner of a scholar. After breakfast Angel walks with his brothers, two men who wear whatever glasses are fashionable without reference to their affect on their vision, and who carry pocket copies of Wordsworth when he is fashionable, and Shelley when he is. His brothers notice Angel's growing social ineptness as he notice their growing mental limitations. At dinner that night, Mrs. Clare tells Angel that she has given away the black-pudding that Mrs. Crick sent as a gift to local children, while they will not drink the mead that Mrs. Crick sent, for it is too alcoholic and they never drink spirits at the table on principle. When Angel suggests that he will say to the Cricks that the family enjoyed the gifts, Mr. Clare insists that Angel tell them the truth.

Hardy once again frames a chapter from the point of view of Angel Clare, as he leaves Talbothays dairy so that he may speak to his parents about Tess. This visit to his family at Emminster serves to illustrate the origin of various character traits that Angel Clare possesses. The members of the Clare family, particularly the parents, hold very strict religious and moral views at the expense of courtesy or consideration; they even suggest that Angel voice the family's displeasure at the supposedly immoral gift that the Cricks sent the family. Furthermore, Reverend Clare has very strict expectations for Angel, particularly with reference to the type of women he will marry. Reverend Clare demands that Angel marry a woman such as Mercy Chant who has the proper religious beliefs; Hardy thus constructs an obstacle for the possible marriage between Angel Clare and Tess Durbeyfield. However, the obstacles that Hardy places concerning the romance between Angel and Tess in this chapter prove ephemeral. Hardy introduces the character of Mercy Chant as a possible rival, yet Angel professes no interest in her. Whatever religious objections that the Clares pose concerning Tess's beliefs soon fade as Angel convinces them that Tess certain has the proper belief systems. However, the possible obstacles that the Clares may pose to Tess fade quickly once Angel successfully argues his case. The relative ease with which Angel secures his parents' blessing for marriage does nevertheless contain some indication of future problems that the perpetually afflicted Tess will face. These obstacles will come in the form of Angel Clare himself and not from his family; the chapter establishes a family history of dogmatic beliefs and inflexibility. This once again shifts the possible obstacle to the romance back to Tess's family and personal histories. The one hope that Hardy allows exists in the contrast that he makes between Angel Clare and the rest of his family. Angel has come to bear less resemblance to his family than before his stay at Talbothays; the possibility for a successful romance between Tess and Angel thus rests on the degree to which Angel departs from his own family's characteristics

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/chapters_39_to_41.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_9_part_0.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapters 39-41

chapters 39-41

{"name": "Chapters 39-41", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219151046/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary-and-analysis/phase-the-fifth-the-woman-pays-chapters-3941", "summary": "Angel returns home to his parents in Emminster. He brings up the possibility of going to Brazil to be a farmer with his family. Naturally, they are taken aback at his suggestion of so sudden a move, far away to another land. Angel's idea is to work for a year in Brazil and to bring Tess later when he is established. His parents ask about her character and physical attributes, which Angel says are the best. Angel meets his former intended bride, Mercy Chant, on his way home. They discuss his upcoming journey to Brazil where he says to her \"I think I am going crazy.\" Angel puts away the jewelry and money for Tess with a local banker and meets Izz Huett on his way back to his house. He asks Izz if she will join him for the trip to Brazil and she agrees. He realizes his impetuous actions and reconsiders asking Izz to leave with him. Five days later, Angel leaves for Brazil. Eight months pass, and Tess is in dire straits with little income and irregular work. She gives half of her money to fix the roof on her family's home at Marlott and uses the rest for food and clothing. She is down to her last pennies when she remembers a letter from Marian and prospects for a job as a field woman, grueling work at best. Tess' journey takes her from Marlott to Flintcomb-Ash, not far from her home. On the way, because she hasn't even enough money for lodgings, she sleeps in a forest, where she encounters wounded pheasants shot by hunters who have lost track of the injured creatures. To put them out of their misery, Tess kills the suffering birds.", "analysis": "Angel makes a hasty decision to try farming in Brazil. He pitches the idea to his parents who are surprised at his sudden decision. They also are curious as to the whereabouts of Tess, his new bride. At the nightly reading of the Bible, Angel hears a reading from Proverbs 31:10 on the attributes of a virtuous woman. When he hears these words, Angel cries bitterly. His parents are quite concerned, and Angel tells some of what has happened to Tess, but not all, and when his mother questions Tess' virtue -- \"is she a woman whose history will bear investigation?\" -- Angel replies \"She is spotless!\" and then feels anger toward Tess for putting him in a situation where he must deceive his parents. The irony is clear. Tess is a virtuous woman; the problem rests with Angel -- \"there hung a deeper shade than the shade which Angel Clare perceived, namely, the shade of his own limitation.\" The Clares are sure Angel can cure any defects in Tess, \"Any crudeness of manner which may offend your more educated sense at first, will, I am sure, disappear under the influence or your companionship and tuition.\" However, it is Angel's own lack of flexibility that hinders him, thus making him intractable to Tess' plight. Angel's limitations cast a cloud over his tutelage of Tess. He is stubborn in his belief that a blemish on Tess' reputation ruins her whole being -- \"In considering what Tess was not, he overlooked what she was, and forgot that the defective can be more than the entire.\" Angel's exchanges with Mercy and Izz further demonstrate the alteration in his character, revealing a man in a state of flux and anticipating a major change for him. He chides himself for not seeing what Tess tried to make obvious to him earlier, \"O Tess! If you had only told me sooner, I would have forgiven you!\" We must wonder if Angel had paid attention when the signs were posted for him. However, Izz is an honest woman, even when she volunteers to accompany him to Brazil, without too many questions. He later withdraws the offer, abashed at his rashness after Izz announces that Tess loved him best at Talbothays -- \" . . . nobody could love @'ee more than Tess did! . . . She would have laid down her life for @'ee. I could do no more.'\" Angel even reconsiders his decision to go to Brazil, but fate and his conscious steer him on his present course. In Chapter 41, Tess encounters the injured pheasants. While traveling to Flintcomb-Ash, she finds refuge in a wood. Upon waking the following morning, Tess discovers several wounded pheasants who were shot but not captured. She does her best to end the birds' suffering, \" the necks of as many as she could find\" with \"tears running down as she killed the birds tenderly.\" This scene is thematically significant. First, it reveals more of Tess' character. She exhibits compassion for the bird's injuries and benevolence for their plight. Even in her own suffering, Tess is still aware of the suffering of others. Killing the birds is a kindness. In fact, in comparing her plight to theirs, Tess feels contrite: -- \"Poor darlings -- to suppose myself the most miserable being on earth in the sight o' such misery as yours!\" She is not bodily injured, only injured in her soul; the birds are near death, which she is not. \"She was ashamed of herself for her gloom of the night, based on nothing more tangible than a sense of condemnation under an arbitrary law of society that had no foundation in Nature.\" Hardy's point is that the \"arbitrary law\" -- the one that has condemned Tess -- has overcome nature. Tess' fate twists upon the capricious rules that man has created, with no apparent regard for natural law. Second, this scene foreshadows the tale's end. Tess and the birds are the same: Both have been hunted, both wounded, both driven to seek a safe place, and both left, injured, to their own resources. The difference is that Tess ends the birds suffering; no one ends Tess'. In a way, this scene represents what has happened to Tess thus far in the story and foreshadows her death at the end. Glossary Wiertz Museum museum in Brussels containing the macabre works of the Flemish painter Antoine Wiertz . Van Beers Jan Van Beers , Flemish painter frequently compared to Wiertz. desultory passing from one thing to another in an aimless way; disconnected; not methodical. Pagan Moralist Marcus Aurelius Antoninus , Roman emperor and stoic philosopher. Nazarene Jesus, from John 14:27. \"a good thing could come out of Nazareth\" John 1:46. \"the world, the flesh, nor the devil\" traditional temptations to sin mentioned in The Book of Common Prayer. parlous perilous; dangerous; risky. reconnoitre to make a reconnaissance; alternate spelling of reconnoiter. \"prophet on the top of Peor\" Balaam, who refused to curse the Israelites, Numbers 23-24. supernumerary that exceeds or is beyond the regular or prescribed number; extra. eclat brilliant or conspicuous success; dazzling display. fancy-man .a man supported by a woman; esp., a pimp; here, a sweetheart . exaction an excessive demand; extortion; an exacted fee, tax."}

It was three weeks after the marriage that Clare found himself descending the hill which led to the well-known parsonage of his father. With his downward course the tower of the church rose into the evening sky in a manner of inquiry as to why he had come; and no living person in the twilighted town seemed to notice him, still less to expect him. He was arriving like a ghost, and the sound of his own footsteps was almost an encumbrance to be got rid of. The picture of life had changed for him. Before this time he had known it but speculatively; now he thought he knew it as a practical man; though perhaps he did not, even yet. Nevertheless humanity stood before him no longer in the pensive sweetness of Italian art, but in the staring and ghastly attitudes of a Wiertz Museum, and with the leer of a study by Van Beers. His conduct during these first weeks had been desultory beyond description. After mechanically attempting to pursue his agricultural plans as though nothing unusual had happened, in the manner recommended by the great and wise men of all ages, he concluded that very few of those great and wise men had ever gone so far outside themselves as to test the feasibility of their counsel. "This is the chief thing: be not perturbed," said the Pagan moralist. That was just Clare's own opinion. But he was perturbed. "Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid," said the Nazarene. Clare chimed in cordially; but his heart was troubled all the same. How he would have liked to confront those two great thinkers, and earnestly appeal to them as fellow-man to fellow-men, and ask them to tell him their method! His mood transmuted itself into a dogged indifference till at length he fancied he was looking on his own existence with the passive interest of an outsider. He was embittered by the conviction that all this desolation had been brought about by the accident of her being a d'Urberville. When he found that Tess came of that exhausted ancient line, and was not of the new tribes from below, as he had fondly dreamed, why had he not stoically abandoned her in fidelity to his principles? This was what he had got by apostasy, and his punishment was deserved. Then he became weary and anxious, and his anxiety increased. He wondered if he had treated her unfairly. He ate without knowing that he ate, and drank without tasting. As the hours dropped past, as the motive of each act in the long series of bygone days presented itself to his view, he perceived how intimately the notion of having Tess as a dear possession was mixed up with all his schemes and words and ways. In going hither and thither he observed in the outskirts of a small town a red-and-blue placard setting forth the great advantages of the Empire of Brazil as a field for the emigrating agriculturist. Land was offered there on exceptionally advantageous terms. Brazil somewhat attracted him as a new idea. Tess could eventually join him there, and perhaps in that country of contrasting scenes and notions and habits the conventions would not be so operative which made life with her seem impracticable to him here. In brief he was strongly inclined to try Brazil, especially as the season for going thither was just at hand. With this view he was returning to Emminster to disclose his plan to his parents, and to make the best explanation he could make of arriving without Tess, short of revealing what had actually separated them. As he reached the door the new moon shone upon his face, just as the old one had done in the small hours of that morning when he had carried his wife in his arms across the river to the graveyard of the monks; but his face was thinner now. Clare had given his parents no warning of his visit, and his arrival stirred the atmosphere of the Vicarage as the dive of the kingfisher stirs a quiet pool. His father and mother were both in the drawing-room, but neither of his brothers was now at home. Angel entered, and closed the door quietly behind him. "But--where's your wife, dear Angel?" cried his mother. "How you surprise us!" "She is at her mother's--temporarily. I have come home rather in a hurry because I've decided to go to Brazil." "Brazil! Why they are all Roman Catholics there surely!" "Are they? I hadn't thought of that." But even the novelty and painfulness of his going to a Papistical land could not displace for long Mr and Mrs Clare's natural interest in their son's marriage. "We had your brief note three weeks ago announcing that it had taken place," said Mrs Clare, "and your father sent your godmother's gift to her, as you know. Of course it was best that none of us should be present, especially as you preferred to marry her from the dairy, and not at her home, wherever that may be. It would have embarrassed you, and given us no pleasure. Your bothers felt that very strongly. Now it is done we do not complain, particularly if she suits you for the business you have chosen to follow instead of the ministry of the Gospel. ... Yet I wish I could have seen her first, Angel, or have known a little more about her. We sent her no present of our own, not knowing what would best give her pleasure, but you must suppose it only delayed. Angel, there is no irritation in my mind or your father's against you for this marriage; but we have thought it much better to reserve our liking for your wife till we could see her. And now you have not brought her. It seems strange. What has happened?" He replied that it had been thought best by them that she should to go her parents' home for the present, whilst he came there. "I don't mind telling you, dear mother," he said, "that I always meant to keep her away from this house till I should feel she could come with credit to you. But this idea of Brazil is quite a recent one. If I do go it will be unadvisable for me to take her on this my first journey. She will remain at her mother's till I come back." "And I shall not see her before you start?" He was afraid they would not. His original plan had been, as he had said, to refrain from bringing her there for some little while--not to wound their prejudices--feelings--in any way; and for other reasons he had adhered to it. He would have to visit home in the course of a year, if he went out at once; and it would be possible for them to see her before he started a second time--with her. A hastily prepared supper was brought in, and Clare made further exposition of his plans. His mother's disappointment at not seeing the bride still remained with her. Clare's late enthusiasm for Tess had infected her through her maternal sympathies, till she had almost fancied that a good thing could come out of Nazareth--a charming woman out of Talbothays Dairy. She watched her son as he ate. "Cannot you describe her? I am sure she is very pretty, Angel." "Of that there can be no question!" he said, with a zest which covered its bitterness. "And that she is pure and virtuous goes without question?" "Pure and virtuous, of course, she is." "I can see her quite distinctly. You said the other day that she was fine in figure; roundly built; had deep red lips like Cupid's bow; dark eyelashes and brows, an immense rope of hair like a ship's cable; and large eyes violety-bluey-blackish." "I did, mother." "I quite see her. And living in such seclusion she naturally had scarce ever seen any young man from the world without till she saw you." "Scarcely." "You were her first love?" "Of course." "There are worse wives than these simple, rosy-mouthed, robust girls of the farm. Certainly I could have wished--well, since my son is to be an agriculturist, it is perhaps but proper that his wife should have been accustomed to an outdoor life." His father was less inquisitive; but when the time came for the chapter from the Bible which was always read before evening prayers, the Vicar observed to Mrs Clare-- "I think, since Angel has come, that it will be more appropriate to read the thirty-first of Proverbs than the chapter which we should have had in the usual course of our reading?" "Yes, certainly," said Mrs Clare. "The words of King Lemuel" (she could cite chapter and verse as well as her husband). "My dear son, your father has decided to read us the chapter in Proverbs in praise of a virtuous wife. We shall not need to be reminded to apply the words to the absent one. May Heaven shield her in all her ways!" A lump rose in Clare's throat. The portable lectern was taken out from the corner and set in the middle of the fireplace, the two old servants came in, and Angel's father began to read at the tenth verse of the aforesaid chapter-- "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies. She riseth while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household. She girdeth her loins with strength and strengtheneth her arms. She perceiveth that her merchandise is good; her candle goeth not out by night. She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all." When prayers were over, his mother said-- "I could not help thinking how very aptly that chapter your dear father read applied, in some of its particulars, to the woman you have chosen. The perfect woman, you see, was a working woman; not an idler; not a fine lady; but one who used her hands and her head and her heart for the good of others. 'Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuously, but she excelleth them all.' Well, I wish I could have seen her, Angel. Since she is pure and chaste, she would have been refined enough for me." Clare could bear this no longer. His eyes were full of tears, which seemed like drops of molten lead. He bade a quick good night to these sincere and simple souls whom he loved so well; who knew neither the world, the flesh, nor the devil in their own hearts, only as something vague and external to themselves. He went to his own chamber. His mother followed him, and tapped at his door. Clare opened it to discover her standing without, with anxious eyes. "Angel," she asked, "is there something wrong that you go away so soon? I am quite sure you are not yourself." "I am not, quite, mother," said he. "About her? Now, my son, I know it is that--I know it is about her! Have you quarrelled in these three weeks?" "We have not exactly quarrelled," he said. "But we have had a difference--" "Angel--is she a young woman whose history will bear investigation?" With a mother's instinct Mrs Clare had put her finger on the kind of trouble that would cause such a disquiet as seemed to agitate her son. "She is spotless!" he replied; and felt that if it had sent him to eternal hell there and then he would have told that lie. "Then never mind the rest. After all, there are few purer things in nature then an unsullied country maid. Any crudeness of manner which may offend your more educated sense at first, will, I am sure, disappear under the influence or your companionship and tuition." Such terrible sarcasm of blind magnanimity brought home to Clare the secondary perception that he had utterly wrecked his career by this marriage, which had not been among his early thoughts after the disclosure. True, on his own account he cared very little about his career; but he had wished to make it at least a respectable one on account of his parents and brothers. And now as he looked into the candle its flame dumbly expressed to him that it was made to shine on sensible people, and that it abhorred lighting the face of a dupe and a failure. When his agitation had cooled he would be at moments incensed with his poor wife for causing a situation in which he was obliged to practise deception on his parents. He almost talked to her in his anger, as if she had been in the room. And then her cooing voice, plaintive in expostulation, disturbed the darkness, the velvet touch of her lips passed over his brow, and he could distinguish in the air the warmth of her breath. This night the woman of his belittling deprecations was thinking how great and good her husband was. But over them both there hung a deeper shade than the shade which Angel Clare perceived, namely, the shade of his own limitations. With all his attempted independence of judgement this advanced and well-meaning young man, a sample product of the last five-and-twenty years, was yet the slave to custom and conventionality when surprised back into his early teachings. No prophet had told him, and he was not prophet enough to tell himself, that essentially this young wife of his was as deserving of the praise of King Lemuel as any other woman endowed with the same dislike of evil, her moral value having to be reckoned not by achievement but by tendency. Moreover, the figure near at hand suffers on such occasion, because it shows up its sorriness without shade; while vague figures afar off are honoured, in that their distance makes artistic virtues of their stains. In considering what Tess was not, he overlooked what she was, and forgot that the defective can be more than the entire. At breakfast Brazil was the topic, and all endeavoured to take a hopeful view of Clare's proposed experiment with that country's soil, notwithstanding the discouraging reports of some farm-labourers who had emigrated thither and returned home within the twelve months. After breakfast Clare went into the little town to wind up such trifling matters as he was concerned with there, and to get from the local bank all the money he possessed. On his way back he encountered Miss Mercy Chant by the church, from whose walls she seemed to be a sort of emanation. She was carrying an armful of Bibles for her class, and such was her view of life that events which produced heartache in others wrought beatific smiles upon her--an enviable result, although, in the opinion of Angel, it was obtained by a curiously unnatural sacrifice of humanity to mysticism. She had learnt that he was about to leave England, and observed what an excellent and promising scheme it seemed to be. "Yes; it is a likely scheme enough in a commercial sense, no doubt," he replied. "But, my dear Mercy, it snaps the continuity of existence. Perhaps a cloister would be preferable." "A cloister! O, Angel Clare!" "Well?" "Why, you wicked man, a cloister implies a monk, and a monk Roman Catholicism." "And Roman Catholicism sin, and sin damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, Angel Clare." "_I_ glory in my Protestantism!" she said severely. Then Clare, thrown by sheer misery into one of the demoniacal moods in which a man does despite to his true principles, called her close to him, and fiendishly whispered in her ear the most heterodox ideas he could think of. His momentary laughter at the horror which appeared on her fair face ceased when it merged in pain and anxiety for his welfare. "Dear Mercy," he said, "you must forgive me. I think I am going crazy!" She thought that he was; and thus the interview ended, and Clare re-entered the Vicarage. With the local banker he deposited the jewels till happier days should arise. He also paid into the bank thirty pounds--to be sent to Tess in a few months, as she might require; and wrote to her at her parents' home in Blackmoor Vale to inform her of what he had done. This amount, with the sum he had already placed in her hands--about fifty pounds--he hoped would be amply sufficient for her wants just at present, particularly as in an emergency she had been directed to apply to his father. He deemed it best not to put his parents into communication with her by informing them of her address; and, being unaware of what had really happened to estrange the two, neither his father nor his mother suggested that he should do so. During the day he left the parsonage, for what he had to complete he wished to get done quickly. As the last duty before leaving this part of England it was necessary for him to call at the Wellbridge farmhouse, in which he had spent with Tess the first three days of their marriage, the trifle of rent having to be paid, the key given up of the rooms they had occupied, and two or three small articles fetched away that they had left behind. It was under this roof that the deepest shadow ever thrown upon his life had stretched its gloom over him. Yet when he had unlocked the door of the sitting-room and looked into it, the memory which returned first upon him was that of their happy arrival on a similar afternoon, the first fresh sense of sharing a habitation conjointly, the first meal together, the chatting by the fire with joined hands. The farmer and his wife were in the field at the moment of his visit, and Clare was in the rooms alone for some time. Inwardly swollen with a renewal of sentiment that he had not quite reckoned with, he went upstairs to her chamber, which had never been his. The bed was smooth as she had made it with her own hands on the morning of leaving. The mistletoe hung under the tester just as he had placed it. Having been there three or four weeks it was turning colour, and the leaves and berries were wrinkled. Angel took it down and crushed it into the grate. Standing there, he for the first time doubted whether his course in this conjecture had been a wise, much less a generous, one. But had he not been cruelly blinded? In the incoherent multitude of his emotions he knelt down at the bedside wet-eyed. "O Tess! If you had only told me sooner, I would have forgiven you!" he mourned. Hearing a footstep below, he rose and went to the top of the stairs. At the bottom of the flight he saw a woman standing, and on her turning up her face recognized the pale, dark-eyed Izz Huett. "Mr Clare," she said, "I've called to see you and Mrs Clare, and to inquire if ye be well. I thought you might be back here again." This was a girl whose secret he had guessed, but who had not yet guessed his; an honest girl who loved him--one who would have made as good, or nearly as good, a practical farmer's wife as Tess. "I am here alone," he said; "we are not living here now." Explaining why he had come, he asked, "Which way are you going home, Izz?" "I have no home at Talbothays Dairy now, sir," she said. "Why is that?" Izz looked down. "It was so dismal there that I left! I am staying out this way." She pointed in a contrary direction, the direction in which he was journeying. "Well--are you going there now? I can take you if you wish for a lift." Her olive complexion grew richer in hue. "Thank 'ee, Mr Clare," she said. He soon found the farmer, and settled the account for his rent and the few other items which had to be considered by reason of the sudden abandonment of the lodgings. On Clare's return to his horse and gig, Izz jumped up beside him. "I am going to leave England, Izz," he said, as they drove on. "Going to Brazil." "And do Mrs Clare like the notion of such a journey?" she asked. "She is not going at present--say for a year or so. I am going out to reconnoitre--to see what life there is like." They sped along eastward for some considerable distance, Izz making no observation. "How are the others?" he inquired. "How is Retty?" "She was in a sort of nervous state when I zid her last; and so thin and hollow-cheeked that 'a do seem in a decline. Nobody will ever fall in love wi' her any more," said Izz absently. "And Marian?" Izz lowered her voice. "Marian drinks." "Indeed!" "Yes. The dairyman has got rid of her." "And you!" "I don't drink, and I bain't in a decline. But--I am no great things at singing afore breakfast now!" "How is that? Do you remember how neatly you used to turn ''Twas down in Cupid's Gardens' and 'The Tailor's Breeches' at morning milking?" "Ah, yes! When you first came, sir, that was. Not when you had been there a bit." "Why was that falling-off?" Her black eyes flashed up to his face for one moment by way of answer. "Izz!--how weak of you--for such as I!" he said, and fell into reverie. "Then--suppose I had asked YOU to marry me?" "If you had I should have said 'Yes', and you would have married a woman who loved 'ee!" "Really!" "Down to the ground!" she whispered vehemently. "O my God! did you never guess it till now!" By-and-by they reached a branch road to a village. "I must get down. I live out there," said Izz abruptly, never having spoken since her avowal. Clare slowed the horse. He was incensed against his fate, bitterly disposed towards social ordinances; for they had cooped him up in a corner, out of which there was no legitimate pathway. Why not be revenged on society by shaping his future domesticities loosely, instead of kissing the pedagogic rod of convention in this ensnaring manner? "I am going to Brazil alone, Izz," said he. "I have separated from my wife for personal, not voyaging, reasons. I may never live with her again. I may not be able to love you; but--will you go with me instead of her?" "You truly wish me to go?" "I do. I have been badly used enough to wish for relief. And you at least love me disinterestedly." "Yes--I will go," said Izz, after a pause. "You will? You know what it means, Izz?" "It means that I shall live with you for the time you are over there--that's good enough for me." "Remember, you are not to trust me in morals now. But I ought to remind you that it will be wrong-doing in the eyes of civilization--Western civilization, that is to say." "I don't mind that; no woman do when it comes to agony-point, and there's no other way!" "Then don't get down, but sit where you are." He drove past the cross-roads, one mile, two miles, without showing any signs of affection. "You love me very, very much, Izz?" he suddenly asked. "I do--I have said I do! I loved you all the time we was at the dairy together!" "More than Tess?" She shook her head. "No," she murmured, "not more than she." "How's that?" "Because nobody could love 'ee more than Tess did! ... She would have laid down her life for 'ee. I could do no more." Like the prophet on the top of Peor, Izz Huett would fain have spoken perversely at such a moment, but the fascination exercised over her rougher nature by Tess's character compelled her to grace. Clare was silent; his heart had risen at these straightforward words from such an unexpected unimpeachable quarter. In his throat was something as if a sob had solidified there. His ears repeated, "SHE WOULD HAVE LAID DOWN HER LIFE FOR 'EE. I COULD DO NO MORE!" "Forget our idle talk, Izz," he said, turning the horse's head suddenly. "I don't know what I've been saying! I will now drive you back to where your lane branches off." "So much for honesty towards 'ee! O--how can I bear it--how can I--how can I!" Izz Huett burst into wild tears, and beat her forehead as she saw what she had done. "Do you regret that poor little act of justice to an absent one? O, Izz, don't spoil it by regret!" She stilled herself by degrees. "Very well, sir. Perhaps I didn't know what I was saying, either, wh--when I agreed to go! I wish--what cannot be!" "Because I have a loving wife already." "Yes, yes! You have!" They reached the corner of the lane which they had passed half an hour earlier, and she hopped down. "Izz--please, please forget my momentary levity!" he cried. "It was so ill-considered, so ill-advised!" "Forget it? Never, never! O, it was no levity to me!" He felt how richly he deserved the reproach that the wounded cry conveyed, and, in a sorrow that was inexpressible, leapt down and took her hand. "Well, but, Izz, we'll part friends, anyhow? You don't know what I've had to bear!" She was a really generous girl, and allowed no further bitterness to mar their adieux. "I forgive 'ee, sir!" she said. "Now, Izz," he said, while she stood beside him there, forcing himself to the mentor's part he was far from feeling; "I want you to tell Marian when you see her that she is to be a good woman, and not to give way to folly. Promise that, and tell Retty that there are more worthy men than I in the world, that for my sake she is to act wisely and well--remember the words--wisely and well--for my sake. I send this message to them as a dying man to the dying; for I shall never see them again. And you, Izzy, you have saved me by your honest words about my wife from an incredible impulse towards folly and treachery. Women may be bad, but they are not so bad as men in these things! On that one account I can never forget you. Be always the good and sincere girl you have hitherto been; and think of me as a worthless lover, but a faithful friend. Promise." She gave the promise. "Heaven bless and keep you, sir. Goodbye!" He drove on; but no sooner had Izz turned into the lane, and Clare was out of sight, than she flung herself down on the bank in a fit of racking anguish; and it was with a strained unnatural face that she entered her mother's cottage late that night. Nobody ever was told how Izz spent the dark hours that intervened between Angel Clare's parting from her and her arrival home. Clare, too, after bidding the girl farewell, was wrought to aching thoughts and quivering lips. But his sorrow was not for Izz. That evening he was within a feather-weight's turn of abandoning his road to the nearest station, and driving across that elevated dorsal line of South Wessex which divided him from his Tess's home. It was neither a contempt for her nature, nor the probable state of her heart, which deterred him. No; it was a sense that, despite her love, as corroborated by Izz's admission, the facts had not changed. If he was right at first, he was right now. And the momentum of the course on which he had embarked tended to keep him going in it, unless diverted by a stronger, more sustained force than had played upon him this afternoon. He could soon come back to her. He took the train that night for London, and five days after shook hands in farewell of his brothers at the port of embarkation. From the foregoing events of the winter-time let us press on to an October day, more than eight months subsequent to the parting of Clare and Tess. We discover the latter in changed conditions; instead of a bride with boxes and trunks which others bore, we see her a lonely woman with a basket and a bundle in her own porterage, as at an earlier time when she was no bride; instead of the ample means that were projected by her husband for her comfort through this probationary period, she can produce only a flattened purse. After again leaving Marlott, her home, she had got through the spring and summer without any great stress upon her physical powers, the time being mainly spent in rendering light irregular service at dairy-work near Port-Bredy to the west of the Blackmoor Valley, equally remote from her native place and from Talbothays. She preferred this to living on his allowance. Mentally she remained in utter stagnation, a condition which the mechanical occupation rather fostered than checked. Her consciousness was at that other dairy, at that other season, in the presence of the tender lover who had confronted her there--he who, the moment she had grasped him to keep for her own, had disappeared like a shape in a vision. The dairy-work lasted only till the milk began to lessen, for she had not met with a second regular engagement as at Talbothays, but had done duty as a supernumerary only. However, as harvest was now beginning, she had simply to remove from the pasture to the stubble to find plenty of further occupation, and this continued till harvest was done. Of the five-and-twenty pounds which had remained to her of Clare's allowance, after deducting the other half of the fifty as a contribution to her parents for the trouble and expense to which she had put them, she had as yet spent but little. But there now followed an unfortunate interval of wet weather, during which she was obliged to fall back upon her sovereigns. She could not bear to let them go. Angel had put them into her hand, had obtained them bright and new from his bank for her; his touch had consecrated them to souvenirs of himself--they appeared to have had as yet no other history than such as was created by his and her own experiences--and to disperse them was like giving away relics. But she had to do it, and one by one they left her hands. She had been compelled to send her mother her address from time to time, but she concealed her circumstances. When her money had almost gone a letter from her mother reached her. Joan stated that they were in dreadful difficulty; the autumn rains had gone through the thatch of the house, which required entire renewal; but this could not be done because the previous thatching had never been paid for. New rafters and a new ceiling upstairs also were required, which, with the previous bill, would amount to a sum of twenty pounds. As her husband was a man of means, and had doubtless returned by this time, could she not send them the money? Tess had thirty pounds coming to her almost immediately from Angel's bankers, and, the case being so deplorable, as soon as the sum was received she sent the twenty as requested. Part of the remainder she was obliged to expend in winter clothing, leaving only a nominal sum for the whole inclement season at hand. When the last pound had gone, a remark of Angel's that whenever she required further resources she was to apply to his father, remained to be considered. But the more Tess thought of the step, the more reluctant was she to take it. The same delicacy, pride, false shame, whatever it may be called, on Clare's account, which had led her to hide from her own parents the prolongation of the estrangement, hindered her owning to his that she was in want after the fair allowance he had left her. They probably despised her already; how much more they would despise her in the character of a mendicant! The consequence was that by no effort could the parson's daughter-in-law bring herself to let him know her state. Her reluctance to communicate with her husband's parents might, she thought, lessen with the lapse of time; but with her own the reverse obtained. On her leaving their house after the short visit subsequent to her marriage they were under the impression that she was ultimately going to join her husband; and from that time to the present she had done nothing to disturb their belief that she was awaiting his return in comfort, hoping against hope that his journey to Brazil would result in a short stay only, after which he would come to fetch her, or that he would write for her to join him; in any case that they would soon present a united front to their families and the world. This hope she still fostered. To let her parents know that she was a deserted wife, dependent, now that she had relieved their necessities, on her own hands for a living, after the _eclat_ of a marriage which was to nullify the collapse of the first attempt, would be too much indeed. The set of brilliants returned to her mind. Where Clare had deposited them she did not know, and it mattered little, if it were true that she could only use and not sell them. Even were they absolutely hers it would be passing mean to enrich herself by a legal title to them which was not essentially hers at all. Meanwhile her husband's days had been by no means free from trial. At this moment he was lying ill of fever in the clay lands near Curitiba in Brazil, having been drenched with thunder-storms and persecuted by other hardships, in common with all the English farmers and farm-labourers who, just at this time, were deluded into going thither by the promises of the Brazilian Government, and by the baseless assumption that those frames which, ploughing and sowing on English uplands, had resisted all the weathers to whose moods they had been born, could resist equally well all the weathers by which they were surprised on Brazilian plains. To return. Thus it happened that when the last of Tess's sovereigns had been spent she was unprovided with others to take their place, while on account of the season she found it increasingly difficult to get employment. Not being aware of the rarity of intelligence, energy, health, and willingness in any sphere of life, she refrained from seeking an indoor occupation; fearing towns, large houses, people of means and social sophistication, and of manners other than rural. From that direction of gentility Black Care had come. Society might be better than she supposed from her slight experience of it. But she had no proof of this, and her instinct in the circumstances was to avoid its purlieus. The small dairies to the west, beyond Port-Bredy, in which she had served as supernumerary milkmaid during the spring and summer required no further aid. Room would probably have been made for her at Talbothays, if only out of sheer compassion; but comfortable as her life had been there, she could not go back. The anti-climax would be too intolerable; and her return might bring reproach upon her idolized husband. She could not have borne their pity, and their whispered remarks to one another upon her strange situation; though she would almost have faced a knowledge of her circumstances by every individual there, so long as her story had remained isolated in the mind of each. It was the interchange of ideas about her that made her sensitiveness wince. Tess could not account for this distinction; she simply knew that she felt it. She was now on her way to an upland farm in the centre of the county, to which she had been recommended by a wandering letter which had reached her from Marian. Marian had somehow heard that Tess was separated from her husband--probably through Izz Huett--and the good-natured and now tippling girl, deeming Tess in trouble, had hastened to notify to her former friend that she herself had gone to this upland spot after leaving the dairy, and would like to see her there, where there was room for other hands, if it was really true that she worked again as of old. With the shortening of the days all hope of obtaining her husband's forgiveness began to leave her; and there was something of the habitude of the wild animal in the unreflecting instinct with which she rambled on--disconnecting herself by littles from her eventful past at every step, obliterating her identity, giving no thought to accidents or contingencies which might make a quick discovery of her whereabouts by others of importance to her own happiness, if not to theirs. Among the difficulties of her lonely position not the least was the attention she excited by her appearance, a certain bearing of distinction, which she had caught from Clare, being superadded to her natural attractiveness. Whilst the clothes lasted which had been prepared for her marriage, these casual glances of interest caused her no inconvenience, but as soon as she was compelled to don the wrapper of a fieldwoman, rude words were addressed to her more than once; but nothing occurred to cause her bodily fear till a particular November afternoon. She had preferred the country west of the River Brit to the upland farm for which she was now bound, because, for one thing, it was nearer to the home of her husband's father; and to hover about that region unrecognized, with the notion that she might decide to call at the Vicarage some day, gave her pleasure. But having once decided to try the higher and drier levels, she pressed back eastward, marching afoot towards the village of Chalk-Newton, where she meant to pass the night. The lane was long and unvaried, and, owing to the rapid shortening of the days, dusk came upon her before she was aware. She had reached the top of a hill down which the lane stretched its serpentine length in glimpses, when she heard footsteps behind her back, and in a few moments she was overtaken by a man. He stepped up alongside Tess and said-- "Good night, my pretty maid": to which she civilly replied. The light still remaining in the sky lit up her face, though the landscape was nearly dark. The man turned and stared hard at her. "Why, surely, it is the young wench who was at Trantridge awhile-- young Squire d'Urberville's friend? I was there at that time, though I don't live there now." She recognized in him the well-to-do boor whom Angel had knocked down at the inn for addressing her coarsely. A spasm of anguish shot through her, and she returned him no answer. "Be honest enough to own it, and that what I said in the town was true, though your fancy-man was so up about it--hey, my sly one? You ought to beg my pardon for that blow of his, considering." Still no answer came from Tess. There seemed only one escape for her hunted soul. She suddenly took to her heels with the speed of the wind, and, without looking behind her, ran along the road till she came to a gate which opened directly into a plantation. Into this she plunged, and did not pause till she was deep enough in its shade to be safe against any possibility of discovery. Under foot the leaves were dry, and the foliage of some holly bushes which grew among the deciduous trees was dense enough to keep off draughts. She scraped together the dead leaves till she had formed them into a large heap, making a sort of nest in the middle. Into this Tess crept. Such sleep as she got was naturally fitful; she fancied she heard strange noises, but persuaded herself that they were caused by the breeze. She thought of her husband in some vague warm clime on the other side of the globe, while she was here in the cold. Was there another such a wretched being as she in the world? Tess asked herself; and, thinking of her wasted life, said, "All is vanity." She repeated the words mechanically, till she reflected that this was a most inadequate thought for modern days. Solomon had thought as far as that more than two thousand years ago; she herself, though not in the van of thinkers, had got much further. If all were only vanity, who would mind it? All was, alas, worse than vanity--injustice, punishment, exaction, death. The wife of Angel Clare put her hand to her brow, and felt its curve, and the edges of her eye-sockets perceptible under the soft skin, and thought as she did so that a time would come when that bone would be bare. "I wish it were now," she said. In the midst of these whimsical fancies she heard a new strange sound among the leaves. It might be the wind; yet there was scarcely any wind. Sometimes it was a palpitation, sometimes a flutter; sometimes it was a sort of gasp or gurgle. Soon she was certain that the noises came from wild creatures of some kind, the more so when, originating in the boughs overhead, they were followed by the fall of a heavy body upon the ground. Had she been ensconced here under other and more pleasant conditions she would have become alarmed; but, outside humanity, she had at present no fear. Day at length broke in the sky. When it had been day aloft for some little while it became day in the wood. Directly the assuring and prosaic light of the world's active hours had grown strong, she crept from under her hillock of leaves, and looked around boldly. Then she perceived what had been going on to disturb her. The plantation wherein she had taken shelter ran down at this spot into a peak, which ended it hitherward, outside the hedge being arable ground. Under the trees several pheasants lay about, their rich plumage dabbled with blood; some were dead, some feebly twitching a wing, some staring up at the sky, some pulsating quickly, some contorted, some stretched out--all of them writhing in agony, except the fortunate ones whose tortures had ended during the night by the inability of nature to bear more. Tess guessed at once the meaning of this. The birds had been driven down into this corner the day before by some shooting-party; and while those that had dropped dead under the shot, or had died before nightfall, had been searched for and carried off, many badly wounded birds had escaped and hidden themselves away, or risen among the thick boughs, where they had maintained their position till they grew weaker with loss of blood in the night-time, when they had fallen one by one as she had heard them. She had occasionally caught glimpses of these men in girlhood, looking over hedges, or peeping through bushes, and pointing their guns, strangely accoutred, a bloodthirsty light in their eyes. She had been told that, rough and brutal as they seemed just then, they were not like this all the year round, but were, in fact, quite civil persons save during certain weeks of autumn and winter, when, like the inhabitants of the Malay Peninsula, they ran amuck, and made it their purpose to destroy life--in this case harmless feathered creatures, brought into being by artificial means solely to gratify these propensities--at once so unmannerly and so unchivalrous towards their weaker fellows in Nature's teeming family. With the impulse of a soul who could feel for kindred sufferers as much as for herself, Tess's first thought was to put the still living birds out of their torture, and to this end with her own hands she broke the necks of as many as she could find, leaving them to lie where she had found them till the game-keepers should come--as they probably would come--to look for them a second time. "Poor darlings--to suppose myself the most miserable being on earth in the sight o' such misery as yours!" she exclaimed, her tears running down as she killed the birds tenderly. "And not a twinge of bodily pain about me! I be not mangled, and I be not bleeding, and I have two hands to feed and clothe me." She was ashamed of herself for her gloom of the night, based on nothing more tangible than a sense of condemnation under an arbitrary law of society which had no foundation in Nature.

Chapters 39-41

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219151046/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary-and-analysis/phase-the-fifth-the-woman-pays-chapters-3941

Angel returns home to his parents in Emminster. He brings up the possibility of going to Brazil to be a farmer with his family. Naturally, they are taken aback at his suggestion of so sudden a move, far away to another land. Angel's idea is to work for a year in Brazil and to bring Tess later when he is established. His parents ask about her character and physical attributes, which Angel says are the best. Angel meets his former intended bride, Mercy Chant, on his way home. They discuss his upcoming journey to Brazil where he says to her "I think I am going crazy." Angel puts away the jewelry and money for Tess with a local banker and meets Izz Huett on his way back to his house. He asks Izz if she will join him for the trip to Brazil and she agrees. He realizes his impetuous actions and reconsiders asking Izz to leave with him. Five days later, Angel leaves for Brazil. Eight months pass, and Tess is in dire straits with little income and irregular work. She gives half of her money to fix the roof on her family's home at Marlott and uses the rest for food and clothing. She is down to her last pennies when she remembers a letter from Marian and prospects for a job as a field woman, grueling work at best. Tess' journey takes her from Marlott to Flintcomb-Ash, not far from her home. On the way, because she hasn't even enough money for lodgings, she sleeps in a forest, where she encounters wounded pheasants shot by hunters who have lost track of the injured creatures. To put them out of their misery, Tess kills the suffering birds.

Angel makes a hasty decision to try farming in Brazil. He pitches the idea to his parents who are surprised at his sudden decision. They also are curious as to the whereabouts of Tess, his new bride. At the nightly reading of the Bible, Angel hears a reading from Proverbs 31:10 on the attributes of a virtuous woman. When he hears these words, Angel cries bitterly. His parents are quite concerned, and Angel tells some of what has happened to Tess, but not all, and when his mother questions Tess' virtue -- "is she a woman whose history will bear investigation?" -- Angel replies "She is spotless!" and then feels anger toward Tess for putting him in a situation where he must deceive his parents. The irony is clear. Tess is a virtuous woman; the problem rests with Angel -- "there hung a deeper shade than the shade which Angel Clare perceived, namely, the shade of his own limitation." The Clares are sure Angel can cure any defects in Tess, "Any crudeness of manner which may offend your more educated sense at first, will, I am sure, disappear under the influence or your companionship and tuition." However, it is Angel's own lack of flexibility that hinders him, thus making him intractable to Tess' plight. Angel's limitations cast a cloud over his tutelage of Tess. He is stubborn in his belief that a blemish on Tess' reputation ruins her whole being -- "In considering what Tess was not, he overlooked what she was, and forgot that the defective can be more than the entire." Angel's exchanges with Mercy and Izz further demonstrate the alteration in his character, revealing a man in a state of flux and anticipating a major change for him. He chides himself for not seeing what Tess tried to make obvious to him earlier, "O Tess! If you had only told me sooner, I would have forgiven you!" We must wonder if Angel had paid attention when the signs were posted for him. However, Izz is an honest woman, even when she volunteers to accompany him to Brazil, without too many questions. He later withdraws the offer, abashed at his rashness after Izz announces that Tess loved him best at Talbothays -- " . . . nobody could love @'ee more than Tess did! . . . She would have laid down her life for @'ee. I could do no more.'" Angel even reconsiders his decision to go to Brazil, but fate and his conscious steer him on his present course. In Chapter 41, Tess encounters the injured pheasants. While traveling to Flintcomb-Ash, she finds refuge in a wood. Upon waking the following morning, Tess discovers several wounded pheasants who were shot but not captured. She does her best to end the birds' suffering, " the necks of as many as she could find" with "tears running down as she killed the birds tenderly." This scene is thematically significant. First, it reveals more of Tess' character. She exhibits compassion for the bird's injuries and benevolence for their plight. Even in her own suffering, Tess is still aware of the suffering of others. Killing the birds is a kindness. In fact, in comparing her plight to theirs, Tess feels contrite: -- "Poor darlings -- to suppose myself the most miserable being on earth in the sight o' such misery as yours!" She is not bodily injured, only injured in her soul; the birds are near death, which she is not. "She was ashamed of herself for her gloom of the night, based on nothing more tangible than a sense of condemnation under an arbitrary law of society that had no foundation in Nature." Hardy's point is that the "arbitrary law" -- the one that has condemned Tess -- has overcome nature. Tess' fate twists upon the capricious rules that man has created, with no apparent regard for natural law. Second, this scene foreshadows the tale's end. Tess and the birds are the same: Both have been hunted, both wounded, both driven to seek a safe place, and both left, injured, to their own resources. The difference is that Tess ends the birds suffering; no one ends Tess'. In a way, this scene represents what has happened to Tess thus far in the story and foreshadows her death at the end. Glossary Wiertz Museum museum in Brussels containing the macabre works of the Flemish painter Antoine Wiertz . Van Beers Jan Van Beers , Flemish painter frequently compared to Wiertz. desultory passing from one thing to another in an aimless way; disconnected; not methodical. Pagan Moralist Marcus Aurelius Antoninus , Roman emperor and stoic philosopher. Nazarene Jesus, from John 14:27. "a good thing could come out of Nazareth" John 1:46. "the world, the flesh, nor the devil" traditional temptations to sin mentioned in The Book of Common Prayer. parlous perilous; dangerous; risky. reconnoitre to make a reconnaissance; alternate spelling of reconnoiter. "prophet on the top of Peor" Balaam, who refused to curse the Israelites, Numbers 23-24. supernumerary that exceeds or is beyond the regular or prescribed number; extra. eclat brilliant or conspicuous success; dazzling display. fancy-man .a man supported by a woman; esp., a pimp; here, a sweetheart . exaction an excessive demand; extortion; an exacted fee, tax.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/chapters_20_to_21.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_14_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapters 20-21

chapters 20-21

{"name": "Chapters 20-21", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-2021", "summary": "At Barton Park the next day, Charlotte Palmer laughed and talked as foolishly as ever, and her husband was so consistently rude that Elinor concluded that \"his general abuse of everything before him . . . was the desire of appearing superior to other people.\" Charlotte was very friendly to the girls, however, and invited them for Christmas -- which Elinor declined. The Palmers returned to their home, \"and the two families at Barton were again left to entertain each other.\" Their isolation didn't last long, however, for during an excursion to Exeter, Sir John met two young ladies, Anne and Lucy Steele, whom Mrs. Jennings discovered to be relatives of hers. He promptly invited them to Barton Hall, where they made themselves highly agreeable to Lady Middleton by flattering her and her children excessively. Elinor and Marianne found the older Miss Steele very vulgar and free in her speech, and Lucy, the younger, lacking in \"real elegance and artlessness.\" Elinor left the house \"without any wish of knowing them better.\" But Sir John was \"entirely on the side of the Misses Steele,\" who were \"particularly anxious to be better acquainted\" with the Dashwoods. Thus he threw the young ladies together every day. Marianne was teased about Willoughby, and Sir John hinted at a romance between Elinor and Ferrars. On hearing Edward's name, Anne Steele announced that she knew Edward \"very well\" but was contradicted by Lucy, who declared, \"Though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well.\" For once Elinor wished Mrs. Jennings or Sir John would pursue the subject so she could find out more about the uncle and Edward's connection with him. But to her dismay, the subject was dropped.", "analysis": "Charlotte Palmer, although a foolish chatterbox, is kindly and warmhearted. Her silent, belligerent husband is a comic foil to her insouciance. But the Misses Steele seem definitely unpleasant; the older is stupidly vulgar, and the younger, although less voluble, seems sly. There is definitely something unrefined about the pair. They toady to Lady Middleton and pretend great admiration for Elinor and Marianne. And at Barton, they are considered equal to the Dashwoods by Sir John, who is easily deceived by their surface politeness, and by his wife, who is swayed by their flattery. Marianne's impropriety is different from that of the Steeles, for she is genuine. The small obligations of social life do not exist for her. When Lucy Steele exclaims, \"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!\" Marianne is silent: \"It was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion.\" And when Miss Steele gushes that little Annamaria, slightly scratched by a pin, might have suffered \"a very sad accident,\" Marianne answers forthrightly: \"I hardly know how, unless it had been under totally different circumstances.\""}

As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. "I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope." They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room--"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing. "Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer--"then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose." When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last." "You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony." "Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer. "My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?" "I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred." "Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you." Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour." Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.-- It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,--and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite delightful!--My love," applying to her husband, "don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?" "Certainly," he replied, with a sneer--"I came into Devonshire with no other view." "There now,"--said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament!--won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.--But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued--"he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm all your abuses of languages upon me." "There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world." She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well--I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to Cleveland.--I can't imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby's general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;--"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before;--but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know." "Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did.--I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately.'" "And what did the Colonel say?" "Oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?" "Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?" "Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing." "So do I.--He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mama says HE was in love with your sister too.-- I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body." "Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said Elinor. "Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night." Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her. "I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued Charlotte.--"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how much I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your sister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts." "You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?" "Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.-- He was a particular friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice, "he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should have been married immediately." "Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?" "Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is the kind of man I like." The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before Sir John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe. In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over. Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance,--whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the worse; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put up with one another. As it was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every day. The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture, and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady Middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John's confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss Steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir John wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself. "Do come now," said he--"pray come--you must come--I declare you shall come--You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them it is all very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them I am sure. They have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the children. How can you be so cross as not to come? Why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. YOU are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related." But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of their calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the Miss Steeles to them. When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person.-- Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight. Fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing. "John is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking Miss Steeles's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window--"He is full of monkey tricks." And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!" "And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and quiet--Never was there such a quiet little thing!" But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected.-- She was carried out of the room therefore in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours. "Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone. "It might have been a very sad accident." "Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, "unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality." "What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele. Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy. "And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is!" Here too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly. "And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine children in my life.--I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children." "I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have witnessed this morning." "I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet." "I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence." A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex." In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was. "Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss Steele. "We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister. "I think every one MUST admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do." "And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast addition always." "But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, "that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?" "Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't. I'm sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen.-- I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?" "Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him." "Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux--they have something else to do." "Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but beaux;--you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else." And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture. This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better. Not so the Miss Steeles.--They came from Exeter, well provided with admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted.-- And to be better acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable lot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles, their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do no more; but he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established friends. To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars,--and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton. "'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure," said she, "and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,--but perhaps you may have a friend in the corner already." Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been with respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since Edward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to her best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite general attention. The letter F--had been likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established with Elinor. The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it. "His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret." "Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he? What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable young man to be sure; I know him very well." "How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy, who generally made an amendment to all her sister's assertions. "Though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well." Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. "And who was this uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?" She wished very much to have the subject continued, though she did not chuse to join in it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his disadvantage.--But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John.

Chapters 20-21

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-2021

At Barton Park the next day, Charlotte Palmer laughed and talked as foolishly as ever, and her husband was so consistently rude that Elinor concluded that "his general abuse of everything before him . . . was the desire of appearing superior to other people." Charlotte was very friendly to the girls, however, and invited them for Christmas -- which Elinor declined. The Palmers returned to their home, "and the two families at Barton were again left to entertain each other." Their isolation didn't last long, however, for during an excursion to Exeter, Sir John met two young ladies, Anne and Lucy Steele, whom Mrs. Jennings discovered to be relatives of hers. He promptly invited them to Barton Hall, where they made themselves highly agreeable to Lady Middleton by flattering her and her children excessively. Elinor and Marianne found the older Miss Steele very vulgar and free in her speech, and Lucy, the younger, lacking in "real elegance and artlessness." Elinor left the house "without any wish of knowing them better." But Sir John was "entirely on the side of the Misses Steele," who were "particularly anxious to be better acquainted" with the Dashwoods. Thus he threw the young ladies together every day. Marianne was teased about Willoughby, and Sir John hinted at a romance between Elinor and Ferrars. On hearing Edward's name, Anne Steele announced that she knew Edward "very well" but was contradicted by Lucy, who declared, "Though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well." For once Elinor wished Mrs. Jennings or Sir John would pursue the subject so she could find out more about the uncle and Edward's connection with him. But to her dismay, the subject was dropped.

Charlotte Palmer, although a foolish chatterbox, is kindly and warmhearted. Her silent, belligerent husband is a comic foil to her insouciance. But the Misses Steele seem definitely unpleasant; the older is stupidly vulgar, and the younger, although less voluble, seems sly. There is definitely something unrefined about the pair. They toady to Lady Middleton and pretend great admiration for Elinor and Marianne. And at Barton, they are considered equal to the Dashwoods by Sir John, who is easily deceived by their surface politeness, and by his wife, who is swayed by their flattery. Marianne's impropriety is different from that of the Steeles, for she is genuine. The small obligations of social life do not exist for her. When Lucy Steele exclaims, "What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" Marianne is silent: "It was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion." And when Miss Steele gushes that little Annamaria, slightly scratched by a pin, might have suffered "a very sad accident," Marianne answers forthrightly: "I hardly know how, unless it had been under totally different circumstances."

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_3_part_8.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 38

chapter 38

{"name": "Chapter 38", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-40", "summary": "Elinor and Marianne think that Edward's resolve to marry Lucy is honorable, all the more since he probably knows he will not be happy marrying her. Elinor has the bad luck of meeting Miss Steele on a walk in Kensington Gardens, and she offers up all the latest news of her sister and Edward that Elinor so desperately wishes to avoid. Elinor does gain the information that the date of Edward and Lucy's marriage is altogether uncertain, since he must find a position within the church and save a good deal of money, which could take a good deal of time; this could be seen as a hopeful thing, as much could happen in that indefinitely long stretch of time. Lucy writes Elinor a letter, saying that she and Edward are happy, but need assistance so that they can marry. Elinor hands the information over to Mrs. Jennings, who thinks the letter does Lucy \"great credit,\" and makes Mrs. Jennings more resolved to help her.", "analysis": "For almost the first time, Marianne is enduring feelings of \"self-reproach\"; she is examining her behavior and its merits, and correcting herself for not being as strong as Elinor about her disappointments. Self-reproach and self-correction are Marianne's only hope if she is to get over Willoughby and learn how to shield herself from gossip and impertinence in the future. Miss Steele's presence in the chapter again shows the low manners of herself and her sister, and how unworthy they are of a connection with a fine man like Edward. Lucy is emboldened by Edward sticking to their engagement, and her letter to Elinor reeks of pure self-interest and selfishness; she seems to be trying to abuse Elinor's patience and good nature for her own possible gain. That Lucy also uses this letter to Elinor as an obvious ploy to attain Mrs. Jennings' help again shows her selfish, unrefined nature"}

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

Chapter 38

https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-40

Elinor and Marianne think that Edward's resolve to marry Lucy is honorable, all the more since he probably knows he will not be happy marrying her. Elinor has the bad luck of meeting Miss Steele on a walk in Kensington Gardens, and she offers up all the latest news of her sister and Edward that Elinor so desperately wishes to avoid. Elinor does gain the information that the date of Edward and Lucy's marriage is altogether uncertain, since he must find a position within the church and save a good deal of money, which could take a good deal of time; this could be seen as a hopeful thing, as much could happen in that indefinitely long stretch of time. Lucy writes Elinor a letter, saying that she and Edward are happy, but need assistance so that they can marry. Elinor hands the information over to Mrs. Jennings, who thinks the letter does Lucy "great credit," and makes Mrs. Jennings more resolved to help her.

For almost the first time, Marianne is enduring feelings of "self-reproach"; she is examining her behavior and its merits, and correcting herself for not being as strong as Elinor about her disappointments. Self-reproach and self-correction are Marianne's only hope if she is to get over Willoughby and learn how to shield herself from gossip and impertinence in the future. Miss Steele's presence in the chapter again shows the low manners of herself and her sister, and how unworthy they are of a connection with a fine man like Edward. Lucy is emboldened by Edward sticking to their engagement, and her letter to Elinor reeks of pure self-interest and selfishness; she seems to be trying to abuse Elinor's patience and good nature for her own possible gain. That Lucy also uses this letter to Elinor as an obvious ploy to attain Mrs. Jennings' help again shows her selfish, unrefined nature

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/75.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_74_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 11.chapter 6

book 11, chapter 6

{"name": "Book 11, Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-11-chapter-6", "summary": "At this point, the novel backtracks a couple months to the time of Dmitri's arrest. Ivan, you might remember, was far from the fray in Moscow and only got the message about his father's death four days after it all happened. On his first day back in town, he met with Dmitri, then he went to visit Smerdyakov. Smerdyakov was laid up in the hospital, very ill after a series of epileptic seizures. Ivan confronted him about a number of things Smerdyakov had said before Ivan left for Moscow. Did Smerdyakov fake a seizure? Why did he want Ivan to go to Chermashnya? In his usual sly way, Smerdyakov seems to have an explanation for everything, but he still implies that they're somehow complicit in their father's death - or at least that's what Ivan reads into Smerdyakov's promise that he won't tell the police about their conversation. On his return Ivan had also become madly in love with Katerina, although he denied it to Alyosha. Two weeks after his return, he confronted Alyosha about whether he thinks he might have wished their father dead. Alyosha reluctantly agrees. After this conversation, Ivan decides to visit Smerdyakov again.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VI. The First Interview With Smerdyakov This was the third time that Ivan had been to see Smerdyakov since his return from Moscow. The first time he had seen him and talked to him was on the first day of his arrival, then he had visited him once more, a fortnight later. But his visits had ended with that second one, so that it was now over a month since he had seen him. And he had scarcely heard anything of him. Ivan had only returned five days after his father's death, so that he was not present at the funeral, which took place the day before he came back. The cause of his delay was that Alyosha, not knowing his Moscow address, had to apply to Katerina Ivanovna to telegraph to him, and she, not knowing his address either, telegraphed to her sister and aunt, reckoning on Ivan's going to see them as soon as he arrived in Moscow. But he did not go to them till four days after his arrival. When he got the telegram, he had, of course, set off post-haste to our town. The first to meet him was Alyosha, and Ivan was greatly surprised to find that, in opposition to the general opinion of the town, he refused to entertain a suspicion against Mitya, and spoke openly of Smerdyakov as the murderer. Later on, after seeing the police captain and the prosecutor, and hearing the details of the charge and the arrest, he was still more surprised at Alyosha, and ascribed his opinion only to his exaggerated brotherly feeling and sympathy with Mitya, of whom Alyosha, as Ivan knew, was very fond. By the way, let us say a word or two of Ivan's feeling to his brother Dmitri. He positively disliked him; at most, felt sometimes a compassion for him, and even that was mixed with great contempt, almost repugnance. Mitya's whole personality, even his appearance, was extremely unattractive to him. Ivan looked with indignation on Katerina Ivanovna's love for his brother. Yet he went to see Mitya on the first day of his arrival, and that interview, far from shaking Ivan's belief in his guilt, positively strengthened it. He found his brother agitated, nervously excited. Mitya had been talkative, but very absent-minded and incoherent. He used violent language, accused Smerdyakov, and was fearfully muddled. He talked principally about the three thousand roubles, which he said had been "stolen" from him by his father. "The money was mine, it was my money," Mitya kept repeating. "Even if I had stolen it, I should have had the right." He hardly contested the evidence against him, and if he tried to turn a fact to his advantage, it was in an absurd and incoherent way. He hardly seemed to wish to defend himself to Ivan or any one else. Quite the contrary, he was angry and proudly scornful of the charges against him; he was continually firing up and abusing every one. He only laughed contemptuously at Grigory's evidence about the open door, and declared that it was "the devil that opened it." But he could not bring forward any coherent explanation of the fact. He even succeeded in insulting Ivan during their first interview, telling him sharply that it was not for people who declared that "everything was lawful," to suspect and question him. Altogether he was anything but friendly with Ivan on that occasion. Immediately after that interview with Mitya, Ivan went for the first time to see Smerdyakov. In the railway train on his way from Moscow, he kept thinking of Smerdyakov and of his last conversation with him on the evening before he went away. Many things seemed to him puzzling and suspicious. But when he gave his evidence to the investigating lawyer Ivan said nothing, for the time, of that conversation. He put that off till he had seen Smerdyakov, who was at that time in the hospital. Doctor Herzenstube and Varvinsky, the doctor he met in the hospital, confidently asserted in reply to Ivan's persistent questions, that Smerdyakov's epileptic attack was unmistakably genuine, and were surprised indeed at Ivan asking whether he might not have been shamming on the day of the catastrophe. They gave him to understand that the attack was an exceptional one, the fits persisting and recurring several times, so that the patient's life was positively in danger, and it was only now, after they had applied remedies, that they could assert with confidence that the patient would survive. "Though it might well be," added Doctor Herzenstube, "that his reason would be impaired for a considerable period, if not permanently." On Ivan's asking impatiently whether that meant that he was now mad, they told him that this was not yet the case, in the full sense of the word, but that certain abnormalities were perceptible. Ivan decided to find out for himself what those abnormalities were. At the hospital he was at once allowed to see the patient. Smerdyakov was lying on a truckle-bed in a separate ward. There was only one other bed in the room, and in it lay a tradesman of the town, swollen with dropsy, who was obviously almost dying; he could be no hindrance to their conversation. Smerdyakov grinned uncertainly on seeing Ivan, and for the first instant seemed nervous. So at least Ivan fancied. But that was only momentary. For the rest of the time he was struck, on the contrary, by Smerdyakov's composure. From the first glance Ivan had no doubt that he was very ill. He was very weak; he spoke slowly, seeming to move his tongue with difficulty; he was much thinner and sallower. Throughout the interview, which lasted twenty minutes, he kept complaining of headache and of pain in all his limbs. His thin emasculate face seemed to have become so tiny; his hair was ruffled, and his crest of curls in front stood up in a thin tuft. But in the left eye, which was screwed up and seemed to be insinuating something, Smerdyakov showed himself unchanged. "It's always worth while speaking to a clever man." Ivan was reminded of that at once. He sat down on the stool at his feet. Smerdyakov, with painful effort, shifted his position in bed, but he was not the first to speak. He remained dumb, and did not even look much interested. "Can you talk to me?" asked Ivan. "I won't tire you much." "Certainly I can," mumbled Smerdyakov, in a faint voice. "Has your honor been back long?" he added patronizingly, as though encouraging a nervous visitor. "I only arrived to-day.... To see the mess you are in here." Smerdyakov sighed. "Why do you sigh? You knew of it all along," Ivan blurted out. Smerdyakov was stolidly silent for a while. "How could I help knowing? It was clear beforehand. But how could I tell it would turn out like that?" "What would turn out? Don't prevaricate! You've foretold you'd have a fit; on the way down to the cellar, you know. You mentioned the very spot." "Have you said so at the examination yet?" Smerdyakov queried with composure. Ivan felt suddenly angry. "No, I haven't yet, but I certainly shall. You must explain a great deal to me, my man; and let me tell you, I am not going to let you play with me!" "Why should I play with you, when I put my whole trust in you, as in God Almighty?" said Smerdyakov, with the same composure, only for a moment closing his eyes. "In the first place," began Ivan, "I know that epileptic fits can't be told beforehand. I've inquired; don't try and take me in. You can't foretell the day and the hour. How was it you told me the day and the hour beforehand, and about the cellar, too? How could you tell that you would fall down the cellar stairs in a fit, if you didn't sham a fit on purpose?" "I had to go to the cellar anyway, several times a day, indeed," Smerdyakov drawled deliberately. "I fell from the garret just in the same way a year ago. It's quite true you can't tell the day and hour of a fit beforehand, but you can always have a presentiment of it." "But you did foretell the day and the hour!" "In regard to my epilepsy, sir, you had much better inquire of the doctors here. You can ask them whether it was a real fit or a sham; it's no use my saying any more about it." "And the cellar? How could you know beforehand of the cellar?" "You don't seem able to get over that cellar! As I was going down to the cellar, I was in terrible dread and doubt. What frightened me most was losing you and being left without defense in all the world. So I went down into the cellar thinking, 'Here, it'll come on directly, it'll strike me down directly, shall I fall?' And it was through this fear that I suddenly felt the spasm that always comes ... and so I went flying. All that and all my previous conversation with you at the gate the evening before, when I told you how frightened I was and spoke of the cellar, I told all that to Doctor Herzenstube and Nikolay Parfenovitch, the investigating lawyer, and it's all been written down in the protocol. And the doctor here, Mr. Varvinsky, maintained to all of them that it was just the thought of it brought it on, the apprehension that I might fall. It was just then that the fit seized me. And so they've written it down, that it's just how it must have happened, simply from my fear." As he finished, Smerdyakov drew a deep breath, as though exhausted. "Then you have said all that in your evidence?" said Ivan, somewhat taken aback. He had meant to frighten him with the threat of repeating their conversation, and it appeared that Smerdyakov had already reported it all himself. "What have I to be afraid of? Let them write down the whole truth," Smerdyakov pronounced firmly. "And have you told them every word of our conversation at the gate?" "No, not to say every word." "And did you tell them that you can sham fits, as you boasted then?" "No, I didn't tell them that either." "Tell me now, why did you send me then to Tchermashnya?" "I was afraid you'd go away to Moscow; Tchermashnya is nearer, anyway." "You are lying; you suggested my going away yourself; you told me to get out of the way of trouble." "That was simply out of affection and my sincere devotion to you, foreseeing trouble in the house, to spare you. Only I wanted to spare myself even more. That's why I told you to get out of harm's way, that you might understand that there would be trouble in the house, and would remain at home to protect your father." "You might have said it more directly, you blockhead!" Ivan suddenly fired up. "How could I have said it more directly then? It was simply my fear that made me speak, and you might have been angry, too. I might well have been apprehensive that Dmitri Fyodorovitch would make a scene and carry away that money, for he considered it as good as his own; but who could tell that it would end in a murder like this? I thought that he would only carry off the three thousand that lay under the master's mattress in the envelope, and you see, he's murdered him. How could you guess it either, sir?" "But if you say yourself that it couldn't be guessed, how could I have guessed and stayed at home? You contradict yourself!" said Ivan, pondering. "You might have guessed from my sending you to Tchermashnya and not to Moscow." "How could I guess it from that?" Smerdyakov seemed much exhausted, and again he was silent for a minute. "You might have guessed from the fact of my asking you not to go to Moscow, but to Tchermashnya, that I wanted to have you nearer, for Moscow's a long way off, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch, knowing you are not far off, would not be so bold. And if anything had happened, you might have come to protect me, too, for I warned you of Grigory Vassilyevitch's illness, and that I was afraid of having a fit. And when I explained those knocks to you, by means of which one could go in to the deceased, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch knew them all through me, I thought that you would guess yourself that he would be sure to do something, and so wouldn't go to Tchermashnya even, but would stay." "He talks very coherently," thought Ivan, "though he does mumble; what's the derangement of his faculties that Herzenstube talked of?" "You are cunning with me, damn you!" he exclaimed, getting angry. "But I thought at the time that you quite guessed," Smerdyakov parried with the simplest air. "If I'd guessed, I should have stayed," cried Ivan. "Why, I thought that it was because you guessed, that you went away in such a hurry, only to get out of trouble, only to run away and save yourself in your fright." "You think that every one is as great a coward as yourself?" "Forgive me, I thought you were like me." "Of course, I ought to have guessed," Ivan said in agitation; "and I did guess there was some mischief brewing on your part ... only you are lying, you are lying again," he cried, suddenly recollecting. "Do you remember how you went up to the carriage and said to me, 'It's always worth while speaking to a clever man'? So you were glad I went away, since you praised me?" Smerdyakov sighed again and again. A trace of color came into his face. "If I was pleased," he articulated rather breathlessly, "it was simply because you agreed not to go to Moscow, but to Tchermashnya. For it was nearer, anyway. Only when I said these words to you, it was not by way of praise, but of reproach. You didn't understand it." "What reproach?" "Why, that foreseeing such a calamity you deserted your own father, and would not protect us, for I might have been taken up any time for stealing that three thousand." "Damn you!" Ivan swore again. "Stay, did you tell the prosecutor and the investigating lawyer about those knocks?" "I told them everything just as it was." Ivan wondered inwardly again. "If I thought of anything then," he began again, "it was solely of some wickedness on your part. Dmitri might kill him, but that he would steal--I did not believe that then.... But I was prepared for any wickedness from you. You told me yourself you could sham a fit. What did you say that for?" "It was just through my simplicity, and I never have shammed a fit on purpose in my life. And I only said so then to boast to you. It was just foolishness. I liked you so much then, and was open-hearted with you." "My brother directly accuses you of the murder and theft." "What else is left for him to do?" said Smerdyakov, with a bitter grin. "And who will believe him with all the proofs against him? Grigory Vassilyevitch saw the door open. What can he say after that? But never mind him! He is trembling to save himself." He slowly ceased speaking; then suddenly, as though on reflection, added: "And look here again. He wants to throw it on me and make out that it is the work of my hands--I've heard that already. But as to my being clever at shamming a fit: should I have told you beforehand that I could sham one, if I really had had such a design against your father? If I had been planning such a murder could I have been such a fool as to give such evidence against myself beforehand? And to his son, too! Upon my word! Is that likely? As if that could be, such a thing has never happened. No one hears this talk of ours now, except Providence itself, and if you were to tell of it to the prosecutor and Nikolay Parfenovitch you might defend me completely by doing so, for who would be likely to be such a criminal, if he is so open-hearted beforehand? Any one can see that." "Well," and Ivan got up to cut short the conversation, struck by Smerdyakov's last argument. "I don't suspect you at all, and I think it's absurd, indeed, to suspect you. On the contrary, I am grateful to you for setting my mind at rest. Now I am going, but I'll come again. Meanwhile, good-by. Get well. Is there anything you want?" "I am very thankful for everything. Marfa Ignatyevna does not forget me, and provides me anything I want, according to her kindness. Good people visit me every day." "Good-by. But I shan't say anything of your being able to sham a fit, and I don't advise you to, either," something made Ivan say suddenly. "I quite understand. And if you don't speak of that, I shall say nothing of that conversation of ours at the gate." Then it happened that Ivan went out, and only when he had gone a dozen steps along the corridor, he suddenly felt that there was an insulting significance in Smerdyakov's last words. He was almost on the point of turning back, but it was only a passing impulse, and muttering, "Nonsense!" he went out of the hospital. His chief feeling was one of relief at the fact that it was not Smerdyakov, but Mitya, who had committed the murder, though he might have been expected to feel the opposite. He did not want to analyze the reason for this feeling, and even felt a positive repugnance at prying into his sensations. He felt as though he wanted to make haste to forget something. In the following days he became convinced of Mitya's guilt, as he got to know all the weight of evidence against him. There was evidence of people of no importance, Fenya and her mother, for instance, but the effect of it was almost overpowering. As to Perhotin, the people at the tavern, and at Plotnikov's shop, as well as the witnesses at Mokroe, their evidence seemed conclusive. It was the details that were so damning. The secret of the knocks impressed the lawyers almost as much as Grigory's evidence as to the open door. Grigory's wife, Marfa, in answer to Ivan's questions, declared that Smerdyakov had been lying all night the other side of the partition wall. "He was not three paces from our bed," and that although she was a sound sleeper she waked several times and heard him moaning, "He was moaning the whole time, moaning continually." Talking to Herzenstube, and giving it as his opinion that Smerdyakov was not mad, but only rather weak, Ivan only evoked from the old man a subtle smile. "Do you know how he spends his time now?" he asked; "learning lists of French words by heart. He has an exercise-book under his pillow with the French words written out in Russian letters for him by some one, he he he!" Ivan ended by dismissing all doubts. He could not think of Dmitri without repulsion. Only one thing was strange, however. Alyosha persisted that Dmitri was not the murderer, and that "in all probability" Smerdyakov was. Ivan always felt that Alyosha's opinion meant a great deal to him, and so he was astonished at it now. Another thing that was strange was that Alyosha did not make any attempt to talk about Mitya with Ivan, that he never began on the subject and only answered his questions. This, too, struck Ivan particularly. But he was very much preoccupied at that time with something quite apart from that. On his return from Moscow, he abandoned himself hopelessly to his mad and consuming passion for Katerina Ivanovna. This is not the time to begin to speak of this new passion of Ivan's, which left its mark on all the rest of his life: this would furnish the subject for another novel, which I may perhaps never write. But I cannot omit to mention here that when Ivan, on leaving Katerina Ivanovna with Alyosha, as I've related already, told him, "I am not keen on her," it was an absolute lie: he loved her madly, though at times he hated her so that he might have murdered her. Many causes helped to bring about this feeling. Shattered by what had happened with Mitya, she rushed on Ivan's return to meet him as her one salvation. She was hurt, insulted and humiliated in her feelings. And here the man had come back to her, who had loved her so ardently before (oh! she knew that very well), and whose heart and intellect she considered so superior to her own. But the sternly virtuous girl did not abandon herself altogether to the man she loved, in spite of the Karamazov violence of his passions and the great fascination he had for her. She was continually tormented at the same time by remorse for having deserted Mitya, and in moments of discord and violent anger (and they were numerous) she told Ivan so plainly. This was what he had called to Alyosha "lies upon lies." There was, of course, much that was false in it, and that angered Ivan more than anything.... But of all this later. He did, in fact, for a time almost forget Smerdyakov's existence, and yet, a fortnight after his first visit to him, he began to be haunted by the same strange thoughts as before. It's enough to say that he was continually asking himself, why was it that on that last night in Fyodor Pavlovitch's house he had crept out on to the stairs like a thief and listened to hear what his father was doing below? Why had he recalled that afterwards with repulsion? Why next morning, had he been suddenly so depressed on the journey? Why, as he reached Moscow, had he said to himself, "I am a scoundrel"? And now he almost fancied that these tormenting thoughts would make him even forget Katerina Ivanovna, so completely did they take possession of him again. It was just after fancying this, that he met Alyosha in the street. He stopped him at once, and put a question to him: "Do you remember when Dmitri burst in after dinner and beat father, and afterwards I told you in the yard that I reserved 'the right to desire'?... Tell me, did you think then that I desired father's death or not?" "I did think so," answered Alyosha, softly. "It was so, too; it was not a matter of guessing. But didn't you fancy then that what I wished was just that 'one reptile should devour another'; that is, just that Dmitri should kill father, and as soon as possible ... and that I myself was even prepared to help to bring that about?" Alyosha turned rather pale, and looked silently into his brother's face. "Speak!" cried Ivan, "I want above everything to know what you thought then. I want the truth, the truth!" He drew a deep breath, looking angrily at Alyosha before his answer came. "Forgive me, I did think that, too, at the time," whispered Alyosha, and he did not add one softening phrase. "Thanks," snapped Ivan, and, leaving Alyosha, he went quickly on his way. From that time Alyosha noticed that Ivan began obviously to avoid him and seemed even to have taken a dislike to him, so much so that Alyosha gave up going to see him. Immediately after that meeting with him, Ivan had not gone home, but went straight to Smerdyakov again.

Book 11, Chapter 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-11-chapter-6

At this point, the novel backtracks a couple months to the time of Dmitri's arrest. Ivan, you might remember, was far from the fray in Moscow and only got the message about his father's death four days after it all happened. On his first day back in town, he met with Dmitri, then he went to visit Smerdyakov. Smerdyakov was laid up in the hospital, very ill after a series of epileptic seizures. Ivan confronted him about a number of things Smerdyakov had said before Ivan left for Moscow. Did Smerdyakov fake a seizure? Why did he want Ivan to go to Chermashnya? In his usual sly way, Smerdyakov seems to have an explanation for everything, but he still implies that they're somehow complicit in their father's death - or at least that's what Ivan reads into Smerdyakov's promise that he won't tell the police about their conversation. On his return Ivan had also become madly in love with Katerina, although he denied it to Alyosha. Two weeks after his return, he confronted Alyosha about whether he thinks he might have wished their father dead. Alyosha reluctantly agrees. After this conversation, Ivan decides to visit Smerdyakov again.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/43.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_42_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 43

chapter 43

{"name": "Chapter 43", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-43", "summary": "Marianne gets up the morning and tries to act like she's OK, but she's clearly still really sick. Elinor nurses her calmly, but Colonel Brandon is worried. After another night of illness, Elinor, following Mrs. Jennings's advice, calls the Palmers' doctor. He examines the patient, and says that she should recover from her \"infection\" in a few days. This freaks out Mrs. Palmer for her baby's sake, though, and she and the baby go to stay with a relative for a while, just to be safe. Mr. Palmer is set to join her in a couple of days. Mrs. Jennings, however, staunchly says that she will stay with Marianne and Elinor until Marianne is better again. Elinor finds her very helpful. Marianne doesn't get any better, but fortunately doesn't get too much worse. However, her illness lasts long enough for Mr. Palmer to have to leave to meet up with his wife, as promised. Colonel Brandon also wonders if he should leave, but he's encouraged to remain by Mr. Palmer and Mrs. Jennings. Two more days pass, and Marianne doesn't mend. Colonel Brandon is extremely worried - he's obviously still in love with her. On the third day, Marianne seems better - but she gets even sicker as evening falls. That night, Marianne is at her worst; she's clearly delirious, and asks for her mother to come. Colonel Brandon goes immediately to Barton to fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Things aren't looking good for Marianne. That morning, Mrs. Jennings awakes to find out that everything has grown worse. She feels incredibly bad for everyone - she's truly concerned about Marianne herself, Elinor, and Mrs. Dashwood. The doctor, Mr. Harris, returns to check on his ailing patient. His medicines didn't work, but he has one last thing to try. This desperate, last-ditch solution, whatever it may be, seems to work; Marianne revives somewhat, and Elinor, despite Mrs. Jennings's advice to be prudent, feels hopeful. By that afternoon, she seems much better, and the doctor says she's out of danger. Mrs. Jennings cheers up instantly, but Elinor can't - she's relieved and full of gratitude, but she can't express it. Instead, she stays with Marianne all afternoon, calming down. That evening, Elinor awaits the arrival of her mother and Colonel Brandon, who are expected around ten o'clock that night. A carriage pulls up around eight instead - and in it is Willoughby!", "analysis": ""}

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

Chapter 43

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-43

Marianne gets up the morning and tries to act like she's OK, but she's clearly still really sick. Elinor nurses her calmly, but Colonel Brandon is worried. After another night of illness, Elinor, following Mrs. Jennings's advice, calls the Palmers' doctor. He examines the patient, and says that she should recover from her "infection" in a few days. This freaks out Mrs. Palmer for her baby's sake, though, and she and the baby go to stay with a relative for a while, just to be safe. Mr. Palmer is set to join her in a couple of days. Mrs. Jennings, however, staunchly says that she will stay with Marianne and Elinor until Marianne is better again. Elinor finds her very helpful. Marianne doesn't get any better, but fortunately doesn't get too much worse. However, her illness lasts long enough for Mr. Palmer to have to leave to meet up with his wife, as promised. Colonel Brandon also wonders if he should leave, but he's encouraged to remain by Mr. Palmer and Mrs. Jennings. Two more days pass, and Marianne doesn't mend. Colonel Brandon is extremely worried - he's obviously still in love with her. On the third day, Marianne seems better - but she gets even sicker as evening falls. That night, Marianne is at her worst; she's clearly delirious, and asks for her mother to come. Colonel Brandon goes immediately to Barton to fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Things aren't looking good for Marianne. That morning, Mrs. Jennings awakes to find out that everything has grown worse. She feels incredibly bad for everyone - she's truly concerned about Marianne herself, Elinor, and Mrs. Dashwood. The doctor, Mr. Harris, returns to check on his ailing patient. His medicines didn't work, but he has one last thing to try. This desperate, last-ditch solution, whatever it may be, seems to work; Marianne revives somewhat, and Elinor, despite Mrs. Jennings's advice to be prudent, feels hopeful. By that afternoon, she seems much better, and the doctor says she's out of danger. Mrs. Jennings cheers up instantly, but Elinor can't - she's relieved and full of gratitude, but she can't express it. Instead, she stays with Marianne all afternoon, calming down. That evening, Elinor awaits the arrival of her mother and Colonel Brandon, who are expected around ten o'clock that night. A carriage pulls up around eight instead - and in it is Willoughby!

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_17_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 18

chapter 18

{"name": "Phase III: \"The Rally,\" Chapter Eighteen", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-18", "summary": "The chapter starts with a description of Angel Clare--he's not altogether sure what he's going to do in the future, although he's smart enough that everyone always used to say that he could do anything he wanted. His decision to go into farming was a surprise to himself and to his family. Angel's father was a lot older than his mother, so his father is old enough to be his grandfather. About three years before Tess first saw Angel at the Marlott club-walking, Angel orders a book of philosophy. His father found the book, and got angry at Angel, claiming that the book might be \"moral,\" but was not \"religious\" enough for a young man like Angel, who is intending to become a minister. Um, said Angel. About that. He told his father that he didn't want to become a minister. He loved the church, but he thought that the church, as an institution, was too closed-minded. His father was devastated, and said that if Angel weren't going to become a minister, he wouldn't pay for him to attend Cambridge University. Angel said he would do without a university education. So Angel had to find another career, one that wouldn't require a university degree. He decided that farming in the American colonies would be his best bet, and so he started learning about all the different branches of farming. Now, at the Talbothays dairy, he's learning about cows and dairy farming. He's twenty-six years old, and loving the company of his fellow dairymen and dairymaids. Spending time with them has made him realize how bogus all his assumptions about farm workers were. Tess has been there for several days, and Angel has hardly noticed her, because she doesn't talk once. One day, though, he sits up and pays attention when he hears her talking with some of the other workers about out-of-body experiences. She's telling them that if you lie on your back, and watch the stars, you'll suddenly feel that you're hundreds of miles away from your body. She realizes that Angel is watching her, and becomes self-conscious at the breakfast table. Angel thinks that she is \"a genuine daughter of Nature,\" and wonders why she looks so familiar to him. He figures he must have seen her in the country on a walk sometime , and this sense of familiarity, combined with his interest in what she was saying about the stars and her soul, makes him prefer her to the other women at the farm.", "analysis": ""}

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

Phase III: "The Rally," Chapter Eighteen

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-18

The chapter starts with a description of Angel Clare--he's not altogether sure what he's going to do in the future, although he's smart enough that everyone always used to say that he could do anything he wanted. His decision to go into farming was a surprise to himself and to his family. Angel's father was a lot older than his mother, so his father is old enough to be his grandfather. About three years before Tess first saw Angel at the Marlott club-walking, Angel orders a book of philosophy. His father found the book, and got angry at Angel, claiming that the book might be "moral," but was not "religious" enough for a young man like Angel, who is intending to become a minister. Um, said Angel. About that. He told his father that he didn't want to become a minister. He loved the church, but he thought that the church, as an institution, was too closed-minded. His father was devastated, and said that if Angel weren't going to become a minister, he wouldn't pay for him to attend Cambridge University. Angel said he would do without a university education. So Angel had to find another career, one that wouldn't require a university degree. He decided that farming in the American colonies would be his best bet, and so he started learning about all the different branches of farming. Now, at the Talbothays dairy, he's learning about cows and dairy farming. He's twenty-six years old, and loving the company of his fellow dairymen and dairymaids. Spending time with them has made him realize how bogus all his assumptions about farm workers were. Tess has been there for several days, and Angel has hardly noticed her, because she doesn't talk once. One day, though, he sits up and pays attention when he hears her talking with some of the other workers about out-of-body experiences. She's telling them that if you lie on your back, and watch the stars, you'll suddenly feel that you're hundreds of miles away from your body. She realizes that Angel is watching her, and becomes self-conscious at the breakfast table. Angel thinks that she is "a genuine daughter of Nature," and wonders why she looks so familiar to him. He figures he must have seen her in the country on a walk sometime , and this sense of familiarity, combined with his interest in what she was saying about the stars and her soul, makes him prefer her to the other women at the farm.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/49.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_6_part_4.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xlviii

chapter xlviii

{"name": "Chapter XLVIII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase6-chapter45-52", "summary": "Just as he promised, Alec returns and begs to help her and her family. She finds herself wavering and writes passionately to Angel, assuring him of her undying love and begging him to either return or to send for her so she can avoid the temptation of turning to Alec", "analysis": ""}

In the afternoon the farmer made it known that the rick was to be finished that night, since there was a moon by which they could see to work, and the man with the engine was engaged for another farm on the morrow. Hence the twanging and humming and rustling proceeded with even less intermission than usual. It was not till "nammet"-time, about three o-clock, that Tess raised her eyes and gave a momentary glance round. She felt but little surprise at seeing that Alec d'Urberville had come back, and was standing under the hedge by the gate. He had seen her lift her eyes, and waved his hand urbanely to her, while he blew her a kiss. It meant that their quarrel was over. Tess looked down again, and carefully abstained from gazing in that direction. Thus the afternoon dragged on. The wheat-rick shrank lower, and the straw-rick grew higher, and the corn-sacks were carted away. At six o'clock the wheat-rick was about shoulder-high from the ground. But the unthreshed sheaves remaining untouched seemed countless still, notwithstanding the enormous numbers that had been gulped down by the insatiable swallower, fed by the man and Tess, through whose two young hands the greater part of them had passed. And the immense stack of straw where in the morning there had been nothing, appeared as the faeces of the same buzzing red glutton. From the west sky a wrathful shine--all that wild March could afford in the way of sunset--had burst forth after the cloudy day, flooding the tired and sticky faces of the threshers, and dyeing them with a coppery light, as also the flapping garments of the women, which clung to them like dull flames. A panting ache ran through the rick. The man who fed was weary, and Tess could see that the red nape of his neck was encrusted with dirt and husks. She still stood at her post, her flushed and perspiring face coated with the corndust, and her white bonnet embrowned by it. She was the only woman whose place was upon the machine so as to be shaken bodily by its spinning, and the decrease of the stack now separated her from Marian and Izz, and prevented their changing duties with her as they had done. The incessant quivering, in which every fibre of her frame participated, had thrown her into a stupefied reverie in which her arms worked on independently of her consciousness. She hardly knew where she was, and did not hear Izz Huett tell her from below that her hair was tumbling down. By degrees the freshest among them began to grow cadaverous and saucer-eyed. Whenever Tess lifted her head she beheld always the great upgrown straw-stack, with the men in shirt-sleeves upon it, against the gray north sky; in front of it the long red elevator like a Jacob's ladder, on which a perpetual stream of threshed straw ascended, a yellow river running uphill, and spouting out on the top of the rick. She knew that Alec d'Urberville was still on the scene, observing her from some point or other, though she could not say where. There was an excuse for his remaining, for when the threshed rick drew near its final sheaves a little ratting was always done, and men unconnected with the threshing sometimes dropped in for that performance--sporting characters of all descriptions, gents with terriers and facetious pipes, roughs with sticks and stones. But there was another hour's work before the layer of live rats at the base of the stack would be reached; and as the evening light in the direction of the Giant's Hill by Abbot's-Cernel dissolved away, the white-faced moon of the season arose from the horizon that lay towards Middleton Abbey and Shottsford on the other side. For the last hour or two Marian had felt uneasy about Tess, whom she could not get near enough to speak to, the other women having kept up their strength by drinking ale, and Tess having done without it through traditionary dread, owing to its results at her home in childhood. But Tess still kept going: if she could not fill her part she would have to leave; and this contingency, which she would have regarded with equanimity and even with relief a month or two earlier, had become a terror since d'Urberville had begun to hover round her. The sheaf-pitchers and feeders had now worked the rick so low that people on the ground could talk to them. To Tess's surprise Farmer Groby came up on the machine to her, and said that if she desired to join her friend he did not wish her to keep on any longer, and would send somebody else to take her place. The "friend" was d'Urberville, she knew, and also that this concession had been granted in obedience to the request of that friend, or enemy. She shook her head and toiled on. The time for the rat-catching arrived at last, and the hunt began. The creatures had crept downwards with the subsidence of the rick till they were all together at the bottom, and being now uncovered from their last refuge, they ran across the open ground in all directions, a loud shriek from the by-this-time half-tipsy Marian informing her companions that one of the rats had invaded her person--a terror which the rest of the women had guarded against by various schemes of skirt-tucking and self-elevation. The rat was at last dislodged, and, amid the barking of dogs, masculine shouts, feminine screams, oaths, stampings, and confusion as of Pandemonium, Tess untied her last sheaf; the drum slowed, the whizzing ceased, and she stepped from the machine to the ground. Her lover, who had only looked on at the rat-catching, was promptly at her side. "What--after all--my insulting slap, too!" said she in an underbreath. She was so utterly exhausted that she had not strength to speak louder. "I should indeed be foolish to feel offended at anything you say or do," he answered, in the seductive voice of the Trantridge time. "How the little limbs tremble! You are as weak as a bled calf, you know you are; and yet you need have done nothing since I arrived. How could you be so obstinate? However, I have told the farmer that he has no right to employ women at steam-threshing. It is not proper work for them; and on all the better class of farms it has been given up, as he knows very well. I will walk with you as far as your home." "O yes," she answered with a jaded gait. "Walk wi' me if you will! I do bear in mind that you came to marry me before you knew o' my state. Perhaps--perhaps you are a little better and kinder than I have been thinking you were. Whatever is meant as kindness I am grateful for; whatever is meant in any other way I am angered at. I cannot sense your meaning sometimes." "If I cannot legitimize our former relations at least I can assist you. And I will do it with much more regard for your feelings than I formerly showed. My religious mania, or whatever it was, is over. But I retain a little good nature; I hope I do. Now, Tess, by all that's tender and strong between man and woman, trust me! I have enough and more than enough to put you out of anxiety, both for yourself and your parents and sisters. I can make them all comfortable if you will only show confidence in me." "Have you seen 'em lately?" she quickly inquired. "Yes. They didn't know where you were. It was only by chance that I found you here." The cold moon looked aslant upon Tess's fagged face between the twigs of the garden-hedge as she paused outside the cottage which was her temporary home, d'Urberville pausing beside her. "Don't mention my little brothers and sisters--don't make me break down quite!" she said. "If you want to help them--God knows they need it--do it without telling me. But no, no!" she cried. "I will take nothing from you, either for them or for me!" He did not accompany her further, since, as she lived with the household, all was public indoors. No sooner had she herself entered, laved herself in a washing-tub, and shared supper with the family than she fell into thought, and withdrawing to the table under the wall, by the light of her own little lamp wrote in a passionate mood-- MY OWN HUSBAND,-- Let me call you so--I must--even if it makes you angry to think of such an unworthy wife as I. I must cry to you in my trouble--I have no one else! I am so exposed to temptation, Angel. I fear to say who it is, and I do not like to write about it at all. But I cling to you in a way you cannot think! Can you not come to me now, at once, before anything terrible happens? O, I know you cannot, because you are so far away! I think I must die if you do not come soon, or tell me to come to you. The punishment you have measured out to me is deserved--I do know that-- well deserved--and you are right and just to be angry with me. But, Angel, please, please, not to be just--only a little kind to me, even if I do not deserve it, and come to me! If you would come, I could die in your arms! I would be well content to do that if so be you had forgiven me! Angel, I live entirely for you. I love you too much to blame you for going away, and I know it was necessary you should find a farm. Do not think I shall say a word of sting or bitterness. Only come back to me. I am desolate without you, my darling, O, so desolate! I do not mind having to work: but if you will send me one little line, and say, "I am coming soon," I will bide on, Angel--O, so cheerfully! It has been so much my religion ever since we were married to be faithful to you in every thought and look, that even when a man speaks a compliment to me before I am aware, it seems wronging you. Have you never felt one little bit of what you used to feel when we were at the dairy? If you have, how can you keep away from me? I am the same women, Angel, as you fell in love with; yes, the very same!--not the one you disliked but never saw. What was the past to me as soon as I met you? It was a dead thing altogether. I became another woman, filled full of new life from you. How could I be the early one? Why do you not see this? Dear, if you would only be a little more conceited, and believe in yourself so far as to see that you were strong enough to work this change in me, you would perhaps be in a mind to come to me, your poor wife. How silly I was in my happiness when I thought I could trust you always to love me! I ought to have known that such as that was not for poor me. But I am sick at heart, not only for old times, but for the present. Think--think how it do hurt my heart not to see you ever--ever! Ah, if I could only make your dear heart ache one little minute of each day as mine does every day and all day long, it might lead you to show pity to your poor lonely one. People still say that I am rather pretty, Angel (handsome is the word they use, since I wish to be truthful). Perhaps I am what they say. But I do not value my good looks; I only like to have them because they belong to you, my dear, and that there may be at least one thing about me worth your having. So much have I felt this, that when I met with annoyance on account of the same, I tied up my face in a bandage as long as people would believe in it. O Angel, I tell you all this not from vanity--you will certainly know I do not--but only that you may come to me! If you really cannot come to me, will you let me come to you? I am, as I say, worried, pressed to do what I will not do. It cannot be that I shall yield one inch, yet I am in terror as to what an accident might lead to, and I so defenceless on account of my first error. I cannot say more about this--it makes me too miserable. But if I break down by falling into some fearful snare, my last state will be worse than my first. O God, I cannot think of it! Let me come at once, or at once come to me! I would be content, ay, glad, to live with you as your servant, if I may not as your wife; so that I could only be near you, and get glimpses of you, and think of you as mine. The daylight has nothing to show me, since you are not here, and I don't like to see the rooks and starlings in the field, because I grieve and grieve to miss you who used to see them with me. I long for only one thing in heaven or earth or under the earth, to meet you, my own dear! Come to me--come to me, and save me from what threatens me!-- Your faithful heartbroken TESS

Chapter XLVIII

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

Just as he promised, Alec returns and begs to help her and her family. She finds herself wavering and writes passionately to Angel, assuring him of her undying love and begging him to either return or to send for her so she can avoid the temptation of turning to Alec

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/64.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_63_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 34

part 2, chapter 34

{"name": "Part 2, Chapter 34", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-34", "summary": "The Marquis de La Mole finally caves and gives Julien some of his property in the town of Languedoc for his future income. After that, the marquis doesn't want to have any more relationship with Julien or his daughter. Mathilde writes back and begs her father to attend the marriage ceremony. The marquis' first thought is to give Julien a ton of money to leave Europe forever and write a note to Mathilde saying he was going to kill himself. In the end, he decides not to. The main question that the marquis worries about is whether Julien began his relationship with Mathilde with the intent of scamming money. In the end, the marquis gets Julien a high posting in the army, which basically makes him a respectable dude in French society. This is really the final thing Julien needs to rise out of his lower class status. He even takes on the new name of Julien de La Vernaye. Everything finally looks like it's all wrapped up nicely.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER LXIV A MAN OF INTELLECT The prefect said to himself as he rode along the highway on horseback, "why should I not be a minister, a president of the council, a duke? This is how I should make war.... By these means I should have all the reformers put in irons."--_The Globe_. No argument will succeed in destroying the paramount influence of ten years of agreeable dreaming. The marquis thought it illogical to be angry, but could not bring himself to forgive. "If only this Julien could die by accident," he sometimes said to himself. It was in this way that his depressed imagination found a certain relief in running after the most absurd chimaeras. They paralysed the influence of the wise arguments of the abbe Pirard. A month went by in this way without negotiations advancing one single stage. The marquis had in this family matter, just as he had in politics, brilliant ideas over which he would be enthusiastic for two or three days. And then a line of tactics would fail to please him because it was based on sound arguments, while arguments only found favour in his eyes in so far as they were based on his favourite plan. He would work for three days with all the ardour and enthusiasm of a poet on bringing matters to a certain stage; on the following day he would not give it a thought. Julien was at first disconcerted by the slowness of the marquis; but, after some weeks, he began to surmise that M. de La Mole had no definite plan with regard to this matter. Madame de La Mole and the whole household believed that Julien was travelling in the provinces in connection with the administration of the estates; he was in hiding in the parsonage of the abbe Pirard and saw Mathilde every day; every morning she would spend an hour with her father, but they would sometimes go for weeks on end without talking of the matter which engrossed all their thoughts. "I don't want to know where the man is," said the marquis to her one day. "Send him this letter." Mathilde read: "The Languedoc estates bring in 20,600 francs. I give 10,600 francs to my daughter, and 10,000 francs to M. Julien Sorel. It is understood that I give the actual estates. Tell the notary to draw up two separate deeds of gift, and to bring them to me to-morrow, after this there are to be no more relations between us. Ah, Monsieur, could I have expected all this? The marquis de La Mole." "I thank you very much," said Mathilde gaily. "We will go and settle in the Chateau d'Aiguillon, between Agen and Marmande. The country is said to be as beautiful as Italy." This gift was an extreme surprise to Julien. He was no longer the cold, severe man whom we have hitherto known. His thoughts were engrossed in advance by his son's destiny. This unexpected fortune, substantial as it was for a man as poor as himself, made him ambitious. He pictured a time when both his wife and himself would have an income of 36,000 francs. As for Mathilde, all her emotions were concentrated on her adoration for her husband, for that was the name by which her pride insisted on calling Julien. Her one great ambition was to secure the recognition of her marriage. She passed her time in exaggerating to herself the consummate prudence which she had manifested in linking her fate to that of a superior man. The idea of personal merit became a positive craze with her. Julien's almost continuous absence, coupled with the complications of business matters and the little time available in which to talk love, completed the good effect produced by the wise tactics which Julien had previously discovered. Mathilde finished by losing patience at seeing so little of the man whom she had come really to love. In a moment of irritation she wrote to her father and commenced her letter like Othello: "My very choice is sufficient proof that I have preferred Julien to all the advantages which society offered to the daughter of the marquis de la Mole. Such pleasures, based as they are on prestige and petty vanity mean nothing to me. It is now nearly six weeks since I have lived separated from my husband. That is sufficient to manifest my respect for yourself. Before next Thursday I shall leave the paternal house. Your acts of kindness have enriched us. No one knows my secret except the venerable abbe Pirard. I shall go to him: he will marry us, and an hour after the ceremony we shall be on the road to Languedoc, and we will never appear again in Paris except by your instructions. But what cuts me to the quick is that all this will provide the subject matter for piquant anecdotes against me and against yourself. May not the epigrams of a foolish public compel our excellent Norbert to pick a quarrel with Julien, under such circumstances I know I should have no control over him. We should discover in his soul the mark of the rebel plebian. Oh father, I entreat you on my knees, come and be present at my marriage in M. Pirard's church next Thursday. It will blunt the sting of malignant scandal and will guarantee the life's happiness of your only daughter, and of that of my husband, etc., etc." This letter threw the marquis's soul into a strange embarrassment. He must at last take a definite line. All his little habits: all his vulgar friends had lost their influence. In these strange circumstances the great lines of his character, which had been formed by the events of his youth, reassumed all their original force. The misfortunes of the emigration had made him into an imaginative man. After having enjoyed for two years an immense fortune and all the distinctions of the court, 1790 had flung him into the awful miseries of the emigration. This hard schooling had changed the character of a spirit of twenty-two. In essence, he was not so much dominated by his present riches as encamped in their midst. But that very imagination which had preserved his soul from the taint of avarice, had made him a victim of a mad passion for seeing his daughter decorated by a fine title. During the six weeks which had just elapsed, the marquis had felt at times impelled by a caprice for making Julien rich. He considered poverty mean, humiliating for himself, M. de la Mole, and impossible in his daughter's husband; he was ready to lavish money. On the next day his imagination would go off on another tack, and he would think that Julien would read between the lines of this financial generosity, change his name, exile himself to America, and write to Mathilde that he was dead for her. M. de la Mole imagined this letter written, and went so far as to follow its effect on his daughter's character. The day when he was awakened from these highly youthful dreams by Mathilde's actual letter after he had been thinking for along time of killing Julien or securing his disappearance he was dreaming of building up a brilliant position for him. He would make him take the name of one of his estates, and why should he not make him inherit a peerage? His father-in-law, M. the duke de Chaulnes, had, since the death of his own son in Spain, frequently spoken to him about his desire to transmit his title to Norbert.... "One cannot help owning that Julien has a singular aptitude for affairs, had boldness, and is possibly even brilliant," said the marquis to himself ... "but I detect at the root of his character a certain element which alarms me. He produces the same impression upon everyone, consequently there must be something real in it," and the more difficult this reality was to seize hold of, the more it alarmed the imaginative mind of the old marquis. "My daughter expressed the same point very neatly the other day (in a suppressed letter). "Julien has not joined any salon or any coterie. He has nothing to support himself against me, and has absolutely no resource if I abandon him. Now is that ignorance of the actual state of society? I have said to him two or three times, the only real and profitable candidature is the candidature of the salons. "No, he has not the adroit, cunning genius of an attorney who never loses a minute or an opportunity. He is very far from being a character like Louis XL. On the other hand, I have seen him quote the most ungenerous maxims ... it is beyond me. Can it be that he simply repeats these maxims in order to use them as a _dam_ against his passions? "However, one thing comes to the surface; he cannot bear contempt, that's my hold on him. "He has not, it is true, the religious reverence for high birth. He does not instinctively respect us.... That is wrong; but after all, the only things which are supposed to make the soul of a seminary student impatient are lack of enjoyment and lack of money. He is quite different, and cannot stand contempt at any price." Pressed as he was by his daughter's letter, M. de la Mole realised the necessity for making up his mind. "After all, the great question is this:--Did Julien's audacity go to the point of setting out to make advances to my daughter because he knows I love her more than anything else in the world, and because I have an income of a hundred thousand crowns?" Mathilde protests to the contrary.... "No, monsieur Julien, that is a point on which I am not going to be under any illusion. "Is it really a case of spontaneous and authentic love? or is it just a vulgar desire to raise himself to a fine position? Mathilde is far-seeing; she appreciated from the first that this suspicion might ruin him with me--hence that confession of hers. It was she who took upon herself to love him the first. "The idea of a girl of so proud a character so far forgetting herself as to make physical advances! To think of pressing his arm in the garden in the evening! How horrible! As though there were not a hundred other less unseemly ways of notifying him that he was the object of her favour. "_Qui s'excuse s'accuse_; I distrust Mathilde." The marquis's reasoning was more conclusive to-day than it was usually. Nevertheless, force of habit prevailed, and he resolved to gain time by writing to his daughter, for a correspondence was being carried on between one wing of the hotel and the other. M. de la Mole did not dare to discuss matters with Mathilde and to see her face to face. He was frightened of clinching the whole matter by yielding suddenly. "Mind you commit no new acts of madness; here is a commission of lieutenant of Hussars for M. the chevalier, Julien Sorel de la Vernaye. You see what I am doing for him. Do not irritate me. Do not question me. Let him leave within twenty-four hours and present himself at Strasbourg where his regiment is. Here is an order on my banker. Obey me." Mathilde's love and joy were unlimited. She wished to profit by her victory and immediately replied. "If M. de la Vernaye knew all that you are good enough to do for him, he would be overwhelmed with gratitude and be at your feet. But amidst all this generosity, my father has forgotten me; your daughter's honour is in peril. An indiscretion may produce an everlasting blot which an income of twenty thousand crowns could not put right. I will only send the commission to M. de la Vernaye if you give me your word that my marriage will be publicly celebrated at Villequier in the course of next month. Shortly after that period, which I entreat you not to prolong, your daughter will only be able to appear in public under the name of Madame de la Vernaye. How I thank you, dear papa, for having saved me from the name of Sorel, etc., etc." The reply was unexpected: "Obey or I retract everything. Tremble, you imprudent young girl. I do not yet know what your Julien is, and you yourself know less than I. Let him leave for Strasbourg, and try to act straightly. I will notify him from here of my wishes within a fortnight." Mathilde was astonished by this firm answer. _I do not know Julien_. These words threw her into a reverie which soon finished in the most fascinating suppositions; but she believed in their truth. My Julien's intellect is not clothed in the petty mean uniform of the salons, and my father refuses to believe in his superiority by reason of the very fact which proves it. All the same, if I do not obey this whim of his, I see the possibility of a public scene; a scandal would lower my position in society, and might render me less fascinating in Julien's eyes. After the scandal ... ten years of poverty; and the only thing which can prevent marrying for merit becoming ridiculous is the most brilliant wealth. If I live far away from my father, he is old and may forget me.... Norbert will marry some clever, charming woman; old Louis XIV. was seduced by the duchess of Burgundy. She decided to obey, but refrained from communicating her father's letter to Julien. It might perhaps have been that ferocious character driven to some act of madness. Julien's joy was unlimited when she informed him in the evening that he was a lieutenant of Hussars. Its extent can be imagined from the fact that this had constituted the ambition of his whole life, and also from the passion which he now had for his son. The change of name struck him with astonishment. "After all," he thought, "I have got to the end of my romance, and I deserve all the credit. I have managed to win the love of that monster of pride," he added, looking at Mathilde. "Her father cannot live without her, nor she without me."

Part 2, Chapter 34

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-34

The Marquis de La Mole finally caves and gives Julien some of his property in the town of Languedoc for his future income. After that, the marquis doesn't want to have any more relationship with Julien or his daughter. Mathilde writes back and begs her father to attend the marriage ceremony. The marquis' first thought is to give Julien a ton of money to leave Europe forever and write a note to Mathilde saying he was going to kill himself. In the end, he decides not to. The main question that the marquis worries about is whether Julien began his relationship with Mathilde with the intent of scamming money. In the end, the marquis gets Julien a high posting in the army, which basically makes him a respectable dude in French society. This is really the final thing Julien needs to rise out of his lower class status. He even takes on the new name of Julien de La Vernaye. Everything finally looks like it's all wrapped up nicely.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/69.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_68_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 39

part 2, chapter 39

{"name": "Part 2, Chapter 39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-39", "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.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER LXIX THE INTRIGUE Castres 1676--A brother has just murdered his sister in the house next to mine. This gentleman had already been guilty of one murder. His father saved his life by causing five-hundred crowns to be distributed among the councillors.--_Locke: Journey in France_. When she left the bishop's palace, Mathilde did not hesitate to despatch a courier to madame de Fervaques. The fear of compromising herself did not stop her for a moment. She entreated her rival to obtain for M. de Frilair an autograph letter from the bishop of ----. She went as far as to entreat her to come herself to Besancon with all speed. This was an heroic act on the part of a proud and jealous soul. Acting on Fouque's advice, she had had the discretion to refrain from mentioning the steps she had taken for Julien. Her presence troubled him enough without that. A better man when face to face with death than he had ever been during his life, he had remorse not only towards M. de la Mole, but also towards Mathilde. "Come," he said to himself, "there are times when I feel absent-minded and even bored by her society. She is ruining herself on my account, and this is how I reward her. Am I really a scoundrel?" This question would have bothered him but little in the days when he was ambitious. In those days he looked upon failure as the only disgrace. His moral discomfort when with Mathilde was proportionately emphasized by the fact that he inspired her at this time with the maddest and most extraordinary passion. She talked of nothing but the strange sacrifices that she was ready to make in order to save him. Exalted as she was by a sentiment on which she plumed herself, to the complete subordination of her pride, she would have liked not to have let a single minute of her life go by without filling it with some extraordinary act. The strangest projects, and ones involving her in the utmost danger, supplied the topics of her long interviews with Julien. The well-paid gaolers allowed her to reign over the prison. Mathilde's ideas were not limited by the sacrifice of her reputation. She would have thought nothing of making her condition known to society at large. Throwing herself on her knees before the king's carriage as it galloped along, in order to ask for Julien's pardon, and thus attracting the attention of the prince, at the risk of being crushed a thousand times over, was one of the least fantastic dreams in which this exalted and courageous imagination chose to indulge. She was certain of being admitted into the reserved portion of the park of St. Cloud, through those friends of hers who were employed at the king's court. Julien thought himself somewhat unworthy of so much devotion. As a matter of fact, he was tired of heroism. A simple, naive, and almost timid tenderness was what would have appealed to him, while Mathilde's haughty soul, on the other hand, always required the idea of a public and an audience. In the midst of all her anguish and all her fears for the life of that lover whom she was unwilling to survive, she felt a secret need of astonishing the public by the extravagance of her love and the sublimity of her actions. Julien felt irritated at not finding himself touched by all this heroism. What would he have felt if he had known of all the mad ideas with which Mathilde overwhelmed the devoted but eminently logical and limited spirit of the good Fouque? He did not know what to find fault with in Mathilde's devotion. For he, too, would have sacrificed all his fortune, and have exposed his life to the greatest risks in order to save Julien. He was dumbfounded by the quantity of gold which Mathilde flung away. During the first days Fouque, who had all the provincial's respect for money, was much impressed by the sums she spent in this way. He at last discovered that mademoiselle de la Mole's projects frequently varied, and he was greatly relieved at finding a word with which to express his blame for a character whom he found so exhausting. She was changeable. There is only a step from this epithet to that of wrong-headed, the greatest term of opprobrium known to the provinces. "It is singular," said Julien to himself, as Mathilde was going out of his prison one day, "that I should be so insensible at being the object of so keen a passion! And two months ago I adored her! I have, of course, read that the approach of death makes one lose interest in everything, but it is awful to feel oneself ungrateful, and not to be able to change. Am I an egoist, then?" He addressed the most humiliating reproaches to himself on this score. Ambition was dead in his heart; another passion had arisen from its ashes. He called it remorse at having assassinated madame de Renal. As a matter of fact, he loved her to the point of distraction. He experienced a singular happiness on these occasions when, being left absolutely alone, and without being afraid of being interrupted, he could surrender himself completely to the memory of the happy days which he had once passed at Verrieres, or at Vergy. The slightest incidents of these days, which had fleeted away only too rapidly, possessed an irresistible freshness and charm. He never gave a thought to his Paris successes; they bored him. These moods, which became intensified with every succeeding day, were partly guessed by the jealous Mathilde. She realised very clearly that she had to struggle against his love of solitude. Sometimes, with terror in her heart, she uttered madame de Renal's name. She saw Julien quiver. Henceforth her passion had neither bounds nor limit. "If he dies, I will die after him," she said to herself in all good faith. "What will the Paris salons say when they see a girl of my own rank carry her adoration for a lover who is condemned to death to such a pitch as this? For sentiments like these you must go back to the age of the heroes. It was loves of this kind which thrilled the hearts of the century of Charles IX. and Henri III." In the midst of her keenest transports, when she was clasping Julien's head against her heart, she would say to herself with horror, "What! is this charming head doomed to fall? Well," she added, inflamed by a not unhappy heroism, "these lips of mine, which are now pressing against this pretty hair, will be icy cold less than twenty-four hours afterwards." Thoughts of the awful voluptuousness of such heroic moments gripped her in a compelling embrace. The idea of suicide, absorbing enough in itself, entered that haughty soul (to which, up to the present it had been so utterly alien), and soon reigned over it with an absolute dominion. "No, the blood of my ancestors has not grown tepid in descending to me," said Mathilde proudly to herself. "I have a favour to ask of you," said her lover to her one day. "Put your child out to nurse at Verrieres. Madame de Renal will look after the nurse." "Those words of yours are very harsh." And Mathilde paled. "It is true, and I ask your pardon a thousand times," exclaimed Julien, emerging from his reverie, and clasping her in his arms. After having dried his tears, he reverted to his original idea, but with greater tact. He had given a twist of melancholy philosophy to the conversation. He talked of that future of his which was so soon going to close. "One must admit, dear one, that passions are an accident in life, but such accidents only occur in superior souls.... My son's death would be in reality a happiness for your own proud family, and all the servants will realize as much. Neglect will be the lot of that child of shame and unhappiness. I hope that, at a time which I do not wish to fix, but which nevertheless I am courageous enough to imagine, you will obey my last advice: you will marry the marquis de Croisenois." "What? Dishonoured?" "Dishonour cannot attach to a name such as yours. You will be a widow, and the widow of a madman--that is all. I will go further--my crime will confer no dishonour, since it had no money motive. Perhaps when the time comes for your marriage, some philosophic legislator will have so far prevailed on the prejudice of his contemporaries as to have secured the suppression of the death penalty. Then some friendly voice will say, by way of giving an instance: 'Why, madame de la Mole's first husband was a madman, but not a wicked man or a criminal. It was absurd to have his head cut off.' So my memory will not be infamous in any way--at least, after a certain time.... Your position in society, your fortune, and, if you will allow me to say so, your genius, will make M. de Croisenois, once he is your husband, play a part which he would have never managed to secure unaided. He only possesses birth and bravery, and those qualities alone, though they constituted an accomplished man in 1729, are an anachronism a century later on, and only give rise to unwarranted pretensions. You need other things if you are to place yourself at the head of the youth of France." "You will take all the help of your firm and enterprising character to the political party which you will make your husband join. You may be able to be a successor to the Chevreuses and the Longuevilles of the Fronde--but then, dear one, the divine fire which animates you at present will have grown a little tepid. Allow me to tell you," he added, "after many other preparatory phrases, that in fifteen years' time you will look upon the love you once had for me as a madness, which though excusable, was a piece of madness all the same." He stopped suddenly and became meditative. He found himself again confronted with the idea which shocked Mathilde so much: "In fifteen years, madame de Renal will adore my son and you will have forgotten him."

Part 2, Chapter 39

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-39

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.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_18_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 19

chapter 19

{"name": "Chapter 19", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-19", "summary": "It's no suprise that Jim starts to become notorious for running away from jobs. He gets a gig with the Yucker Brothers, which once again starts out well, but then Jim gets into a barroom brawl with a Danish guy over the Patna affair and has to skip town yet again. You'd think that would teach him a lesson, right? Alas, not so much. When Marlow gets him another job with a dude named De Jongh, Jim promptly quits that one, too. At his wits' end, Marlow decides to discuss Jim with a friend of his, a German merchant and naturalist named Stein.", "analysis": ""}

'I have told you these two episodes at length to show his manner of dealing with himself under the new conditions of his life. There were many others of the sort, more than I could count on the fingers of my two hands. They were all equally tinged by a high-minded absurdity of intention which made their futility profound and touching. To fling away your daily bread so as to get your hands free for a grapple with a ghost may be an act of prosaic heroism. Men had done it before (though we who have lived know full well that it is not the haunted soul but the hungry body that makes an outcast), and men who had eaten and meant to eat every day had applauded the creditable folly. He was indeed unfortunate, for all his recklessness could not carry him out from under the shadow. There was always a doubt of his courage. The truth seems to be that it is impossible to lay the ghost of a fact. You can face it or shirk it--and I have come across a man or two who could wink at their familiar shades. Obviously Jim was not of the winking sort; but what I could never make up my mind about was whether his line of conduct amounted to shirking his ghost or to facing him out. 'I strained my mental eyesight only to discover that, as with the complexion of all our actions, the shade of difference was so delicate that it was impossible to say. It might have been flight and it might have been a mode of combat. To the common mind he became known as a rolling stone, because this was the funniest part: he did after a time become perfectly known, and even notorious, within the circle of his wanderings (which had a diameter of, say, three thousand miles), in the same way as an eccentric character is known to a whole countryside. For instance, in Bankok, where he found employment with Yucker Brothers, charterers and teak merchants, it was almost pathetic to see him go about in sunshine hugging his secret, which was known to the very up-country logs on the river. Schomberg, the keeper of the hotel where he boarded, a hirsute Alsatian of manly bearing and an irrepressible retailer of all the scandalous gossip of the place, would, with both elbows on the table, impart an adorned version of the story to any guest who cared to imbibe knowledge along with the more costly liquors. "And, mind you, the nicest fellow you could meet," would be his generous conclusion; "quite superior." It says a lot for the casual crowd that frequented Schomberg's establishment that Jim managed to hang out in Bankok for a whole six months. I remarked that people, perfect strangers, took to him as one takes to a nice child. His manner was reserved, but it was as though his personal appearance, his hair, his eyes, his smile, made friends for him wherever he went. And, of course, he was no fool. I heard Siegmund Yucker (native of Switzerland), a gentle creature ravaged by a cruel dyspepsia, and so frightfully lame that his head swung through a quarter of a circle at every step he took, declare appreciatively that for one so young he was "of great gabasidy," as though it had been a mere question of cubic contents. "Why not send him up country?" I suggested anxiously. (Yucker Brothers had concessions and teak forests in the interior.) "If he has capacity, as you say, he will soon get hold of the work. And physically he is very fit. His health is always excellent." "Ach! It's a great ting in dis goundry to be vree vrom tispep-shia," sighed poor Yucker enviously, casting a stealthy glance at the pit of his ruined stomach. I left him drumming pensively on his desk and muttering, "Es ist ein' Idee. Es ist ein' Idee." Unfortunately, that very evening an unpleasant affair took place in the hotel. 'I don't know that I blame Jim very much, but it was a truly regrettable incident. It belonged to the lamentable species of bar-room scuffles, and the other party to it was a cross-eyed Dane of sorts whose visiting-card recited, under his misbegotten name: first lieutenant in the Royal Siamese Navy. The fellow, of course, was utterly hopeless at billiards, but did not like to be beaten, I suppose. He had had enough to drink to turn nasty after the sixth game, and make some scornful remark at Jim's expense. Most of the people there didn't hear what was said, and those who had heard seemed to have had all precise recollection scared out of them by the appalling nature of the consequences that immediately ensued. It was very lucky for the Dane that he could swim, because the room opened on a verandah and the Menam flowed below very wide and black. A boat-load of Chinamen, bound, as likely as not, on some thieving expedition, fished out the officer of the King of Siam, and Jim turned up at about midnight on board my ship without a hat. "Everybody in the room seemed to know," he said, gasping yet from the contest, as it were. He was rather sorry, on general principles, for what had happened, though in this case there had been, he said, "no option." But what dismayed him was to find the nature of his burden as well known to everybody as though he had gone about all that time carrying it on his shoulders. Naturally after this he couldn't remain in the place. He was universally condemned for the brutal violence, so unbecoming a man in his delicate position; some maintained he had been disgracefully drunk at the time; others criticised his want of tact. Even Schomberg was very much annoyed. "He is a very nice young man," he said argumentatively to me, "but the lieutenant is a first-rate fellow too. He dines every night at my table d'hote, you know. And there's a billiard-cue broken. I can't allow that. First thing this morning I went over with my apologies to the lieutenant, and I think I've made it all right for myself; but only think, captain, if everybody started such games! Why, the man might have been drowned! And here I can't run out into the next street and buy a new cue. I've got to write to Europe for them. No, no! A temper like that won't do!" . . . He was extremely sore on the subject. 'This was the worst incident of all in his--his retreat. Nobody could deplore it more than myself; for if, as somebody said hearing him mentioned, "Oh yes! I know. He has knocked about a good deal out here," yet he had somehow avoided being battered and chipped in the process. This last affair, however, made me seriously uneasy, because if his exquisite sensibilities were to go the length of involving him in pot-house shindies, he would lose his name of an inoffensive, if aggravating, fool, and acquire that of a common loafer. For all my confidence in him I could not help reflecting that in such cases from the name to the thing itself is but a step. I suppose you will understand that by that time I could not think of washing my hands of him. I took him away from Bankok in my ship, and we had a longish passage. It was pitiful to see how he shrank within himself. A seaman, even if a mere passenger, takes an interest in a ship, and looks at the sea-life around him with the critical enjoyment of a painter, for instance, looking at another man's work. In every sense of the expression he is "on deck"; but my Jim, for the most part, skulked down below as though he had been a stowaway. He infected me so that I avoided speaking on professional matters, such as would suggest themselves naturally to two sailors during a passage. For whole days we did not exchange a word; I felt extremely unwilling to give orders to my officers in his presence. Often, when alone with him on deck or in the cabin, we didn't know what to do with our eyes. 'I placed him with De Jongh, as you know, glad enough to dispose of him in any way, yet persuaded that his position was now growing intolerable. He had lost some of that elasticity which had enabled him to rebound back into his uncompromising position after every overthrow. One day, coming ashore, I saw him standing on the quay; the water of the roadstead and the sea in the offing made one smooth ascending plane, and the outermost ships at anchor seemed to ride motionless in the sky. He was waiting for his boat, which was being loaded at our feet with packages of small stores for some vessel ready to leave. After exchanging greetings, we remained silent--side by side. "Jove!" he said suddenly, "this is killing work." 'He smiled at me; I must say he generally could manage a smile. I made no reply. I knew very well he was not alluding to his duties; he had an easy time of it with De Jongh. Nevertheless, as soon as he had spoken I became completely convinced that the work was killing. I did not even look at him. "Would you like," said I, "to leave this part of the world altogether; try California or the West Coast? I'll see what I can do . . ." He interrupted me a little scornfully. "What difference would it make?" . . . I felt at once convinced that he was right. It would make no difference; it was not relief he wanted; I seemed to perceive dimly that what he wanted, what he was, as it were, waiting for, was something not easy to define--something in the nature of an opportunity. I had given him many opportunities, but they had been merely opportunities to earn his bread. Yet what more could any man do? The position struck me as hopeless, and poor Brierly's saying recurred to me, "Let him creep twenty feet underground and stay there." Better that, I thought, than this waiting above ground for the impossible. Yet one could not be sure even of that. There and then, before his boat was three oars' lengths away from the quay, I had made up my mind to go and consult Stein in the evening. 'This Stein was a wealthy and respected merchant. His "house" (because it was a house, Stein & Co., and there was some sort of partner who, as Stein said, "looked after the Moluccas") had a large inter-island business, with a lot of trading posts established in the most out-of-the-way places for collecting the produce. His wealth and his respectability were not exactly the reasons why I was anxious to seek his advice. I desired to confide my difficulty to him because he was one of the most trustworthy men I had ever known. The gentle light of a simple, unwearied, as it were, and intelligent good-nature illumined his long hairless face. It had deep downward folds, and was pale as of a man who had always led a sedentary life--which was indeed very far from being the case. His hair was thin, and brushed back from a massive and lofty forehead. One fancied that at twenty he must have looked very much like what he was now at threescore. It was a student's face; only the eyebrows nearly all white, thick and bushy, together with the resolute searching glance that came from under them, were not in accord with his, I may say, learned appearance. He was tall and loose-jointed; his slight stoop, together with an innocent smile, made him appear benevolently ready to lend you his ear; his long arms with pale big hands had rare deliberate gestures of a pointing out, demonstrating kind. I speak of him at length, because under this exterior, and in conjunction with an upright and indulgent nature, this man possessed an intrepidity of spirit and a physical courage that could have been called reckless had it not been like a natural function of the body--say good digestion, for instance--completely unconscious of itself. It is sometimes said of a man that he carries his life in his hand. Such a saying would have been inadequate if applied to him; during the early part of his existence in the East he had been playing ball with it. All this was in the past, but I knew the story of his life and the origin of his fortune. He was also a naturalist of some distinction, or perhaps I should say a learned collector. Entomology was his special study. His collection of Buprestidae and Longicorns--beetles all--horrible miniature monsters, looking malevolent in death and immobility, and his cabinet of butterflies, beautiful and hovering under the glass of cases on lifeless wings, had spread his fame far over the earth. The name of this merchant, adventurer, sometime adviser of a Malay sultan (to whom he never alluded otherwise than as "my poor Mohammed Bonso"), had, on account of a few bushels of dead insects, become known to learned persons in Europe, who could have had no conception, and certainly would not have cared to know anything, of his life or character. I, who knew, considered him an eminently suitable person to receive my confidences about Jim's difficulties as well as my own.'

Chapter 19

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-19

It's no suprise that Jim starts to become notorious for running away from jobs. He gets a gig with the Yucker Brothers, which once again starts out well, but then Jim gets into a barroom brawl with a Danish guy over the Patna affair and has to skip town yet again. You'd think that would teach him a lesson, right? Alas, not so much. When Marlow gets him another job with a dude named De Jongh, Jim promptly quits that one, too. At his wits' end, Marlow decides to discuss Jim with a friend of his, a German merchant and naturalist named Stein.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/04.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_3_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 4

chapter 4

{"name": "Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-4", "summary": "A month later, we find Dorian hanging out alone at Lord Henry's house in Mayfair, a ritzy London neighborhood. He's waiting for Lord Henry, who's always late. For the first time, Dorian encounters the other Wotton--Lord Henry's shrill wife, Victoria. Lady Victoria is a totally ridiculous creature; she tries to be stylish, but just ends up looking foolish. Unlike her husband, she has no appreciation for art, or any of the finer things in life; instead, she's totally shallow. Fortunately, Lord Henry arrives to save Dorian from his wife. Once she's gone, Henry tells Dorian never to get married . Dorian tells Henry that he'll never get married--after all, he's too much in love. This is big news. Henry wants to know all the details, and Dorian obliges. Dorian's flame is an actress named Sibyl Vane--he claims she's a genius, even though Henry says irritatingly that women can't be geniuses. Ignoring Henry's misogyny, Dorian goes on with his story. He first discovered Sibyl three weeks ago; it actually all started with Lord Henry himself, who got Dorian thinking about all the different people out there in London, whose lives all fascinated the boy all of a sudden. As he was wandering around the city one day, he stumbled upon a sketchy little theatre, where a Jewish manager lures him inside. There, he finds what he calls \"the greatest romance of life.\" Here, Henry interjects--Dorian's too young to identify this relationship in such hyperbolic terms, and should remember that he'll always be loved, and that this is just the beginning. Only loving one person is simply too dull for Henry, and he thinks the same is true for Dorian. Dorian continues. In the tacky, dingy theatre, he discovers that the play is Romeo and Juliet. The actors, for the most part, are miserable, unattractive, and untalented. However, Juliet is a different story. The actress playing her is the most beautiful thing Dorian has ever seen--she's just seventeen, and she's so beautiful it brings tears to Dorian's eyes. Her voice is so thrilling it even gives Lord Henry's gorgeous pipes a run for their money. Sibyl Vane totally fascinates Dorian, and he's amazed by how she changes into a different person with every role she plays. He raves over how great it is to be in love with an actress. Lord Henry immediately shoots him down cynically, asking what exactly the deal is between Dorian and Sibyl. To put it bluntly, are they getting it on? Dorian is appalled at his friend's crudity, and exclaims that Sibyl is sacred--again, Henry doesn't buy this argument. Back to the story--after the play is over, the manager tries to convince Dorian to come backstage and meet Sibyl, but he refuses. Dorian returns to the theatre the next night, and the next. Finally, he feels ready to go and meet her. In real life, Sibyl is a complete innocent; she doesn't even realize how talented she is. She falls for Dorian immediately, and dubs him \"Prince Charming.\" We find out that every night since then, Dorian has gone to see Sibyl act. Henry peevishly comments that this explains why Dorian hasn't been paying him enough attention recently . Henry asks Dorian to dinner, but instead, Dorian insists that he has to go see Sibyl perform again. Dorian is in a fit of excitement--Henry notices that something has blossomed within his young friend. Dorian asks Henry to come to the theatre with Basil one night to see Sibyl. He intends to rescue her from the dreadful place she's performing in, and set her up at a posh theatre in the West End . The friends set their dinner and theatre date for the next day, then digress slightly to talk of Basil--ever since he's been chilling with Henry, Dorian finds Basil a little lacking. Dorian rushes off to the theatre in a tizzy, and Henry stays at home, pondering the wonders of human nature... specifically Dorian's. He muses that Dorian is really his creation, since Henry's influence made the boy what he is now. Henry goes on to coldly evaluate his \"experiment\" with Dorian's personality--there's something rather chilling in the way Henry looks at Dorian as a kind of lab rat, through whom he's trying to figure out the workings of the human soul and body. Finally, Henry gets ready to go out for the evening; as he leaves, he thinks again about Dorian's splendid life, and wonders ominously how it will end. When Henry gets home that night, he finds a telegram with the news that Dorian and Sibyl are engaged.", "analysis": ""}

One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry's house in Mayfair. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies that Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in London. Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had found in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going away. At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. "How late you are, Harry!" he murmured. "I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray," answered a shrill voice. He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon. I thought--" "You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my husband has got seventeen of them." "Not seventeen, Lady Henry?" "Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the opera." She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church. "That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?" "Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner's music better than anybody's. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don't you think so, Mr. Gray?" The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife. Dorian smiled and shook his head: "I am afraid I don't think so, Lady Henry. I never talk during music--at least, during good music. If one hears bad music, it is one's duty to drown it in conversation." "Ah! that is one of Harry's views, isn't it, Mr. Gray? I always hear Harry's views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of them. But you must not think I don't like good music. I adore it, but I am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped pianists--two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don't know what it is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are, ain't they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after a time, don't they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn't it? You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can't afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one's rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you something--I forget what it was--and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I've seen him." "I am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said Lord Henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile. "So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." "I am afraid I must be going," exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. "I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury's." "I dare say, my dear," said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa. "Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian," he said after a few puffs. "Why, Harry?" "Because they are so sentimental." "But I like sentimental people." "Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed." "I don't think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do everything that you say." "Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry after a pause. "With an actress," said Dorian Gray, blushing. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "That is a rather commonplace _debut_." "You would not say so if you saw her, Harry." "Who is she?" "Her name is Sibyl Vane." "Never heard of her." "No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius." "My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals." "Harry, how can you?" "My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and _esprit_ used to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and two of these can't be admitted into decent society. However, tell me about your genius. How long have you known her?" "Ah! Harry, your views terrify me." "Never mind that. How long have you known her?" "About three weeks." "And where did you come across her?" "I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it. After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they led. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There was an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations.... Well, one evening about seven o'clock, I determined to go out in search of some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours, with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a thousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret of life. I don't know what I expected, but I went out and wandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black grassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous Jew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. 'Have a box, my Lord?' he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an air of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at me, I know, but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. To the present day I can't make out why I did so; and yet if I hadn't--my dear Harry, if I hadn't--I should have missed the greatest romance of my life. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!" "I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you should not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the first romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will always be in love with love. A _grande passion_ is the privilege of people who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes of a country. Don't be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for you. This is merely the beginning." "Do you think my nature so shallow?" cried Dorian Gray angrily. "No; I think your nature so deep." "How do you mean?" "My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect--simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! I must analyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up. But I don't want to interrupt you. Go on with your story." "Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind the curtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and there was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the dress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there was a terrible consumption of nuts going on." "It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama." "Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonder what on earth I should do when I caught sight of the play-bill. What do you think the play was, Harry?" "I should think 'The Idiot Boy', or 'Dumb but Innocent'. Our fathers used to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian, the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not good enough for us. In art, as in politics, _les grandperes ont toujours tort_." "This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I must admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat at a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was drawn up and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most friendly terms with the pit. They were both as grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a little, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen in my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came across me. And her voice--I never heard such a voice. It was very low at first, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one's ear. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a distant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You know how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane are two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear them, and each of them says something different. I don't know which to follow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is everything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover's lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike throat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary women never appeal to one's imagination. They are limited to their century. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is no mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an actress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn't you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?" "Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian." "Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces." "Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary charm in them, sometimes," said Lord Henry. "I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane." "You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life you will tell me everything you do." "Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things. You have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would come and confess it to you. You would understand me." "People like you--the wilful sunbeams of life--don't commit crimes, Dorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now tell me--reach me the matches, like a good boy--thanks--what are your actual relations with Sibyl Vane?" Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes. "Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred!" "It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian," said Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. "But why should you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?" "Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over and offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I think, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the impression that I had taken too much champagne, or something." "I am not surprised." "Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy against him, and that they were every one of them to be bought." "I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other hand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all expensive." "Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means," laughed Dorian. "By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre, and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly recommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the place again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that I was a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to 'The Bard,' as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think it a distinction." "It was a distinction, my dear Dorian--a great distinction. Most people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of life. To have ruined one's self over poetry is an honour. But when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?" "The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me--at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not wanting to know her, wasn't it?" "No; I don't think so." "My dear Harry, why?" "I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl." "Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. There is something of a child about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would insist on calling me 'My Lord,' so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, 'You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming.'" "Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments." "You don't understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen better days." "I know that look. It depresses me," murmured Lord Henry, examining his rings. "The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest me." "You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about other people's tragedies." "Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every night she is more marvellous." "That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is not quite what I expected." "My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have been to the opera with you several times," said Dorian, opening his blue eyes in wonder. "You always come dreadfully late." "Well, I can't help going to see Sibyl play," he cried, "even if it is only for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I am filled with awe." "You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can't you?" He shook his head. "To-night she is Imogen," he answered, "and to-morrow night she will be Juliet." "When is she Sibyl Vane?" "Never." "I congratulate you." "How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry, how I worship her!" He was walking up and down the room as he spoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited. Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different he was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward's studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and desire had come to meet it on the way. "And what do you propose to do?" said Lord Henry at last. "I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I have not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to acknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew's hands. She is bound to him for three years--at least for two years and eight months--from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of course. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made me." "That would be impossible, my dear boy." "Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age." "Well, what night shall we go?" "Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet to-morrow." "All right. The Bristol at eight o'clock; and I will get Basil." "Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets Romeo." "Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or reading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before seven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to him?" "Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit that I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don't want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good advice." Lord Henry smiled. "People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity." "Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit of a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that." "Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize." "I wonder is that really so, Harry?" said Dorian Gray, putting some perfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle that stood on the table. "It must be, if you say it. And now I am off. Imogen is waiting for me. Don't forget about to-morrow. Good-bye." As he left the room, Lord Henry's heavy eyelids drooped, and he began to think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as Dorian Gray, and yet the lad's mad adoration of some one else caused him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by it. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled by the methods of natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of that science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others. Human life--that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating. Compared to it there was nothing else of any value. It was true that as one watched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one could not wear over one's face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken of them. There were maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand their nature. And, yet, what a great reward one received! How wonderful the whole world became to one! To note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect--to observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they were in unison, and at what point they were at discord--there was a delight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too high a price for any sensation. He was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of his, musical words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray's soul had turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent the lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was something. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting. Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one's sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses. Soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! There was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the body really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery also. He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it was, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others. Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to their mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in experience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself. All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy. It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves. While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded rose. He thought of his friend's young fiery-coloured life and wondered how it was all going to end. When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane.

Chapter 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-4

A month later, we find Dorian hanging out alone at Lord Henry's house in Mayfair, a ritzy London neighborhood. He's waiting for Lord Henry, who's always late. For the first time, Dorian encounters the other Wotton--Lord Henry's shrill wife, Victoria. Lady Victoria is a totally ridiculous creature; she tries to be stylish, but just ends up looking foolish. Unlike her husband, she has no appreciation for art, or any of the finer things in life; instead, she's totally shallow. Fortunately, Lord Henry arrives to save Dorian from his wife. Once she's gone, Henry tells Dorian never to get married . Dorian tells Henry that he'll never get married--after all, he's too much in love. This is big news. Henry wants to know all the details, and Dorian obliges. Dorian's flame is an actress named Sibyl Vane--he claims she's a genius, even though Henry says irritatingly that women can't be geniuses. Ignoring Henry's misogyny, Dorian goes on with his story. He first discovered Sibyl three weeks ago; it actually all started with Lord Henry himself, who got Dorian thinking about all the different people out there in London, whose lives all fascinated the boy all of a sudden. As he was wandering around the city one day, he stumbled upon a sketchy little theatre, where a Jewish manager lures him inside. There, he finds what he calls "the greatest romance of life." Here, Henry interjects--Dorian's too young to identify this relationship in such hyperbolic terms, and should remember that he'll always be loved, and that this is just the beginning. Only loving one person is simply too dull for Henry, and he thinks the same is true for Dorian. Dorian continues. In the tacky, dingy theatre, he discovers that the play is Romeo and Juliet. The actors, for the most part, are miserable, unattractive, and untalented. However, Juliet is a different story. The actress playing her is the most beautiful thing Dorian has ever seen--she's just seventeen, and she's so beautiful it brings tears to Dorian's eyes. Her voice is so thrilling it even gives Lord Henry's gorgeous pipes a run for their money. Sibyl Vane totally fascinates Dorian, and he's amazed by how she changes into a different person with every role she plays. He raves over how great it is to be in love with an actress. Lord Henry immediately shoots him down cynically, asking what exactly the deal is between Dorian and Sibyl. To put it bluntly, are they getting it on? Dorian is appalled at his friend's crudity, and exclaims that Sibyl is sacred--again, Henry doesn't buy this argument. Back to the story--after the play is over, the manager tries to convince Dorian to come backstage and meet Sibyl, but he refuses. Dorian returns to the theatre the next night, and the next. Finally, he feels ready to go and meet her. In real life, Sibyl is a complete innocent; she doesn't even realize how talented she is. She falls for Dorian immediately, and dubs him "Prince Charming." We find out that every night since then, Dorian has gone to see Sibyl act. Henry peevishly comments that this explains why Dorian hasn't been paying him enough attention recently . Henry asks Dorian to dinner, but instead, Dorian insists that he has to go see Sibyl perform again. Dorian is in a fit of excitement--Henry notices that something has blossomed within his young friend. Dorian asks Henry to come to the theatre with Basil one night to see Sibyl. He intends to rescue her from the dreadful place she's performing in, and set her up at a posh theatre in the West End . The friends set their dinner and theatre date for the next day, then digress slightly to talk of Basil--ever since he's been chilling with Henry, Dorian finds Basil a little lacking. Dorian rushes off to the theatre in a tizzy, and Henry stays at home, pondering the wonders of human nature... specifically Dorian's. He muses that Dorian is really his creation, since Henry's influence made the boy what he is now. Henry goes on to coldly evaluate his "experiment" with Dorian's personality--there's something rather chilling in the way Henry looks at Dorian as a kind of lab rat, through whom he's trying to figure out the workings of the human soul and body. Finally, Henry gets ready to go out for the evening; as he leaves, he thinks again about Dorian's splendid life, and wonders ominously how it will end. When Henry gets home that night, he finds a telegram with the news that Dorian and Sibyl are engaged.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/50.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_18_part_2.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 49

chapter 49

{"name": "CHAPTER 49", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD58.asp", "summary": "When Tess's letter reaches Mr. Clare, it is forwarded on to Angel. By this time his parents realize that Angel has left England due to his unlucky marriage, but they have no idea of the gravity of the situation and its effects on their son. In Rio, a sick and frustrated Angel is about to give up on his idea of farming in Brazil. His year away from home and Tess has been a difficult one. He has befriended another Englishman in Rio, who tells him he was foolish to have left Tess. As a result of his words, Angel re-evaluates his feelings about Tess and his assumptions about morality. He realizes that he still loves his wife and is ready to forgive her past misdeeds. Angel is mentally and emotionally prepared to receive Tess's letter, which is on its way to him. As Tess's job at Flintcomb-Ash come to an end, her sister, Liza Lu, arrives with the news that their mother is seriously ill and their father is also sick. Without wasting time, Tess proceeds towards Marlott.", "analysis": "Notes It is obvious that Angel has changed and matured in Brazil. His worldly friend has helped him to realize the narrow nature of his thinking, and his own troubles have made him more sympathetic. As a result, he now sees Tess in a different light and feels bad about how he has treated her. He is ready for a reconciliation. It is pathetic that Angel has taken such a long time to realize Tess's genuine love and goodness. Ironically, by the time he returns to her, fate has one more cruel joke to play on him"}

The appeal duly found its way to the breakfast-table of the quiet Vicarage to the westward, in that valley where the air is so soft and the soil so rich that the effort of growth requires but superficial aid by comparison with the tillage at Flintcomb-Ash, and where to Tess the human world seemed so different (though it was much the same). It was purely for security that she had been requested by Angel to send her communications through his father, whom he kept pretty well informed of his changing addresses in the country he had gone to exploit for himself with a heavy heart. "Now," said old Mr Clare to his wife, when he had read the envelope, "if Angel proposes leaving Rio for a visit home at the end of next month, as he told us that he hoped to do, I think this may hasten his plans; for I believe it to be from his wife." He breathed deeply at the thought of her; and the letter was redirected to be promptly sent on to Angel. "Dear fellow, I hope he will get home safely," murmured Mrs Clare. "To my dying day I shall feel that he has been ill-used. You should have sent him to Cambridge in spite of his want of faith and given him the same chance as the other boys had. He would have grown out of it under proper influence, and perhaps would have taken Orders after all. Church or no Church, it would have been fairer to him." This was the only wail with which Mrs Clare ever disturbed her husband's peace in respect to their sons. And she did not vent this often; for she was as considerate as she was devout, and knew that his mind too was troubled by doubts as to his justice in this matter. Only too often had she heard him lying awake at night, stifling sighs for Angel with prayers. But the uncompromising Evangelical did not even now hold that he would have been justified in giving his son, an unbeliever, the same academic advantages that he had given to the two others, when it was possible, if not probable, that those very advantages might have been used to decry the doctrines which he had made it his life's mission and desire to propagate, and the mission of his ordained sons likewise. To put with one hand a pedestal under the feet of the two faithful ones, and with the other to exalt the unfaithful by the same artificial means, he deemed to be alike inconsistent with his convictions, his position, and his hopes. Nevertheless, he loved his misnamed Angel, and in secret mourned over this treatment of him as Abraham might have mourned over the doomed Isaac while they went up the hill together. His silent self-generated regrets were far bitterer than the reproaches which his wife rendered audible. They blamed themselves for this unlucky marriage. If Angel had never been destined for a farmer he would never have been thrown with agricultural girls. They did not distinctly know what had separated him and his wife, nor the date on which the separation had taken place. At first they had supposed it must be something of the nature of a serious aversion. But in his later letters he occasionally alluded to the intention of coming home to fetch her; from which expressions they hoped the division might not owe its origin to anything so hopelessly permanent as that. He had told them that she was with her relatives, and in their doubts they had decided not to intrude into a situation which they knew no way of bettering. The eyes for which Tess's letter was intended were gazing at this time on a limitless expanse of country from the back of a mule which was bearing him from the interior of the South-American Continent towards the coast. His experiences of this strange land had been sad. The severe illness from which he had suffered shortly after his arrival had never wholly left him, and he had by degrees almost decided to relinquish his hope of farming here, though, as long as the bare possibility existed of his remaining, he kept this change of view a secret from his parents. The crowds of agricultural labourers who had come out to the country in his wake, dazzled by representations of easy independence, had suffered, died, and wasted away. He would see mothers from English farms trudging along with their infants in their arms, when the child would be stricken with fever and would die; the mother would pause to dig a hole in the loose earth with her bare hands, would bury the babe therein with the same natural grave-tools, shed one tear, and again trudge on. Angel's original intention had not been emigration to Brazil but a northern or eastern farm in his own country. He had come to this place in a fit of desperation, the Brazil movement among the English agriculturists having by chance coincided with his desire to escape from his past existence. During this time of absence he had mentally aged a dozen years. What arrested him now as of value in life was less its beauty than its pathos. Having long discredited the old systems of mysticism, he now began to discredit the old appraisements of morality. He thought they wanted readjusting. Who was the moral man? Still more pertinently, who was the moral woman? The beauty or ugliness of a character lay not only in its achievements, but in its aims and impulses; its true history lay, not among things done, but among things willed. How, then, about Tess? Viewing her in these lights, a regret for his hasty judgement began to oppress him. Did he reject her eternally, or did he not? He could no longer say that he would always reject her, and not to say that was in spirit to accept her now. This growing fondness for her memory coincided in point of time with her residence at Flintcomb-Ash, but it was before she had felt herself at liberty to trouble him with a word about her circumstances or her feelings. He was greatly perplexed; and in his perplexity as to her motives in withholding intelligence, he did not inquire. Thus her silence of docility was misinterpreted. How much it really said if he had understood!--that she adhered with literal exactness to orders which he had given and forgotten; that despite her natural fearlessness she asserted no rights, admitted his judgement to be in every respect the true one, and bent her head dumbly thereto. In the before-mentioned journey by mules through the interior of the country, another man rode beside him. Angel's companion was also an Englishman, bent on the same errand, though he came from another part of the island. They were both in a state of mental depression, and they spoke of home affairs. Confidence begat confidence. With that curious tendency evinced by men, more especially when in distant lands, to entrust to strangers details of their lives which they would on no account mention to friends, Angel admitted to this man as they rode along the sorrowful facts of his marriage. The stranger had sojourned in many more lands and among many more peoples than Angel; to his cosmopolitan mind such deviations from the social norm, so immense to domesticity, were no more than are the irregularities of vale and mountain-chain to the whole terrestrial curve. He viewed the matter in quite a different light from Angel; thought that what Tess had been was of no importance beside what she would be, and plainly told Clare that he was wrong in coming away from her. The next day they were drenched in a thunder-storm. Angel's companion was struck down with fever, and died by the week's end. Clare waited a few hours to bury him, and then went on his way. The cursory remarks of the large-minded stranger, of whom he knew absolutely nothing beyond a commonplace name, were sublimed by his death, and influenced Clare more than all the reasoned ethics of the philosophers. His own parochialism made him ashamed by its contrast. His inconsistencies rushed upon him in a flood. He had persistently elevated Hellenic Paganism at the expense of Christianity; yet in that civilization an illegal surrender was not certain disesteem. Surely then he might have regarded that abhorrence of the un-intact state, which he had inherited with the creed of mysticism, as at least open to correction when the result was due to treachery. A remorse struck into him. The words of Izz Huett, never quite stilled in his memory, came back to him. He had asked Izz if she loved him, and she had replied in the affirmative. Did she love him more than Tess did? No, she had replied; Tess would lay down her life for him, and she herself could do no more. He thought of Tess as she had appeared on the day of the wedding. How her eyes had lingered upon him; how she had hung upon his words as if they were a god's! And during the terrible evening over the hearth, when her simple soul uncovered itself to his, how pitiful her face had looked by the rays of the fire, in her inability to realize that his love and protection could possibly be withdrawn. Thus from being her critic he grew to be her advocate. Cynical things he had uttered to himself about her; but no man can be always a cynic and live; and he withdrew them. The mistake of expressing them had arisen from his allowing himself to be influenced by general principles to the disregard of the particular instance. But the reasoning is somewhat musty; lovers and husbands have gone over the ground before to-day. Clare had been harsh towards her; there is no doubt of it. Men are too often harsh with women they love or have loved; women with men. And yet these harshnesses are tenderness itself when compared with the universal harshness out of which they grow; the harshness of the position towards the temperament, of the means towards the aims, of to-day towards yesterday, of hereafter towards to-day. The historic interest of her family--that masterful line of d'Urbervilles--whom he had despised as a spent force, touched his sentiments now. Why had he not known the difference between the political value and the imaginative value of these things? In the latter aspect her d'Urberville descent was a fact of great dimensions; worthless to economics, it was a most useful ingredient to the dreamer, to the moralizer on declines and falls. It was a fact that would soon be forgotten--that bit of distinction in poor Tess's blood and name, and oblivion would fall upon her hereditary link with the marble monuments and leaded skeletons at Kingsbere. So does Time ruthlessly destroy his own romances. In recalling her face again and again, he thought now that he could see therein a flash of the dignity which must have graced her grand-dames; and the vision sent that _aura_ through his veins which he had formerly felt, and which left behind it a sense of sickness. Despite her not-inviolate past, what still abode in such a woman as Tess outvalued the freshness of her fellows. Was not the gleaning of the grapes of Ephraim better than the vintage of Abiezer? So spoke love renascent, preparing the way for Tess's devoted outpouring, which was then just being forwarded to him by his father; though owing to his distance inland it was to be a long time in reaching him. Meanwhile the writer's expectation that Angel would come in response to the entreaty was alternately great and small. What lessened it was that the facts of her life which had led to the parting had not changed--could never change; and that, if her presence had not attenuated them, her absence could not. Nevertheless she addressed her mind to the tender question of what she could do to please him best if he should arrive. Sighs were expended on the wish that she had taken more notice of the tunes he played on his harp, that she had inquired more curiously of him which were his favourite ballads among those the country-girls sang. She indirectly inquired of Amby Seedling, who had followed Izz from Talbothays, and by chance Amby remembered that, amongst the snatches of melody in which they had indulged at the dairyman's, to induce the cows to let down their milk, Clare had seemed to like "Cupid's Gardens", "I have parks, I have hounds", and "The break o' the day"; and had seemed not to care for "The Tailor's Breeches" and "Such a beauty I did grow", excellent ditties as they were. To perfect the ballads was now her whimsical desire. She practised them privately at odd moments, especially "The break o' the day": Arise, arise, arise! And pick your love a posy, All o' the sweetest flowers That in the garden grow. The turtle doves and sma' birds In every bough a-building, So early in the May-time At the break o' the day! It would have melted the heart of a stone to hear her singing these ditties whenever she worked apart from the rest of the girls in this cold dry time; the tears running down her cheeks all the while at the thought that perhaps he would not, after all, come to hear her, and the simple silly words of the songs resounding in painful mockery of the aching heart of the singer. Tess was so wrapt up in this fanciful dream that she seemed not to know how the season was advancing; that the days had lengthened, that Lady-Day was at hand, and would soon be followed by Old Lady-Day, the end of her term here. But before the quarter-day had quite come, something happened which made Tess think of far different matters. She was at her lodging as usual one evening, sitting in the downstairs room with the rest of the family, when somebody knocked at the door and inquired for Tess. Through the doorway she saw against the declining light a figure with the height of a woman and the breadth of a child, a tall, thin, girlish creature whom she did not recognize in the twilight till the girl said "Tess!" "What--is it 'Liza-Lu?" asked Tess, in startled accents. Her sister, whom a little over a year ago she had left at home as a child, had sprung up by a sudden shoot to a form of this presentation, of which as yet Lu seemed herself scarce able to understand the meaning. Her thin legs, visible below her once-long frock, now short by her growing, and her uncomfortable hands and arms revealed her youth and inexperience. "Yes, I have been traipsing about all day, Tess," said Lu, with unemotional gravity, "a-trying to find 'ee; and I'm very tired." "What is the matter at home?" "Mother is took very bad, and the doctor says she's dying, and as father is not very well neither, and says 'tis wrong for a man of such a high family as his to slave and drave at common labouring work, we don't know what to do." Tess stood in reverie a long time before she thought of asking 'Liza-Lu to come in and sit down. When she had done so, and 'Liza-Lu was having some tea, she came to a decision. It was imperative that she should go home. Her agreement did not end till Old Lady-Day, the sixth of April, but as the interval thereto was not a long one she resolved to run the risk of starting at once. To go that night would be a gain of twelve-hours; but her sister was too tired to undertake such a distance till the morrow. Tess ran down to where Marian and Izz lived, informed them of what had happened, and begged them to make the best of her case to the farmer. Returning, she got Lu a supper, and after that, having tucked the younger into her own bed, packed up as many of her belongings as would go into a withy basket, and started, directing Lu to follow her next morning.

CHAPTER 49

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD58.asp

When Tess's letter reaches Mr. Clare, it is forwarded on to Angel. By this time his parents realize that Angel has left England due to his unlucky marriage, but they have no idea of the gravity of the situation and its effects on their son. In Rio, a sick and frustrated Angel is about to give up on his idea of farming in Brazil. His year away from home and Tess has been a difficult one. He has befriended another Englishman in Rio, who tells him he was foolish to have left Tess. As a result of his words, Angel re-evaluates his feelings about Tess and his assumptions about morality. He realizes that he still loves his wife and is ready to forgive her past misdeeds. Angel is mentally and emotionally prepared to receive Tess's letter, which is on its way to him. As Tess's job at Flintcomb-Ash come to an end, her sister, Liza Lu, arrives with the news that their mother is seriously ill and their father is also sick. Without wasting time, Tess proceeds towards Marlott.

Notes It is obvious that Angel has changed and matured in Brazil. His worldly friend has helped him to realize the narrow nature of his thinking, and his own troubles have made him more sympathetic. As a result, he now sees Tess in a different light and feels bad about how he has treated her. He is ready for a reconciliation. It is pathetic that Angel has taken such a long time to realize Tess's genuine love and goodness. Ironically, by the time he returns to her, fate has one more cruel joke to play on him

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1929-chapters/act_v.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The School for Scandal/section_4_part_0.txt

The School for Scandal.act v.scene i-scene iii

act v

{"name": "Act V", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409073536/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-school-for-scandal/study-guide/summary-act-v", "summary": "Sir Oliver, along with Rowley, goes to visit Joseph, who is not pleased with the timing of the visit. Sir Oliver is disguised as Mr. Stanley, Joseph's poor relative. Joseph refuses to help Stanley financially, claiming that he has no money, even though Sir Oliver sent him a large sum of money from India. Sir Oliver is angered by this and declares, \"Charles! You are my heir\" as he exits. After \"Mr. Stanley\" leaves, Rowley returns and tells Joseph that his uncle has arrived in town. Joseph asks Rowley to stop Mr. Stanley, but Rowley says he thinks it won't be possible. Joseph is still upset that all this business is happening at such an inopportune time, but he is excited to see his uncle. Scene II takes place at Sir Peter's house. Lady Sneerwell, Mrs. Candour, Sir Benjamin, and eventually Crabtree talk about the rumors surrounding Lady Teazle. The rumors are blown out of proportion as they report to one another that Charles and Sir Peter supposedly dueled with either swords or guns. Lady Sneerwell hides her involvement in the issue somewhat, and leaves the group discussing the rumor. Soon after Lady Sneerwell leaves, Sir Oliver arrives at the house. They believe him to be the doctor, present to tend to Sir Peter's wound from the supposed duel. Sir Oliver tells them he is not a doctor, calling attention to the differences in the stories he is being told--the parties still not agreeing on whether the wound came from a sword or a bullet. Sir Peter then arrives and everyone makes a fuss about him not being wounded after all. The group makes fun of him and he throws them out of his house, telling them he wants neither their jokes nor their pity. Finally, only Sir Oliver remains, and Rowley returns. Sir Oliver tells Sir Peter about his visits with both nephews. Sir Oliver also says that he too has heard the story of Sir Peter, Lady Teazle, Joseph, and Charles, and laughs at his friend. They all laugh together, and Sir Peter laments without much feeling how the gossip will continue to circulate through the papers. Sir Oliver leaves so that Sir Peter can reconcile with his wife. Rowley and Sir Peter discuss how badly Lady Teazle is feeling about what happened and Sir Peter suggests that he might leave her to feel bad for a while instead of going to speak to her. Rowley chides him, and Sir Peter agrees to go make up with her. Lady Sneerwell and Joseph meet to discuss whether Sir Peter will now reconcile with Charles and let him marry Maria. Lady Sneerwell scolds him for ruining the plot. Joseph suggests that if Snake is still faithful to them, it may not be too late. They hear a knocking at the door; Joseph thinks this will be his uncle coming to call, so Lady Sneerwell leaves. Indeed, it is Sir Oliver at the door, but due to Sir Oliver's disguise, Joseph thinks it is Mr. Stanley. Sir Oliver keeps pretending to be Mr. Stanley, saying he wants to meet with Sir Oliver as well in order to get some financial help. Joseph does not want this, and tries to push Mr. Stanley out the door. Charles arrives and thinks Sir Oliver is Mr. Premium. Both Charles and Joseph try to get the man to leave; in the confusion, Sir Peter, Lady Teazle, Maria, and Rowley all come in. Sir Oliver reveals to his nephews who he is, and that he decided to leave his money to Charles. Maria arrives, but she refuses to marry Charles because she heard rumors about a relationship between him and Lady Sneerwell. Snake reveals the truth, and then Maria agrees to marry Charles. The play ends with an epilogue, spoken by Lady Teazle to the audience.", "analysis": "Another example of dramatic irony can be found in Act V when Sir Oliver visits Joseph in disguise. Once again, Sir Oliver plays the role while giving many asides to the audience about Joseph's greed, and the audience is both entertained by Joseph's inability to recognize his own uncle and also shocked along with Sir Oliver at Joseph's immoral behavior. It is clear that, unlike Charles, Joseph does not feel a sense of loyalty to his family, and that he does not value public honesty. Sheridan also uses Act V to continue satirizing the act of rumor-spreading itself. He does this primarily through the vivid and detailed imagery of the scene in which a group of characters discuss a supposed fight between Sir Peter and Joseph. Though the audience knows that there has been no duel, Crabtree delights the group of gossips as well as the audience with a drawn-out description of what he supposedly has heard to have happened between the men: \"A pair of pistols lay on the bureau , so, unluckily, the pistols were left charged... Sir Peter forced Charles to take one, and they fired, it seems, pretty nearly together. Charles's shot took effect, as I tell you, and Sir Peter's missed; but, what is very extraordinary, the ball struck against a little bronze Shakspeare that stood over the fireplace, grazed out of the window at a right angle, and wounded the postman, who was just coming to the door with a double letter from Northamptonshire\" . Sheridan purposefully writes this rumor and those like it throughout the play with precise, even exaggerated, detail to show how rumors can get out of hand due to the imagination and egotism of the spreaders. In Act V, Sheridan shows his beliefs about truth by giving the various plot lines of the story happy endings once truth is revealed. In Sir Peter and Lady Teazle's plot line, once Sir Peter finds out that Lady Teazle has had an affair , he decides to forgive her and even seems more hopeful about their marriage. When the truth comes out about the real characters of the Surface brothers, both Charles and Sir Oliver are happy, though Joseph, the greedy hypocrite, is not. Finally, once the truth about Lady Sneerwell's plot is outed by Snake, Maria and Charles are able to love one another in peace. Snake is a character who should not be overlooked in The School for Scandal. Though he appears only in the first and last scenes, it is he who transmits information about the rumors, trusting no one fully and loyal to nobody, and it is he who fully resolves the conflict of the play at the end of Act V. Ironically, Snake both begs forgiveness for his involvement in rumor-spreading, but also asks people not to tell others about his help in resolving the conflict, saying ironically that he lives and keeps his friends \"by the badness of character\". The play ends with an epilogue; like prologues, these were quite common devices to call final attention to themes in the play and speak directly to the audience, urging them directly to take these themes and morals to heart. Lady Teazle delivers the epilogue of The School for Scandal, underscoring the importance of her role, especially as an outsider herself who could be seen as tainted by the pressures of London's upper-class societal norms. Though this epilogue, Sheridan urges the audience a final time to see this play not as simple entertainment, but rather as a harsh criticism of any who engage in gossip--both its creation and its transmission."}

ACT V SCENE I. --The Library Enter SURFACE and SERVANT SURFACE. Mr. Stanley! and why should you think I would see him?--you must know he came to ask something! SERVANT. Sir--I shouldn't have let him in but that Mr. Rowley came to the Door with him. SURFACE. Pshaw!--Blockhead to suppose that I should now be in a Temper to receive visits from poor Relations!--well why don't you show the Fellow up? SERVANT. I will--Sir--Why, Sir--it was not my Fault that Sir Peter discover'd my Lady---- SURFACE. Go, fool!-- [Exit SERVANT.] Sure Fortune never play'd a man of my policy such a Trick before--my character with Sir Peter!--my Hopes with Maria!--destroy'd in a moment!--I'm in a rare Humour to listen to other People's Distresses!--I shan't be able to bestow even a benevolent sentiment on Stanley--So! here--He comes and Rowley with him--I MUST try to recover myself, and put a little Charity into my Face however.---- [Exit.] Enter SIR OLIVER and ROWLEY SIR OLIVER. What! does He avoid us? that was He--was it not? ROWLEY. It was Sir--but I doubt you are come a little too abruptly--his Nerves are so weak that the sight of a poor Relation may be too much for him--I should have gone first to break you to him. SIR OLIVER. A Plague of his Nerves--yet this is He whom Sir Peter extolls as a Man of the most Benevolent way of thinking!-- ROWLEY. As to his way of thinking--I can't pretend to decide[,] for, to do him justice He appears to have as much speculative Benevolence as any private Gentleman in the Kingdom--though he is seldom so sensual as to indulge himself in the exercise of it---- SIR OLIVER. Yet [he] has a string of charitable Sentiments I suppose at his Fingers' ends!-- ROWLEY. Or, rather at his Tongue's end Sir Oliver; for I believe there is no sentiment he has more faith in than that 'Charity begins at Home.' SIR OLIVER. And his I presume is of that domestic sort which never stirs abroad at all. ROWLEY. I doubt you'll find it so--but He's coming--I mustn't seem to interrupt you--and you know immediately--as you leave him--I come in to announce--your arrival in your real Character. SIR OLIVER. True--and afterwards you'll meet me at Sir Peter's---- ROWLEY. Without losing a moment. [Exit.] SIR OLIVER. So--I see he has premeditated a Denial by the Complaisance of his Features. Enter SURFACE SURFACE. Sir--I beg you ten thousand Pardons for keeping--you a moment waiting--Mr. Stanley--I presume---- SIR OLIVER. At your Service. SURFACE. Sir--I beg you will do me the honour to sit down--I entreat you Sir. SIR OLIVER. Dear Sir there's no occasion--too civil by half! SURFACE. I have not the Pleasure of knowing you, Mr. Stanley--but I am extremely happy to see you look so well--you were nearly related to my mother--I think Mr. Stanley---- SIR OLIVER. I was Sir--so nearly that my present Poverty I fear may do discredit to her Wealthy Children--else I should not have presumed to trouble you.-- SURFACE. Dear Sir--there needs no apology--He that is in Distress tho' a stranger has a right to claim kindred with the wealthy--I am sure I wish I was of that class, and had it in my power to offer you even a small relief. SIR OLIVER. If your Unkle, Sir Oliver were here--I should have a Friend---- SURFACE. I wish He was Sir, with all my Heart--you should not want an advocate with him--believe me Sir. SIR OLIVER. I should not need one--my Distresses would recommend me.--but I imagined--his Bounty had enabled you to become the agent of his Charity. SURFACE. My dear Sir--you are strangely misinformed--Sir Oliver is a worthy Man, a worthy man--a very worthy sort of Man--but avarice Mr. Stanley is the vice of age--I will tell you my good Sir in confidence:--what he has done for me has been a mere--nothing[;] tho' People I know have thought otherwise and for my Part I never chose to contradict the Report. SIR OLIVER. What!--has he never transmitted--you--Bullion--Rupees--Pagodas! SURFACE. O Dear Sir--Nothing of the kind--no--no--a few Presents now and then--china, shawls, congo Tea, Avadavats--and indian Crackers--little more, believe me. SIR OLIVER. Here's Gratitude for twelve thousand pounds!--Avadavats and indian Crackers. SURFACE. Then my dear--Sir--you have heard, I doubt not, of the extravagance of my Brother--Sir--there are very few would credit what I have done for that unfortunate young man. SIR OLIVER. Not I for one! SURFACE. The sums I have lent him! indeed--I have been exceedingly to blame--it was an amiable weakness! however I don't pretend to defend it--and now I feel it doubly culpable--since it has deprived me of the power of serving YOU Mr. Stanley as my Heart directs---- SIR OLIVER. Dissembler! Then Sir--you cannot assist me? SURFACE. At Present it grieves me to say I cannot--but whenever I have the ability, you may depend upon hearing from me. SIR OLIVER. I am extremely sorry---- SURFACE. Not more than I am believe me--to pity without the Power to relieve is still more painful than to ask and be denied---- SIR OLIVER. Kind Sir--your most obedient humble servant. SURFACE. You leave me deeply affected Mr. Stanley--William--be ready to open the door---- SIR OLIVER. O, Dear Sir, no ceremony---- SURFACE. Your very obedient---- SIR OLIVER. Your most obsequious---- SURFACE. You may depend on hearing from me whenever I can be of service---- SIR OLIVER. Sweet Sir--you are too good---- SURFACE. In the mean time I wish you Health and Spirits---- SIR OLIVER. Your ever grateful and perpetual humble Servant---- SURFACE. Sir--yours as sincerely---- SIR OLIVER. Charles!--you are my Heir. [Exit.] SURFACE, solus Soh!--This is one bad effect of a good Character--it invites applications from the unfortunate and there needs no small degree of address to gain the reputation of Benevolence without incurring the expence.--The silver ore of pure Charity is an expensive article in the catalogue of a man's good Qualities--whereas the sentimental French Plate I use instead of it makes just as good a shew--and pays no tax. Enter ROWLEY ROWLEY. Mr. Surface--your Servant: I was apprehensive of interrupting you, tho' my Business demands immediate attention--as this Note will inform you---- SURFACE. Always Happy to see Mr. Rowley--how--Oliver--Surface!--My Unkle arrived! ROWLEY. He is indeed--we have just parted--quite well--after a speedy voyage--and impatient to embrace his worthy Nephew. SURFACE. I am astonished!--William[!] stop Mr. Stanley, if He's not gone---- ROWLEY. O--He's out of reach--I believe. SURFACE. Why didn't you let me know this when you came in together.-- ROWLEY. I thought you had particular--Business--but must be gone to inform your Brother, and appoint him here to meet his Uncle. He will be with you in a quarter of an hour---- SURFACE. So he says. Well--I am strangely overjoy'd at his coming--never to be sure was anything so damn'd unlucky! ROWLEY. You will be delighted to see how well He looks. SURFACE. O--I'm rejoiced to hear it--just at this time---- ROWLEY. I'll tell him how impatiently you expect him---- SURFACE. Do--do--pray--give my best duty and affection--indeed, I cannot express the sensations I feel at the thought of seeing him!--certainly his coming just at this Time is the cruellest piece of ill Fortune---- [Exeunt.] SCENE II. --At SIR PETER'S House Enter MRS. CANDOUR and SERVANT SERVANT. Indeed Ma'am, my Lady will see nobody at Present. MRS. CANDOUR. Did you tell her it was her Friend Mrs. Candour---- SERVANT. Yes Ma'am but she begs you will excuse her---- MRS. CANDOUR. Do go again--I shall be glad to see her if it be only for a moment--for I am sure she must be in great Distress [exit MAID] --Dear Heart--how provoking!--I'm not mistress of half the circumstances!--We shall have the whole affair in the newspapers with the Names of the Parties at length before I have dropt the story at a dozen houses. Enter SIR BENJAMIN Sir Benjamin you have heard, I suppose---- SIR BENJAMIN. Of Lady Teazle and Mr. Surface---- MRS. CANDOUR. And Sir Peter's Discovery---- SIR BENJAMIN. O the strangest Piece of Business to be sure---- MRS. CANDOUR. Well I never was so surprised in my life!--I am so sorry for all Parties--indeed, SIR BENJAMIN. Now I don't Pity Sir Peter at all--he was so extravagant--partial to Mr. Surface---- MRS. CANDOUR. Mr. Surface!--why 'twas with Charles Lady Teazle was detected. SIR BENJAMIN. No such thing Mr. Surface is the gallant. MRS. CANDOUR. No--no--Charles is the man--'twas Mr. Surface brought Sir Peter on purpose to discover them---- SIR BENJAMIN. I tell you I have it from one---- MRS. CANDOUR. And I have it from one---- SIR BENJAMIN. Who had it from one who had it---- MRS. CANDOUR. From one immediately--but here comes Lady Sneerwell--perhaps she knows the whole affair. Enter LADY SNEERWELL LADY SNEERWELL. So--my dear Mrs. Candour Here's a sad affair of our Friend Teazle---- MRS. CANDOUR. Aye my dear Friend, who could have thought it. LADY SNEERWELL. Well there is no trusting to appearances[;] tho'--indeed she was always too lively for me. MRS. CANDOUR. To be sure, her manners were a little too--free--but she was very young---- LADY SNEERWELL. And had indeed some good Qualities. MRS. CANDOUR. So she had indeed--but have you heard the Particulars? LADY SNEERWELL. No--but everybody says that Mr. Surface---- SIR BENJAMIN. Aye there I told you--Mr. Surface was the Man. MRS. CANDOUR. No--no--indeed the assignation was with Charles---- LADY SNEERWELL. With Charles!--You alarm me Mrs. Candour! MRS. CANDOUR. Yes--yes He was the Lover--Mr. Surface--do him justice--was only the Informer. SIR BENJAMIN. Well I'll not dispute with you Mrs. Candour--but be it which it may--I hope that Sir Peter's wound will not---- MRS. CANDOUR. Sir Peter's wound! O mercy! I didn't hear a word of their Fighting---- LADY SNEERWELL. Nor I a syllable! SIR BENJAMIN. No--what no mention of the Duel---- MRS. CANDOUR. Not a word-- SIR BENJAMIN. O, Lord--yes--yes--they fought before they left the Room. LADY SNEERWELL. Pray let us hear. MRS. CANDOUR. Aye--do oblige--us with the Duel---- SIR BENJAMIN. 'Sir'--says Sir Peter--immediately after the Discovery, 'you are a most ungrateful Fellow.' MRS. CANDOUR. Aye to Charles---- SIR BENJAMIN. No, no--to Mr. Surface--'a most ungrateful Fellow; and old as I am, Sir,' says He, 'I insist on immediate satisfaction.' MRS. CANDOUR. Aye that must have been to Charles for 'tis very unlikely Mr. Surface should go to fight in his own House. SIR BENJAMIN. Gad's Life, Ma'am, not at all--giving me immediate satisfaction--on this, Madam--Lady Teazle seeing Sir Peter in such Danger--ran out of the Room in strong Hysterics--and Charles after her calling out for Hartshorn and Water! Then Madam--they began to fight with Swords---- Enter CRABTREE CRABTREE. With Pistols--Nephew--I have it from undoubted authority. MRS. CANDOUR. Oh, Mr. Crabtree then it is all true---- CRABTREE. Too true indeed Ma'am, and Sir Peter Dangerously wounded---- SIR BENJAMIN. By a thrust in second--quite thro' his left side CRABTREE. By a Bullet lodged in the Thorax---- MRS. CANDOUR. Mercy--on me[!] Poor Sir Peter---- CRABTREE. Yes, ma'am tho' Charles would have avoided the matter if he could---- MRS. CANDOUR. I knew Charles was the Person---- SIR BENJAMIN. O my Unkle I see knows nothing of the matter---- CRABTREE. But Sir Peter tax'd him with the basest ingratitude---- SIR BENJAMIN. That I told you, you know---- CRABTREE. Do Nephew let me speak--and insisted on immediate---- SIR BENJAMIN. Just as I said---- CRABTREE. Odds life! Nephew allow others to know something too--A Pair of Pistols lay on the Bureau--for Mr. Surface--it seems, had come home the Night before late from Salt-Hill where He had been to see the Montem with a Friend, who has a Son at Eton--so unluckily the Pistols were left Charged---- SIR BENJAMIN. I heard nothing of this---- CRABTREE. Sir Peter forced Charles to take one and they fired--it seems pretty nearly together--Charles's shot took Place as I tell you--and Sir Peter's miss'd--but what is very extraordinary the Ball struck against a little Bronze Pliny that stood over the Fire Place--grazed out of the window at a right angle--and wounded the Postman, who was just coming to the Door with a double letter from Northamptonshire. SIR BENJAMIN. My Unkle's account is more circumstantial I must confess--but I believe mine is the true one for all that. LADY SNEERWELL. I am more interested in this Affair than they imagine--and must have better information.-- [Exit.] SIR BENJAMIN. Ah! Lady Sneerwell's alarm is very easily accounted for.-- CRABTREE. Yes yes, they certainly DO say--but that's neither here nor there. MRS. CANDOUR. But pray where is Sir Peter at present---- CRABTREE. Oh! they--brought him home and He is now in the House, tho' the Servants are order'd to deny it---- MRS. CANDOUR. I believe so--and Lady Teazle--I suppose attending him---- CRABTREE. Yes yes--and I saw one of the Faculty enter just before me---- SIR BENJAMIN. Hey--who comes here---- CRABTREE. Oh, this is He--the Physician depend on't. MRS. CANDOUR. O certainly it must be the Physician and now we shall know---- Enter SIR OLIVER CRABTREE. Well, Doctor--what Hopes? MRS. CANDOUR. Aye Doctor how's your Patient? SIR BENJAMIN. Now Doctor isn't it a wound with a small sword---- CRABTREE. A bullet lodged in the Thorax--for a hundred! SIR OLIVER. Doctor!--a wound with a small sword! and a Bullet in the Thorax!--oon's are you mad, good People? SIR BENJAMIN. Perhaps, Sir, you are not a Doctor. SIR OLIVER. Truly Sir I am to thank you for my degree If I am. CRABTREE. Only a Friend of Sir Peter's then I presume--but, sir, you must have heard of this accident-- SIR OLIVER. Not a word! CRABTREE. Not of his being dangerously wounded? SIR OLIVER. The Devil he is! SIR BENJAMIN. Run thro' the Body---- CRABTREE. Shot in the breast---- SIR BENJAMIN. By one Mr. Surface---- CRABTREE. Aye the younger. SIR OLIVER. Hey! what the plague! you seem to differ strangely in your accounts--however you agree that Sir Peter is dangerously wounded. SIR BENJAMIN. Oh yes, we agree in that. CRABTREE. Yes, yes, I believe there can be no doubt in that. SIR OLIVER. Then, upon my word, for a person in that Situation, he is the most imprudent man alive--For here he comes walking as if nothing at all was the matter. Enter SIR PETER Odd's heart, sir Peter! you are come in good time I promise you, for we had just given you over! SIR BENJAMIN. 'Egad, Uncle this is the most sudden Recovery! SIR OLIVER. Why, man, what do you do out of Bed with a Small Sword through your Body, and a Bullet lodg'd in your Thorax? SIR PETER. A Small Sword and a Bullet-- SIR OLIVER. Aye these Gentlemen would have kill'd you without Law or Physic, and wanted to dub me a Doctor to make me an accomplice. SIR PETER. Why! what is all this? SIR BENJAMIN. We rejoice, Sir Peter, that the Story of the Duel is not true--and are sincerely sorry for your other Misfortune. SIR PETER. So--so--all over the Town already! [Aside.] CRABTREE. Tho', Sir Peter, you were certainly vastly to blame to marry at all at your years. SIR PETER. Sir, what Business is that of yours? MRS. CANDOUR. Tho' Indeed, as Sir Peter made so good a Husband, he's very much to be pitied. SIR PETER. Plague on your pity, Ma'am, I desire none of it. SIR BENJAMIN. However Sir Peter, you must not mind the Laughing and jests you will meet with on the occasion. SIR PETER. Sir, I desire to be master in my own house. CRABTREE. 'Tis no Uncommon Case, that's one comfort. SIR PETER. I insist on being left to myself, without ceremony,--I insist on your leaving my house directly! MRS. CANDOUR. Well, well, we are going and depend on't, we'll make the best report of you we can. SIR PETER. Leave my house! CRABTREE. And tell how hardly you have been treated. SIR PETER. Leave my House-- SIR BENJAMIN. And how patiently you bear it. SIR PETER. Friends! Vipers! Furies! Oh that their own Venom would choke them! SIR OLIVER. They are very provoking indeed, Sir Peter. Enter ROWLEY ROWLEY. I heard high words: what has ruffled you Sir Peter-- SIR PETER. Pshaw what signifies asking--do I ever pass a Day without my Vexations? SIR OLIVER. Well I'm not Inquisitive--I come only to tell you, that I have seen both my Nephews in the manner we proposed. SIR PETER. A Precious Couple they are! ROWLEY. Yes and Sir Oliver--is convinced that your judgment was right Sir Peter. SIR OLIVER. Yes I find Joseph is Indeed the Man after all. ROWLEY. Aye as Sir Peter says, He's a man of Sentiment. SIR OLIVER. And acts up to the Sentiments he professes. ROWLEY. It certainly is Edification to hear him talk. SIR OLIVER. Oh, He's a model for the young men of the age! But how's this, Sir Peter? you don't Join us in your Friend Joseph's Praise as I expected. SIR PETER. Sir Oliver, we live in a damned wicked world, and the fewer we praise the better. ROWLEY. What do YOU say so, Sir Peter--who were never mistaken in your Life? SIR PETER. Pshaw--Plague on you both--I see by your sneering you have heard--the whole affair--I shall go mad among you! ROWLEY. Then to fret you no longer Sir Peter--we are indeed acquainted with it all--I met Lady Teazle coming from Mr. Surface's so humbled, that she deigned to request ME to be her advocate with you-- SIR PETER. And does Sir Oliver know all too? SIR OLIVER. Every circumstance! SIR PETER. What of the closet and the screen--hey[?] SIR OLIVER. Yes yes--and the little French Milliner. Oh, I have been vastly diverted with the story! ha! ha! ha! SIR PETER. 'Twas very pleasant! SIR OLIVER. I never laugh'd more in my life, I assure you: ha! ha! SIR PETER. O vastly diverting! ha! ha! ROWLEY. To be sure Joseph with his Sentiments! ha! ha! SIR PETER. Yes his sentiments! ha! ha! a hypocritical Villain! SIR OLIVER. Aye and that Rogue Charles--to pull Sir Peter out of the closet: ha! ha! SIR PETER. Ha! ha! 'twas devilish entertaining to be sure-- SIR OLIVER. Ha! ha! Egad, Sir Peter I should like to have seen your Face when the screen was thrown down--ha! ha! SIR PETER. Yes, my face when the Screen was thrown down: ha! ha! ha! O I must never show my head again! SIR OLIVER. But come--come it isn't fair to laugh at you neither my old Friend--tho' upon my soul I can't help it-- SIR PETER. O pray don't restrain your mirth on my account: it does not hurt me at all--I laugh at the whole affair myself--Yes--yes--I think being a standing Jest for all one's acquaintance a very happy situation--O yes--and then of a morning to read the Paragraphs about Mr. S----, Lady T----, and Sir P----, will be so entertaining!--I shall certainly leave town tomorrow and never look mankind in the Face again! ROWLEY. Without affectation Sir Peter, you may despise the ridicule of Fools--but I see Lady Teazle going towards the next Room--I am sure you must desire a Reconciliation as earnestly as she does. SIR OLIVER. Perhaps MY being here prevents her coming to you--well I'll leave honest Rowley to mediate between you; but he must bring you all presently to Mr. Surface's--where I am now returning--if not to reclaim a Libertine, at least to expose Hypocrisy. SIR PETER. Ah! I'll be present at your discovering yourself there with all my heart; though 'tis a vile unlucky Place for discoveries. SIR OLIVER. However it is very convenient to the carrying on of my Plot that you all live so near one another! [Exit SIR OLIVER.] ROWLEY. We'll follow-- SIR PETER. She is not coming here you see, Rowley-- ROWLEY. No but she has left the Door of that Room open you perceive.--see she is in Tears--! SIR PETER. She seems indeed to wish I should go to her.--how dejected she appears-- ROWLEY. And will you refrain from comforting her-- SIR PETER. Certainly a little mortification appears very becoming in a wife--don't you think it will do her good to let her Pine a little. ROWLEY. O this is ungenerous in you-- SIR PETER. Well I know not what to think--you remember Rowley the Letter I found of her's--evidently intended for Charles? ROWLEY. A mere forgery, Sir Peter--laid in your way on Purpose--this is one of the Points which I intend Snake shall give you conviction on-- SIR PETER. I wish I were once satisfied of that--She looks this way----what a remarkably elegant Turn of the Head she has! Rowley I'll go to her-- ROWLEY. Certainly-- SIR PETER. Tho' when it is known that we are reconciled, People will laugh at me ten times more! ROWLEY. Let--them laugh--and retort their malice only by showing them you are happy in spite of it. SIR PETER. Efaith so I will--and, if I'm not mistaken we may yet be the happiest couple in the country-- ROWLEY. Nay Sir Peter--He who once lays aside suspicion---- SIR PETER. Hold Master Rowley--if you have any Regard for me--never let me hear you utter anything like a Sentiment. I have had enough of THEM to serve me the rest of my Life. [Exeunt.] SCENE THE LAST. --The Library SURFACE and LADY SNEERWELL LADY SNEERWELL. Impossible! will not Sir Peter immediately be reconciled to CHARLES? and of consequence no longer oppose his union with MARIA? the thought is Distraction to me! SURFACE. Can Passion--furnish a Remedy? LADY SNEERWELL. No--nor cunning either. O I was a Fool, an Ideot--to league with such a Blunderer! SURFACE. Surely Lady Sneerwell I am the greatest Sufferer--yet you see I bear the accident with Calmness. LADY SNEERWELL. Because the Disappointment hasn't reached your HEART--your interest only attached you to Maria--had you felt for her--what I have for that ungrateful Libertine--neither your Temper nor Hypocrisy could prevent your showing the sharpness of your Vexation. SURFACE. But why should your Reproaches fall on me for this Disappointment? LADY SNEERWELL. Are not you the cause of it? what had you to bate in your Pursuit of Maria to pervert Lady Teazle by the way.--had you not a sufficient field for your Roguery in blinding Sir Peter and supplanting your Brother--I hate such an avarice of crimes--'tis an unfair monopoly and never prospers. SURFACE. Well I admit I have been to blame--I confess I deviated from the direct Road of wrong but I don't think we're so totally defeated neither. LADY SNEERWELL. No! SURFACE. You tell me you have made a trial of Snake since we met--and that you still believe him faithful to us-- LADY SNEERWELL. I do believe so. SURFACE. And that he has undertaken should it be necessary--to swear and prove that Charles is at this Time contracted by vows and Honour to your Ladyship--which some of his former letters to you will serve to support-- LADY SNEERWELL. This, indeed, might have assisted-- SURFACE. Come--come it is not too late yet--but hark! this is probably my Unkle Sir Oliver--retire to that Room--we'll consult further when He's gone.-- LADY SNEERWELL. Well but if HE should find you out to-- SURFACE. O I have no fear of that--Sir Peter will hold his tongue for his own credit sake--and you may depend on't I shall soon Discover Sir Oliver's weak side!-- LADY SNEERWELL. I have no diffidence of your abilities--only be constant to one roguery at a time-- [Exit.] SURFACE. I will--I will--So 'tis confounded hard after such bad Fortune, to be baited by one's confederate in evil--well at all events my character is so much better than Charles's, that I certainly--hey--what!--this is not Sir Oliver--but old Stanley again!--Plague on't that He should return to teaze me just now--I shall have Sir Oliver come and find him here--and---- Enter SIR OLIVER Gad's life, Mr. Stanley--why have you come back to plague me at this time? you must not stay now upon my word! SIR OLIVER. Sir--I hear your Unkle Oliver is expected here--and tho' He has been so penurious to you, I'll try what He'll do for me-- SURFACE. Sir! 'tis impossible for you to stay now--so I must beg----come any other time and I promise you you shall be assisted. SIR OLIVER. No--Sir Oliver and I must be acquainted-- SURFACE. Zounds Sir then [I] insist on your quitting the--Room directly-- SIR OLIVER. Nay Sir---- SURFACE. Sir--I insist on't--here William show this Gentleman out. Since you compel me Sir--not one moment--this is such insolence. [Going to push him out.] Enter CHARLES CHARLES. Heyday! what's the matter now?--what the Devil have you got hold of my little Broker here! Zounds--Brother, don't hurt little Premium. What's the matter--my little Fellow? SURFACE. So! He has been with you, too, has He-- CHARLES. To be sure He has! Why, 'tis as honest a little----But sure Joseph you have not been borrowing money too have you? SURFACE. Borrowing--no!--But, Brother--you know sure we expect Sir Oliver every---- CHARLES. O Gad, that's true--Noll mustn't find the little Broker here to be sure-- SURFACE. Yet Mr. Stanley insists---- CHARLES. Stanley--why his name's Premium-- SURFACE. No no Stanley. CHARLES. No, no--Premium. SURFACE. Well no matter which--but---- CHARLES. Aye aye Stanley or Premium, 'tis the same thing as you say--for I suppose He goes by half a hundred Names, besides A. B's at the Coffee-House. [Knock.] SURFACE. 'Sdeath--here's Sir Oliver at the Door----Now I beg--Mr. Stanley---- CHARLES. Aye aye and I beg Mr. Premium---- SIR OLIVER. Gentlemen---- SURFACE. Sir, by Heaven you shall go-- CHARLES. Aye out with him certainly---- SIR OLIVER. This violence---- SURFACE. 'Tis your own Fault. CHARLES. Out with him to be sure. [Both forcing SIR OLIVER out.] Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE, LADY TEAZLE, MARIA, and ROWLEY SIR PETER. My old Friend, Sir Oliver!--hey! what in the name of wonder!--Here are dutiful Nephews!--assault their Unkle at his first Visit! LADY TEAZLE. Indeed Sir Oliver 'twas well we came in to rescue you. ROWLEY. Truly it was--for I perceive Sir Oliver the character of old Stanley was no Protection to you. SIR OLIVER. Nor of Premium either--the necessities of the former could not extort a shilling from that benevolent Gentleman; and with the other I stood a chance of faring worse than my Ancestors, and being knocked down without being bid for. SURFACE. Charles! CHARLES. Joseph! SURFACE. 'Tis compleat! CHARLES. Very! SIR OLIVER. Sir Peter--my Friend and Rowley too--look on that elder Nephew of mine--You know what He has already received from my Bounty and you know also how gladly I would have look'd on half my Fortune as held in trust for him--judge then my Disappointment in discovering him to be destitute of Truth--Charity--and Gratitude-- SIR PETER. Sir Oliver--I should be more surprized at this Declaration, if I had not myself found him to be selfish--treacherous and Hypocritical. LADY TEAZLE. And if the Gentleman pleads not guilty to these pray let him call ME to his Character. SIR PETER. Then I believe we need add no more--if He knows himself He will consider it as the most perfect Punishment that He is known to the world-- CHARLES. If they talk this way to Honesty--what will they say to ME by and bye! SIR OLIVER. As for that Prodigal--his Brother there---- CHARLES. Aye now comes my Turn--the damn'd Family Pictures will ruin me-- SURFACE. Sir Oliver--Unkle--will you honour me with a hearing-- CHARLES. I wish Joseph now would make one of his long speeches and I might recollect myself a little-- SIR OLIVER. And I suppose you would undertake to vindicate yourself entirely-- SURFACE. I trust I could-- SIR OLIVER. Nay--if you desert your Roguery in its Distress and try to be justified--you have even less principle than I thought you had.--[To CHARLES SURFACE] Well, Sir--and YOU could JUSTIFY yourself too I suppose-- CHARLES. Not that I know of, Sir Oliver. SIR OLIVER. What[!] little Premium has been let too much into the secret I presume. CHARLES. True--Sir--but they were Family Secrets, and should not be mentioned again you know. ROWLEY. Come Sir Oliver I know you cannot speak of Charles's Follies with anger. SIR OLIVER. Odd's heart no more I can--nor with gravity either--Sir Peter do you know the Rogue bargain'd with me for all his Ancestors--sold me judges and Generals by the Foot, and Maiden Aunts as cheap as broken China! CHARLES. To be sure, Sir Oliver, I did make a little free with the Family Canvas that's the truth on't:--my Ancestors may certainly rise in judgment against me there's no denying it--but believe me sincere when I tell you, and upon my soul I would not say so if I was not--that if I do not appear mortified at the exposure of my Follies, it is because I feel at this moment the warmest satisfaction in seeing you, my liberal benefactor. SIR OLIVER. Charles--I believe you--give me your hand again: the ill-looking little fellow over the Couch has made your Peace. CHARLES. Then Sir--my Gratitude to the original is still encreased. LADY TEAZLE. [Advancing.] Yet I believe, Sir Oliver, here is one whom Charles is still more anxious to be reconciled to. SIR OLIVER. O I have heard of his Attachment there--and, with the young Lady's Pardon if I construe right that Blush---- SIR PETER. Well--Child--speak your sentiments--you know--we are going to be reconciled to Charles-- MARIA. Sir--I have little to say--but that I shall rejoice to hear that He is happy--For me--whatever claim I had to his Affection--I willing resign to one who has a better title. CHARLES. How Maria! SIR PETER. Heyday--what's the mystery now? while he appeared an incorrigible Rake, you would give your hand to no one else and now that He's likely to reform I'll warrant You won't have him! MARIA. His own Heart--and Lady Sneerwell know the cause. [CHARLES.] Lady Sneerwell! SURFACE. Brother it is with great concern--I am obliged to speak on this Point, but my Regard to justice obliges me--and Lady Sneerwell's injuries can no longer--be concealed--[Goes to the Door.] Enter LADY SNEERWELL SIR PETER. Soh! another French milliner egad! He has one in every Room in the House I suppose-- LADY SNEERWELL. Ungrateful Charles! Well may you be surprised and feel for the indelicate situation which your Perfidy has forced me into. CHARLES. Pray Unkle, is this another Plot of yours? for as I have Life I don't understand it. SURFACE. I believe Sir there is but the evidence of one Person more necessary to make it extremely clear. SIR PETER. And that Person--I imagine, is Mr. Snake--Rowley--you were perfectly right to bring him with us--and pray let him appear. ROWLEY. Walk in, Mr. Snake-- Enter SNAKE I thought his Testimony might be wanted--however it happens unluckily that He comes to confront Lady Sneerwell and not to support her-- LADY SNEERWELL. A Villain!--Treacherous to me at last! Speak, Fellow, have you too conspired against me? SNAKE. I beg your Ladyship--ten thousand Pardons--you paid me extremely Liberally for the Lie in question--but I unfortunately have been offer'd double to speak the Truth. LADY SNEERWELL. The Torments of Shame and Disappointment on you all! LADY TEAZLE. Hold--Lady Sneerwell--before you go let me thank you for the trouble you and that Gentleman have taken in writing Letters from me to Charles and answering them yourself--and let me also request you to make my Respects to the Scandalous College--of which you are President--and inform them that Lady Teazle, Licentiate, begs leave to return the diploma they granted her--as she leaves of[f] Practice and kills Characters no longer. LADY SNEERWELL. Provoking--insolent!--may your Husband live these fifty years! [Exit.] SIR PETER. Oons what a Fury---- LADY TEAZLE. A malicious Creature indeed! SIR PETER. Hey--not for her last wish?-- LADY TEAZLE. O No-- SIR OLIVER. Well Sir, and what have you to say now? SURFACE. Sir, I am so confounded, to find that Lady Sneerwell could be guilty of suborning Mr. Snake in this manner to impose on us all that I know not what to say----however, lest her Revengeful Spirit should prompt her to injure my Brother I had certainly better follow her directly. [Exit.] SIR PETER. Moral to the last drop! SIR OLIVER. Aye and marry her Joseph if you can.--Oil and Vinegar egad:--you'll do very well together. ROWLEY. I believe we have no more occasion for Mr. Snake at Present-- SNAKE. Before I go--I beg Pardon once for all for whatever uneasiness I have been the humble instrument of causing to the Parties present. SIR PETER. Well--well you have made atonement by a good Deed at last-- SNAKE. But I must Request of the Company that it shall never be known-- SIR PETER. Hey!--what the Plague--are you ashamed of having done a right thing once in your life? SNAKE. Ah: Sir--consider I live by the Badness of my Character!--I have nothing but my Infamy to depend on!--and, if it were once known that I had been betray'd into an honest Action, I should lose every Friend I have in the world. SIR OLIVER. Well--well we'll not traduce you by saying anything to your Praise never fear. [Exit SNAKE.] SIR PETER. There's a precious Rogue--Yet that fellow is a Writer and a Critic. LADY TEAZLE. See[,] Sir Oliver[,] there needs no persuasion now to reconcile your Nephew and Maria-- SIR OLIVER. Aye--aye--that's as it should be and egad we'll have the wedding to-morrow morning-- CHARLES. Thank you, dear Unkle! SIR PETER. What! you rogue don't you ask the Girl's consent first-- CHARLES. Oh, I have done that a long time--above a minute ago--and She has look'd yes-- MARIA. For Shame--Charles--I protest Sir Peter, there has not been a word---- SIR OLIVER. Well then the fewer the Better--may your love for each other never know--abatement. SIR PETER. And may you live as happily together as Lady Teazle and I--intend to do-- CHARLES. Rowley my old Friend--I am sure you congratulate me and I suspect too that I owe you much. SIR OLIVER. You do, indeed, Charles-- ROWLEY. If my Efforts to serve you had not succeeded you would have been in my debt for the attempt--but deserve to be happy--and you over-repay me. SIR PETER. Aye honest Rowley always said you would reform. CHARLES. Why as to reforming Sir Peter I'll make no promises--and that I take to be a proof that I intend to set about it--But here shall be my Monitor--my gentle Guide.--ah! can I leave the Virtuous path those Eyes illumine? Tho' thou, dear Maid, should'st wave [waive] thy Beauty's Sway, --Thou still must Rule--because I will obey: An humbled fugitive from Folly View, No sanctuary near but Love and YOU: You can indeed each anxious Fear remove, For even Scandal dies if you approve. [To the audience.] EPILOGUE BY MR. COLMAN SPOKEN BY LADY TEAZLE I, who was late so volatile and gay, Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way, Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows, To one dull rusty weathercock--my spouse! So wills our virtuous bard--the motley Bayes Of crying epilogues and laughing plays! Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives, Learn from our play to regulate your lives: Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon her-- London will prove the very source of honour. Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves, When principles relax, to brace the nerves: Such is my case; and yet I must deplore That the gay dream of dissipation's o'er. And say, ye fair! was ever lively wife, Born with a genius for the highest life, Like me untimely blasted in her bloom, Like me condemn'd to such a dismal doom? Save money--when I just knew how to waste it! Leave London--just as I began to taste it! Must I then watch the early crowing cock, The melancholy ticking of a clock; In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded, With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats surrounded? With humble curate can I now retire, (While good Sir Peter boozes with the squire,) And at backgammon mortify my soul, That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole? Seven's the main! Dear sound that must expire, Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire; The transient hour of fashion too soon spent, Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content! Farewell the plumed head, the cushion'd tete, That takes the cushion from its proper seat! That spirit-stirring drum!--card drums I mean, Spadille--odd trick--pam--basto--king and queen! And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen throat, The welcome visitors' approach denote; Farewell all quality of high renown, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town! Farewell! your revels I partake no more, And Lady Teazle's occupation's o'er! All this I told our bard; he smiled, and said 'twas clear, I ought to play deep tragedy next year. Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play, And in these solemn periods stalk'd away:-- "Bless'd were the fair like you; her faults who stopp'd, And closed her follies when the curtain dropp'd! No more in vice or error to engage, Or play the fool at large on life's great stage." END OF PLAY <1> This PORTRAIT and Garrick's PROLOGUE are not included in Fraser Rae's text. <2> From Sheridan's manuscript. <3> The story in Act I. Scene I., told by Crabtree about Miss Letitia Piper, is repeated here, the speaker being Sir Peter: SIR PETER. O nine out of ten malicious inventions are founded on some ridiculous misrepresentation--Mrs. Candour you remember how poor Miss Shepherd lost her Lover and her Character one Summer at Tunbridge. MRS. C. To be sure that was a very ridiculous affair. CRABTREE. Pray tell us Sir Peter how it was. SIR P. Why madam--[The story follows.] MRS. C. Ha ha strange indeed-- SIR P. Matter of Fact I assure you.... LADY T. As sure as can be--Sir Peter will grow scandalous himself--if you encourage him to tell stories. [Fraser Rae's footnote--Ed.] <4> The words which follow this title are not inserted in the manuscript of the play. [Fraser Rae's footnote.--Ed.] <5> From this place to Scene ii. Act IV. several sheets are missing. [Fraser Rae's footnote.--Ed.]

Act V

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

Sir Oliver, along with Rowley, goes to visit Joseph, who is not pleased with the timing of the visit. Sir Oliver is disguised as Mr. Stanley, Joseph's poor relative. Joseph refuses to help Stanley financially, claiming that he has no money, even though Sir Oliver sent him a large sum of money from India. Sir Oliver is angered by this and declares, "Charles! You are my heir" as he exits. After "Mr. Stanley" leaves, Rowley returns and tells Joseph that his uncle has arrived in town. Joseph asks Rowley to stop Mr. Stanley, but Rowley says he thinks it won't be possible. Joseph is still upset that all this business is happening at such an inopportune time, but he is excited to see his uncle. Scene II takes place at Sir Peter's house. Lady Sneerwell, Mrs. Candour, Sir Benjamin, and eventually Crabtree talk about the rumors surrounding Lady Teazle. The rumors are blown out of proportion as they report to one another that Charles and Sir Peter supposedly dueled with either swords or guns. Lady Sneerwell hides her involvement in the issue somewhat, and leaves the group discussing the rumor. Soon after Lady Sneerwell leaves, Sir Oliver arrives at the house. They believe him to be the doctor, present to tend to Sir Peter's wound from the supposed duel. Sir Oliver tells them he is not a doctor, calling attention to the differences in the stories he is being told--the parties still not agreeing on whether the wound came from a sword or a bullet. Sir Peter then arrives and everyone makes a fuss about him not being wounded after all. The group makes fun of him and he throws them out of his house, telling them he wants neither their jokes nor their pity. Finally, only Sir Oliver remains, and Rowley returns. Sir Oliver tells Sir Peter about his visits with both nephews. Sir Oliver also says that he too has heard the story of Sir Peter, Lady Teazle, Joseph, and Charles, and laughs at his friend. They all laugh together, and Sir Peter laments without much feeling how the gossip will continue to circulate through the papers. Sir Oliver leaves so that Sir Peter can reconcile with his wife. Rowley and Sir Peter discuss how badly Lady Teazle is feeling about what happened and Sir Peter suggests that he might leave her to feel bad for a while instead of going to speak to her. Rowley chides him, and Sir Peter agrees to go make up with her. Lady Sneerwell and Joseph meet to discuss whether Sir Peter will now reconcile with Charles and let him marry Maria. Lady Sneerwell scolds him for ruining the plot. Joseph suggests that if Snake is still faithful to them, it may not be too late. They hear a knocking at the door; Joseph thinks this will be his uncle coming to call, so Lady Sneerwell leaves. Indeed, it is Sir Oliver at the door, but due to Sir Oliver's disguise, Joseph thinks it is Mr. Stanley. Sir Oliver keeps pretending to be Mr. Stanley, saying he wants to meet with Sir Oliver as well in order to get some financial help. Joseph does not want this, and tries to push Mr. Stanley out the door. Charles arrives and thinks Sir Oliver is Mr. Premium. Both Charles and Joseph try to get the man to leave; in the confusion, Sir Peter, Lady Teazle, Maria, and Rowley all come in. Sir Oliver reveals to his nephews who he is, and that he decided to leave his money to Charles. Maria arrives, but she refuses to marry Charles because she heard rumors about a relationship between him and Lady Sneerwell. Snake reveals the truth, and then Maria agrees to marry Charles. The play ends with an epilogue, spoken by Lady Teazle to the audience.

Another example of dramatic irony can be found in Act V when Sir Oliver visits Joseph in disguise. Once again, Sir Oliver plays the role while giving many asides to the audience about Joseph's greed, and the audience is both entertained by Joseph's inability to recognize his own uncle and also shocked along with Sir Oliver at Joseph's immoral behavior. It is clear that, unlike Charles, Joseph does not feel a sense of loyalty to his family, and that he does not value public honesty. Sheridan also uses Act V to continue satirizing the act of rumor-spreading itself. He does this primarily through the vivid and detailed imagery of the scene in which a group of characters discuss a supposed fight between Sir Peter and Joseph. Though the audience knows that there has been no duel, Crabtree delights the group of gossips as well as the audience with a drawn-out description of what he supposedly has heard to have happened between the men: "A pair of pistols lay on the bureau , so, unluckily, the pistols were left charged... Sir Peter forced Charles to take one, and they fired, it seems, pretty nearly together. Charles's shot took effect, as I tell you, and Sir Peter's missed; but, what is very extraordinary, the ball struck against a little bronze Shakspeare that stood over the fireplace, grazed out of the window at a right angle, and wounded the postman, who was just coming to the door with a double letter from Northamptonshire" . Sheridan purposefully writes this rumor and those like it throughout the play with precise, even exaggerated, detail to show how rumors can get out of hand due to the imagination and egotism of the spreaders. In Act V, Sheridan shows his beliefs about truth by giving the various plot lines of the story happy endings once truth is revealed. In Sir Peter and Lady Teazle's plot line, once Sir Peter finds out that Lady Teazle has had an affair , he decides to forgive her and even seems more hopeful about their marriage. When the truth comes out about the real characters of the Surface brothers, both Charles and Sir Oliver are happy, though Joseph, the greedy hypocrite, is not. Finally, once the truth about Lady Sneerwell's plot is outed by Snake, Maria and Charles are able to love one another in peace. Snake is a character who should not be overlooked in The School for Scandal. Though he appears only in the first and last scenes, it is he who transmits information about the rumors, trusting no one fully and loyal to nobody, and it is he who fully resolves the conflict of the play at the end of Act V. Ironically, Snake both begs forgiveness for his involvement in rumor-spreading, but also asks people not to tell others about his help in resolving the conflict, saying ironically that he lives and keeps his friends "by the badness of character". The play ends with an epilogue; like prologues, these were quite common devices to call final attention to themes in the play and speak directly to the audience, urging them directly to take these themes and morals to heart. Lady Teazle delivers the epilogue of The School for Scandal, underscoring the importance of her role, especially as an outsider herself who could be seen as tainted by the pressures of London's upper-class societal norms. Though this epilogue, Sheridan urges the audience a final time to see this play not as simple entertainment, but rather as a harsh criticism of any who engage in gossip--both its creation and its transmission.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1130-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra/section_16_part_0.txt

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

act iii, scene v

{"name": "Act III, Scene v", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iii-scene-v", "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.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE V. Athens. ANTONY'S house Enter ENOBARBUS and EROS, meeting ENOBARBUS. How now, friend Eros! EROS. There's strange news come, sir. ENOBARBUS. What, man? EROS. Caesar and Lepidus have made wars upon Pompey. ENOBARBUS. This is old. What is the success? EROS. Caesar, having made use of him in the wars 'gainst Pompey, presently denied him rivality, would not let him partake in the glory of the action; and not resting here, accuses him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes him. So the poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine. ENOBARBUS. Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps- no more; And throw between them all the food thou hast, They'll grind the one the other. Where's Antony? EROS. He's walking in the garden- thus, and spurns The rush that lies before him; cries 'Fool Lepidus!' And threats the throat of that his officer That murd'red Pompey. ENOBARBUS. Our great navy's rigg'd. EROS. For Italy and Caesar. More, Domitius: My lord desires you presently; my news I might have told hereafter. ENOBARBUS. 'Twill be naught; But let it be. Bring me to Antony. EROS. Come, sir. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_6

Act III, Scene v

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

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.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/book_2.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Brothers Karamazov/section_1_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 2.chapter 1-chapter 8

book 2

{"name": "Book 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422052201/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-brothers-karamazov/study-guide/summary-book-2", "summary": "The Karamazovs go to the meeting with Father Zossima to resolve the dispute between Dmitri and Fyodor over Dmitri's inheritance. Ivan and Fyodor arrive with Ivan's former benefactor, Peter Miusov, but Dmitri is nowhere in sight. Even though the group contains very influential citizens, no fuss is made upon their arrival. No monks rush to greet them. Instead, they are surrounded by beggars. Eventually, a monk invites them into the monastery, and they are all invited to dine with the Father after the meeting. Fyodor exclaims, \"I wouldn't miss it for anything!\" Old Karamazov calls Zossima \"Holy Elder,\" \"Your Reverence,\" \"angelic man,\" and \"blessed man.\" He gets down on his knees and kisses the father's hand. It seems as if he is playing. Peter Miusov is very annoyed by Fyodor's ironic demeanor, and he bickers with the elder Karamazov, showing his embarrassment at his presence, chastising him for his inconsiderate nature in front of a respected man. After such pleasantries, Father Zossima leaves to greet some visitors for a moment. The visitors are peasant women except for a more well-to-do pair: Madame Hohlakov and her sickly and paralyzed daughter Lise. All the women ask Father Zossima for advice. Many of them behave quite strangely, \"wailing in ecstasy ...barking like dogs,\" as if \"shocked\" by the \"host\" himself. The narrator explains that this is the behavior of suffering women with an \"intensely unhappy life, full of brutality and ill-treatment.\" Father Zossima is patient with each woman, listening to her problems and offering thoughtful advice. When he gets to Madame Hohlakov, she thanks him profusely for \"healing\" her Lise. When the Father talks to Lise, instead of shedding tears she bursts into giggles. She blames her outburst on Alyosha, to whom she has taken a liking. Madame Hohlakov tells Father Zossima that she lacks faith in God and is not altruistic; instead, she expects gratitude for her good deeds. He advises her to \"avoid lying, especially to yourself.\" Again Lise laughs, then suddenly begins to cry, pining for Alyosha. Father Zossima tells her that he will send Alyosha to visit her. When Father Zossima and Alyosha return to the Father's cell, Ivan is talking to the monks about the separation of church and state. He advocates no separation, for he believes that if the church were the institution punishing crime, crime would be virtually nonexistent. Criminals would be more afraid of excommunication than jail time. Alyosha, who is still trying to figure out his intellectual brother, is impressed by Ivan's respectfulness and lack of condescension toward the monks. Father Zossima responds to Ivan's ruminations by saying that the only effective punishment is one's \"awareness of one's own conscience.\" Before they can debate this issue, however, Dmitri bursts into the room. He apologizes for his tardiness, saying that Smerdyakov told him the wrong time for the meeting. Father Zossima is not angry, and he greets Dmitri warmly. Dmitri sits down, and the men continue their theological debate. Ivan argues that \"there is no virtue if there is no immortality.\" Men will cannibalize each other, figuratively and literally. Without belief in immortality, crime becomes inevitable. Dmitri and old Fyodor begin bickering. Karamazov accuses Dmitri of owing him money and attacking a captain in the army. Dmitri accuses old Karamazov of chasing after Grushenka, a girl he has been pursuing. Karamazov becomes so worked up that he challenges Dmitri to a duel, and an infuriated Dmitri exclaims, \"why should such a man live?\" As everyone bickers and shouts, Father Zossima bends down and kisses Dmitri's feet. Everyone is shocked; they do not know what to make of this. Everyone exits and continues on to a luncheon with Father Zossima except Fyodor. He decides not to attend the luncheon. While Alyosha is walking the Father back, Zossima tells him he should leave the monastery and rejoin the world. He tells Alyosha to \"stay close to your brothers--not just one of them, but both.\" Alyosha is very upset by this because he wants to be with Father Zossima, who is very ill. Disturbed by Father Zossima's advice, Alyosha continues on. He discusses the father's bow with Rakitin, a \"career-conscious divinity student.\" Rakitin is skeptical of Father Zossima's motives. During Rakitin's rant, he predicts the murder of old Karamazov by Dmitri. Alyosha is a bit shocked. Rakitin hypothesizes that Ivan would like to marry Katerina for her dowry. Alyosha refuses to believe this. He says that Ivan is after \"higher things ... perhaps it's suffering and torment he's after.\" Rakitin does not like Ivan. The two see that the luncheon is breaking up, and they rush over excitedly to see what has transpired. Fyodor changed his mind and decided to go to the luncheon, a five-course feast. He decided, \"since it was not in his power to regain their respect, why shouldn't he go on and disgrace himself altogether?\" After telling distasteful stories and attacking the monks for taking advantage of believers, saying that they \"suck the blood of the poor,\" Ivan puts him in a carriage. As they drive away, Fyodor yells at Alyosha to leave the monastery and move back in with Fyodor. As the father and son drive back, Fyodor promises Ivan a drink.", "analysis": "The much-anticipated meeting is, in fact, extremely telling about the personalities of the Karamazov men. Fyodor's mischievous manner is very much in keeping with the stories about his past from the first book. It seems that he causes trouble arbitrarily, not because he is particularly angry or disgruntled but because he feels like causing trouble. He is not respectful of anyone or anything, and he is not afraid to embarrass himself or those around him. The accusation that Fyodor might be trying to bed the same girl whom Dmitri has been courting adds another dimension to their dispute. Fyodor and Dmitri are the two most undependable and explosive members of the Karamazov clan. Dmitri shows up late and quarrels with his father in front of a respected man. But he is also gracious, listening closely to Father Zossima's advice. Their dispute is not resolved, and they part on bad terms. It seems unlikely that, if a calm and reasonable man such as Father Zossima could not help resolve their dispute, they will not be able to do so independently. Father Zossima acts as a foil to Fyodor, matching the elder Karamazov's vulgarity with quiet integrity, combating his acerbic remarks with patience and love. He is as much a father to Alyosha as Fyodor is, setting up an interesting duality for Alyosha's character. Alyosha seems to align his actions and ideas wholly with Father Zossima's, even though he is caring and understanding toward his biological father. Whereas Dmitri's character may be an amalgam of his parents' characters, bolstering the idea that one cannot escape his own genes, Alyosha is completely different from his father, affected more by his teachings than by his blood. Both Father Zossima and Alyosha are very noticeably devoid of hatred and temper. Neither character is a simple embodiment of Dostoevsky's ideas; each is individually human. Father Zossima has a sense of humor; he jokes with Fyodor by telling him to try not to tell any lies while Zossima steps outside for a moment. Alyosha is also prone to emotions such as embarrassment and worry; he is not the picture of calm holiness. It remains to be seen if Alyosha's and Father Zossima's reason and love will triumph over the hot-bloodedness of Dmitri and Fyodor. Madame Hohlakov and Lise are interesting additions to the mostly all-male cast thus far. Lise's girlish adoration for Alyosha reminds the reader how young Alyosha is, and it also brings up the possibility of a romance between the two. While making Alyosha seem more human, this budding romance could serve to compromise his pious status as a monk. Along with the other women who visit the monastery, Madame Hohlakov's adulation for the man borders on infatuation. While he remains humble, his fame precedes him and his followers worship him. It is unclear if these women actually feel legitimately helped by him or if they are simply gravitating toward an icon. Father Zossima's sensitive, loving manner puts to rest the fear that he may be a manipulative attention-seeker, but this does not mean his devotees come to him with wholly pure intentions. Father Zossima's status is fascinating. The fate of a man surrounded by such hysteria is uncertain. Ivan remains an enigma. While the rest of the characters are caught up in an emotional dispute, Ivan remains aloof and distant, instead talking about larger issues. He is very quiet and difficult to read, but he is polite and agreeable for most of the interview. When Maximov tries to get in the coach as it is leaving, however, he violently pushes him off, showing a shockingly violent streak. He seems very dangerous. When Rakitin hypothesizes that Dmitri will kill Fyodor and Ivan will benefit, it seems plausible that Ivan could have a hidden agenda. Alyosha defends his brother, and Alyosha's honesty and thoughtfulness lead the reader to agree with him. The candid conjecture about murder is unsettling, as is Father Zossima's bow. Such a vague and grand gesture seems to portend something. The final impression of this book is a feeling of foreboding. From Ivan's covered smoldering to the impassioned feud between Fyodor and Dmitri, there are many clues that a great drama-perhaps a great tragedy-is to come."}

Book II. An Unfortunate Gathering Chapter I. They Arrive At The Monastery It was a warm, bright day at the end of August. The interview with the elder had been fixed for half-past eleven, immediately after late mass. Our visitors did not take part in the service, but arrived just as it was over. First an elegant open carriage, drawn by two valuable horses, drove up with Miuesov and a distant relative of his, a young man of twenty, called Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov. This young man was preparing to enter the university. Miuesov, with whom he was staying for the time, was trying to persuade him to go abroad to the university of Zurich or Jena. The young man was still undecided. He was thoughtful and absent-minded. He was nice- looking, strongly built, and rather tall. There was a strange fixity in his gaze at times. Like all very absent-minded people he would sometimes stare at a person without seeing him. He was silent and rather awkward, but sometimes, when he was alone with any one, he became talkative and effusive, and would laugh at anything or nothing. But his animation vanished as quickly as it appeared. He was always well and even elaborately dressed; he had already some independent fortune and expectations of much more. He was a friend of Alyosha's. In an ancient, jolting, but roomy, hired carriage, with a pair of old pinkish-gray horses, a long way behind Miuesov's carriage, came Fyodor Pavlovitch, with his son Ivan. Dmitri was late, though he had been informed of the time the evening before. The visitors left their carriage at the hotel, outside the precincts, and went to the gates of the monastery on foot. Except Fyodor Pavlovitch, none of the party had ever seen the monastery, and Miuesov had probably not even been to church for thirty years. He looked about him with curiosity, together with assumed ease. But, except the church and the domestic buildings, though these too were ordinary enough, he found nothing of interest in the interior of the monastery. The last of the worshippers were coming out of the church, bareheaded and crossing themselves. Among the humbler people were a few of higher rank--two or three ladies and a very old general. They were all staying at the hotel. Our visitors were at once surrounded by beggars, but none of them gave them anything, except young Kalganov, who took a ten- copeck piece out of his purse, and, nervous and embarrassed--God knows why!--hurriedly gave it to an old woman, saying: "Divide it equally." None of his companions made any remark upon it, so that he had no reason to be embarrassed; but, perceiving this, he was even more overcome. It was strange that their arrival did not seem expected, and that they were not received with special honor, though one of them had recently made a donation of a thousand roubles, while another was a very wealthy and highly cultured landowner, upon whom all in the monastery were in a sense dependent, as a decision of the lawsuit might at any moment put their fishing rights in his hands. Yet no official personage met them. Miuesov looked absent-mindedly at the tombstones round the church, and was on the point of saying that the dead buried here must have paid a pretty penny for the right of lying in this "holy place," but refrained. His liberal irony was rapidly changing almost into anger. "Who the devil is there to ask in this imbecile place? We must find out, for time is passing," he observed suddenly, as though speaking to himself. All at once there came up a bald-headed, elderly man with ingratiating little eyes, wearing a full, summer overcoat. Lifting his hat, he introduced himself with a honeyed lisp as Maximov, a landowner of Tula. He at once entered into our visitors' difficulty. "Father Zossima lives in the hermitage, apart, four hundred paces from the monastery, the other side of the copse." "I know it's the other side of the copse," observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, "but we don't remember the way. It is a long time since we've been here." "This way, by this gate, and straight across the copse ... the copse. Come with me, won't you? I'll show you. I have to go.... I am going myself. This way, this way." They came out of the gate and turned towards the copse. Maximov, a man of sixty, ran rather than walked, turning sideways to stare at them all, with an incredible degree of nervous curiosity. His eyes looked starting out of his head. "You see, we have come to the elder upon business of our own," observed Miuesov severely. "That personage has granted us an audience, so to speak, and so, though we thank you for showing us the way, we cannot ask you to accompany us." "I've been there. I've been already; _un chevalier parfait_," and Maximov snapped his fingers in the air. "Who is a _chevalier_?" asked Miuesov. "The elder, the splendid elder, the elder! The honor and glory of the monastery, Zossima. Such an elder!" But his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale, wan-looking monk of medium height, wearing a monk's cap, who overtook them. Fyodor Pavlovitch and Miuesov stopped. The monk, with an extremely courteous, profound bow, announced: "The Father Superior invites all of you gentlemen to dine with him after your visit to the hermitage. At one o'clock, not later. And you also," he added, addressing Maximov. "That I certainly will, without fail," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, hugely delighted at the invitation. "And, believe me, we've all given our word to behave properly here.... And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, will you go, too?" "Yes, of course. What have I come for but to study all the customs here? The only obstacle to me is your company...." "Yes, Dmitri Fyodorovitch is non-existent as yet." "It would be a capital thing if he didn't turn up. Do you suppose I like all this business, and in your company, too? So we will come to dinner. Thank the Father Superior," he said to the monk. "No, it is my duty now to conduct you to the elder," answered the monk. "If so I'll go straight to the Father Superior--to the Father Superior," babbled Maximov. "The Father Superior is engaged just now. But as you please--" the monk hesitated. "Impertinent old man!" Miuesov observed aloud, while Maximov ran back to the monastery. "He's like von Sohn," Fyodor Pavlovitch said suddenly. "Is that all you can think of?... In what way is he like von Sohn? Have you ever seen von Sohn?" "I've seen his portrait. It's not the features, but something indefinable. He's a second von Sohn. I can always tell from the physiognomy." "Ah, I dare say you are a connoisseur in that. But, look here, Fyodor Pavlovitch, you said just now that we had given our word to behave properly. Remember it. I advise you to control yourself. But, if you begin to play the fool I don't intend to be associated with you here.... You see what a man he is"--he turned to the monk--"I'm afraid to go among decent people with him." A fine smile, not without a certain slyness, came on to the pale, bloodless lips of the monk, but he made no reply, and was evidently silent from a sense of his own dignity. Miuesov frowned more than ever. "Oh, devil take them all! An outer show elaborated through centuries, and nothing but charlatanism and nonsense underneath," flashed through Miuesov's mind. "Here's the hermitage. We've arrived," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. "The gates are shut." And he repeatedly made the sign of the cross to the saints painted above and on the sides of the gates. "When you go to Rome you must do as the Romans do. Here in this hermitage there are twenty-five saints being saved. They look at one another, and eat cabbages. And not one woman goes in at this gate. That's what is remarkable. And that really is so. But I did hear that the elder receives ladies," he remarked suddenly to the monk. "Women of the people are here too now, lying in the portico there waiting. But for ladies of higher rank two rooms have been built adjoining the portico, but outside the precincts--you can see the windows--and the elder goes out to them by an inner passage when he is well enough. They are always outside the precincts. There is a Harkov lady, Madame Hohlakov, waiting there now with her sick daughter. Probably he has promised to come out to her, though of late he has been so weak that he has hardly shown himself even to the people." "So then there are loopholes, after all, to creep out of the hermitage to the ladies. Don't suppose, holy father, that I mean any harm. But do you know that at Athos not only the visits of women are not allowed, but no creature of the female sex--no hens, nor turkey-hens, nor cows." "Fyodor Pavlovitch, I warn you I shall go back and leave you here. They'll turn you out when I'm gone." "But I'm not interfering with you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. Look," he cried suddenly, stepping within the precincts, "what a vale of roses they live in!" Though there were no roses now, there were numbers of rare and beautiful autumn flowers growing wherever there was space for them, and evidently tended by a skillful hand; there were flower-beds round the church, and between the tombs; and the one-storied wooden house where the elder lived was also surrounded with flowers. "And was it like this in the time of the last elder, Varsonofy? He didn't care for such elegance. They say he used to jump up and thrash even ladies with a stick," observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, as he went up the steps. "The elder Varsonofy did sometimes seem rather strange, but a great deal that's told is foolishness. He never thrashed any one," answered the monk. "Now, gentlemen, if you will wait a minute I will announce you." "Fyodor Pavlovitch, for the last time, your compact, do you hear? Behave properly or I will pay you out!" Miuesov had time to mutter again. "I can't think why you are so agitated," Fyodor Pavlovitch observed sarcastically. "Are you uneasy about your sins? They say he can tell by one's eyes what one has come about. And what a lot you think of their opinion! you, a Parisian, and so advanced. I'm surprised at you." But Miuesov had no time to reply to this sarcasm. They were asked to come in. He walked in, somewhat irritated. "Now, I know myself, I am annoyed, I shall lose my temper and begin to quarrel--and lower myself and my ideas," he reflected. Chapter II. The Old Buffoon They entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder came in from his bedroom. There were already in the cell, awaiting the elder, two monks of the hermitage, one the Father Librarian, and the other Father Paissy, a very learned man, so they said, in delicate health, though not old. There was also a tall young man, who looked about two and twenty, standing in the corner throughout the interview. He had a broad, fresh face, and clever, observant, narrow brown eyes, and was wearing ordinary dress. He was a divinity student, living under the protection of the monastery. His expression was one of unquestioning, but self-respecting, reverence. Being in a subordinate and dependent position, and so not on an equality with the guests, he did not greet them with a bow. Father Zossima was accompanied by a novice, and by Alyosha. The two monks rose and greeted him with a very deep bow, touching the ground with their fingers; then kissed his hand. Blessing them, the elder replied with as deep a reverence to them, and asked their blessing. The whole ceremony was performed very seriously and with an appearance of feeling, not like an everyday rite. But Miuesov fancied that it was all done with intentional impressiveness. He stood in front of the other visitors. He ought--he had reflected upon it the evening before--from simple politeness, since it was the custom here, to have gone up to receive the elder's blessing, even if he did not kiss his hand. But when he saw all this bowing and kissing on the part of the monks he instantly changed his mind. With dignified gravity he made a rather deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a chair. Fyodor Pavlovitch did the same, mimicking Miuesov like an ape. Ivan bowed with great dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his hands at his sides, while Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow at all. The elder let fall the hand raised to bless them, and bowing to them again, asked them all to sit down. The blood rushed to Alyosha's cheeks. He was ashamed. His forebodings were coming true. Father Zossima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa, covered with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the opposite wall on four mahogany chairs, covered with shabby black leather. The monks sat, one at the door and the other at the window. The divinity student, the novice, and Alyosha remained standing. The cell was not very large and had a faded look. It contained nothing but the most necessary furniture, of coarse and poor quality. There were two pots of flowers in the window, and a number of holy pictures in the corner. Before one huge ancient ikon of the Virgin a lamp was burning. Near it were two other holy pictures in shining settings, and, next them, carved cherubims, china eggs, a Catholic cross of ivory, with a Mater Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign engravings from the great Italian artists of past centuries. Next to these costly and artistic engravings were several of the roughest Russian prints of saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few farthings at all the fairs. On the other walls were portraits of Russian bishops, past and present. Miuesov took a cursory glance at all these "conventional" surroundings and bent an intent look upon the elder. He had a high opinion of his own insight, a weakness excusable in him as he was fifty, an age at which a clever man of the world of established position can hardly help taking himself rather seriously. At the first moment he did not like Zossima. There was, indeed, something in the elder's face which many people besides Miuesov might not have liked. He was a short, bent, little man, with very weak legs, and though he was only sixty-five, he looked at least ten years older. His face was very thin and covered with a network of fine wrinkles, particularly numerous about his eyes, which were small, light-colored, quick, and shining like two bright points. He had a sprinkling of gray hair about his temples. His pointed beard was small and scanty, and his lips, which smiled frequently, were as thin as two threads. His nose was not long, but sharp, like a bird's beak. "To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride," thought Miuesov. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position. A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to begin the conversation. "Precisely to our time," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "but no sign of my son, Dmitri. I apologize for him, sacred elder!" (Alyosha shuddered all over at "sacred elder.") "I am always punctual myself, minute for minute, remembering that punctuality is the courtesy of kings...." "But you are not a king, anyway," Miuesov muttered, losing his self- restraint at once. "Yes; that's true. I'm not a king, and, would you believe it, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, I was aware of that myself. But, there! I always say the wrong thing. Your reverence," he cried, with sudden pathos, "you behold before you a buffoon in earnest! I introduce myself as such. It's an old habit, alas! And if I sometimes talk nonsense out of place it's with an object, with the object of amusing people and making myself agreeable. One must be agreeable, mustn't one? I was seven years ago in a little town where I had business, and I made friends with some merchants there. We went to the captain of police because we had to see him about something, and to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the most dangerous type in such cases. It's their liver. I went straight up to him, and with the ease of a man of the world, you know, 'Mr. Ispravnik,' said I, 'be our Napravnik.' 'What do you mean by Napravnik?' said he. I saw, at the first half-second, that it had missed fire. He stood there so glum. 'I wanted to make a joke,' said I, 'for the general diversion, as Mr. Napravnik is our well-known Russian orchestra conductor and what we need for the harmony of our undertaking is some one of that sort.' And I explained my comparison very reasonably, didn't I? 'Excuse me,' said he, 'I am an Ispravnik, and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling.' He turned and walked away. I followed him, shouting, 'Yes, yes, you are an Ispravnik, not a Napravnik.' 'No,' he said, 'since you called me a Napravnik I am one.' And would you believe it, it ruined our business! And I'm always like that, always like that. Always injuring myself with my politeness. Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person: 'Your wife is a ticklish lady,' in an honorable sense, of the moral qualities, so to speak. But he asked me, 'Why, have you tickled her?' I thought I'd be polite, so I couldn't help saying, 'Yes,' and he gave me a fine tickling on the spot. Only that happened long ago, so I'm not ashamed to tell the story. I'm always injuring myself like that." "You're doing it now," muttered Miuesov, with disgust. Father Zossima scrutinized them both in silence. "Am I? Would you believe it, I was aware of that, too, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, and let me tell you, indeed, I foresaw I should as soon as I began to speak. And do you know I foresaw, too, that you'd be the first to remark on it. The minute I see my joke isn't coming off, your reverence, both my cheeks feel as though they were drawn down to the lower jaw and there is almost a spasm in them. That's been so since I was young, when I had to make jokes for my living in noblemen's families. I am an inveterate buffoon, and have been from birth up, your reverence, it's as though it were a craze in me. I dare say it's a devil within me. But only a little one. A more serious one would have chosen another lodging. But not your soul, Pyotr Alexandrovitch; you're not a lodging worth having either. But I do believe--I believe in God, though I have had doubts of late. But now I sit and await words of wisdom. I'm like the philosopher, Diderot, your reverence. Did you ever hear, most Holy Father, how Diderot went to see the Metropolitan Platon, in the time of the Empress Catherine? He went in and said straight out, 'There is no God.' To which the great bishop lifted up his finger and answered, 'The fool hath said in his heart there is no God.' And he fell down at his feet on the spot. 'I believe,' he cried, 'and will be christened.' And so he was. Princess Dashkov was his godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather." "Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know you're telling lies and that that stupid anecdote isn't true. Why are you playing the fool?" cried Miuesov in a shaking voice. "I suspected all my life that it wasn't true," Fyodor Pavlovitch cried with conviction. "But I'll tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great elder! Forgive me, the last thing about Diderot's christening I made up just now. I never thought of it before. I made it up to add piquancy. I play the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to make myself agreeable. Though I really don't know myself, sometimes, what I do it for. And as for Diderot, I heard as far as 'the fool hath said in his heart' twenty times from the gentry about here when I was young. I heard your aunt, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, tell the story. They all believe to this day that the infidel Diderot came to dispute about God with the Metropolitan Platon...." Miuesov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. He was furious, and conscious of being ridiculous. What was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty or fifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors had entered that cell without feelings of the profoundest veneration. Almost every one admitted to the cell felt that a great favor was being shown him. Many remained kneeling during the whole visit. Of those visitors, many had been men of high rank and learning, some even freethinkers, attracted by curiosity, but all without exception had shown the profoundest reverence and delicacy, for here there was no question of money, but only, on the one side love and kindness, and on the other penitence and eager desire to decide some spiritual problem or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed and bewildered the spectators, or at least some of them. The monks, with unchanged countenances, waited, with earnest attention, to hear what the elder would say, but seemed on the point of standing up, like Miuesov. Alyosha stood, with hanging head, on the verge of tears. What seemed to him strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, on whom alone he had rested his hopes, and who alone had such influence on his father that he could have stopped him, sat now quite unmoved, with downcast eyes, apparently waiting with interest to see how it would end, as though he had nothing to do with it. Alyosha did not dare to look at Rakitin, the divinity student, whom he knew almost intimately. He alone in the monastery knew Rakitin's thoughts. "Forgive me," began Miuesov, addressing Father Zossima, "for perhaps I seem to be taking part in this shameful foolery. I made a mistake in believing that even a man like Fyodor Pavlovitch would understand what was due on a visit to so honored a personage. I did not suppose I should have to apologize simply for having come with him...." Pyotr Alexandrovitch could say no more, and was about to leave the room, overwhelmed with confusion. "Don't distress yourself, I beg." The elder got on to his feeble legs, and taking Pyotr Alexandrovitch by both hands, made him sit down again. "I beg you not to disturb yourself. I particularly beg you to be my guest." And with a bow he went back and sat down again on his little sofa. "Great elder, speak! Do I annoy you by my vivacity?" Fyodor Pavlovitch cried suddenly, clutching the arms of his chair in both hands, as though ready to leap up from it if the answer were unfavorable. "I earnestly beg you, too, not to disturb yourself, and not to be uneasy," the elder said impressively. "Do not trouble. Make yourself quite at home. And, above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all." "Quite at home? To be my natural self? Oh, that is much too much, but I accept it with grateful joy. Do you know, blessed Father, you'd better not invite me to be my natural self. Don't risk it.... I will not go so far as that myself. I warn you for your own sake. Well, the rest is still plunged in the mists of uncertainty, though there are people who'd be pleased to describe me for you. I mean that for you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. But as for you, holy being, let me tell you, I am brimming over with ecstasy." He got up, and throwing up his hands, declaimed, "Blessed be the womb that bare thee, and the paps that gave thee suck--the paps especially. When you said just now, 'Don't be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all,' you pierced right through me by that remark, and read me to the core. Indeed, I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon. So I say, 'Let me really play the buffoon. I am not afraid of your opinion, for you are every one of you worse than I am.' That is why I am a buffoon. It is from shame, great elder, from shame; it's simply over-sensitiveness that makes me rowdy. If I had only been sure that every one would accept me as the kindest and wisest of men, oh, Lord, what a good man I should have been then! Teacher!" he fell suddenly on his knees, "what must I do to gain eternal life?" It was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or really moved. Father Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile: "You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense enough: don't give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech; don't give way to sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of money. And close your taverns. If you can't close all, at least two or three. And, above all--don't lie." "You mean about Diderot?" "No, not about Diderot. Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than any one. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offense, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill--he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing...." "Blessed man! Give me your hand to kiss." Fyodor Pavlovitch skipped up, and imprinted a rapid kiss on the elder's thin hand. "It is, it is pleasant to take offense. You said that so well, as I never heard it before. Yes, I have been all my life taking offense, to please myself, taking offense on esthetic grounds, for it is not so much pleasant as distinguished sometimes to be insulted--that you had forgotten, great elder, it is distinguished! I shall make a note of that. But I have been lying, lying positively my whole life long, every day and hour of it. Of a truth, I am a lie, and the father of lies. Though I believe I am not the father of lies. I am getting mixed in my texts. Say, the son of lies, and that will be enough. Only ... my angel ... I may sometimes talk about Diderot! Diderot will do no harm, though sometimes a word will do harm. Great elder, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had been meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to find out something. Only do tell Pyotr Alexandrovitch not to interrupt me. Here is my question: Is it true, great Father, that the story is told somewhere in the _Lives of the Saints_ of a holy saint martyred for his faith who, when his head was cut off at last, stood up, picked up his head, and, 'courteously kissing it,' walked a long way, carrying it in his hands. Is that true or not, honored Father?" "No, it is untrue," said the elder. "There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints. What saint do you say the story is told of?" asked the Father Librarian. "I do not know what saint. I do not know, and can't tell. I was deceived. I was told the story. I had heard it, and do you know who told it? Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov here, who was so angry just now about Diderot. He it was who told the story." "I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all." "It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was present. It was three years ago. I mentioned it because by that ridiculous story you shook my faith, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You knew nothing of it, but I went home with my faith shaken, and I have been getting more and more shaken ever since. Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you were the cause of a great fall. That was not a Diderot!" Fyodor Pavlovitch got excited and pathetic, though it was perfectly clear to every one by now that he was playing a part again. Yet Miuesov was stung by his words. "What nonsense, and it is all nonsense," he muttered. "I may really have told it, some time or other ... but not to you. I was told it myself. I heard it in Paris from a Frenchman. He told me it was read at our mass from the _Lives of the Saints_ ... he was a very learned man who had made a special study of Russian statistics and had lived a long time in Russia.... I have not read the _Lives of the Saints_ myself, and I am not going to read them ... all sorts of things are said at dinner--we were dining then." "Yes, you were dining then, and so I lost my faith!" said Fyodor Pavlovitch, mimicking him. "What do I care for your faith?" Miuesov was on the point of shouting, but he suddenly checked himself, and said with contempt, "You defile everything you touch." The elder suddenly rose from his seat. "Excuse me, gentlemen, for leaving you a few minutes," he said, addressing all his guests. "I have visitors awaiting me who arrived before you. But don't you tell lies all the same," he added, turning to Fyodor Pavlovitch with a good-humored face. He went out of the cell. Alyosha and the novice flew to escort him down the steps. Alyosha was breathless: he was glad to get away, but he was glad, too, that the elder was good-humored and not offended. Father Zossima was going towards the portico to bless the people waiting for him there. But Fyodor Pavlovitch persisted in stopping him at the door of the cell. "Blessed man!" he cried, with feeling. "Allow me to kiss your hand once more. Yes, with you I could still talk, I could still get on. Do you think I always lie and play the fool like this? Believe me, I have been acting like this all the time on purpose to try you. I have been testing you all the time to see whether I could get on with you. Is there room for my humility beside your pride? I am ready to give you a testimonial that one can get on with you! But now, I'll be quiet; I will keep quiet all the time. I'll sit in a chair and hold my tongue. Now it is for you to speak, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You are the principal person left now--for ten minutes." Chapter III. Peasant Women Who Have Faith Near the wooden portico below, built on to the outer wall of the precinct, there was a crowd of about twenty peasant women. They had been told that the elder was at last coming out, and they had gathered together in anticipation. Two ladies, Madame Hohlakov and her daughter, had also come out into the portico to wait for the elder, but in a separate part of it set aside for women of rank. Madame Hohlakov was a wealthy lady, still young and attractive, and always dressed with taste. She was rather pale, and had lively black eyes. She was not more than thirty-three, and had been five years a widow. Her daughter, a girl of fourteen, was partially paralyzed. The poor child had not been able to walk for the last six months, and was wheeled about in a long reclining chair. She had a charming little face, rather thin from illness, but full of gayety. There was a gleam of mischief in her big dark eyes with their long lashes. Her mother had been intending to take her abroad ever since the spring, but they had been detained all the summer by business connected with their estate. They had been staying a week in our town, where they had come more for purposes of business than devotion, but had visited Father Zossima once already, three days before. Though they knew that the elder scarcely saw any one, they had now suddenly turned up again, and urgently entreated "the happiness of looking once again on the great healer." The mother was sitting on a chair by the side of her daughter's invalid carriage, and two paces from her stood an old monk, not one of our monastery, but a visitor from an obscure religious house in the far north. He too sought the elder's blessing. But Father Zossima, on entering the portico, went first straight to the peasants who were crowded at the foot of the three steps that led up into the portico. Father Zossima stood on the top step, put on his stole, and began blessing the women who thronged about him. One crazy woman was led up to him. As soon as she caught sight of the elder she began shrieking and writhing as though in the pains of childbirth. Laying the stole on her forehead, he read a short prayer over her, and she was at once soothed and quieted. I do not know how it may be now, but in my childhood I often happened to see and hear these "possessed" women in the villages and monasteries. They used to be brought to mass; they would squeal and bark like a dog so that they were heard all over the church. But when the sacrament was carried in and they were led up to it, at once the "possession" ceased, and the sick women were always soothed for a time. I was greatly impressed and amazed at this as a child; but then I heard from country neighbors and from my town teachers that the whole illness was simulated to avoid work, and that it could always be cured by suitable severity; various anecdotes were told to confirm this. But later on I learnt with astonishment from medical specialists that there is no pretense about it, that it is a terrible illness to which women are subject, specially prevalent among us in Russia, and that it is due to the hard lot of the peasant women. It is a disease, I was told, arising from exhausting toil too soon after hard, abnormal and unassisted labor in childbirth, and from the hopeless misery, from beatings, and so on, which some women were not able to endure like others. The strange and instant healing of the frantic and struggling woman as soon as she was led up to the holy sacrament, which had been explained to me as due to malingering and the trickery of the "clericals," arose probably in the most natural manner. Both the women who supported her and the invalid herself fully believed as a truth beyond question that the evil spirit in possession of her could not hold out if the sick woman were brought to the sacrament and made to bow down before it. And so, with a nervous and psychically deranged woman, a sort of convulsion of the whole organism always took place, and was bound to take place, at the moment of bowing down to the sacrament, aroused by the expectation of the miracle of healing and the implicit belief that it would come to pass; and it did come to pass, though only for a moment. It was exactly the same now as soon as the elder touched the sick woman with the stole. Many of the women in the crowd were moved to tears of ecstasy by the effect of the moment: some strove to kiss the hem of his garment, others cried out in sing-song voices. He blessed them all and talked with some of them. The "possessed" woman he knew already. She came from a village only six versts from the monastery, and had been brought to him before. "But here is one from afar." He pointed to a woman by no means old but very thin and wasted, with a face not merely sunburnt but almost blackened by exposure. She was kneeling and gazing with a fixed stare at the elder; there was something almost frenzied in her eyes. "From afar off, Father, from afar off! From two hundred miles from here. From afar off, Father, from afar off!" the woman began in a sing-song voice as though she were chanting a dirge, swaying her head from side to side with her cheek resting in her hand. There is silent and long-suffering sorrow to be met with among the peasantry. It withdraws into itself and is still. But there is a grief that breaks out, and from that minute it bursts into tears and finds vent in wailing. This is particularly common with women. But it is no lighter a grief than the silent. Lamentations comfort only by lacerating the heart still more. Such grief does not desire consolation. It feeds on the sense of its hopelessness. Lamentations spring only from the constant craving to reopen the wound. "You are of the tradesman class?" said Father Zossima, looking curiously at her. "Townfolk we are, Father, townfolk. Yet we are peasants though we live in the town. I have come to see you, O Father! We heard of you, Father, we heard of you. I have buried my little son, and I have come on a pilgrimage. I have been in three monasteries, but they told me, 'Go, Nastasya, go to them'--that is to you. I have come; I was yesterday at the service, and to-day I have come to you." "What are you weeping for?" "It's my little son I'm grieving for, Father. He was three years old--three years all but three months. For my little boy, Father, I'm in anguish, for my little boy. He was the last one left. We had four, my Nikita and I, and now we've no children, our dear ones have all gone. I buried the first three without grieving overmuch, and now I have buried the last I can't forget him. He seems always standing before me. He never leaves me. He has withered my heart. I look at his little clothes, his little shirt, his little boots, and I wail. I lay out all that is left of him, all his little things. I look at them and wail. I say to Nikita, my husband, 'Let me go on a pilgrimage, master.' He is a driver. We're not poor people, Father, not poor; he drives our own horse. It's all our own, the horse and the carriage. And what good is it all to us now? My Nikita has begun drinking while I am away. He's sure to. It used to be so before. As soon as I turn my back he gives way to it. But now I don't think about him. It's three months since I left home. I've forgotten him. I've forgotten everything. I don't want to remember. And what would our life be now together? I've done with him, I've done. I've done with them all. I don't care to look upon my house and my goods. I don't care to see anything at all!" "Listen, mother," said the elder. "Once in olden times a holy saint saw in the Temple a mother like you weeping for her little one, her only one, whom God had taken. 'Knowest thou not,' said the saint to her, 'how bold these little ones are before the throne of God? Verily there are none bolder than they in the Kingdom of Heaven. "Thou didst give us life, O Lord," they say, "and scarcely had we looked upon it when Thou didst take it back again." And so boldly they ask and ask again that God gives them at once the rank of angels. Therefore,' said the saint, 'thou, too, O mother, rejoice and weep not, for thy little son is with the Lord in the fellowship of the angels.' That's what the saint said to the weeping mother of old. He was a great saint and he could not have spoken falsely. Therefore you too, mother, know that your little one is surely before the throne of God, is rejoicing and happy, and praying to God for you, and therefore weep not, but rejoice." The woman listened to him, looking down with her cheek in her hand. She sighed deeply. "My Nikita tried to comfort me with the same words as you. 'Foolish one,' he said, 'why weep? Our son is no doubt singing with the angels before God.' He says that to me, but he weeps himself. I see that he cries like me. 'I know, Nikita,' said I. 'Where could he be if not with the Lord God? Only, here with us now he is not as he used to sit beside us before.' And if only I could look upon him one little time, if only I could peep at him one little time, without going up to him, without speaking, if I could be hidden in a corner and only see him for one little minute, hear him playing in the yard, calling in his little voice, 'Mammy, where are you?' If only I could hear him pattering with his little feet about the room just once, only once; for so often, so often I remember how he used to run to me and shout and laugh, if only I could hear his little feet I should know him! But he's gone, Father, he's gone, and I shall never hear him again. Here's his little sash, but him I shall never see or hear now." She drew out of her bosom her boy's little embroidered sash, and as soon as she looked at it she began shaking with sobs, hiding her eyes with her fingers through which the tears flowed in a sudden stream. "It is Rachel of old," said the elder, "weeping for her children, and will not be comforted because they are not. Such is the lot set on earth for you mothers. Be not comforted. Consolation is not what you need. Weep and be not consoled, but weep. Only every time that you weep be sure to remember that your little son is one of the angels of God, that he looks down from there at you and sees you, and rejoices at your tears, and points at them to the Lord God; and a long while yet will you keep that great mother's grief. But it will turn in the end into quiet joy, and your bitter tears will be only tears of tender sorrow that purifies the heart and delivers it from sin. And I shall pray for the peace of your child's soul. What was his name?" "Alexey, Father." "A sweet name. After Alexey, the man of God?" "Yes, Father." "What a saint he was! I will remember him, mother, and your grief in my prayers, and I will pray for your husband's health. It is a sin for you to leave him. Your little one will see from heaven that you have forsaken his father, and will weep over you. Why do you trouble his happiness? He is living, for the soul lives for ever, and though he is not in the house he is near you, unseen. How can he go into the house when you say that the house is hateful to you? To whom is he to go if he find you not together, his father and mother? He comes to you in dreams now, and you grieve. But then he will send you gentle dreams. Go to your husband, mother; go this very day." "I will go, Father, at your word. I will go. You've gone straight to my heart. My Nikita, my Nikita, you are waiting for me," the woman began in a sing-song voice; but the elder had already turned away to a very old woman, dressed like a dweller in the town, not like a pilgrim. Her eyes showed that she had come with an object, and in order to say something. She said she was the widow of a non-commissioned officer, and lived close by in the town. Her son Vasenka was in the commissariat service, and had gone to Irkutsk in Siberia. He had written twice from there, but now a year had passed since he had written. She did inquire about him, but she did not know the proper place to inquire. "Only the other day Stepanida Ilyinishna--she's a rich merchant's wife--said to me, 'You go, Prohorovna, and put your son's name down for prayer in the church, and pray for the peace of his soul as though he were dead. His soul will be troubled,' she said, 'and he will write you a letter.' And Stepanida Ilyinishna told me it was a certain thing which had been many times tried. Only I am in doubt.... Oh, you light of ours! is it true or false, and would it be right?" "Don't think of it. It's shameful to ask the question. How is it possible to pray for the peace of a living soul? And his own mother too! It's a great sin, akin to sorcery. Only for your ignorance it is forgiven you. Better pray to the Queen of Heaven, our swift defense and help, for his good health, and that she may forgive you for your error. And another thing I will tell you, Prohorovna. Either he will soon come back to you, your son, or he will be sure to send a letter. Go, and henceforward be in peace. Your son is alive, I tell you." "Dear Father, God reward you, our benefactor, who prays for all of us and for our sins!" But the elder had already noticed in the crowd two glowing eyes fixed upon him. An exhausted, consumptive-looking, though young peasant woman was gazing at him in silence. Her eyes besought him, but she seemed afraid to approach. "What is it, my child?" "Absolve my soul, Father," she articulated softly, and slowly sank on her knees and bowed down at his feet. "I have sinned, Father. I am afraid of my sin." The elder sat down on the lower step. The woman crept closer to him, still on her knees. "I am a widow these three years," she began in a half-whisper, with a sort of shudder. "I had a hard life with my husband. He was an old man. He used to beat me cruelly. He lay ill; I thought looking at him, if he were to get well, if he were to get up again, what then? And then the thought came to me--" "Stay!" said the elder, and he put his ear close to her lips. The woman went on in a low whisper, so that it was almost impossible to catch anything. She had soon done. "Three years ago?" asked the elder. "Three years. At first I didn't think about it, but now I've begun to be ill, and the thought never leaves me." "Have you come from far?" "Over three hundred miles away." "Have you told it in confession?" "I have confessed it. Twice I have confessed it." "Have you been admitted to Communion?" "Yes. I am afraid. I am afraid to die." "Fear nothing and never be afraid; and don't fret. If only your penitence fail not, God will forgive all. There is no sin, and there can be no sin on all the earth, which the Lord will not forgive to the truly repentant! Man cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God. Can there be a sin which could exceed the love of God? Think only of repentance, continual repentance, but dismiss fear altogether. Believe that God loves you as you cannot conceive; that He loves you with your sin, in your sin. It has been said of old that over one repentant sinner there is more joy in heaven than over ten righteous men. Go, and fear not. Be not bitter against men. Be not angry if you are wronged. Forgive the dead man in your heart what wrong he did you. Be reconciled with him in truth. If you are penitent, you love. And if you love you are of God. All things are atoned for, all things are saved by love. If I, a sinner, even as you are, am tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will God. Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it, and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others." He signed her three times with the cross, took from his own neck a little ikon and put it upon her. She bowed down to the earth without speaking. He got up and looked cheerfully at a healthy peasant woman with a tiny baby in her arms. "From Vyshegorye, dear Father." "Five miles you have dragged yourself with the baby. What do you want?" "I've come to look at you. I have been to you before--or have you forgotten? You've no great memory if you've forgotten me. They told us you were ill. Thinks I, I'll go and see him for myself. Now I see you, and you're not ill! You'll live another twenty years. God bless you! There are plenty to pray for you; how should you be ill?" "I thank you for all, daughter." "By the way, I have a thing to ask, not a great one. Here are sixty copecks. Give them, dear Father, to some one poorer than me. I thought as I came along, better give through him. He'll know whom to give to." "Thanks, my dear, thanks! You are a good woman. I love you. I will do so certainly. Is that your little girl?" "My little girl, Father, Lizaveta." "May the Lord bless you both, you and your babe Lizaveta! You have gladdened my heart, mother. Farewell, dear children, farewell, dear ones." He blessed them all and bowed low to them. Chapter IV. A Lady Of Little Faith A visitor looking on the scene of his conversation with the peasants and his blessing them shed silent tears and wiped them away with her handkerchief. She was a sentimental society lady of genuinely good disposition in many respects. When the elder went up to her at last she met him enthusiastically. "Ah, what I have been feeling, looking on at this touching scene!..." She could not go on for emotion. "Oh, I understand the people's love for you. I love the people myself. I want to love them. And who could help loving them, our splendid Russian people, so simple in their greatness!" "How is your daughter's health? You wanted to talk to me again?" "Oh, I have been urgently begging for it, I have prayed for it! I was ready to fall on my knees and kneel for three days at your windows until you let me in. We have come, great healer, to express our ardent gratitude. You have healed my Lise, healed her completely, merely by praying over her last Thursday and laying your hands upon her. We have hastened here to kiss those hands, to pour out our feelings and our homage." "What do you mean by healed? But she is still lying down in her chair." "But her night fevers have entirely ceased ever since Thursday," said the lady with nervous haste. "And that's not all. Her legs are stronger. This morning she got up well; she had slept all night. Look at her rosy cheeks, her bright eyes! She used to be always crying, but now she laughs and is gay and happy. This morning she insisted on my letting her stand up, and she stood up for a whole minute without any support. She wagers that in a fortnight she'll be dancing a quadrille. I've called in Doctor Herzenstube. He shrugged his shoulders and said, 'I am amazed; I can make nothing of it.' And would you have us not come here to disturb you, not fly here to thank you? Lise, thank him--thank him!" Lise's pretty little laughing face became suddenly serious. She rose in her chair as far as she could and, looking at the elder, clasped her hands before him, but could not restrain herself and broke into laughter. "It's at him," she said, pointing to Alyosha, with childish vexation at herself for not being able to repress her mirth. If any one had looked at Alyosha standing a step behind the elder, he would have caught a quick flush crimsoning his cheeks in an instant. His eyes shone and he looked down. "She has a message for you, Alexey Fyodorovitch. How are you?" the mother went on, holding out her exquisitely gloved hand to Alyosha. The elder turned round and all at once looked attentively at Alyosha. The latter went nearer to Lise and, smiling in a strangely awkward way, held out his hand to her too. Lise assumed an important air. "Katerina Ivanovna has sent you this through me." She handed him a little note. "She particularly begs you to go and see her as soon as possible; that you will not fail her, but will be sure to come." "She asks me to go and see her? Me? What for?" Alyosha muttered in great astonishment. His face at once looked anxious. "Oh, it's all to do with Dmitri Fyodorovitch and--what has happened lately," the mother explained hurriedly. "Katerina Ivanovna has made up her mind, but she must see you about it.... Why, of course, I can't say. But she wants to see you at once. And you will go to her, of course. It is a Christian duty." "I have only seen her once," Alyosha protested with the same perplexity. "Oh, she is such a lofty, incomparable creature! If only for her suffering.... Think what she has gone through, what she is enduring now! Think what awaits her! It's all terrible, terrible!" "Very well, I will come," Alyosha decided, after rapidly scanning the brief, enigmatic note, which consisted of an urgent entreaty that he would come, without any sort of explanation. "Oh, how sweet and generous that would be of you!" cried Lise with sudden animation. "I told mamma you'd be sure not to go. I said you were saving your soul. How splendid you are! I've always thought you were splendid. How glad I am to tell you so!" "Lise!" said her mother impressively, though she smiled after she had said it. "You have quite forgotten us, Alexey Fyodorovitch," she said; "you never come to see us. Yet Lise has told me twice that she is never happy except with you." Alyosha raised his downcast eyes and again flushed, and again smiled without knowing why. But the elder was no longer watching him. He had begun talking to a monk who, as mentioned before, had been awaiting his entrance by Lise's chair. He was evidently a monk of the humblest, that is of the peasant, class, of a narrow outlook, but a true believer, and, in his own way, a stubborn one. He announced that he had come from the far north, from Obdorsk, from Saint Sylvester, and was a member of a poor monastery, consisting of only ten monks. The elder gave him his blessing and invited him to come to his cell whenever he liked. "How can you presume to do such deeds?" the monk asked suddenly, pointing solemnly and significantly at Lise. He was referring to her "healing." "It's too early, of course, to speak of that. Relief is not complete cure, and may proceed from different causes. But if there has been any healing, it is by no power but God's will. It's all from God. Visit me, Father," he added to the monk. "It's not often I can see visitors. I am ill, and I know that my days are numbered." "Oh, no, no! God will not take you from us. You will live a long, long time yet," cried the lady. "And in what way are you ill? You look so well, so gay and happy." "I am extraordinarily better to-day. But I know that it's only for a moment. I understand my disease now thoroughly. If I seem so happy to you, you could never say anything that would please me so much. For men are made for happiness, and any one who is completely happy has a right to say to himself, 'I am doing God's will on earth.' All the righteous, all the saints, all the holy martyrs were happy." "Oh, how you speak! What bold and lofty words!" cried the lady. "You seem to pierce with your words. And yet--happiness, happiness--where is it? Who can say of himself that he is happy? Oh, since you have been so good as to let us see you once more to-day, let me tell you what I could not utter last time, what I dared not say, all I am suffering and have been for so long! I am suffering! Forgive me! I am suffering!" And in a rush of fervent feeling she clasped her hands before him. "From what specially?" "I suffer ... from lack of faith." "Lack of faith in God?" "Oh, no, no! I dare not even think of that. But the future life--it is such an enigma! And no one, no one can solve it. Listen! You are a healer, you are deeply versed in the human soul, and of course I dare not expect you to believe me entirely, but I assure you on my word of honor that I am not speaking lightly now. The thought of the life beyond the grave distracts me to anguish, to terror. And I don't know to whom to appeal, and have not dared to all my life. And now I am so bold as to ask you. Oh, God! What will you think of me now?" She clasped her hands. "Don't distress yourself about my opinion of you," said the elder. "I quite believe in the sincerity of your suffering." "Oh, how thankful I am to you! You see, I shut my eyes and ask myself if every one has faith, where did it come from? And then they do say that it all comes from terror at the menacing phenomena of nature, and that none of it's real. And I say to myself, 'What if I've been believing all my life, and when I come to die there's nothing but the burdocks growing on my grave?' as I read in some author. It's awful! How--how can I get back my faith? But I only believed when I was a little child, mechanically, without thinking of anything. How, how is one to prove it? I have come now to lay my soul before you and to ask you about it. If I let this chance slip, no one all my life will answer me. How can I prove it? How can I convince myself? Oh, how unhappy I am! I stand and look about me and see that scarcely any one else cares; no one troubles his head about it, and I'm the only one who can't stand it. It's deadly--deadly!" "No doubt. But there's no proving it, though you can be convinced of it." "How?" "By the experience of active love. Strive to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul. If you attain to perfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor, then you will believe without doubt, and no doubt can possibly enter your soul. This has been tried. This is certain." "In active love? There's another question--and such a question! You see, I so love humanity that--would you believe it?--I often dream of forsaking all that I have, leaving Lise, and becoming a sister of mercy. I close my eyes and think and dream, and at that moment I feel full of strength to overcome all obstacles. No wounds, no festering sores could at that moment frighten me. I would bind them up and wash them with my own hands. I would nurse the afflicted. I would be ready to kiss such wounds." "It is much, and well that your mind is full of such dreams and not others. Sometime, unawares, you may do a good deed in reality." "Yes. But could I endure such a life for long?" the lady went on fervently, almost frantically. "That's the chief question--that's my most agonizing question. I shut my eyes and ask myself, 'Would you persevere long on that path? And if the patient whose wounds you are washing did not meet you with gratitude, but worried you with his whims, without valuing or remarking your charitable services, began abusing you and rudely commanding you, and complaining to the superior authorities of you (which often happens when people are in great suffering)--what then? Would you persevere in your love, or not?' And do you know, I came with horror to the conclusion that, if anything could dissipate my love to humanity, it would be ingratitude. In short, I am a hired servant, I expect my payment at once--that is, praise, and the repayment of love with love. Otherwise I am incapable of loving any one." She was in a very paroxysm of self-castigation, and, concluding, she looked with defiant resolution at the elder. "It's just the same story as a doctor once told me," observed the elder. "He was a man getting on in years, and undoubtedly clever. He spoke as frankly as you, though in jest, in bitter jest. 'I love humanity,' he said, 'but I wonder at myself. The more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular. In my dreams,' he said, 'I have often come to making enthusiastic schemes for the service of humanity, and perhaps I might actually have faced crucifixion if it had been suddenly necessary; and yet I am incapable of living in the same room with any one for two days together, as I know by experience. As soon as any one is near me, his personality disturbs my self-complacency and restricts my freedom. In twenty-four hours I begin to hate the best of men: one because he's too long over his dinner; another because he has a cold and keeps on blowing his nose. I become hostile to people the moment they come close to me. But it has always happened that the more I detest men individually the more ardent becomes my love for humanity.' " "But what's to be done? What can one do in such a case? Must one despair?" "No. It is enough that you are distressed at it. Do what you can, and it will be reckoned unto you. Much is done already in you since you can so deeply and sincerely know yourself. If you have been talking to me so sincerely, simply to gain approbation for your frankness, as you did from me just now, then of course you will not attain to anything in the achievement of real love; it will all get no further than dreams, and your whole life will slip away like a phantom. In that case you will naturally cease to think of the future life too, and will of yourself grow calmer after a fashion in the end." "You have crushed me! Only now, as you speak, I understand that I was really only seeking your approbation for my sincerity when I told you I could not endure ingratitude. You have revealed me to myself. You have seen through me and explained me to myself!" "Are you speaking the truth? Well, now, after such a confession, I believe that you are sincere and good at heart. If you do not attain happiness, always remember that you are on the right road, and try not to leave it. Above all, avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially falseness to yourself. Watch over your own deceitfulness and look into it every hour, every minute. Avoid being scornful, both to others and to yourself. What seems to you bad within you will grow purer from the very fact of your observing it in yourself. Avoid fear, too, though fear is only the consequence of every sort of falsehood. Never be frightened at your own faint-heartedness in attaining love. Don't be frightened overmuch even at your evil actions. I am sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you, for love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams. Love in dreams is greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed and in the sight of all. Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does not last long but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as though on the stage. But active love is labor and fortitude, and for some people too, perhaps, a complete science. But I predict that just when you see with horror that in spite of all your efforts you are getting farther from your goal instead of nearer to it--at that very moment I predict that you will reach it and behold clearly the miraculous power of the Lord who has been all the time loving and mysteriously guiding you. Forgive me for not being able to stay longer with you. They are waiting for me. Good-by." The lady was weeping. "Lise, Lise! Bless her--bless her!" she cried, starting up suddenly. "She does not deserve to be loved. I have seen her naughtiness all along," the elder said jestingly. "Why have you been laughing at Alexey?" Lise had in fact been occupied in mocking at him all the time. She had noticed before that Alyosha was shy and tried not to look at her, and she found this extremely amusing. She waited intently to catch his eye. Alyosha, unable to endure her persistent stare, was irresistibly and suddenly drawn to glance at her, and at once she smiled triumphantly in his face. Alyosha was even more disconcerted and vexed. At last he turned away from her altogether and hid behind the elder's back. After a few minutes, drawn by the same irresistible force, he turned again to see whether he was being looked at or not, and found Lise almost hanging out of her chair to peep sideways at him, eagerly waiting for him to look. Catching his eye, she laughed so that the elder could not help saying, "Why do you make fun of him like that, naughty girl?" Lise suddenly and quite unexpectedly blushed. Her eyes flashed and her face became quite serious. She began speaking quickly and nervously in a warm and resentful voice: "Why has he forgotten everything, then? He used to carry me about when I was little. We used to play together. He used to come to teach me to read, do you know. Two years ago, when he went away, he said that he would never forget me, that we were friends for ever, for ever, for ever! And now he's afraid of me all at once. Am I going to eat him? Why doesn't he want to come near me? Why doesn't he talk? Why won't he come and see us? It's not that you won't let him. We know that he goes everywhere. It's not good manners for me to invite him. He ought to have thought of it first, if he hasn't forgotten me. No, now he's saving his soul! Why have you put that long gown on him? If he runs he'll fall." And suddenly she hid her face in her hand and went off into irresistible, prolonged, nervous, inaudible laughter. The elder listened to her with a smile, and blessed her tenderly. As she kissed his hand she suddenly pressed it to her eyes and began crying. "Don't be angry with me. I'm silly and good for nothing ... and perhaps Alyosha's right, quite right, in not wanting to come and see such a ridiculous girl." "I will certainly send him," said the elder. Chapter V. So Be It! So Be It! The elder's absence from his cell had lasted for about twenty-five minutes. It was more than half-past twelve, but Dmitri, on whose account they had all met there, had still not appeared. But he seemed almost to be forgotten, and when the elder entered the cell again, he found his guests engaged in eager conversation. Ivan and the two monks took the leading share in it. Miuesov, too, was trying to take a part, and apparently very eagerly, in the conversation. But he was unsuccessful in this also. He was evidently in the background, and his remarks were treated with neglect, which increased his irritability. He had had intellectual encounters with Ivan before and he could not endure a certain carelessness Ivan showed him. "Hitherto at least I have stood in the front ranks of all that is progressive in Europe, and here the new generation positively ignores us," he thought. Fyodor Pavlovitch, who had given his word to sit still and be quiet, had actually been quiet for some time, but he watched his neighbor Miuesov with an ironical little smile, obviously enjoying his discomfiture. He had been waiting for some time to pay off old scores, and now he could not let the opportunity slip. Bending over his shoulder he began teasing him again in a whisper. "Why didn't you go away just now, after the 'courteously kissing'? Why did you consent to remain in such unseemly company? It was because you felt insulted and aggrieved, and you remained to vindicate yourself by showing off your intelligence. Now you won't go till you've displayed your intellect to them." "You again?... On the contrary, I'm just going." "You'll be the last, the last of all to go!" Fyodor Pavlovitch delivered him another thrust, almost at the moment of Father Zossima's return. The discussion died down for a moment, but the elder, seating himself in his former place, looked at them all as though cordially inviting them to go on. Alyosha, who knew every expression of his face, saw that he was fearfully exhausted and making a great effort. Of late he had been liable to fainting fits from exhaustion. His face had the pallor that was common before such attacks, and his lips were white. But he evidently did not want to break up the party. He seemed to have some special object of his own in keeping them. What object? Alyosha watched him intently. "We are discussing this gentleman's most interesting article," said Father Iosif, the librarian, addressing the elder, and indicating Ivan. "He brings forward much that is new, but I think the argument cuts both ways. It is an article written in answer to a book by an ecclesiastical authority on the question of the ecclesiastical court, and the scope of its jurisdiction." "I'm sorry I have not read your article, but I've heard of it," said the elder, looking keenly and intently at Ivan. "He takes up a most interesting position," continued the Father Librarian. "As far as Church jurisdiction is concerned he is apparently quite opposed to the separation of Church from State." "That's interesting. But in what sense?" Father Zossima asked Ivan. The latter, at last, answered him, not condescendingly, as Alyosha had feared, but with modesty and reserve, with evident goodwill and apparently without the slightest _arriere-pensee_. "I start from the position that this confusion of elements, that is, of the essential principles of Church and State, will, of course, go on for ever, in spite of the fact that it is impossible for them to mingle, and that the confusion of these elements cannot lead to any consistent or even normal results, for there is falsity at the very foundation of it. Compromise between the Church and State in such questions as, for instance, jurisdiction, is, to my thinking, impossible in any real sense. My clerical opponent maintains that the Church holds a precise and defined position in the State. I maintain, on the contrary, that the Church ought to include the whole State, and not simply to occupy a corner in it, and, if this is, for some reason, impossible at present, then it ought, in reality, to be set up as the direct and chief aim of the future development of Christian society!" "Perfectly true," Father Paissy, the silent and learned monk, assented with fervor and decision. "The purest Ultramontanism!" cried Miuesov impatiently, crossing and recrossing his legs. "Oh, well, we have no mountains," cried Father Iosif, and turning to the elder he continued: "Observe the answer he makes to the following 'fundamental and essential' propositions of his opponent, who is, you must note, an ecclesiastic. First, that 'no social organization can or ought to arrogate to itself power to dispose of the civic and political rights of its members.' Secondly, that 'criminal and civil jurisdiction ought not to belong to the Church, and is inconsistent with its nature, both as a divine institution and as an organization of men for religious objects,' and, finally, in the third place, 'the Church is a kingdom not of this world.' " "A most unworthy play upon words for an ecclesiastic!" Father Paissy could not refrain from breaking in again. "I have read the book which you have answered," he added, addressing Ivan, "and was astounded at the words 'the Church is a kingdom not of this world.' If it is not of this world, then it cannot exist on earth at all. In the Gospel, the words 'not of this world' are not used in that sense. To play with such words is indefensible. Our Lord Jesus Christ came to set up the Church upon earth. The Kingdom of Heaven, of course, is not of this world, but in Heaven; but it is only entered through the Church which has been founded and established upon earth. And so a frivolous play upon words in such a connection is unpardonable and improper. The Church is, in truth, a kingdom and ordained to rule, and in the end must undoubtedly become the kingdom ruling over all the earth. For that we have the divine promise." He ceased speaking suddenly, as though checking himself. After listening attentively and respectfully Ivan went on, addressing the elder with perfect composure and as before with ready cordiality: "The whole point of my article lies in the fact that during the first three centuries Christianity only existed on earth in the Church and was nothing but the Church. When the pagan Roman Empire desired to become Christian, it inevitably happened that, by becoming Christian, it included the Church but remained a pagan State in very many of its departments. In reality this was bound to happen. But Rome as a State retained too much of the pagan civilization and culture, as, for example, in the very objects and fundamental principles of the State. The Christian Church entering into the State could, of course, surrender no part of its fundamental principles--the rock on which it stands--and could pursue no other aims than those which have been ordained and revealed by God Himself, and among them that of drawing the whole world, and therefore the ancient pagan State itself, into the Church. In that way (that is, with a view to the future) it is not the Church that should seek a definite position in the State, like 'every social organization,' or as 'an organization of men for religious purposes' (as my opponent calls the Church), but, on the contrary, every earthly State should be, in the end, completely transformed into the Church and should become nothing else but a Church, rejecting every purpose incongruous with the aims of the Church. All this will not degrade it in any way or take from its honor and glory as a great State, nor from the glory of its rulers, but only turns it from a false, still pagan, and mistaken path to the true and rightful path, which alone leads to the eternal goal. This is why the author of the book _On the Foundations of Church Jurisdiction_ would have judged correctly if, in seeking and laying down those foundations, he had looked upon them as a temporary compromise inevitable in our sinful and imperfect days. But as soon as the author ventures to declare that the foundations which he predicates now, part of which Father Iosif just enumerated, are the permanent, essential, and eternal foundations, he is going directly against the Church and its sacred and eternal vocation. That is the gist of my article." "That is, in brief," Father Paissy began again, laying stress on each word, "according to certain theories only too clearly formulated in the nineteenth century, the Church ought to be transformed into the State, as though this would be an advance from a lower to a higher form, so as to disappear into it, making way for science, for the spirit of the age, and civilization. And if the Church resists and is unwilling, some corner will be set apart for her in the State, and even that under control--and this will be so everywhere in all modern European countries. But Russian hopes and conceptions demand not that the Church should pass as from a lower into a higher type into the State, but, on the contrary, that the State should end by being worthy to become only the Church and nothing else. So be it! So be it!" "Well, I confess you've reassured me somewhat," Miuesov said smiling, again crossing his legs. "So far as I understand, then, the realization of such an ideal is infinitely remote, at the second coming of Christ. That's as you please. It's a beautiful Utopian dream of the abolition of war, diplomacy, banks, and so on--something after the fashion of socialism, indeed. But I imagined that it was all meant seriously, and that the Church might be _now_ going to try criminals, and sentence them to beating, prison, and even death." "But if there were none but the ecclesiastical court, the Church would not even now sentence a criminal to prison or to death. Crime and the way of regarding it would inevitably change, not all at once of course, but fairly soon," Ivan replied calmly, without flinching. "Are you serious?" Miuesov glanced keenly at him. "If everything became the Church, the Church would exclude all the criminal and disobedient, and would not cut off their heads," Ivan went on. "I ask you, what would become of the excluded? He would be cut off then not only from men, as now, but from Christ. By his crime he would have transgressed not only against men but against the Church of Christ. This is so even now, of course, strictly speaking, but it is not clearly enunciated, and very, very often the criminal of to-day compromises with his conscience: 'I steal,' he says, 'but I don't go against the Church. I'm not an enemy of Christ.' That's what the criminal of to-day is continually saying to himself, but when the Church takes the place of the State it will be difficult for him, in opposition to the Church all over the world, to say: 'All men are mistaken, all in error, all mankind are the false Church. I, a thief and murderer, am the only true Christian Church.' It will be very difficult to say this to himself; it requires a rare combination of unusual circumstances. Now, on the other side, take the Church's own view of crime: is it not bound to renounce the present almost pagan attitude, and to change from a mechanical cutting off of its tainted member for the preservation of society, as at present, into completely and honestly adopting the idea of the regeneration of the man, of his reformation and salvation?" "What do you mean? I fail to understand again," Miuesov interrupted. "Some sort of dream again. Something shapeless and even incomprehensible. What is excommunication? What sort of exclusion? I suspect you are simply amusing yourself, Ivan Fyodorovitch." "Yes, but you know, in reality it is so now," said the elder suddenly, and all turned to him at once. "If it were not for the Church of Christ there would be nothing to restrain the criminal from evil-doing, no real chastisement for it afterwards; none, that is, but the mechanical punishment spoken of just now, which in the majority of cases only embitters the heart; and not the real punishment, the only effectual one, the only deterrent and softening one, which lies in the recognition of sin by conscience." "How is that, may one inquire?" asked Miuesov, with lively curiosity. "Why," began the elder, "all these sentences to exile with hard labor, and formerly with flogging also, reform no one, and what's more, deter hardly a single criminal, and the number of crimes does not diminish but is continually on the increase. You must admit that. Consequently the security of society is not preserved, for, although the obnoxious member is mechanically cut off and sent far away out of sight, another criminal always comes to take his place at once, and often two of them. If anything does preserve society, even in our time, and does regenerate and transform the criminal, it is only the law of Christ speaking in his conscience. It is only by recognizing his wrong-doing as a son of a Christian society--that is, of the Church--that he recognizes his sin against society--that is, against the Church. So that it is only against the Church, and not against the State, that the criminal of to-day can recognize that he has sinned. If society, as a Church, had jurisdiction, then it would know when to bring back from exclusion and to reunite to itself. Now the Church having no real jurisdiction, but only the power of moral condemnation, withdraws of her own accord from punishing the criminal actively. She does not excommunicate him but simply persists in motherly exhortation of him. What is more, the Church even tries to preserve all Christian communion with the criminal. She admits him to church services, to the holy sacrament, gives him alms, and treats him more as a captive than as a convict. And what would become of the criminal, O Lord, if even the Christian society--that is, the Church--were to reject him even as the civil law rejects him and cuts him off? What would become of him if the Church punished him with her excommunication as the direct consequence of the secular law? There could be no more terrible despair, at least for a Russian criminal, for Russian criminals still have faith. Though, who knows, perhaps then a fearful thing would happen, perhaps the despairing heart of the criminal would lose its faith and then what would become of him? But the Church, like a tender, loving mother, holds aloof from active punishment herself, as the sinner is too severely punished already by the civil law, and there must be at least some one to have pity on him. The Church holds aloof, above all, because its judgment is the only one that contains the truth, and therefore cannot practically and morally be united to any other judgment even as a temporary compromise. She can enter into no compact about that. The foreign criminal, they say, rarely repents, for the very doctrines of to-day confirm him in the idea that his crime is not a crime, but only a reaction against an unjustly oppressive force. Society cuts him off completely by a force that triumphs over him mechanically and (so at least they say of themselves in Europe) accompanies this exclusion with hatred, forgetfulness, and the most profound indifference as to the ultimate fate of the erring brother. In this way, it all takes place without the compassionate intervention of the Church, for in many cases there are no churches there at all, for though ecclesiastics and splendid church buildings remain, the churches themselves have long ago striven to pass from Church into State and to disappear in it completely. So it seems at least in Lutheran countries. As for Rome, it was proclaimed a State instead of a Church a thousand years ago. And so the criminal is no longer conscious of being a member of the Church and sinks into despair. If he returns to society, often it is with such hatred that society itself instinctively cuts him off. You can judge for yourself how it must end. In many cases it would seem to be the same with us, but the difference is that besides the established law courts we have the Church too, which always keeps up relations with the criminal as a dear and still precious son. And besides that, there is still preserved, though only in thought, the judgment of the Church, which though no longer existing in practice is still living as a dream for the future, and is, no doubt, instinctively recognized by the criminal in his soul. What was said here just now is true too, that is, that if the jurisdiction of the Church were introduced in practice in its full force, that is, if the whole of the society were changed into the Church, not only the judgment of the Church would have influence on the reformation of the criminal such as it never has now, but possibly also the crimes themselves would be incredibly diminished. And there can be no doubt that the Church would look upon the criminal and the crime of the future in many cases quite differently and would succeed in restoring the excluded, in restraining those who plan evil, and in regenerating the fallen. It is true," said Father Zossima, with a smile, "the Christian society now is not ready and is only resting on some seven righteous men, but as they are never lacking, it will continue still unshaken in expectation of its complete transformation from a society almost heathen in character into a single universal and all-powerful Church. So be it, so be it! Even though at the end of the ages, for it is ordained to come to pass! And there is no need to be troubled about times and seasons, for the secret of the times and seasons is in the wisdom of God, in His foresight, and His love. And what in human reckoning seems still afar off, may by the Divine ordinance be close at hand, on the eve of its appearance. And so be it, so be it!" "So be it, so be it!" Father Paissy repeated austerely and reverently. "Strange, extremely strange!" Miuesov pronounced, not so much with heat as with latent indignation. "What strikes you as so strange?" Father Iosif inquired cautiously. "Why, it's beyond anything!" cried Miuesov, suddenly breaking out; "the State is eliminated and the Church is raised to the position of the State. It's not simply Ultramontanism, it's arch-Ultramontanism! It's beyond the dreams of Pope Gregory the Seventh!" "You are completely misunderstanding it," said Father Paissy sternly. "Understand, the Church is not to be transformed into the State. That is Rome and its dream. That is the third temptation of the devil. On the contrary, the State is transformed into the Church, will ascend and become a Church over the whole world--which is the complete opposite of Ultramontanism and Rome, and your interpretation, and is only the glorious destiny ordained for the Orthodox Church. This star will arise in the east!" Miuesov was significantly silent. His whole figure expressed extraordinary personal dignity. A supercilious and condescending smile played on his lips. Alyosha watched it all with a throbbing heart. The whole conversation stirred him profoundly. He glanced casually at Rakitin, who was standing immovable in his place by the door listening and watching intently though with downcast eyes. But from the color in his cheeks Alyosha guessed that Rakitin was probably no less excited, and he knew what caused his excitement. "Allow me to tell you one little anecdote, gentlemen," Miuesov said impressively, with a peculiarly majestic air. "Some years ago, soon after the _coup d'etat_ of December, I happened to be calling in Paris on an extremely influential personage in the Government, and I met a very interesting man in his house. This individual was not precisely a detective but was a sort of superintendent of a whole regiment of political detectives--a rather powerful position in its own way. I was prompted by curiosity to seize the opportunity of conversation with him. And as he had not come as a visitor but as a subordinate official bringing a special report, and as he saw the reception given me by his chief, he deigned to speak with some openness, to a certain extent only, of course. He was rather courteous than open, as Frenchmen know how to be courteous, especially to a foreigner. But I thoroughly understood him. The subject was the socialist revolutionaries who were at that time persecuted. I will quote only one most curious remark dropped by this person. 'We are not particularly afraid,' said he, 'of all these socialists, anarchists, infidels, and revolutionists; we keep watch on them and know all their goings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who believe in God and are Christians, but at the same time are socialists. These are the people we are most afraid of. They are dreadful people! The socialist who is a Christian is more to be dreaded than a socialist who is an atheist.' The words struck me at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to me here, gentlemen." "You apply them to us, and look upon us as socialists?" Father Paissy asked directly, without beating about the bush. But before Pyotr Alexandrovitch could think what to answer, the door opened, and the guest so long expected, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, came in. They had, in fact, given up expecting him, and his sudden appearance caused some surprise for a moment. Chapter VI. Why Is Such A Man Alive? Dmitri Fyodorovitch, a young man of eight and twenty, of medium height and agreeable countenance, looked older than his years. He was muscular, and showed signs of considerable physical strength. Yet there was something not healthy in his face. It was rather thin, his cheeks were hollow, and there was an unhealthy sallowness in their color. His rather large, prominent, dark eyes had an expression of firm determination, and yet there was a vague look in them, too. Even when he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow his mood, but betrayed something else, sometimes quite incongruous with what was passing. "It's hard to tell what he's thinking," those who talked to him sometimes declared. People who saw something pensive and sullen in his eyes were startled by his sudden laugh, which bore witness to mirthful and light- hearted thoughts at the very time when his eyes were so gloomy. A certain strained look in his face was easy to understand at this moment. Every one knew, or had heard of, the extremely restless and dissipated life which he had been leading of late, as well as of the violent anger to which he had been roused in his quarrels with his father. There were several stories current in the town about it. It is true that he was irascible by nature, "of an unstable and unbalanced mind," as our justice of the peace, Katchalnikov, happily described him. He was stylishly and irreproachably dressed in a carefully buttoned frock- coat. He wore black gloves and carried a top-hat. Having only lately left the army, he still had mustaches and no beard. His dark brown hair was cropped short, and combed forward on his temples. He had the long, determined stride of a military man. He stood still for a moment on the threshold, and glancing at the whole party went straight up to the elder, guessing him to be their host. He made him a low bow, and asked his blessing. Father Zossima, rising in his chair, blessed him. Dmitri kissed his hand respectfully, and with intense feeling, almost anger, he said: "Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long, but Smerdyakov, the valet sent me by my father, in reply to my inquiries, told me twice over that the appointment was for one. Now I suddenly learn--" "Don't disturb yourself," interposed the elder. "No matter. You are a little late. It's of no consequence...." "I'm extremely obliged to you, and expected no less from your goodness." Saying this, Dmitri bowed once more. Then, turning suddenly towards his father, made him, too, a similarly low and respectful bow. He had evidently considered it beforehand, and made this bow in all seriousness, thinking it his duty to show his respect and good intentions. Although Fyodor Pavlovitch was taken unawares, he was equal to the occasion. In response to Dmitri's bow he jumped up from his chair and made his son a bow as low in return. His face was suddenly solemn and impressive, which gave him a positively malignant look. Dmitri bowed generally to all present, and without a word walked to the window with his long, resolute stride, sat down on the only empty chair, near Father Paissy, and, bending forward, prepared to listen to the conversation he had interrupted. Dmitri's entrance had taken no more than two minutes, and the conversation was resumed. But this time Miuesov thought it unnecessary to reply to Father Paissy's persistent and almost irritable question. "Allow me to withdraw from this discussion," he observed with a certain well-bred nonchalance. "It's a subtle question, too. Here Ivan Fyodorovitch is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to say about that also. Ask him." "Nothing special, except one little remark," Ivan replied at once. "European Liberals in general, and even our liberal dilettanti, often mix up the final results of socialism with those of Christianity. This wild notion is, of course, a characteristic feature. But it's not only Liberals and dilettanti who mix up socialism and Christianity, but, in many cases, it appears, the police--the foreign police, of course--do the same. Your Paris anecdote is rather to the point, Pyotr Alexandrovitch." "I ask your permission to drop this subject altogether," Miuesov repeated. "I will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and rather characteristic anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovitch himself. Only five days ago, in a gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly declared in argument that there was nothing in the whole world to make men love their neighbors. That there was no law of nature that man should love mankind, and that, if there had been any love on earth hitherto, it was not owing to a natural law, but simply because men have believed in immortality. Ivan Fyodorovitch added in parenthesis that the whole natural law lies in that faith, and that if you were to destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not only love but every living force maintaining the life of the world would at once be dried up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral, everything would be lawful, even cannibalism. That's not all. He ended by asserting that for every individual, like ourselves, who does not believe in God or immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that egoism, even to crime, must become not only lawful but even recognized as the inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position. From this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our eccentric and paradoxical friend Ivan Fyodorovitch's theories." "Excuse me," Dmitri cried suddenly; "if I've heard aright, crime must not only be permitted but even recognized as the inevitable and the most rational outcome of his position for every infidel! Is that so or not?" "Quite so," said Father Paissy. "I'll remember it." Having uttered these words Dmitri ceased speaking as suddenly as he had begun. Every one looked at him with curiosity. "Is that really your conviction as to the consequences of the disappearance of the faith in immortality?" the elder asked Ivan suddenly. "Yes. That was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no immortality." "You are blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy." "Why unhappy?" Ivan asked smiling. "Because, in all probability you don't believe yourself in the immortality of your soul, nor in what you have written yourself in your article on Church jurisdiction." "Perhaps you are right! ... But I wasn't altogether joking," Ivan suddenly and strangely confessed, flushing quickly. "You were not altogether joking. That's true. The question is still fretting your heart, and not answered. But the martyr likes sometimes to divert himself with his despair, as it were driven to it by despair itself. Meanwhile, in your despair, you, too, divert yourself with magazine articles, and discussions in society, though you don't believe your own arguments, and with an aching heart mock at them inwardly.... That question you have not answered, and it is your great grief, for it clamors for an answer." "But can it be answered by me? Answered in the affirmative?" Ivan went on asking strangely, still looking at the elder with the same inexplicable smile. "If it can't be decided in the affirmative, it will never be decided in the negative. You know that that is the peculiarity of your heart, and all its suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator who has given you a lofty heart capable of such suffering; of thinking and seeking higher things, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant that your heart will attain the answer on earth, and may God bless your path." The elder raised his hand and would have made the sign of the cross over Ivan from where he stood. But the latter rose from his seat, went up to him, received his blessing, and kissing his hand went back to his place in silence. His face looked firm and earnest. This action and all the preceding conversation, which was so surprising from Ivan, impressed every one by its strangeness and a certain solemnity, so that all were silent for a moment, and there was a look almost of apprehension in Alyosha's face. But Miuesov suddenly shrugged his shoulders. And at the same moment Fyodor Pavlovitch jumped up from his seat. "Most pious and holy elder," he cried, pointing to Ivan, "that is my son, flesh of my flesh, the dearest of my flesh! He is my most dutiful Karl Moor, so to speak, while this son who has just come in, Dmitri, against whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful Franz Moor--they are both out of Schiller's _Robbers_, and so I am the reigning Count von Moor! Judge and save us! We need not only your prayers but your prophecies!" "Speak without buffoonery, and don't begin by insulting the members of your family," answered the elder, in a faint, exhausted voice. He was obviously getting more and more fatigued, and his strength was failing. "An unseemly farce which I foresaw when I came here!" cried Dmitri indignantly. He too leapt up. "Forgive it, reverend Father," he added, addressing the elder. "I am not a cultivated man, and I don't even know how to address you properly, but you have been deceived and you have been too good-natured in letting us meet here. All my father wants is a scandal. Why he wants it only he can tell. He always has some motive. But I believe I know why--" "They all blame me, all of them!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch in his turn. "Pyotr Alexandrovitch here blames me too. You have been blaming me, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you have!" he turned suddenly to Miuesov, although the latter was not dreaming of interrupting him. "They all accuse me of having hidden the children's money in my boots, and cheated them, but isn't there a court of law? There they will reckon out for you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, from your notes, your letters, and your agreements, how much money you had, how much you have spent, and how much you have left. Why does Pyotr Alexandrovitch refuse to pass judgment? Dmitri is not a stranger to him. Because they are all against me, while Dmitri Fyodorovitch is in debt to me, and not a little, but some thousands of which I have documentary proof. The whole town is echoing with his debaucheries. And where he was stationed before, he several times spent a thousand or two for the seduction of some respectable girl; we know all about that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, in its most secret details. I'll prove it.... Would you believe it, holy Father, he has captivated the heart of the most honorable of young ladies of good family and fortune, daughter of a gallant colonel, formerly his superior officer, who had received many honors and had the Anna Order on his breast. He compromised the girl by his promise of marriage, now she is an orphan and here; she is betrothed to him, yet before her very eyes he is dancing attendance on a certain enchantress. And although this enchantress has lived in, so to speak, civil marriage with a respectable man, yet she is of an independent character, an unapproachable fortress for everybody, just like a legal wife--for she is virtuous, yes, holy Fathers, she is virtuous. Dmitri Fyodorovitch wants to open this fortress with a golden key, and that's why he is insolent to me now, trying to get money from me, though he has wasted thousands on this enchantress already. He's continually borrowing money for the purpose. From whom do you think? Shall I say, Mitya?" "Be silent!" cried Dmitri, "wait till I'm gone. Don't dare in my presence to asperse the good name of an honorable girl! That you should utter a word about her is an outrage, and I won't permit it!" He was breathless. "Mitya! Mitya!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch hysterically, squeezing out a tear. "And is your father's blessing nothing to you? If I curse you, what then?" "Shameless hypocrite!" exclaimed Dmitri furiously. "He says that to his father! his father! What would he be with others? Gentlemen, only fancy; there's a poor but honorable man living here, burdened with a numerous family, a captain who got into trouble and was discharged from the army, but not publicly, not by court-martial, with no slur on his honor. And three weeks ago, Dmitri seized him by the beard in a tavern, dragged him out into the street and beat him publicly, and all because he is an agent in a little business of mine." "It's all a lie! Outwardly it's the truth, but inwardly a lie!" Dmitri was trembling with rage. "Father, I don't justify my action. Yes, I confess it publicly, I behaved like a brute to that captain, and I regret it now, and I'm disgusted with myself for my brutal rage. But this captain, this agent of yours, went to that lady whom you call an enchantress, and suggested to her from you, that she should take I.O.U.'s of mine which were in your possession, and should sue me for the money so as to get me into prison by means of them, if I persisted in claiming an account from you of my property. Now you reproach me for having a weakness for that lady when you yourself incited her to captivate me! She told me so to my face.... She told me the story and laughed at you.... You wanted to put me in prison because you are jealous of me with her, because you'd begun to force your attentions upon her; and I know all about that, too; she laughed at you for that as well--you hear--she laughed at you as she described it. So here you have this man, this father who reproaches his profligate son! Gentlemen, forgive my anger, but I foresaw that this crafty old man would only bring you together to create a scandal. I had come to forgive him if he held out his hand; to forgive him, and ask forgiveness! But as he has just this minute insulted not only me, but an honorable young lady, for whom I feel such reverence that I dare not take her name in vain, I have made up my mind to show up his game, though he is my father...." He could not go on. His eyes were glittering and he breathed with difficulty. But every one in the cell was stirred. All except Father Zossima got up from their seats uneasily. The monks looked austere but waited for guidance from the elder. He sat still, pale, not from excitement but from the weakness of disease. An imploring smile lighted up his face; from time to time he raised his hand, as though to check the storm, and, of course, a gesture from him would have been enough to end the scene; but he seemed to be waiting for something and watched them intently as though trying to make out something which was not perfectly clear to him. At last Miuesov felt completely humiliated and disgraced. "We are all to blame for this scandalous scene," he said hotly. "But I did not foresee it when I came, though I knew with whom I had to deal. This must be stopped at once! Believe me, your reverence, I had no precise knowledge of the details that have just come to light, I was unwilling to believe them, and I learn for the first time.... A father is jealous of his son's relations with a woman of loose behavior and intrigues with the creature to get his son into prison! This is the company in which I have been forced to be present! I was deceived. I declare to you all that I was as much deceived as any one." "Dmitri Fyodorovitch," yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, in an unnatural voice, "if you were not my son I would challenge you this instant to a duel ... with pistols, at three paces ... across a handkerchief," he ended, stamping with both feet. With old liars who have been acting all their lives there are moments when they enter so completely into their part that they tremble or shed tears of emotion in earnest, although at that very moment, or a second later, they are able to whisper to themselves, "You know you are lying, you shameless old sinner! You're acting now, in spite of your 'holy' wrath." Dmitri frowned painfully, and looked with unutterable contempt at his father. "I thought ... I thought," he said, in a soft and, as it were, controlled voice, "that I was coming to my native place with the angel of my heart, my betrothed, to cherish his old age, and I find nothing but a depraved profligate, a despicable clown!" "A duel!" yelled the old wretch again, breathless and spluttering at each syllable. "And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, let me tell you that there has never been in all your family a loftier, and more honest--you hear--more honest woman than this 'creature,' as you have dared to call her! And you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, have abandoned your betrothed for that 'creature,' so you must yourself have thought that your betrothed couldn't hold a candle to her. That's the woman called a 'creature'!" "Shameful!" broke from Father Iosif. "Shameful and disgraceful!" Kalganov, flushing crimson, cried in a boyish voice, trembling with emotion. He had been silent till that moment. "Why is such a man alive?" Dmitri, beside himself with rage, growled in a hollow voice, hunching up his shoulders till he looked almost deformed. "Tell me, can he be allowed to go on defiling the earth?" He looked round at every one and pointed at the old man. He spoke evenly and deliberately. "Listen, listen, monks, to the parricide!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, rushing up to Father Iosif. "That's the answer to your 'shameful!' What is shameful? That 'creature,' that 'woman of loose behavior' is perhaps holier than you are yourselves, you monks who are seeking salvation! She fell perhaps in her youth, ruined by her environment. But she loved much, and Christ himself forgave the woman 'who loved much.' " "It was not for such love Christ forgave her," broke impatiently from the gentle Father Iosif. "Yes, it was for such, monks, it was! You save your souls here, eating cabbage, and think you are the righteous. You eat a gudgeon a day, and you think you bribe God with gudgeon." "This is unendurable!" was heard on all sides in the cell. But this unseemly scene was cut short in a most unexpected way. Father Zossima rose suddenly from his seat. Almost distracted with anxiety for the elder and every one else, Alyosha succeeded, however, in supporting him by the arm. Father Zossima moved towards Dmitri and reaching him sank on his knees before him. Alyosha thought that he had fallen from weakness, but this was not so. The elder distinctly and deliberately bowed down at Dmitri's feet till his forehead touched the floor. Alyosha was so astounded that he failed to assist him when he got up again. There was a faint smile on his lips. "Good-by! Forgive me, all of you!" he said, bowing on all sides to his guests. Dmitri stood for a few moments in amazement. Bowing down to him--what did it mean? Suddenly he cried aloud, "Oh, God!" hid his face in his hands, and rushed out of the room. All the guests flocked out after him, in their confusion not saying good-by, or bowing to their host. Only the monks went up to him again for a blessing. "What did it mean, falling at his feet like that? Was it symbolic or what?" said Fyodor Pavlovitch, suddenly quieted and trying to reopen conversation without venturing to address anybody in particular. They were all passing out of the precincts of the hermitage at the moment. "I can't answer for a madhouse and for madmen," Miuesov answered at once ill-humoredly, "but I will spare myself your company, Fyodor Pavlovitch, and, trust me, for ever. Where's that monk?" "That monk," that is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the Superior, did not keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came down the steps from the elder's cell, as though he had been waiting for them all the time. "Reverend Father, kindly do me a favor. Convey my deepest respect to the Father Superior, apologize for me, personally, Miuesov, to his reverence, telling him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen circumstances I am unable to have the honor of being present at his table, greatly as I should desire to do so," Miuesov said irritably to the monk. "And that unforeseen circumstance, of course, is myself," Fyodor Pavlovitch cut in immediately. "Do you hear, Father; this gentleman doesn't want to remain in my company or else he'd come at once. And you shall go, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, pray go to the Father Superior and good appetite to you. I will decline, and not you. Home, home, I'll eat at home, I don't feel equal to it here, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, my amiable relative." "I am not your relative and never have been, you contemptible man!" "I said it on purpose to madden you, because you always disclaim the relationship, though you really are a relation in spite of your shuffling. I'll prove it by the church calendar. As for you, Ivan, stay if you like. I'll send the horses for you later. Propriety requires you to go to the Father Superior, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to apologize for the disturbance we've been making...." "Is it true that you are going home? Aren't you lying?" "Pyotr Alexandrovitch! How could I dare after what's happened! Forgive me, gentlemen, I was carried away! And upset besides! And, indeed, I am ashamed. Gentlemen, one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon and another the heart of the little dog Fido. Mine is that of the little dog Fido. I am ashamed! After such an escapade how can I go to dinner, to gobble up the monastery's sauces? I am ashamed, I can't. You must excuse me!" "The devil only knows, what if he deceives us?" thought Miuesov, still hesitating, and watching the retreating buffoon with distrustful eyes. The latter turned round, and noticing that Miuesov was watching him, waved him a kiss. "Well, are you coming to the Superior?" Miuesov asked Ivan abruptly. "Why not? I was especially invited yesterday." "Unfortunately I feel myself compelled to go to this confounded dinner," said Miuesov with the same irritability, regardless of the fact that the monk was listening. "We ought, at least, to apologize for the disturbance, and explain that it was not our doing. What do you think?" "Yes, we must explain that it wasn't our doing. Besides, father won't be there," observed Ivan. "Well, I should hope not! Confound this dinner!" They all walked on, however. The monk listened in silence. On the road through the copse he made one observation however--that the Father Superior had been waiting a long time, and that they were more than half an hour late. He received no answer. Miuesov looked with hatred at Ivan. "Here he is, going to the dinner as though nothing had happened," he thought. "A brazen face, and the conscience of a Karamazov!" Chapter VII. A Young Man Bent On A Career Alyosha helped Father Zossima to his bedroom and seated him on his bed. It was a little room furnished with the bare necessities. There was a narrow iron bedstead, with a strip of felt for a mattress. In the corner, under the ikons, was a reading-desk with a cross and the Gospel lying on it. The elder sank exhausted on the bed. His eyes glittered and he breathed hard. He looked intently at Alyosha, as though considering something. "Go, my dear boy, go. Porfiry is enough for me. Make haste, you are needed there, go and wait at the Father Superior's table." "Let me stay here," Alyosha entreated. "You are more needed there. There is no peace there. You will wait, and be of service. If evil spirits rise up, repeat a prayer. And remember, my son"--the elder liked to call him that--"this is not the place for you in the future. When it is God's will to call me, leave the monastery. Go away for good." Alyosha started. "What is it? This is not your place for the time. I bless you for great service in the world. Yours will be a long pilgrimage. And you will have to take a wife, too. You will have to bear _all_ before you come back. There will be much to do. But I don't doubt of you, and so I send you forth. Christ is with you. Do not abandon Him and He will not abandon you. You will see great sorrow, and in that sorrow you will be happy. This is my last message to you: in sorrow seek happiness. Work, work unceasingly. Remember my words, for although I shall talk with you again, not only my days but my hours are numbered." Alyosha's face again betrayed strong emotion. The corners of his mouth quivered. "What is it again?" Father Zossima asked, smiling gently. "The worldly may follow the dead with tears, but here we rejoice over the father who is departing. We rejoice and pray for him. Leave me, I must pray. Go, and make haste. Be near your brothers. And not near one only, but near both." Father Zossima raised his hand to bless him. Alyosha could make no protest, though he had a great longing to remain. He longed, moreover, to ask the significance of his bowing to Dmitri, the question was on the tip of his tongue, but he dared not ask it. He knew that the elder would have explained it unasked if he had thought fit. But evidently it was not his will. That action had made a terrible impression on Alyosha; he believed blindly in its mysterious significance. Mysterious, and perhaps awful. As he hastened out of the hermitage precincts to reach the monastery in time to serve at the Father Superior's dinner, he felt a sudden pang at his heart, and stopped short. He seemed to hear again Father Zossima's words, foretelling his approaching end. What he had foretold so exactly must infallibly come to pass. Alyosha believed that implicitly. But how could he be left without him? How could he live without seeing and hearing him? Where should he go? He had told him not to weep, and to leave the monastery. Good God! It was long since Alyosha had known such anguish. He hurried through the copse that divided the monastery from the hermitage, and unable to bear the burden of his thoughts, he gazed at the ancient pines beside the path. He had not far to go--about five hundred paces. He expected to meet no one at that hour, but at the first turn of the path he noticed Rakitin. He was waiting for some one. "Are you waiting for me?" asked Alyosha, overtaking him. "Yes," grinned Rakitin. "You are hurrying to the Father Superior, I know; he has a banquet. There's not been such a banquet since the Superior entertained the Bishop and General Pahatov, do you remember? I shan't be there, but you go and hand the sauces. Tell me one thing, Alexey, what does that vision mean? That's what I want to ask you." "What vision?" "That bowing to your brother, Dmitri. And didn't he tap the ground with his forehead, too!" "You speak of Father Zossima?" "Yes, of Father Zossima." "Tapped the ground?" "Ah, an irreverent expression! Well, what of it? Anyway, what does that vision mean?" "I don't know what it means, Misha." "I knew he wouldn't explain it to you! There's nothing wonderful about it, of course, only the usual holy mummery. But there was an object in the performance. All the pious people in the town will talk about it and spread the story through the province, wondering what it meant. To my thinking the old man really has a keen nose; he sniffed a crime. Your house stinks of it." "What crime?" Rakitin evidently had something he was eager to speak of. "It'll be in your family, this crime. Between your brothers and your rich old father. So Father Zossima flopped down to be ready for what may turn up. If something happens later on, it'll be: 'Ah, the holy man foresaw it, prophesied it!' though it's a poor sort of prophecy, flopping like that. 'Ah, but it was symbolic,' they'll say, 'an allegory,' and the devil knows what all! It'll be remembered to his glory: 'He predicted the crime and marked the criminal!' That's always the way with these crazy fanatics; they cross themselves at the tavern and throw stones at the temple. Like your elder, he takes a stick to a just man and falls at the feet of a murderer." "What crime? What murderer? What do you mean?" Alyosha stopped dead. Rakitin stopped, too. "What murderer? As though you didn't know! I'll bet you've thought of it before. That's interesting, too, by the way. Listen, Alyosha, you always speak the truth, though you're always between two stools. Have you thought of it or not? Answer." "I have," answered Alyosha in a low voice. Even Rakitin was taken aback. "What? Have you really?" he cried. "I ... I've not exactly thought it," muttered Alyosha, "but directly you began speaking so strangely, I fancied I had thought of it myself." "You see? (And how well you expressed it!) Looking at your father and your brother Mitya to-day you thought of a crime. Then I'm not mistaken?" "But wait, wait a minute," Alyosha broke in uneasily. "What has led you to see all this? Why does it interest you? That's the first question." "Two questions, disconnected, but natural. I'll deal with them separately. What led me to see it? I shouldn't have seen it, if I hadn't suddenly understood your brother Dmitri, seen right into the very heart of him all at once. I caught the whole man from one trait. These very honest but passionate people have a line which mustn't be crossed. If it were, he'd run at your father with a knife. But your father's a drunken and abandoned old sinner, who can never draw the line--if they both let themselves go, they'll both come to grief." "No, Misha, no. If that's all, you've reassured me. It won't come to that." "But why are you trembling? Let me tell you; he may be honest, our Mitya (he is stupid, but honest), but he's--a sensualist. That's the very definition and inner essence of him. It's your father has handed him on his low sensuality. Do you know, I simply wonder at you, Alyosha, how you can have kept your purity. You're a Karamazov too, you know! In your family sensuality is carried to a disease. But now, these three sensualists are watching one another, with their knives in their belts. The three of them are knocking their heads together, and you may be the fourth." "You are mistaken about that woman. Dmitri--despises her," said Alyosha, with a sort of shudder. "Grushenka? No, brother, he doesn't despise her. Since he has openly abandoned his betrothed for her, he doesn't despise her. There's something here, my dear boy, that you don't understand yet. A man will fall in love with some beauty, with a woman's body, or even with a part of a woman's body (a sensualist can understand that), and he'll abandon his own children for her, sell his father and mother, and his country, Russia, too. If he's honest, he'll steal; if he's humane, he'll murder; if he's faithful, he'll deceive. Pushkin, the poet of women's feet, sung of their feet in his verse. Others don't sing their praises, but they can't look at their feet without a thrill--and it's not only their feet. Contempt's no help here, brother, even if he did despise Grushenka. He does, but he can't tear himself away." "I understand that," Alyosha jerked out suddenly. "Really? Well, I dare say you do understand, since you blurt it out at the first word," said Rakitin, malignantly. "That escaped you unawares, and the confession's the more precious. So it's a familiar subject; you've thought about it already, about sensuality, I mean! Oh, you virgin soul! You're a quiet one, Alyosha, you're a saint, I know, but the devil only knows what you've thought about, and what you know already! You are pure, but you've been down into the depths.... I've been watching you a long time. You're a Karamazov yourself; you're a thorough Karamazov--no doubt birth and selection have something to answer for. You're a sensualist from your father, a crazy saint from your mother. Why do you tremble? Is it true, then? Do you know, Grushenka has been begging me to bring you along. 'I'll pull off his cassock,' she says. You can't think how she keeps begging me to bring you. I wondered why she took such an interest in you. Do you know, she's an extraordinary woman, too!" "Thank her and say I'm not coming," said Alyosha, with a strained smile. "Finish what you were saying, Misha. I'll tell you my idea after." "There's nothing to finish. It's all clear. It's the same old tune, brother. If even you are a sensualist at heart, what of your brother, Ivan? He's a Karamazov, too. What is at the root of all you Karamazovs is that you're all sensual, grasping and crazy! Your brother Ivan writes theological articles in joke, for some idiotic, unknown motive of his own, though he's an atheist, and he admits it's a fraud himself--that's your brother Ivan. He's trying to get Mitya's betrothed for himself, and I fancy he'll succeed, too. And what's more, it's with Mitya's consent. For Mitya will surrender his betrothed to him to be rid of her, and escape to Grushenka. And he's ready to do that in spite of all his nobility and disinterestedness. Observe that. Those are the most fatal people! Who the devil can make you out? He recognizes his vileness and goes on with it! Let me tell you, too, the old man, your father, is standing in Mitya's way now. He has suddenly gone crazy over Grushenka. His mouth waters at the sight of her. It's simply on her account he made that scene in the cell just now, simply because Miuesov called her an 'abandoned creature.' He's worse than a tom-cat in love. At first she was only employed by him in connection with his taverns and in some other shady business, but now he has suddenly realized all she is and has gone wild about her. He keeps pestering her with his offers, not honorable ones, of course. And they'll come into collision, the precious father and son, on that path! But Grushenka favors neither of them, she's still playing with them, and teasing them both, considering which she can get most out of. For though she could filch a lot of money from the papa he wouldn't marry her, and maybe he'll turn stingy in the end, and keep his purse shut. That's where Mitya's value comes in; he has no money, but he's ready to marry her. Yes, ready to marry her! to abandon his betrothed, a rare beauty, Katerina Ivanovna, who's rich, and the daughter of a colonel, and to marry Grushenka, who has been the mistress of a dissolute old merchant, Samsonov, a coarse, uneducated, provincial mayor. Some murderous conflict may well come to pass from all this, and that's what your brother Ivan is waiting for. It would suit him down to the ground. He'll carry off Katerina Ivanovna, for whom he is languishing, and pocket her dowry of sixty thousand. That's very alluring to start with, for a man of no consequence and a beggar. And, take note, he won't be wronging Mitya, but doing him the greatest service. For I know as a fact that Mitya only last week, when he was with some gypsy girls drunk in a tavern, cried out aloud that he was unworthy of his betrothed, Katya, but that his brother Ivan, he was the man who deserved her. And Katerina Ivanovna will not in the end refuse such a fascinating man as Ivan. She's hesitating between the two of them already. And how has that Ivan won you all, so that you all worship him? He is laughing at you, and enjoying himself at your expense." "How do you know? How can you speak so confidently?" Alyosha asked sharply, frowning. "Why do you ask, and are frightened at my answer? It shows that you know I'm speaking the truth." "You don't like Ivan. Ivan wouldn't be tempted by money." "Really? And the beauty of Katerina Ivanovna? It's not only the money, though a fortune of sixty thousand is an attraction." "Ivan is above that. He wouldn't make up to any one for thousands. It is not money, it's not comfort Ivan is seeking. Perhaps it's suffering he is seeking." "What wild dream now? Oh, you--aristocrats!" "Ah, Misha, he has a stormy spirit. His mind is in bondage. He is haunted by a great, unsolved doubt. He is one of those who don't want millions, but an answer to their questions." "That's plagiarism, Alyosha. You're quoting your elder's phrases. Ah, Ivan has set you a problem!" cried Rakitin, with undisguised malice. His face changed, and his lips twitched. "And the problem's a stupid one. It is no good guessing it. Rack your brains--you'll understand it. His article is absurd and ridiculous. And did you hear his stupid theory just now: if there's no immortality of the soul, then there's no virtue, and everything is lawful. (And by the way, do you remember how your brother Mitya cried out: 'I will remember!') An attractive theory for scoundrels!--(I'm being abusive, that's stupid.) Not for scoundrels, but for pedantic _poseurs_, 'haunted by profound, unsolved doubts.' He's showing off, and what it all comes to is, 'on the one hand we cannot but admit' and 'on the other it must be confessed!' His whole theory is a fraud! Humanity will find in itself the power to live for virtue even without believing in immortality. It will find it in love for freedom, for equality, for fraternity." Rakitin could hardly restrain himself in his heat, but, suddenly, as though remembering something, he stopped short. "Well, that's enough," he said, with a still more crooked smile. "Why are you laughing? Do you think I'm a vulgar fool?" "No, I never dreamed of thinking you a vulgar fool. You are clever but ... never mind, I was silly to smile. I understand your getting hot about it, Misha. I guess from your warmth that you are not indifferent to Katerina Ivanovna yourself; I've suspected that for a long time, brother, that's why you don't like my brother Ivan. Are you jealous of him?" "And jealous of her money, too? Won't you add that?" "I'll say nothing about money. I am not going to insult you." "I believe it, since you say so, but confound you, and your brother Ivan with you. Don't you understand that one might very well dislike him, apart from Katerina Ivanovna. And why the devil should I like him? He condescends to abuse me, you know. Why haven't I a right to abuse him?" "I never heard of his saying anything about you, good or bad. He doesn't speak of you at all." "But I heard that the day before yesterday at Katerina Ivanovna's he was abusing me for all he was worth--you see what an interest he takes in your humble servant. And which is the jealous one after that, brother, I can't say. He was so good as to express the opinion that, if I don't go in for the career of an archimandrite in the immediate future and don't become a monk, I shall be sure to go to Petersburg and get on to some solid magazine as a reviewer, that I shall write for the next ten years, and in the end become the owner of the magazine, and bring it out on the liberal and atheistic side, with a socialistic tinge, with a tiny gloss of socialism, but keeping a sharp look out all the time, that is, keeping in with both sides and hoodwinking the fools. According to your brother's account, the tinge of socialism won't hinder me from laying by the proceeds and investing them under the guidance of some Jew, till at the end of my career I build a great house in Petersburg and move my publishing offices to it, and let out the upper stories to lodgers. He has even chosen the place for it, near the new stone bridge across the Neva, which they say is to be built in Petersburg." "Ah, Misha, that's just what will really happen, every word of it," cried Alyosha, unable to restrain a good-humored smile. "You are pleased to be sarcastic, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch." "No, no, I'm joking, forgive me. I've something quite different in my mind. But, excuse me, who can have told you all this? You can't have been at Katerina Ivanovna's yourself when he was talking about you?" "I wasn't there, but Dmitri Fyodorovitch was; and I heard him tell it with my own ears; if you want to know, he didn't tell me, but I overheard him, unintentionally, of course, for I was sitting in Grushenka's bedroom and I couldn't go away because Dmitri Fyodorovitch was in the next room." "Oh, yes, I'd forgotten she was a relation of yours." "A relation! That Grushenka a relation of mine!" cried Rakitin, turning crimson. "Are you mad? You're out of your mind!" "Why, isn't she a relation of yours? I heard so." "Where can you have heard it? You Karamazovs brag of being an ancient, noble family, though your father used to run about playing the buffoon at other men's tables, and was only admitted to the kitchen as a favor. I may be only a priest's son, and dirt in the eyes of noblemen like you, but don't insult me so lightly and wantonly. I have a sense of honor, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I couldn't be a relation of Grushenka, a common harlot. I beg you to understand that!" Rakitin was intensely irritated. "Forgive me, for goodness' sake, I had no idea ... besides ... how can you call her a harlot? Is she ... that sort of woman?" Alyosha flushed suddenly. "I tell you again, I heard that she was a relation of yours. You often go to see her, and you told me yourself you're not her lover. I never dreamed that you of all people had such contempt for her! Does she really deserve it?" "I may have reasons of my own for visiting her. That's not your business. But as for relationship, your brother, or even your father, is more likely to make her yours than mine. Well, here we are. You'd better go to the kitchen. Hullo! what's wrong, what is it? Are we late? They can't have finished dinner so soon! Have the Karamazovs been making trouble again? No doubt they have. Here's your father and your brother Ivan after him. They've broken out from the Father Superior's. And look, Father Isidor's shouting out something after them from the steps. And your father's shouting and waving his arms. I expect he's swearing. Bah, and there goes Miuesov driving away in his carriage. You see, he's going. And there's old Maximov running!--there must have been a row. There can't have been any dinner. Surely they've not been beating the Father Superior! Or have they, perhaps, been beaten? It would serve them right!" There was reason for Rakitin's exclamations. There had been a scandalous, an unprecedented scene. It had all come from the impulse of a moment. Chapter VIII. The Scandalous Scene Miuesov, as a man of breeding and delicacy, could not but feel some inward qualms, when he reached the Father Superior's with Ivan: he felt ashamed of having lost his temper. He felt that he ought to have disdained that despicable wretch, Fyodor Pavlovitch, too much to have been upset by him in Father Zossima's cell, and so to have forgotten himself. "The monks were not to blame, in any case," he reflected, on the steps. "And if they're decent people here (and the Father Superior, I understand, is a nobleman) why not be friendly and courteous with them? I won't argue, I'll fall in with everything, I'll win them by politeness, and ... and ... show them that I've nothing to do with that AEsop, that buffoon, that Pierrot, and have merely been taken in over this affair, just as they have." He determined to drop his litigation with the monastery, and relinquish his claims to the wood-cutting and fishery rights at once. He was the more ready to do this because the rights had become much less valuable, and he had indeed the vaguest idea where the wood and river in question were. These excellent intentions were strengthened when he entered the Father Superior's dining-room, though, strictly speaking, it was not a dining- room, for the Father Superior had only two rooms altogether; they were, however, much larger and more comfortable than Father Zossima's. But there was no great luxury about the furnishing of these rooms either. The furniture was of mahogany, covered with leather, in the old-fashioned style of 1820; the floor was not even stained, but everything was shining with cleanliness, and there were many choice flowers in the windows; the most sumptuous thing in the room at the moment was, of course, the beautifully decorated table. The cloth was clean, the service shone; there were three kinds of well-baked bread, two bottles of wine, two of excellent mead, and a large glass jug of kvas--both the latter made in the monastery, and famous in the neighborhood. There was no vodka. Rakitin related afterwards that there were five dishes: fish-soup made of sterlets, served with little fish patties; then boiled fish served in a special way; then salmon cutlets, ice pudding and compote, and finally, blanc-mange. Rakitin found out about all these good things, for he could not resist peeping into the kitchen, where he already had a footing. He had a footing everywhere, and got information about everything. He was of an uneasy and envious temper. He was well aware of his own considerable abilities, and nervously exaggerated them in his self-conceit. He knew he would play a prominent part of some sort, but Alyosha, who was attached to him, was distressed to see that his friend Rakitin was dishonorable, and quite unconscious of being so himself, considering, on the contrary, that because he would not steal money left on the table he was a man of the highest integrity. Neither Alyosha nor any one else could have influenced him in that. Rakitin, of course, was a person of too little consequence to be invited to the dinner, to which Father Iosif, Father Paissy, and one other monk were the only inmates of the monastery invited. They were already waiting when Miuesov, Kalganov, and Ivan arrived. The other guest, Maximov, stood a little aside, waiting also. The Father Superior stepped into the middle of the room to receive his guests. He was a tall, thin, but still vigorous old man, with black hair streaked with gray, and a long, grave, ascetic face. He bowed to his guests in silence. But this time they approached to receive his blessing. Miuesov even tried to kiss his hand, but the Father Superior drew it back in time to avoid the salute. But Ivan and Kalganov went through the ceremony in the most simple-hearted and complete manner, kissing his hand as peasants do. "We must apologize most humbly, your reverence," began Miuesov, simpering affably, and speaking in a dignified and respectful tone. "Pardon us for having come alone without the gentleman you invited, Fyodor Pavlovitch. He felt obliged to decline the honor of your hospitality, and not without reason. In the reverend Father Zossima's cell he was carried away by the unhappy dissension with his son, and let fall words which were quite out of keeping ... in fact, quite unseemly ... as"--he glanced at the monks--"your reverence is, no doubt, already aware. And therefore, recognizing that he had been to blame, he felt sincere regret and shame, and begged me, and his son Ivan Fyodorovitch, to convey to you his apologies and regrets. In brief, he hopes and desires to make amends later. He asks your blessing, and begs you to forget what has taken place." As he uttered the last word of his tirade, Miuesov completely recovered his self-complacency, and all traces of his former irritation disappeared. He fully and sincerely loved humanity again. The Father Superior listened to him with dignity, and, with a slight bend of the head, replied: "I sincerely deplore his absence. Perhaps at our table he might have learnt to like us, and we him. Pray be seated, gentlemen." He stood before the holy image, and began to say grace, aloud. All bent their heads reverently, and Maximov clasped his hands before him, with peculiar fervor. It was at this moment that Fyodor Pavlovitch played his last prank. It must be noted that he really had meant to go home, and really had felt the impossibility of going to dine with the Father Superior as though nothing had happened, after his disgraceful behavior in the elder's cell. Not that he was so very much ashamed of himself--quite the contrary perhaps. But still he felt it would be unseemly to go to dinner. Yet his creaking carriage had hardly been brought to the steps of the hotel, and he had hardly got into it, when he suddenly stopped short. He remembered his own words at the elder's: "I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon; so I say let me play the buffoon, for you are, every one of you, stupider and lower than I." He longed to revenge himself on every one for his own unseemliness. He suddenly recalled how he had once in the past been asked, "Why do you hate so and so, so much?" And he had answered them, with his shameless impudence, "I'll tell you. He has done me no harm. But I played him a dirty trick, and ever since I have hated him." Remembering that now, he smiled quietly and malignantly, hesitating for a moment. His eyes gleamed, and his lips positively quivered. "Well, since I have begun, I may as well go on," he decided. His predominant sensation at that moment might be expressed in the following words, "Well, there is no rehabilitating myself now. So let me shame them for all I am worth. I will show them I don't care what they think--that's all!" He told the coachman to wait, while with rapid steps he returned to the monastery and straight to the Father Superior's. He had no clear idea what he would do, but he knew that he could not control himself, and that a touch might drive him to the utmost limits of obscenity, but only to obscenity, to nothing criminal, nothing for which he could be legally punished. In the last resort, he could always restrain himself, and had marveled indeed at himself, on that score, sometimes. He appeared in the Father Superior's dining-room, at the moment when the prayer was over, and all were moving to the table. Standing in the doorway, he scanned the company, and laughing his prolonged, impudent, malicious chuckle, looked them all boldly in the face. "They thought I had gone, and here I am again," he cried to the whole room. For one moment every one stared at him without a word; and at once every one felt that something revolting, grotesque, positively scandalous, was about to happen. Miuesov passed immediately from the most benevolent frame of mind to the most savage. All the feelings that had subsided and died down in his heart revived instantly. "No! this I cannot endure!" he cried. "I absolutely cannot! and ... I certainly cannot!" The blood rushed to his head. He positively stammered; but he was beyond thinking of style, and he seized his hat. "What is it he cannot?" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "that he absolutely cannot and certainly cannot? Your reverence, am I to come in or not? Will you receive me as your guest?" "You are welcome with all my heart," answered the Superior. "Gentlemen!" he added, "I venture to beg you most earnestly to lay aside your dissensions, and to be united in love and family harmony--with prayer to the Lord at our humble table." "No, no, it is impossible!" cried Miuesov, beside himself. "Well, if it is impossible for Pyotr Alexandrovitch, it is impossible for me, and I won't stop. That is why I came. I will keep with Pyotr Alexandrovitch everywhere now. If you will go away, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, I will go away too, if you remain, I will remain. You stung him by what you said about family harmony, Father Superior, he does not admit he is my relation. That's right, isn't it, von Sohn? Here's von Sohn. How are you, von Sohn?" "Do you mean me?" muttered Maximov, puzzled. "Of course I mean you," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. "Who else? The Father Superior could not be von Sohn." "But I am not von Sohn either. I am Maximov." "No, you are von Sohn. Your reverence, do you know who von Sohn was? It was a famous murder case. He was killed in a house of harlotry--I believe that is what such places are called among you--he was killed and robbed, and in spite of his venerable age, he was nailed up in a box and sent from Petersburg to Moscow in the luggage van, and while they were nailing him up, the harlots sang songs and played the harp, that is to say, the piano. So this is that very von Sohn. He has risen from the dead, hasn't he, von Sohn?" "What is happening? What's this?" voices were heard in the group of monks. "Let us go," cried Miuesov, addressing Kalganov. "No, excuse me," Fyodor Pavlovitch broke in shrilly, taking another step into the room. "Allow me to finish. There in the cell you blamed me for behaving disrespectfully just because I spoke of eating gudgeon, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. Miuesov, my relation, prefers to have _plus de noblesse que de sincerite_ in his words, but I prefer in mine _plus de sincerite que de noblesse_, and--damn the _noblesse_! That's right, isn't it, von Sohn? Allow me, Father Superior, though I am a buffoon and play the buffoon, yet I am the soul of honor, and I want to speak my mind. Yes, I am the soul of honor, while in Pyotr Alexandrovitch there is wounded vanity and nothing else. I came here perhaps to have a look and speak my mind. My son, Alexey, is here, being saved. I am his father; I care for his welfare, and it is my duty to care. While I've been playing the fool, I have been listening and having a look on the sly; and now I want to give you the last act of the performance. You know how things are with us? As a thing falls, so it lies. As a thing once has fallen, so it must lie for ever. Not a bit of it! I want to get up again. Holy Father, I am indignant with you. Confession is a great sacrament, before which I am ready to bow down reverently; but there in the cell, they all kneel down and confess aloud. Can it be right to confess aloud? It was ordained by the holy Fathers to confess in secret: then only your confession will be a mystery, and so it was of old. But how can I explain to him before every one that I did this and that ... well, you understand what--sometimes it would not be proper to talk about it--so it is really a scandal! No, Fathers, one might be carried along with you to the Flagellants, I dare say ... at the first opportunity I shall write to the Synod, and I shall take my son, Alexey, home." We must note here that Fyodor Pavlovitch knew where to look for the weak spot. There had been at one time malicious rumors which had even reached the Archbishop (not only regarding our monastery, but in others where the institution of elders existed) that too much respect was paid to the elders, even to the detriment of the authority of the Superior, that the elders abused the sacrament of confession and so on and so on--absurd charges which had died away of themselves everywhere. But the spirit of folly, which had caught up Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was bearing him on the current of his own nerves into lower and lower depths of ignominy, prompted him with this old slander. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not understand a word of it, and he could not even put it sensibly, for on this occasion no one had been kneeling and confessing aloud in the elder's cell, so that he could not have seen anything of the kind. He was only speaking from confused memory of old slanders. But as soon as he had uttered his foolish tirade, he felt he had been talking absurd nonsense, and at once longed to prove to his audience, and above all to himself, that he had not been talking nonsense. And, though he knew perfectly well that with each word he would be adding more and more absurdity, he could not restrain himself, and plunged forward blindly. "How disgraceful!" cried Pyotr Alexandrovitch. "Pardon me!" said the Father Superior. "It was said of old, 'Many have begun to speak against me and have uttered evil sayings about me. And hearing it I have said to myself: it is the correction of the Lord and He has sent it to heal my vain soul.' And so we humbly thank you, honored guest!" and he made Fyodor Pavlovitch a low bow. "Tut--tut--tut--sanctimoniousness and stock phrases! Old phrases and old gestures. The old lies and formal prostrations. We know all about them. A kiss on the lips and a dagger in the heart, as in Schiller's _Robbers_. I don't like falsehood, Fathers, I want the truth. But the truth is not to be found in eating gudgeon and that I proclaim aloud! Father monks, why do you fast? Why do you expect reward in heaven for that? Why, for reward like that I will come and fast too! No, saintly monk, you try being virtuous in the world, do good to society, without shutting yourself up in a monastery at other people's expense, and without expecting a reward up aloft for it--you'll find that a bit harder. I can talk sense, too, Father Superior. What have they got here?" He went up to the table. "Old port wine, mead brewed by the Eliseyev Brothers. Fie, fie, fathers! That is something beyond gudgeon. Look at the bottles the fathers have brought out, he he he! And who has provided it all? The Russian peasant, the laborer, brings here the farthing earned by his horny hand, wringing it from his family and the tax-gatherer! You bleed the people, you know, holy fathers." "This is too disgraceful!" said Father Iosif. Father Paissy kept obstinately silent. Miuesov rushed from the room, and Kalganov after him. "Well, Father, I will follow Pyotr Alexandrovitch! I am not coming to see you again. You may beg me on your knees, I shan't come. I sent you a thousand roubles, so you have begun to keep your eye on me. He he he! No, I'll say no more. I am taking my revenge for my youth, for all the humiliation I endured." He thumped the table with his fist in a paroxysm of simulated feeling. "This monastery has played a great part in my life! It has cost me many bitter tears. You used to set my wife, the crazy one, against me. You cursed me with bell and book, you spread stories about me all over the place. Enough, fathers! This is the age of Liberalism, the age of steamers and railways. Neither a thousand, nor a hundred roubles, no, nor a hundred farthings will you get out of me!" It must be noted again that our monastery never had played any great part in his life, and he never had shed a bitter tear owing to it. But he was so carried away by his simulated emotion, that he was for one moment almost believing it himself. He was so touched he was almost weeping. But at that very instant, he felt that it was time to draw back. The Father Superior bowed his head at his malicious lie, and again spoke impressively: "It is written again, 'Bear circumspectly and gladly dishonor that cometh upon thee by no act of thine own, be not confounded and hate not him who hath dishonored thee.' And so will we." "Tut, tut, tut! Bethinking thyself and the rest of the rigmarole. Bethink yourselves, Fathers, I will go. But I will take my son, Alexey, away from here for ever, on my parental authority. Ivan Fyodorovitch, my most dutiful son, permit me to order you to follow me. Von Sohn, what have you to stay for? Come and see me now in the town. It is fun there. It is only one short verst; instead of lenten oil, I will give you sucking-pig and kasha. We will have dinner with some brandy and liqueur to it.... I've cloudberry wine. Hey, von Sohn, don't lose your chance." He went out, shouting and gesticulating. It was at that moment Rakitin saw him and pointed him out to Alyosha. "Alexey!" his father shouted, from far off, catching sight of him. "You come home to me to-day, for good, and bring your pillow and mattress, and leave no trace behind." Alyosha stood rooted to the spot, watching the scene in silence. Meanwhile, Fyodor Pavlovitch had got into the carriage, and Ivan was about to follow him in grim silence without even turning to say good-by to Alyosha. But at this point another almost incredible scene of grotesque buffoonery gave the finishing touch to the episode. Maximov suddenly appeared by the side of the carriage. He ran up, panting, afraid of being too late. Rakitin and Alyosha saw him running. He was in such a hurry that in his impatience he put his foot on the step on which Ivan's left foot was still resting, and clutching the carriage he kept trying to jump in. "I am going with you!" he kept shouting, laughing a thin mirthful laugh with a look of reckless glee in his face. "Take me, too." "There!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, delighted. "Did I not say he was von Sohn. It is von Sohn himself, risen from the dead. Why, how did you tear yourself away? What did you _vonsohn_ there? And how could you get away from the dinner? You must be a brazen-faced fellow! I am that myself, but I am surprised at you, brother! Jump in, jump in! Let him pass, Ivan. It will be fun. He can lie somewhere at our feet. Will you lie at our feet, von Sohn? Or perch on the box with the coachman. Skip on to the box, von Sohn!" But Ivan, who had by now taken his seat, without a word gave Maximov a violent punch in the breast and sent him flying. It was quite by chance he did not fall. "Drive on!" Ivan shouted angrily to the coachman. "Why, what are you doing, what are you about? Why did you do that?" Fyodor Pavlovitch protested. But the carriage had already driven away. Ivan made no reply. "Well, you are a fellow," Fyodor Pavlovitch said again. After a pause of two minutes, looking askance at his son, "Why, it was you got up all this monastery business. You urged it, you approved of it. Why are you angry now?" "You've talked rot enough. You might rest a bit now," Ivan snapped sullenly. Fyodor Pavlovitch was silent again for two minutes. "A drop of brandy would be nice now," he observed sententiously, but Ivan made no response. "You shall have some, too, when we get home." Ivan was still silent. Fyodor Pavlovitch waited another two minutes. "But I shall take Alyosha away from the monastery, though you will dislike it so much, most honored Karl von Moor." Ivan shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and turning away stared at the road. And they did not speak again all the way home.

Book 2

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The Karamazovs go to the meeting with Father Zossima to resolve the dispute between Dmitri and Fyodor over Dmitri's inheritance. Ivan and Fyodor arrive with Ivan's former benefactor, Peter Miusov, but Dmitri is nowhere in sight. Even though the group contains very influential citizens, no fuss is made upon their arrival. No monks rush to greet them. Instead, they are surrounded by beggars. Eventually, a monk invites them into the monastery, and they are all invited to dine with the Father after the meeting. Fyodor exclaims, "I wouldn't miss it for anything!" Old Karamazov calls Zossima "Holy Elder," "Your Reverence," "angelic man," and "blessed man." He gets down on his knees and kisses the father's hand. It seems as if he is playing. Peter Miusov is very annoyed by Fyodor's ironic demeanor, and he bickers with the elder Karamazov, showing his embarrassment at his presence, chastising him for his inconsiderate nature in front of a respected man. After such pleasantries, Father Zossima leaves to greet some visitors for a moment. The visitors are peasant women except for a more well-to-do pair: Madame Hohlakov and her sickly and paralyzed daughter Lise. All the women ask Father Zossima for advice. Many of them behave quite strangely, "wailing in ecstasy ...barking like dogs," as if "shocked" by the "host" himself. The narrator explains that this is the behavior of suffering women with an "intensely unhappy life, full of brutality and ill-treatment." Father Zossima is patient with each woman, listening to her problems and offering thoughtful advice. When he gets to Madame Hohlakov, she thanks him profusely for "healing" her Lise. When the Father talks to Lise, instead of shedding tears she bursts into giggles. She blames her outburst on Alyosha, to whom she has taken a liking. Madame Hohlakov tells Father Zossima that she lacks faith in God and is not altruistic; instead, she expects gratitude for her good deeds. He advises her to "avoid lying, especially to yourself." Again Lise laughs, then suddenly begins to cry, pining for Alyosha. Father Zossima tells her that he will send Alyosha to visit her. When Father Zossima and Alyosha return to the Father's cell, Ivan is talking to the monks about the separation of church and state. He advocates no separation, for he believes that if the church were the institution punishing crime, crime would be virtually nonexistent. Criminals would be more afraid of excommunication than jail time. Alyosha, who is still trying to figure out his intellectual brother, is impressed by Ivan's respectfulness and lack of condescension toward the monks. Father Zossima responds to Ivan's ruminations by saying that the only effective punishment is one's "awareness of one's own conscience." Before they can debate this issue, however, Dmitri bursts into the room. He apologizes for his tardiness, saying that Smerdyakov told him the wrong time for the meeting. Father Zossima is not angry, and he greets Dmitri warmly. Dmitri sits down, and the men continue their theological debate. Ivan argues that "there is no virtue if there is no immortality." Men will cannibalize each other, figuratively and literally. Without belief in immortality, crime becomes inevitable. Dmitri and old Fyodor begin bickering. Karamazov accuses Dmitri of owing him money and attacking a captain in the army. Dmitri accuses old Karamazov of chasing after Grushenka, a girl he has been pursuing. Karamazov becomes so worked up that he challenges Dmitri to a duel, and an infuriated Dmitri exclaims, "why should such a man live?" As everyone bickers and shouts, Father Zossima bends down and kisses Dmitri's feet. Everyone is shocked; they do not know what to make of this. Everyone exits and continues on to a luncheon with Father Zossima except Fyodor. He decides not to attend the luncheon. While Alyosha is walking the Father back, Zossima tells him he should leave the monastery and rejoin the world. He tells Alyosha to "stay close to your brothers--not just one of them, but both." Alyosha is very upset by this because he wants to be with Father Zossima, who is very ill. Disturbed by Father Zossima's advice, Alyosha continues on. He discusses the father's bow with Rakitin, a "career-conscious divinity student." Rakitin is skeptical of Father Zossima's motives. During Rakitin's rant, he predicts the murder of old Karamazov by Dmitri. Alyosha is a bit shocked. Rakitin hypothesizes that Ivan would like to marry Katerina for her dowry. Alyosha refuses to believe this. He says that Ivan is after "higher things ... perhaps it's suffering and torment he's after." Rakitin does not like Ivan. The two see that the luncheon is breaking up, and they rush over excitedly to see what has transpired. Fyodor changed his mind and decided to go to the luncheon, a five-course feast. He decided, "since it was not in his power to regain their respect, why shouldn't he go on and disgrace himself altogether?" After telling distasteful stories and attacking the monks for taking advantage of believers, saying that they "suck the blood of the poor," Ivan puts him in a carriage. As they drive away, Fyodor yells at Alyosha to leave the monastery and move back in with Fyodor. As the father and son drive back, Fyodor promises Ivan a drink.

The much-anticipated meeting is, in fact, extremely telling about the personalities of the Karamazov men. Fyodor's mischievous manner is very much in keeping with the stories about his past from the first book. It seems that he causes trouble arbitrarily, not because he is particularly angry or disgruntled but because he feels like causing trouble. He is not respectful of anyone or anything, and he is not afraid to embarrass himself or those around him. The accusation that Fyodor might be trying to bed the same girl whom Dmitri has been courting adds another dimension to their dispute. Fyodor and Dmitri are the two most undependable and explosive members of the Karamazov clan. Dmitri shows up late and quarrels with his father in front of a respected man. But he is also gracious, listening closely to Father Zossima's advice. Their dispute is not resolved, and they part on bad terms. It seems unlikely that, if a calm and reasonable man such as Father Zossima could not help resolve their dispute, they will not be able to do so independently. Father Zossima acts as a foil to Fyodor, matching the elder Karamazov's vulgarity with quiet integrity, combating his acerbic remarks with patience and love. He is as much a father to Alyosha as Fyodor is, setting up an interesting duality for Alyosha's character. Alyosha seems to align his actions and ideas wholly with Father Zossima's, even though he is caring and understanding toward his biological father. Whereas Dmitri's character may be an amalgam of his parents' characters, bolstering the idea that one cannot escape his own genes, Alyosha is completely different from his father, affected more by his teachings than by his blood. Both Father Zossima and Alyosha are very noticeably devoid of hatred and temper. Neither character is a simple embodiment of Dostoevsky's ideas; each is individually human. Father Zossima has a sense of humor; he jokes with Fyodor by telling him to try not to tell any lies while Zossima steps outside for a moment. Alyosha is also prone to emotions such as embarrassment and worry; he is not the picture of calm holiness. It remains to be seen if Alyosha's and Father Zossima's reason and love will triumph over the hot-bloodedness of Dmitri and Fyodor. Madame Hohlakov and Lise are interesting additions to the mostly all-male cast thus far. Lise's girlish adoration for Alyosha reminds the reader how young Alyosha is, and it also brings up the possibility of a romance between the two. While making Alyosha seem more human, this budding romance could serve to compromise his pious status as a monk. Along with the other women who visit the monastery, Madame Hohlakov's adulation for the man borders on infatuation. While he remains humble, his fame precedes him and his followers worship him. It is unclear if these women actually feel legitimately helped by him or if they are simply gravitating toward an icon. Father Zossima's sensitive, loving manner puts to rest the fear that he may be a manipulative attention-seeker, but this does not mean his devotees come to him with wholly pure intentions. Father Zossima's status is fascinating. The fate of a man surrounded by such hysteria is uncertain. Ivan remains an enigma. While the rest of the characters are caught up in an emotional dispute, Ivan remains aloof and distant, instead talking about larger issues. He is very quiet and difficult to read, but he is polite and agreeable for most of the interview. When Maximov tries to get in the coach as it is leaving, however, he violently pushes him off, showing a shockingly violent streak. He seems very dangerous. When Rakitin hypothesizes that Dmitri will kill Fyodor and Ivan will benefit, it seems plausible that Ivan could have a hidden agenda. Alyosha defends his brother, and Alyosha's honesty and thoughtfulness lead the reader to agree with him. The candid conjecture about murder is unsettling, as is Father Zossima's bow. Such a vague and grand gesture seems to portend something. The final impression of this book is a feeling of foreboding. From Ivan's covered smoldering to the impassioned feud between Fyodor and Dmitri, there are many clues that a great drama-perhaps a great tragedy-is to come.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Sense and Sensibility/section_10_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 11

chapter 11

{"name": "Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility27.asp", "summary": "Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters are busy attending parties and balls. Marianne is in her element. She is overjoyed in the company of Willoughby, who showers much affection and attention on her. Elinor even feels left out at times. Deprived of friends of her own age, she is often thrown in the company of Mrs. Jennings and Lady Middleton. At such times she welcomes the presence of Colonel Brandon. Brandon often talks of Marianne and asks Elinor about her sister's preferences.", "analysis": "Notes Jane Austen paints the picture of an eighteenth-century upper middle-class society. The Dashwoods and Middletons are shown to be busy attending parties and balls. Their main occupation is socializing, and they take pleasure in entertaining people. Every young girl waits for a respectable young man to woo her, and her parents hope for a match between them. They lead a leisurely life, perhaps unusual to the modern reader. Marianne is exhilarated by the looks and manners of her lover. She does not care to understand his essential nature. Obsessed with Willoughby, she ignores Colonel Brandon and unconsciously hurts him. Blinded by her infatuation for Willoughby, she is not able to realize the worth of the Colonel or detect the intensity of his feelings. This chapter again emphasizes the difference in attitudes between Willoughby and Colonel Brandon. Both men are attracted to Marianne. Willoughby displays his affection by wooing Marianne, like a dashing hero would, while Colonel Brandon admires his lady love from a distance and silently hopes to win her favor. Willoughby is interested only in flirting with Marianne, but the Colonel, like a sincere person, looks forward to a lasting relationship. CHAPTER 12 Summary Marianne gets carried away by Willoughby's showy gestures. When he offers her a horse, she accepts it readily and talks about it to her sister. Elinor is shocked to learn this and asks Marianne to decline the offer, as it would prove too costly for them. Elinor observes Willoughby's behavior towards her sister and detects a note of intimacy in it. Margaret tells Elinor about her suspicion of an engagement between Marianne and Willoughby. Later, at Mrs. Jennings' insistence, Margaret gives a hint about Elinor's attachment to Edward, much to Elinor's embarrassment. Notes The chapter hints at the extent of the involvement of Marianne with Willoughby. Willoughby tries to impress Marianne by offering her a horse as a gift, and Marianne foolishly accepts the offer without giving a thought to the expenditure involved. Willoughby's superficiality and Marianne's gullibility are exposed in this episode. Chapter 12 also reveals the character of the youngest of the Dashwood girls. Margaret, one of the minor characters in the novel, is otherwise ignored by Austen. Only a few chapters give a glimpse into her personality. Margaret, like a typical teenager, gets excited over little things and jumps to conclusions easily. She derives pleasure from revealing secrets. She informs Elinor about the impending marriage between Marianne and Willoughby because she saw the young man taking a lock of hair from her sister . At the Park, she gives hints about the relationship between Elinor and Edward to Mrs. Jennings, much to the embarrassment of her sister. Like a reckless teenager, she is always in a hurry to impart information not meant to be disclosed publicly. CHAPTER 13 Summary Everyone is eagerly looking forward to their picnic at Whitewell. However, on the morning of the outing, a letter arrives for Colonel Brandon and alters the situation. The letter disturbs Brandon, and he informs the others about his decision to leave immediately for the town. The picnic is canceled, much to the disappointment of all, since it is not possible to proceed to Whitewell without the assistance of the Colonel. Sir John Middleton suggests that they should go for a ride in the carriage around the countryside. Marianne and Willoughby take a separate carriage. They visit Allenham on the sly. When Elinor learns about their visit, she is angry with Marianne for not observing the rules of propriety. Marianne justifies her action. Notes An element of suspense is introduced in this chapter. After the Colonel reads the letter, he turns grave and decides to leave for the town immediately. He evades the questions of Mrs. Jennings and declines to postpone his visit. After he leaves, Mrs. Jennings hints at the possibility of his visiting his illegitimate daughter, Miss Williams. Through this bit of information, Austen arouses the curiosity of the reader regarding the mysterious past of Colonel Brandon. Marianne and Willoughby are insensitive to the feelings of the Colonel and fail to sympathize with his plight. They criticize Brandon for spoiling the afternoon. Colonel Brandon comes across as a man in control of his emotions. Even though he is disturbed by the contents of the letter, he does not reveal his misery to others. Like a gentleman, he excuses himself from the party and bows to Marianne before taking his leave. His silence speaks volumes. The chapter relates one more incident which creates a clash between the good sense of Elinor and the sensibility of Marianne. Marianne makes a secret visit to Allenham with Willoughby but does not feel guilty about what she has done. Elinor's sense of decorum causes her to condemn her sister's actions, as she does not approve of Marianne's visiting a stranger's house with a man to whom she is not even engaged, at least not openly."}

Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection. Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration of their opinions. When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them. Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind. This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her present home. Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at home;--and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys. In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister. Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him. This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint smile, "Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments." "No," replied Elinor, "her opinions are all romantic." "Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist." "I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself." "This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions." "I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor. "There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage." After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,-- "Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?" "Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles. I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second attachment's being pardonable." "This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of sentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who from an inforced change--from a series of unfortunate circumstances"-- Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head. The lady would probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.

Chapter 11

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility27.asp

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

Notes Jane Austen paints the picture of an eighteenth-century upper middle-class society. The Dashwoods and Middletons are shown to be busy attending parties and balls. Their main occupation is socializing, and they take pleasure in entertaining people. Every young girl waits for a respectable young man to woo her, and her parents hope for a match between them. They lead a leisurely life, perhaps unusual to the modern reader. Marianne is exhilarated by the looks and manners of her lover. She does not care to understand his essential nature. Obsessed with Willoughby, she ignores Colonel Brandon and unconsciously hurts him. Blinded by her infatuation for Willoughby, she is not able to realize the worth of the Colonel or detect the intensity of his feelings. This chapter again emphasizes the difference in attitudes between Willoughby and Colonel Brandon. Both men are attracted to Marianne. Willoughby displays his affection by wooing Marianne, like a dashing hero would, while Colonel Brandon admires his lady love from a distance and silently hopes to win her favor. Willoughby is interested only in flirting with Marianne, but the Colonel, like a sincere person, looks forward to a lasting relationship. CHAPTER 12 Summary Marianne gets carried away by Willoughby's showy gestures. When he offers her a horse, she accepts it readily and talks about it to her sister. Elinor is shocked to learn this and asks Marianne to decline the offer, as it would prove too costly for them. Elinor observes Willoughby's behavior towards her sister and detects a note of intimacy in it. Margaret tells Elinor about her suspicion of an engagement between Marianne and Willoughby. Later, at Mrs. Jennings' insistence, Margaret gives a hint about Elinor's attachment to Edward, much to Elinor's embarrassment. Notes The chapter hints at the extent of the involvement of Marianne with Willoughby. Willoughby tries to impress Marianne by offering her a horse as a gift, and Marianne foolishly accepts the offer without giving a thought to the expenditure involved. Willoughby's superficiality and Marianne's gullibility are exposed in this episode. Chapter 12 also reveals the character of the youngest of the Dashwood girls. Margaret, one of the minor characters in the novel, is otherwise ignored by Austen. Only a few chapters give a glimpse into her personality. Margaret, like a typical teenager, gets excited over little things and jumps to conclusions easily. She derives pleasure from revealing secrets. She informs Elinor about the impending marriage between Marianne and Willoughby because she saw the young man taking a lock of hair from her sister . At the Park, she gives hints about the relationship between Elinor and Edward to Mrs. Jennings, much to the embarrassment of her sister. Like a reckless teenager, she is always in a hurry to impart information not meant to be disclosed publicly. CHAPTER 13 Summary Everyone is eagerly looking forward to their picnic at Whitewell. However, on the morning of the outing, a letter arrives for Colonel Brandon and alters the situation. The letter disturbs Brandon, and he informs the others about his decision to leave immediately for the town. The picnic is canceled, much to the disappointment of all, since it is not possible to proceed to Whitewell without the assistance of the Colonel. Sir John Middleton suggests that they should go for a ride in the carriage around the countryside. Marianne and Willoughby take a separate carriage. They visit Allenham on the sly. When Elinor learns about their visit, she is angry with Marianne for not observing the rules of propriety. Marianne justifies her action. Notes An element of suspense is introduced in this chapter. After the Colonel reads the letter, he turns grave and decides to leave for the town immediately. He evades the questions of Mrs. Jennings and declines to postpone his visit. After he leaves, Mrs. Jennings hints at the possibility of his visiting his illegitimate daughter, Miss Williams. Through this bit of information, Austen arouses the curiosity of the reader regarding the mysterious past of Colonel Brandon. Marianne and Willoughby are insensitive to the feelings of the Colonel and fail to sympathize with his plight. They criticize Brandon for spoiling the afternoon. Colonel Brandon comes across as a man in control of his emotions. Even though he is disturbed by the contents of the letter, he does not reveal his misery to others. Like a gentleman, he excuses himself from the party and bows to Marianne before taking his leave. His silence speaks volumes. The chapter relates one more incident which creates a clash between the good sense of Elinor and the sensibility of Marianne. Marianne makes a secret visit to Allenham with Willoughby but does not feel guilty about what she has done. Elinor's sense of decorum causes her to condemn her sister's actions, as she does not approve of Marianne's visiting a stranger's house with a man to whom she is not even engaged, at least not openly.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1526-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Twelfth Night, or What You Will/section_6_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night, or What You Will.act 2.scene 2

act 2, scene 2

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210415161814/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/twelfth-night/summary/act-2-scene-2", "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?", "analysis": ""}

SCENE II. A street. [Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following.] MALVOLIO. Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia? VIOLA. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither. MALVOLIO. She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him: and one thing more: that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this. Receive it so. VIOLA. She took the ring of me: I'll none of it. MALVOLIO. Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [Exit.] VIOLA. I left no ring with her; what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her! She made good view of me; indeed, so much, That methought her eyes had lost her tongue, For she did speak in starts distractedly. She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none. I am the man; --if it be so,--as 'tis,-- Poor lady, she were better love a dream. Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it for the proper-false In women's waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we; For such as we are made of, such we be. How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly, And I, poor monster, fond as much on him; And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. What will become of this? As I am man, My state is desperate for my master's love; As I am woman, now alas the day! What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! O time, thou must untangle this, not I; It is too hard a knot for me to untie! [Exit.]

Act 2, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210415161814/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/twelfth-night/summary/act-2-scene-2

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?

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/12915-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The White Devil/section_15_part_0.txt

The White Devil.act 5.scene 6

act 5, scene 6

{"name": "Act 5, Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-5-scene-6", "summary": "Vittoria enters holding a book, along with Zanche. Flamineo follows them. Flamineo tells Vittoria to stop praying if that's what she's doing, and listen to him--he has worldly business to discuss. He demands money from her, since she is the executor of the Brachiano's will . She writes out a tiny sum, saying she'll only give him what Cain received after he killed Abel. . Flamineo says he has cases of jewels left by Brachiano that are worth more than she gave him--he'll bring them in a moment. He exits. Zanche tells Vittoria to try to calm Flamineo down, since he's clearly desperate. Flamineo re-enters with two cases of pistols. Flamineo tells Vittoria he's going to kill--this, he claims, is what Brachiano told him to do, being jealous that Vittoria would get with someone else. Flamineo is then going to commit suicide, voluntarily. Vittoria asks Flamineo if he's become an atheist and doesn't mind going to hell. How can he avoid thinking about the millions who will arise to damnation at the resurrection? She also tells Zanche to cry for help--when she does, Flamineo threatens to kill her too. Flamineo says these arguments don't move him--they're feminine and emotional. Zanche tells Vittoria to pretend to agree to die, but to convince Flamineo to kill himself first. She makes her case and it seems to work. Flamineo gives them the guns. He speculates on where he'll go in the afterlife, somewhat comically. They shoot, and run towards him, treading on his body. As Flamineo \"dies\" he asks them to kill themselves. They reveal that they faked him out. As Vittoria triumphantly believes she's sending him to hell, she makes scornful comments condemning him as he acts like he's smelling the soot and feeling the flames of hell as he dies. But Flamineo gets up and reveals that the pistols weren't really loaded with bullets. He was just testing Vittoria's loyalty. He now says he'll live to punish her for betraying him and warns men against wives who will betray them in the same kind of way, taking lovers as soon as they've died. Suddenly, Lodovico and Gasparo bust in, announcing that they're there to avenge Isabella. Flamineo finally recognizes who they really are. They admit that Mulinassar was really Francisco, visiting for vengeance. Flamineo laments that his fate has caught up with him. He claims it's better to just have good fortune than to gain wisdom. Vittoria pleads for mercy--but Gasparo says it's not going to happen. And Lodovico points out that he's getting back at Flamineo for the time he hit him. Flamineo refuses to beg to heaven out loud and when Lodovico asks him what's he's thinking about at the end, he says he's thinking of nothing. Vittoria tells them to kill her before Zanche. She speaks very defiantly, claiming she's unafraid to die. Zanche is defiant, too. Gasparo and Lodovico strike at once and kill all three. Vittoria cheekily says that, now, all Lodovico and Gasparo have to do to get famous is murder some innocent baby. As she dies Vittoria laments her family's sins, claiming that's why she was led astray. Flamineo says he loves his sister's bravery--she's not so bad, he says, since many women that seemed virtuous were really secretly vicious. Vittoria expresses confusion as to where her soul is headed, in death. Flamineo gives a speech, saying that death just frees us from dying and from being fortune's slaves. He refuses to look to heaven as he dies, looking only to himself. Yet he feels like he's \"in a mist.\" Vittoria dies after saying she regrets having ever met \"great men.\" Flamineo's speech continues: he warns people not to be too hopeful about life, especially if they serve great men. He admits that his life was a \"black charnel\" and says that it all seems utterly pointless and painful. He dies. Giovanni enters with the ambassadors. He asks Lodovico if he's responsible for these deaths. Lodovico admits it and says that he was acting under orders of Giovanni's own uncle, Francisco, who was the same Moor who had infiltrated the court . Giovanni orders Lodovico off to torture and execution. Lodovico says that he's extremely happy he was able to commit this act of revenge, and will find torture and the gallows as calm and soothing as sound sleep. Giovanni speaks the last line in the play, warning guilty men against committing evil, since evil deeds can quickly collapse and ruin the people who committed them.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE VI Enter Vittoria with a book in her hand, Zanche; Flamineo following them Flam. What, are you at your prayers? Give o'er. Vit. How, ruffian? Flam. I come to you 'bout worldly business. Sit down, sit down. Nay, stay, blowze, you may hear it: The doors are fast enough. Vit. Ha! are you drunk? Flam. Yes, yes, with wormwood water; you shall taste Some of it presently. Vit. What intends the fury? Flam. You are my lord's executrix; and I claim Reward for my long service. Vit. For your service! Flam. Come, therefore, here is pen and ink, set down What you will give me. Vit. There. [She writes. Flam. Ha! have you done already? 'Tis a most short conveyance. Vit. I will read it: I give that portion to thee, and no other, Which Cain groan'd under, having slain his brother. Flam. A most courtly patent to beg by. Vit. You are a villain! Flam. Is 't come to this? they say affrights cure agues: Thou hast a devil in thee; I will try If I can scare him from thee. Nay, sit still: My lord hath left me yet two cases of jewels, Shall make me scorn your bounty; you shall see them. [Exit. Vit. Sure he 's distracted. Zan. Oh, he 's desperate! For your own safety give him gentle language. [He enters with two cases of pistols. Flam. Look, these are better far at a dead lift, Than all your jewel house. Vit. And yet, methinks, These stones have no fair lustre, they are ill set. Flam. I 'll turn the right side towards you: you shall see How they will sparkle. Vit. Turn this horror from me! What do you want? what would you have me do? Is not all mine yours? have I any children? Flam. Pray thee, good woman, do not trouble me With this vain worldly business; say your prayers: Neither yourself nor I should outlive him The numbering of four hours. Vit. Did he enjoin it? Flam. He did, and 'twas a deadly jealousy, Lest any should enjoy thee after him, That urged him vow me to it. For my death, I did propound it voluntarily, knowing, If he could not be safe in his own court, Being a great duke, what hope then for us? Vit. This is your melancholy, and despair. Flam. Away: Fool thou art, to think that politicians DO use to kill the effects or injuries And let the cause live. Shall we groan in irons, Or be a shameful and a weighty burthen To a public scaffold? This is my resolve: I would not live at any man's entreaty, Nor die at any's bidding. Vit. Will you hear me? Flam. My life hath done service to other men, My death shall serve mine own turn: make you ready. Vit. Do you mean to die indeed? Flam. With as much pleasure, As e'er my father gat me. Vit. Are the doors lock'd? Zan. Yes, madam. Vit. Are you grown an atheist? will you turn your body, Which is the goodly palace of the soul, To the soul's slaughter-house? Oh, the cursed devil, Which doth present us with all other sins Thrice candied o'er, despair with gall and stibium; Yet we carouse it off. [Aside to Zanche.] Cry out for help! Makes us forsake that which was made for man, The world, to sink to that was made for devils, Eternal darkness! Zan. Help, help! Flam. I 'll stop your throat With winter plums. Vit. I pray thee yet remember, Millions are now in graves, which at last day Like mandrakes shall rise shrieking. Flam. Leave your prating, For these are but grammatical laments, Feminine arguments: and they move me, As some in pulpits move their auditory, More with their exclamation than sense Of reason, or sound doctrine. Zan. [Aside.] Gentle madam, Seem to consent, only persuade him to teach The way to death; let him die first. Vit. 'Tis good, I apprehend it.-- To kill one's self is meat that we must take Like pills, not chew'd, but quickly swallow it; The smart o' th' wound, or weakness of the hand, May else bring treble torments. Flam. I have held it A wretched and most miserable life, Which is not able to die. Vit. Oh, but frailty! Yet I am now resolv'd; farewell, affliction! Behold, Brachiano, I that while you liv'd Did make a flaming altar of my heart To sacrifice unto you, now am ready To sacrifice heart and all. Farewell, Zanche! Zan. How, madam! do you think that I 'll outlive you; Especially when my best self, Flamineo, Goes the same voyage? Flam. O most loved Moor! Zan. Only, by all my love, let me entreat you, Since it is most necessary one of us Do violence on ourselves, let you or I Be her sad taster, teach her how to die. Flam. Thou dost instruct me nobly; take these pistols, Because my hand is stain'd with blood already: Two of these you shall level at my breast, The other 'gainst your own, and so we 'll die Most equally contented: but first swear Not to outlive me. Vit. and Zan. Most religiously. Flam. Then here 's an end of me; farewell, daylight. And, O contemptible physic! that dost take So long a study, only to preserve So short a life, I take my leave of thee. [Showing the pistols. These are two cupping-glasses, that shall draw All my infected blood out. Are you ready? Both. Ready. Flam. Whither shall I go now? O Lucian, thy ridiculous purgatory! to find Alexander the Great cobbling shoes, Pompey tagging points, and Julius Caesar making hair-buttons, Hannibal selling blacking, and Augustus crying garlic, Charlemagne selling lists by the dozen, and King Pepin crying apples in a cart drawn with one horse! Whether I resolve to fire, earth, water, air, Or all the elements by scruples, I know not, Nor greatly care.--Shoot! shoot! Of all deaths, the violent death is best; For from ourselves it steals ourselves so fast, The pain, once apprehended, is quite past. [They shoot, and run to him, and tread upon him. Vit. What, are you dropped? Flam. I am mix'd with earth already: as you are noble, Perform your vows, and bravely follow me. Vit. Whither? to hell? Zan. To most assur'd damnation? Vit. Oh, thou most cursed devil! Zan. Thou art caught---- Vit. In thine own engine. I tread the fire out That would have been my ruin. Flam. Will you be perjured? what a religious oath was Styx, that the gods never durst swear by, and violate! Oh, that we had such an oath to minister, and to be so well kept in our courts of justice! Vit. Think whither thou art going. Zan. And remember What villainies thou hast acted. Vit. This thy death Shall make me, like a blazing ominous star, Look up and tremble. Flam. Oh, I am caught with a spring! Vit. You see the fox comes many times short home; 'Tis here prov'd true. Flam. Kill'd with a couple of braches! Vit. No fitter offing for the infernal furies, Than one in whom they reign'd while he was living. Flam. Oh, the way 's dark and horrid! I cannot see: Shall I have no company? Vit. Oh, yes, thy sins Do run before thee to fetch fire from hell, To light thee thither. Flam. Oh, I smell soot, Most stinking soot! the chimney 's afire: My liver 's parboil'd, like Scotch holly-bread; There 's a plumber laying pipes in my guts, it scalds. Wilt thou outlive me? Zan. Yes, and drive a stake Through thy body; for we 'll give it out, Thou didst this violence upon thyself. Flam. Oh, cunning devils! now I have tried your love, And doubled all your reaches: I am not wounded. [Flamineo riseth. The pistols held no bullets; 'twas a plot To prove your kindness to me; and I live To punish your ingratitude. I knew, One time or other, you would find a way To give a strong potion. O men, That lie upon your death-beds, and are haunted With howling wives! ne'er trust them; they 'll re-marry Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs. How cunning you were to discharge! do you practise at the Artillery yard? Trust a woman? never, never; Brachiano be my precedent. We lay our souls to pawn to the devil for a little pleasure, and a woman makes the bill of sale. That ever man should marry! For one Hypermnestra that saved her lord and husband, forty-nine of her sisters cut their husbands' throats all in one night. There was a shoal of virtuous horse leeches! Here are two other instruments. Enter Lodovico, Gasparo, still disguised as Capuchins Vit. Help, help! Flam. What noise is that? ha! false keys i' th 'court! Lodo. We have brought you a mask. Flam. A matachin it seems by your drawn swords. Churchmen turned revelers! Gas. Isabella! Isabella! Lodo. Do you know us now? Flam. Lodovico! and Gasparo! Lodo. Yes; and that Moor the duke gave pension to Was the great Duke of Florence. Vit. Oh, we are lost! Flam. You shall not take justice forth from my hands, Oh, let me kill her!--I 'll cut my safety Through your coats of steel. Fate 's a spaniel, We cannot beat it from us. What remains now? Let all that do ill, take this precedent: Man may his fate foresee, but not prevent; And of all axioms this shall win the prize: 'Tis better to be fortunate than wise. Gas. Bind him to the pillar. Vit. Oh, your gentle pity! I have seen a blackbird that would sooner fly To a man's bosom, than to stay the gripe Of the fierce sparrow-hawk. Gas. Your hope deceives you. Vit. If Florence be i' th' court, would he kill me! Gas. Fool! Princes give rewards with their own hands, But death or punishment by the hands of other. Lodo. Sirrah, you once did strike me; I 'll strike you Unto the centre. Flam. Thou 'lt do it like a hangman, a base hangman, Not like a noble fellow, for thou see'st I cannot strike again. Lodo. Dost laugh? Flam. Wouldst have me die, as I was born, in whining? Gas. Recommend yourself to heaven. Flam. No, I will carry mine own commendations thither. Lodo. Oh, I could kill you forty times a day, And use 't four years together, 'twere too little! Naught grieves but that you are too few to feed The famine of our vengeance. What dost think on? Flam. Nothing; of nothing: leave thy idle questions. I am i' th' way to study a long silence: To prate were idle. I remember nothing. There 's nothing of so infinite vexation As man's own thoughts. Lodo. O thou glorious strumpet! Could I divide thy breath from this pure air When 't leaves thy body, I would suck it up, And breathe 't upon some dunghill. Vit. You, my death's-man! Methinks thou dost not look horrid enough, Thou hast too good a face to be a hangman: If thou be, do thy office in right form; Fall down upon thy knees, and ask forgiveness. Lodo. Oh, thou hast been a most prodigious comet! But I 'll cut off your train. Kill the Moor first. Vit. You shall not kill her first; behold my breast: I will be waited on in death; my servant Shall never go before me. Gas. Are you so brave? Vit. Yes, I shall welcome death, As princes do some great ambassadors; I 'll meet thy weapon half-way. Lodo. Thou dost tremble: Methinks, fear should dissolve thee into air. Vit. Oh, thou art deceiv'd, I am too true a woman! Conceit can never kill me. I 'll tell thee what, I will not in my death shed one base tear; Or if look pale, for want of blood, not fear. Gas. Thou art my task, black fury. Zan. I have blood As red as either of theirs: wilt drink some? 'Tis good for the falling-sickness. I am proud: Death cannot alter my complexion, For I shall ne'er look pale. Lodo. Strike, strike, With a joint motion. [They strike. Vit. 'Twas a manly blow; The next thou giv'st, murder some sucking infant; And then thou wilt be famous. Flam. Oh, what blade is 't? A Toledo, or an English fox? I ever thought a culter should distinguish The cause of my death, rather than a doctor. Search my wound deeper; tent it with the steel That made it. Vit. Oh, my greatest sin lay in my blood! Now my blood pays for 't. Flam. Th' art a noble sister! I love thee now; if woman do breed man, She ought to teach him manhood. Fare thee well. Know, many glorious women that are fam'd For masculine virtue, have been vicious, Only a happier silence did betide them: She hath no faults, who hath the art to hide them. Vit. My soul, like to a ship in a black storm, Is driven, I know not whither. Flam. Then cast anchor. Prosperity doth bewitch men, seeming clear; But seas do laugh, show white, when rocks are near. We cease to grieve, cease to be fortune's slaves, Nay, cease to die by dying. Art thou gone? And thou so near the bottom? false report, Which says that women vie with the nine Muses, For nine tough durable lives! I do not look Who went before, nor who shall follow me; No, at my self I will begin the end. While we look up to heaven, we confound Knowledge with knowledge. Oh, I am in a mist! Vit. Oh, happy they that never saw the court, Nor ever knew great men but by report! [Vittoria dies. Flam. I recover like a spent taper, for a flash, And instantly go out. Let all that belong to great men remember th' old wives' tradition, to be like the lions i' th' Tower on Candlemas-day; to mourn if the sun shine, for fear of the pitiful remainder of winter to come. 'Tis well yet there 's some goodness in my death; My life was a black charnel. I have caught An everlasting cold; I have lost my voice Most irrecoverably. Farewell, glorious villains. This busy trade of life appears most vain, Since rest breeds rest, where all seek pain by pain. Let no harsh flattering bells resound my knell; Strike, thunder, and strike loud, to my farewell! [Dies. Enter Ambassadors and Giovanni Eng. Ambass. This way, this way! break open the doors! this way! Lodo. Ha! are we betray'd? Why then let 's constantly all die together; And having finish'd this most noble deed, Defy the worst of fate, nor fear to bleed. Eng. Ambass. Keep back the prince: shoot! shoot! Lodo. Oh, I am wounded! I fear I shall be ta'en. Giov. You bloody villains, By what authority have you committed This massacre? Lodo. By thine. Giov. Mine! Lodo. Yes; thy uncle, which is a part of thee, enjoined us to 't: Thou know'st me, I am sure; I am Count Lodowick; And thy most noble uncle in disguise Was last night in thy court. Giov. Ha! Lodo. Yes, that Moor thy father chose his pensioner. Giov. He turn'd murderer! Away with them to prison, and to torture: All that have hands in this shall taste our justice, As I hope heaven. Lodo. I do glory yet, That I can call this act mine own. For my part, The rack, the gallows, and the torturing wheel, Shall be but sound sleeps to me: here 's my rest; I limn'd this night-piece, and it was my best. Giov. Remove these bodies. See, my honour'd lord, What use you ought make of their punishment. Let guilty men remember, their black deeds Do lean on crutches made of slender reeds. * * * * Instead of an epilogue, only this of Martial supplies me: Haec fuerint nobis praemia, si placui. For the action of the play, 'twas generally well, and I dare affirm, with the joint testimony of some of their own quality (for the true imitation of life, without striving to make nature a monster,) the best that ever became them: whereof as I make a general acknowledgment, so in particular I must remember the well-approved industry of my friend Master Perkins, and confess the worth of his action did crown both the beginning and end.

Act 5, Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-5-scene-6

Vittoria enters holding a book, along with Zanche. Flamineo follows them. Flamineo tells Vittoria to stop praying if that's what she's doing, and listen to him--he has worldly business to discuss. He demands money from her, since she is the executor of the Brachiano's will . She writes out a tiny sum, saying she'll only give him what Cain received after he killed Abel. . Flamineo says he has cases of jewels left by Brachiano that are worth more than she gave him--he'll bring them in a moment. He exits. Zanche tells Vittoria to try to calm Flamineo down, since he's clearly desperate. Flamineo re-enters with two cases of pistols. Flamineo tells Vittoria he's going to kill--this, he claims, is what Brachiano told him to do, being jealous that Vittoria would get with someone else. Flamineo is then going to commit suicide, voluntarily. Vittoria asks Flamineo if he's become an atheist and doesn't mind going to hell. How can he avoid thinking about the millions who will arise to damnation at the resurrection? She also tells Zanche to cry for help--when she does, Flamineo threatens to kill her too. Flamineo says these arguments don't move him--they're feminine and emotional. Zanche tells Vittoria to pretend to agree to die, but to convince Flamineo to kill himself first. She makes her case and it seems to work. Flamineo gives them the guns. He speculates on where he'll go in the afterlife, somewhat comically. They shoot, and run towards him, treading on his body. As Flamineo "dies" he asks them to kill themselves. They reveal that they faked him out. As Vittoria triumphantly believes she's sending him to hell, she makes scornful comments condemning him as he acts like he's smelling the soot and feeling the flames of hell as he dies. But Flamineo gets up and reveals that the pistols weren't really loaded with bullets. He was just testing Vittoria's loyalty. He now says he'll live to punish her for betraying him and warns men against wives who will betray them in the same kind of way, taking lovers as soon as they've died. Suddenly, Lodovico and Gasparo bust in, announcing that they're there to avenge Isabella. Flamineo finally recognizes who they really are. They admit that Mulinassar was really Francisco, visiting for vengeance. Flamineo laments that his fate has caught up with him. He claims it's better to just have good fortune than to gain wisdom. Vittoria pleads for mercy--but Gasparo says it's not going to happen. And Lodovico points out that he's getting back at Flamineo for the time he hit him. Flamineo refuses to beg to heaven out loud and when Lodovico asks him what's he's thinking about at the end, he says he's thinking of nothing. Vittoria tells them to kill her before Zanche. She speaks very defiantly, claiming she's unafraid to die. Zanche is defiant, too. Gasparo and Lodovico strike at once and kill all three. Vittoria cheekily says that, now, all Lodovico and Gasparo have to do to get famous is murder some innocent baby. As she dies Vittoria laments her family's sins, claiming that's why she was led astray. Flamineo says he loves his sister's bravery--she's not so bad, he says, since many women that seemed virtuous were really secretly vicious. Vittoria expresses confusion as to where her soul is headed, in death. Flamineo gives a speech, saying that death just frees us from dying and from being fortune's slaves. He refuses to look to heaven as he dies, looking only to himself. Yet he feels like he's "in a mist." Vittoria dies after saying she regrets having ever met "great men." Flamineo's speech continues: he warns people not to be too hopeful about life, especially if they serve great men. He admits that his life was a "black charnel" and says that it all seems utterly pointless and painful. He dies. Giovanni enters with the ambassadors. He asks Lodovico if he's responsible for these deaths. Lodovico admits it and says that he was acting under orders of Giovanni's own uncle, Francisco, who was the same Moor who had infiltrated the court . Giovanni orders Lodovico off to torture and execution. Lodovico says that he's extremely happy he was able to commit this act of revenge, and will find torture and the gallows as calm and soothing as sound sleep. Giovanni speaks the last line in the play, warning guilty men against committing evil, since evil deeds can quickly collapse and ruin the people who committed them.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_3_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 1.chapter 4

book 1, chapter 4

{"name": "Book 1, Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-1-chapter-4", "summary": "At this point, we've caught up to the time period of the main events of the story. Alyosha is now 20, Ivan is 24, and Dmitri is 28. Of all the sons, Alyosha is least like Fyodor. He's pure, sweet, and everyone spontaneously loves him. Alyosha had initially come to town to visit his mother's grave. Just three years before, his father had gone off to Odessa and made a pile of cash. Upon his return to town, he devoted all his time to acting like a fool and humiliating women and generally creating scandal. Fyodor didn't even remember where Alyosha's mother was buried - Grigory the servant had to show Alyosha the grave marker. After seeing his mother's grave, Alyosha asked his father's consent to enter the monastery, and after cracking a few blasphemous jokes, his father consented.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter IV. The Third Son, Alyosha He was only twenty, his brother Ivan was in his twenty-fourth year at the time, while their elder brother Dmitri was twenty-seven. First of all, I must explain that this young man, Alyosha, was not a fanatic, and, in my opinion at least, was not even a mystic. I may as well give my full opinion from the beginning. He was simply an early lover of humanity, and that he adopted the monastic life was simply because at that time it struck him, so to say, as the ideal escape for his soul struggling from the darkness of worldly wickedness to the light of love. And the reason this life struck him in this way was that he found in it at that time, as he thought, an extraordinary being, our celebrated elder, Zossima, to whom he became attached with all the warm first love of his ardent heart. But I do not dispute that he was very strange even at that time, and had been so indeed from his cradle. I have mentioned already, by the way, that though he lost his mother in his fourth year he remembered her all his life--her face, her caresses, "as though she stood living before me." Such memories may persist, as every one knows, from an even earlier age, even from two years old, but scarcely standing out through a whole lifetime like spots of light out of darkness, like a corner torn out of a huge picture, which has all faded and disappeared except that fragment. That is how it was with him. He remembered one still summer evening, an open window, the slanting rays of the setting sun (that he recalled most vividly of all); in a corner of the room the holy image, before it a lighted lamp, and on her knees before the image his mother, sobbing hysterically with cries and moans, snatching him up in both arms, squeezing him close till it hurt, and praying for him to the Mother of God, holding him out in both arms to the image as though to put him under the Mother's protection ... and suddenly a nurse runs in and snatches him from her in terror. That was the picture! And Alyosha remembered his mother's face at that minute. He used to say that it was frenzied but beautiful as he remembered. But he rarely cared to speak of this memory to any one. In his childhood and youth he was by no means expansive, and talked little indeed, but not from shyness or a sullen unsociability; quite the contrary, from something different, from a sort of inner preoccupation entirely personal and unconcerned with other people, but so important to him that he seemed, as it were, to forget others on account of it. But he was fond of people: he seemed throughout his life to put implicit trust in people: yet no one ever looked on him as a simpleton or naive person. There was something about him which made one feel at once (and it was so all his life afterwards) that he did not care to be a judge of others--that he would never take it upon himself to criticize and would never condemn any one for anything. He seemed, indeed, to accept everything without the least condemnation though often grieving bitterly: and this was so much so that no one could surprise or frighten him even in his earliest youth. Coming at twenty to his father's house, which was a very sink of filthy debauchery, he, chaste and pure as he was, simply withdrew in silence when to look on was unbearable, but without the slightest sign of contempt or condemnation. His father, who had once been in a dependent position, and so was sensitive and ready to take offense, met him at first with distrust and sullenness. "He does not say much," he used to say, "and thinks the more." But soon, within a fortnight indeed, he took to embracing him and kissing him terribly often, with drunken tears, with sottish sentimentality, yet he evidently felt a real and deep affection for him, such as he had never been capable of feeling for any one before. Every one, indeed, loved this young man wherever he went, and it was so from his earliest childhood. When he entered the household of his patron and benefactor, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, he gained the hearts of all the family, so that they looked on him quite as their own child. Yet he entered the house at such a tender age that he could not have acted from design nor artfulness in winning affection. So that the gift of making himself loved directly and unconsciously was inherent in him, in his very nature, so to speak. It was the same at school, though he seemed to be just one of those children who are distrusted, sometimes ridiculed, and even disliked by their schoolfellows. He was dreamy, for instance, and rather solitary. From his earliest childhood he was fond of creeping into a corner to read, and yet he was a general favorite all the while he was at school. He was rarely playful or merry, but any one could see at the first glance that this was not from any sullenness. On the contrary he was bright and good-tempered. He never tried to show off among his schoolfellows. Perhaps because of this, he was never afraid of any one, yet the boys immediately understood that he was not proud of his fearlessness and seemed to be unaware that he was bold and courageous. He never resented an insult. It would happen that an hour after the offense he would address the offender or answer some question with as trustful and candid an expression as though nothing had happened between them. And it was not that he seemed to have forgotten or intentionally forgiven the affront, but simply that he did not regard it as an affront, and this completely conquered and captivated the boys. He had one characteristic which made all his schoolfellows from the bottom class to the top want to mock at him, not from malice but because it amused them. This characteristic was a wild fanatical modesty and chastity. He could not bear to hear certain words and certain conversations about women. There are "certain" words and conversations unhappily impossible to eradicate in schools. Boys pure in mind and heart, almost children, are fond of talking in school among themselves, and even aloud, of things, pictures, and images of which even soldiers would sometimes hesitate to speak. More than that, much that soldiers have no knowledge or conception of is familiar to quite young children of our intellectual and higher classes. There is no moral depravity, no real corrupt inner cynicism in it, but there is the appearance of it, and it is often looked upon among them as something refined, subtle, daring, and worthy of imitation. Seeing that Alyosha Karamazov put his fingers in his ears when they talked of "that," they used sometimes to crowd round him, pull his hands away, and shout nastiness into both ears, while he struggled, slipped to the floor, tried to hide himself without uttering one word of abuse, enduring their insults in silence. But at last they left him alone and gave up taunting him with being a "regular girl," and what's more they looked upon it with compassion as a weakness. He was always one of the best in the class but was never first. At the time of Yefim Petrovitch's death Alyosha had two more years to complete at the provincial gymnasium. The inconsolable widow went almost immediately after his death for a long visit to Italy with her whole family, which consisted only of women and girls. Alyosha went to live in the house of two distant relations of Yefim Petrovitch, ladies whom he had never seen before. On what terms he lived with them he did not know himself. It was very characteristic of him, indeed, that he never cared at whose expense he was living. In that respect he was a striking contrast to his elder brother Ivan, who struggled with poverty for his first two years in the university, maintained himself by his own efforts, and had from childhood been bitterly conscious of living at the expense of his benefactor. But this strange trait in Alyosha's character must not, I think, be criticized too severely, for at the slightest acquaintance with him any one would have perceived that Alyosha was one of those youths, almost of the type of religious enthusiast, who, if they were suddenly to come into possession of a large fortune, would not hesitate to give it away for the asking, either for good works or perhaps to a clever rogue. In general he seemed scarcely to know the value of money, not, of course, in a literal sense. When he was given pocket-money, which he never asked for, he was either terribly careless of it so that it was gone in a moment, or he kept it for weeks together, not knowing what to do with it. In later years Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, a man very sensitive on the score of money and bourgeois honesty, pronounced the following judgment, after getting to know Alyosha: "Here is perhaps the one man in the world whom you might leave alone without a penny, in the center of an unknown town of a million inhabitants, and he would not come to harm, he would not die of cold and hunger, for he would be fed and sheltered at once; and if he were not, he would find a shelter for himself, and it would cost him no effort or humiliation. And to shelter him would be no burden, but, on the contrary, would probably be looked on as a pleasure." He did not finish his studies at the gymnasium. A year before the end of the course he suddenly announced to the ladies that he was going to see his father about a plan which had occurred to him. They were sorry and unwilling to let him go. The journey was not an expensive one, and the ladies would not let him pawn his watch, a parting present from his benefactor's family. They provided him liberally with money and even fitted him out with new clothes and linen. But he returned half the money they gave him, saying that he intended to go third class. On his arrival in the town he made no answer to his father's first inquiry why he had come before completing his studies, and seemed, so they say, unusually thoughtful. It soon became apparent that he was looking for his mother's tomb. He practically acknowledged at the time that that was the only object of his visit. But it can hardly have been the whole reason of it. It is more probable that he himself did not understand and could not explain what had suddenly arisen in his soul, and drawn him irresistibly into a new, unknown, but inevitable path. Fyodor Pavlovitch could not show him where his second wife was buried, for he had never visited her grave since he had thrown earth upon her coffin, and in the course of years had entirely forgotten where she was buried. Fyodor Pavlovitch, by the way, had for some time previously not been living in our town. Three or four years after his wife's death he had gone to the south of Russia and finally turned up in Odessa, where he spent several years. He made the acquaintance at first, in his own words, "of a lot of low Jews, Jewesses, and Jewkins," and ended by being received by "Jews high and low alike." It may be presumed that at this period he developed a peculiar faculty for making and hoarding money. He finally returned to our town only three years before Alyosha's arrival. His former acquaintances found him looking terribly aged, although he was by no means an old man. He behaved not exactly with more dignity but with more effrontery. The former buffoon showed an insolent propensity for making buffoons of others. His depravity with women was not simply what it used to be, but even more revolting. In a short time he opened a great number of new taverns in the district. It was evident that he had perhaps a hundred thousand roubles or not much less. Many of the inhabitants of the town and district were soon in his debt, and, of course, had given good security. Of late, too, he looked somehow bloated and seemed more irresponsible, more uneven, had sunk into a sort of incoherence, used to begin one thing and go on with another, as though he were letting himself go altogether. He was more and more frequently drunk. And, if it had not been for the same servant Grigory, who by that time had aged considerably too, and used to look after him sometimes almost like a tutor, Fyodor Pavlovitch might have got into terrible scrapes. Alyosha's arrival seemed to affect even his moral side, as though something had awakened in this prematurely old man which had long been dead in his soul. "Do you know," he used often to say, looking at Alyosha, "that you are like her, 'the crazy woman' "--that was what he used to call his dead wife, Alyosha's mother. Grigory it was who pointed out the "crazy woman's" grave to Alyosha. He took him to our town cemetery and showed him in a remote corner a cast-iron tombstone, cheap but decently kept, on which were inscribed the name and age of the deceased and the date of her death, and below a four-lined verse, such as are commonly used on old-fashioned middle-class tombs. To Alyosha's amazement this tomb turned out to be Grigory's doing. He had put it up on the poor "crazy woman's" grave at his own expense, after Fyodor Pavlovitch, whom he had often pestered about the grave, had gone to Odessa, abandoning the grave and all his memories. Alyosha showed no particular emotion at the sight of his mother's grave. He only listened to Grigory's minute and solemn account of the erection of the tomb; he stood with bowed head and walked away without uttering a word. It was perhaps a year before he visited the cemetery again. But this little episode was not without an influence upon Fyodor Pavlovitch--and a very original one. He suddenly took a thousand roubles to our monastery to pay for requiems for the soul of his wife; but not for the second, Alyosha's mother, the "crazy woman," but for the first, Adelaida Ivanovna, who used to thrash him. In the evening of the same day he got drunk and abused the monks to Alyosha. He himself was far from being religious; he had probably never put a penny candle before the image of a saint. Strange impulses of sudden feeling and sudden thought are common in such types. I have mentioned already that he looked bloated. His countenance at this time bore traces of something that testified unmistakably to the life he had led. Besides the long fleshy bags under his little, always insolent, suspicious, and ironical eyes; besides the multitude of deep wrinkles in his little fat face, the Adam's apple hung below his sharp chin like a great, fleshy goiter, which gave him a peculiar, repulsive, sensual appearance; add to that a long rapacious mouth with full lips, between which could be seen little stumps of black decayed teeth. He slobbered every time he began to speak. He was fond indeed of making fun of his own face, though, I believe, he was well satisfied with it. He used particularly to point to his nose, which was not very large, but very delicate and conspicuously aquiline. "A regular Roman nose," he used to say, "with my goiter I've quite the countenance of an ancient Roman patrician of the decadent period." He seemed proud of it. Not long after visiting his mother's grave Alyosha suddenly announced that he wanted to enter the monastery, and that the monks were willing to receive him as a novice. He explained that this was his strong desire, and that he was solemnly asking his consent as his father. The old man knew that the elder Zossima, who was living in the monastery hermitage, had made a special impression upon his "gentle boy." "That is the most honest monk among them, of course," he observed, after listening in thoughtful silence to Alyosha, and seeming scarcely surprised at his request. "H'm!... So that's where you want to be, my gentle boy?" He was half drunk, and suddenly he grinned his slow half-drunken grin, which was not without a certain cunning and tipsy slyness. "H'm!... I had a presentiment that you would end in something like this. Would you believe it? You were making straight for it. Well, to be sure you have your own two thousand. That's a dowry for you. And I'll never desert you, my angel. And I'll pay what's wanted for you there, if they ask for it. But, of course, if they don't ask, why should we worry them? What do you say? You know, you spend money like a canary, two grains a week. H'm!... Do you know that near one monastery there's a place outside the town where every baby knows there are none but 'the monks' wives' living, as they are called. Thirty women, I believe. I have been there myself. You know, it's interesting in its own way, of course, as a variety. The worst of it is it's awfully Russian. There are no French women there. Of course they could get them fast enough, they have plenty of money. If they get to hear of it they'll come along. Well, there's nothing of that sort here, no 'monks' wives,' and two hundred monks. They're honest. They keep the fasts. I admit it.... H'm.... So you want to be a monk? And do you know I'm sorry to lose you, Alyosha; would you believe it, I've really grown fond of you? Well, it's a good opportunity. You'll pray for us sinners; we have sinned too much here. I've always been thinking who would pray for me, and whether there's any one in the world to do it. My dear boy, I'm awfully stupid about that. You wouldn't believe it. Awfully. You see, however stupid I am about it, I keep thinking, I keep thinking--from time to time, of course, not all the while. It's impossible, I think, for the devils to forget to drag me down to hell with their hooks when I die. Then I wonder--hooks? Where would they get them? What of? Iron hooks? Where do they forge them? Have they a foundry there of some sort? The monks in the monastery probably believe that there's a ceiling in hell, for instance. Now I'm ready to believe in hell, but without a ceiling. It makes it more refined, more enlightened, more Lutheran that is. And, after all, what does it matter whether it has a ceiling or hasn't? But, do you know, there's a damnable question involved in it? If there's no ceiling there can be no hooks, and if there are no hooks it all breaks down, which is unlikely again, for then there would be none to drag me down to hell, and if they don't drag me down what justice is there in the world? _Il faudrait les inventer_, those hooks, on purpose for me alone, for, if you only knew, Alyosha, what a blackguard I am." "But there are no hooks there," said Alyosha, looking gently and seriously at his father. "Yes, yes, only the shadows of hooks, I know, I know. That's how a Frenchman described hell: '_J'ai bu l'ombre d'un cocher qui avec l'ombre d'une brosse frottait l'ombre d'une carrosse._' How do you know there are no hooks, darling? When you've lived with the monks you'll sing a different tune. But go and get at the truth there, and then come and tell me. Anyway it's easier going to the other world if one knows what there is there. Besides, it will be more seemly for you with the monks than here with me, with a drunken old man and young harlots ... though you're like an angel, nothing touches you. And I dare say nothing will touch you there. That's why I let you go, because I hope for that. You've got all your wits about you. You will burn and you will burn out; you will be healed and come back again. And I will wait for you. I feel that you're the only creature in the world who has not condemned me. My dear boy, I feel it, you know. I can't help feeling it." And he even began blubbering. He was sentimental. He was wicked and sentimental.

Book 1, Chapter 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-1-chapter-4

At this point, we've caught up to the time period of the main events of the story. Alyosha is now 20, Ivan is 24, and Dmitri is 28. Of all the sons, Alyosha is least like Fyodor. He's pure, sweet, and everyone spontaneously loves him. Alyosha had initially come to town to visit his mother's grave. Just three years before, his father had gone off to Odessa and made a pile of cash. Upon his return to town, he devoted all his time to acting like a fool and humiliating women and generally creating scandal. Fyodor didn't even remember where Alyosha's mother was buried - Grigory the servant had to show Alyosha the grave marker. After seeing his mother's grave, Alyosha asked his father's consent to enter the monastery, and after cracking a few blasphemous jokes, his father consented.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/book_2_chapters_5_to_8.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_2_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 2.chapters 5-8

book 2 chapters 5-8

{"name": "Book II: Chapters 5-8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219142226/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/b/the-brothers-karamazov/summary-and-analysis/part-1-book-ii-chapters-58", "summary": "When Father Zossima and Alyosha return to the elder's cell, Ivan is discussing with two of the monks his article on the position of the ecclesiastical courts. He explains that he opposes the separation of church and state primarily because when a criminal needs to be punished, the public should not have to rely on the state to administer such punishment. Ivan states that if the church had the authority to punish and also to excommunicate the criminal, then a vast number of crimes would be diminished. To a degree, Father Zossima agrees, but he points out that the only effective punishment \"lies in the recognition of sin by conscience.\" According to the elder, the church has no real authority to punish the criminal and, therefore, withdraws \"of her own accord\" and relies upon \"the power of moral condemnation.\" The discussion continues but is interrupted as Dmitri bursts into the cell unexpectedly. Breathless, the overwrought Karamazov apologizes for being late, explaining that he was incorrectly informed of the time. He then goes forward, receives Father Zossima's blessing, and sits quietly in the background. As the discussion resumes, Ivan begins to detail his views on immortality and virtue but is interrupted by Miusov, who scoffs at Ivan's hypothesis that if immortality does not exist then there can be no reason for virtue in the world. Dmitri is deeply disturbed by his brother's theory, especially by his suggesting that without immortality any crime could be committed without fear. When Ivan and the monks grow quiet, Fyodor nervously resumes his crude verbal antics, then begins to insult Dmitri. In particular, he accuses him of duplicity in his relationships with Katerina Ivanovna and also with Grushenka, an unconventional young woman. Dmitri snaps that Fyodor is only being nasty because he is jealous; he too is infatuated with Grushenka! As the argument mounts and everyone grows more dreadfully embarrassed, Father Zossima suddenly rises from his place and kneels at Dmitri's feet. Then, without uttering a word, he retires to his cell. Everyone is confused as to the meaning of this mysterious act, and they comment upon it as they leave the elder's cell to join the Father Superior for lunch. But there is one who cannot remain with the party. Fyodor explains that he is far too embarrassed to accompany them; he says that he is going home. Alyosha accompanies Father Zossima to his cell and is told by the Father that he must leave the monastery. It is the elder's wish that the young Karamazov rejoin the world. Alyosha does not understand Zossima's request; he desires especially to remain in the monastery -- most of all because he knows that Zossima is seriously ill. He desires, as long as possible, to be near the elder. On the way to the Father Superior's house, Alyosha and Rakitin discuss Zossima's reverent bow before Dmitri. The seminarist says that the bow means the elder has sensed that the Karamazov house will soon be bathed in blood. The bow, he says, will be remembered, and people will say that Zossima foresaw the tragedy for the family. Rakitin continues, tossing out disparaging remarks about the Karamazovs and teasing Alyosha about Grushenka's designs on him. Alyosha, unaware of Rakitin's motives, innocently refers to Grushenka as one of Rakitin's relatives and is surprised when the young seminarist becomes highly indignant and loudly denies such relationship. Meanwhile, Fyodor has changed his mind about attending the luncheon. He returns and unleashes his vicious temper on all present. He delivers a vulgar tirade about the immorality and hypocrisy of the monks and elders, making the most absurd and ridiculous charges he can conjure up. Ivan finally manages to get the old man in a carriage, but the father is not yet subdued. As they are leaving, he shouts to Alyosha and orders him to leave the monastery.", "analysis": "In a novel of ideas, the views of a certain character often indicate the deep, essential quality of the personality far more thoroughly than any other device that an author might use. In these chapters, for instance, Ivan's character is revealed through his ideas, especially his views concerning the ecclesiastical courts and the relationship between church and state. Ivan, unlike many people, does not believe in the separation of church and state on the grounds that the church has no business dealing with criminals. Ivan is, in fact, an unbeliever in the Christian sense, but, as a practical matter, he believes that the vast amount of crime in Russia can be curbed by a simple solution. He believes that the state should use the church as a tool in all criminal procedures. Criminals have altogether too easy a lot, he believes. The criminal who steals, for instance, does not feel that he is committing a crime against the church when he steals because the church does not punish him. But, were the church incorporated into the state, any crime would be, besides against the state, automatically against the church. If a potential criminal were threatened with excommunication, then crime would be virtually nonexistent. Besides his views on church and state, Ivan also greatly stresses the power of immortality; without it, there would be no need for man to behave virtuously. Without the matter of immortality, man could commit any crime with no fear of eternal punishment. A belief in immortality, consequently, acts as a deterrent for the potential criminal and restrains him from committing crimes against society that otherwise he would have no compunction about committing. Such extreme views are central to many of Ivan's later struggles, and they will have to be reconciled with new concepts following the death of old Karamazov. After Ivan finishes, Father Zossima, who does not argue with him, penetrates Ivan's inner self and senses that Ivan is indeed troubled about the problem of faith. The elder is aware that perhaps Ivan does not even know whether or not he actually disbelieves in immortality; perhaps he is only being ironic. This penetrating insight on the part of Father Zossima again attests to his unusual understanding of human nature. Later, of course, it develops that Ivan's madness results from his dilemma over belief and disbelief. Earlier in the novel, Father Zossima's humanity and his simple faith in the healing power of love were stressed. Now, another dimension is added. In these chapters we see that he can easily maintain an intellectual argument. He is no simple mystic; he has an active, alert mind that proves to be a deft opponent for Ivan's parryings. Also, Father Zossima's view of the criminal buttresses his earlier concepts of the power of love. He feels that the worst punishment for a criminal lies in what he calls the \"recognition of sin by conscience.\" The state, according to him, can punish the criminal, but physical punishment does not reform a man, nor does it deter future crime. A criminal must realize that crime is a wrongdoing by a son of a Christian society. Only in this realization can a criminal be deterred. Ivan recognizes Father Zossima's deep understanding of human nature, for after their discussion, he goes forward to receive the elder's blessings. When he came to the cell, remember, he did not go forward either to greet the elder or to receive a blessing. The much-discussed bow of Zossima can be explained as being a part of his instinctive understanding of Dmitri's nature. He knows that Dmitri will suffer immeasurably but that his basic nature is honorable. Also, remember that unlike the others, Dmitri arrived and immediately went forward to receive a blessing from the Father. Zossima noted the act and later was keenly aware of Dmitri's dismay when he heard Ivan's theory on immortality and its relation to crime. In Dmitri, Zossima sees great love, great suffering, and ultimately a great redemption. Karamazov's flagrantly vulgar behavior is best explained in terms of Dostoevsky's purpose. The author is creating a portrait of a repulsive profligate for whom one can feel no sympathy. In this way, Dostoevsky alleviates much of the horror that might otherwise accompany the murder. In this book, we are given our first reports about Grushenka. We hear, for example, that she is brazen enough to say openly that she hopes to devour young Alyosha. These reports, however, are hearsay; they vary from the character whom we eventually meet."}

Chapter V. So Be It! So Be It! The elder's absence from his cell had lasted for about twenty-five minutes. It was more than half-past twelve, but Dmitri, on whose account they had all met there, had still not appeared. But he seemed almost to be forgotten, and when the elder entered the cell again, he found his guests engaged in eager conversation. Ivan and the two monks took the leading share in it. Miuesov, too, was trying to take a part, and apparently very eagerly, in the conversation. But he was unsuccessful in this also. He was evidently in the background, and his remarks were treated with neglect, which increased his irritability. He had had intellectual encounters with Ivan before and he could not endure a certain carelessness Ivan showed him. "Hitherto at least I have stood in the front ranks of all that is progressive in Europe, and here the new generation positively ignores us," he thought. Fyodor Pavlovitch, who had given his word to sit still and be quiet, had actually been quiet for some time, but he watched his neighbor Miuesov with an ironical little smile, obviously enjoying his discomfiture. He had been waiting for some time to pay off old scores, and now he could not let the opportunity slip. Bending over his shoulder he began teasing him again in a whisper. "Why didn't you go away just now, after the 'courteously kissing'? Why did you consent to remain in such unseemly company? It was because you felt insulted and aggrieved, and you remained to vindicate yourself by showing off your intelligence. Now you won't go till you've displayed your intellect to them." "You again?... On the contrary, I'm just going." "You'll be the last, the last of all to go!" Fyodor Pavlovitch delivered him another thrust, almost at the moment of Father Zossima's return. The discussion died down for a moment, but the elder, seating himself in his former place, looked at them all as though cordially inviting them to go on. Alyosha, who knew every expression of his face, saw that he was fearfully exhausted and making a great effort. Of late he had been liable to fainting fits from exhaustion. His face had the pallor that was common before such attacks, and his lips were white. But he evidently did not want to break up the party. He seemed to have some special object of his own in keeping them. What object? Alyosha watched him intently. "We are discussing this gentleman's most interesting article," said Father Iosif, the librarian, addressing the elder, and indicating Ivan. "He brings forward much that is new, but I think the argument cuts both ways. It is an article written in answer to a book by an ecclesiastical authority on the question of the ecclesiastical court, and the scope of its jurisdiction." "I'm sorry I have not read your article, but I've heard of it," said the elder, looking keenly and intently at Ivan. "He takes up a most interesting position," continued the Father Librarian. "As far as Church jurisdiction is concerned he is apparently quite opposed to the separation of Church from State." "That's interesting. But in what sense?" Father Zossima asked Ivan. The latter, at last, answered him, not condescendingly, as Alyosha had feared, but with modesty and reserve, with evident goodwill and apparently without the slightest _arriere-pensee_. "I start from the position that this confusion of elements, that is, of the essential principles of Church and State, will, of course, go on for ever, in spite of the fact that it is impossible for them to mingle, and that the confusion of these elements cannot lead to any consistent or even normal results, for there is falsity at the very foundation of it. Compromise between the Church and State in such questions as, for instance, jurisdiction, is, to my thinking, impossible in any real sense. My clerical opponent maintains that the Church holds a precise and defined position in the State. I maintain, on the contrary, that the Church ought to include the whole State, and not simply to occupy a corner in it, and, if this is, for some reason, impossible at present, then it ought, in reality, to be set up as the direct and chief aim of the future development of Christian society!" "Perfectly true," Father Paissy, the silent and learned monk, assented with fervor and decision. "The purest Ultramontanism!" cried Miuesov impatiently, crossing and recrossing his legs. "Oh, well, we have no mountains," cried Father Iosif, and turning to the elder he continued: "Observe the answer he makes to the following 'fundamental and essential' propositions of his opponent, who is, you must note, an ecclesiastic. First, that 'no social organization can or ought to arrogate to itself power to dispose of the civic and political rights of its members.' Secondly, that 'criminal and civil jurisdiction ought not to belong to the Church, and is inconsistent with its nature, both as a divine institution and as an organization of men for religious objects,' and, finally, in the third place, 'the Church is a kingdom not of this world.' " "A most unworthy play upon words for an ecclesiastic!" Father Paissy could not refrain from breaking in again. "I have read the book which you have answered," he added, addressing Ivan, "and was astounded at the words 'the Church is a kingdom not of this world.' If it is not of this world, then it cannot exist on earth at all. In the Gospel, the words 'not of this world' are not used in that sense. To play with such words is indefensible. Our Lord Jesus Christ came to set up the Church upon earth. The Kingdom of Heaven, of course, is not of this world, but in Heaven; but it is only entered through the Church which has been founded and established upon earth. And so a frivolous play upon words in such a connection is unpardonable and improper. The Church is, in truth, a kingdom and ordained to rule, and in the end must undoubtedly become the kingdom ruling over all the earth. For that we have the divine promise." He ceased speaking suddenly, as though checking himself. After listening attentively and respectfully Ivan went on, addressing the elder with perfect composure and as before with ready cordiality: "The whole point of my article lies in the fact that during the first three centuries Christianity only existed on earth in the Church and was nothing but the Church. When the pagan Roman Empire desired to become Christian, it inevitably happened that, by becoming Christian, it included the Church but remained a pagan State in very many of its departments. In reality this was bound to happen. But Rome as a State retained too much of the pagan civilization and culture, as, for example, in the very objects and fundamental principles of the State. The Christian Church entering into the State could, of course, surrender no part of its fundamental principles--the rock on which it stands--and could pursue no other aims than those which have been ordained and revealed by God Himself, and among them that of drawing the whole world, and therefore the ancient pagan State itself, into the Church. In that way (that is, with a view to the future) it is not the Church that should seek a definite position in the State, like 'every social organization,' or as 'an organization of men for religious purposes' (as my opponent calls the Church), but, on the contrary, every earthly State should be, in the end, completely transformed into the Church and should become nothing else but a Church, rejecting every purpose incongruous with the aims of the Church. All this will not degrade it in any way or take from its honor and glory as a great State, nor from the glory of its rulers, but only turns it from a false, still pagan, and mistaken path to the true and rightful path, which alone leads to the eternal goal. This is why the author of the book _On the Foundations of Church Jurisdiction_ would have judged correctly if, in seeking and laying down those foundations, he had looked upon them as a temporary compromise inevitable in our sinful and imperfect days. But as soon as the author ventures to declare that the foundations which he predicates now, part of which Father Iosif just enumerated, are the permanent, essential, and eternal foundations, he is going directly against the Church and its sacred and eternal vocation. That is the gist of my article." "That is, in brief," Father Paissy began again, laying stress on each word, "according to certain theories only too clearly formulated in the nineteenth century, the Church ought to be transformed into the State, as though this would be an advance from a lower to a higher form, so as to disappear into it, making way for science, for the spirit of the age, and civilization. And if the Church resists and is unwilling, some corner will be set apart for her in the State, and even that under control--and this will be so everywhere in all modern European countries. But Russian hopes and conceptions demand not that the Church should pass as from a lower into a higher type into the State, but, on the contrary, that the State should end by being worthy to become only the Church and nothing else. So be it! So be it!" "Well, I confess you've reassured me somewhat," Miuesov said smiling, again crossing his legs. "So far as I understand, then, the realization of such an ideal is infinitely remote, at the second coming of Christ. That's as you please. It's a beautiful Utopian dream of the abolition of war, diplomacy, banks, and so on--something after the fashion of socialism, indeed. But I imagined that it was all meant seriously, and that the Church might be _now_ going to try criminals, and sentence them to beating, prison, and even death." "But if there were none but the ecclesiastical court, the Church would not even now sentence a criminal to prison or to death. Crime and the way of regarding it would inevitably change, not all at once of course, but fairly soon," Ivan replied calmly, without flinching. "Are you serious?" Miuesov glanced keenly at him. "If everything became the Church, the Church would exclude all the criminal and disobedient, and would not cut off their heads," Ivan went on. "I ask you, what would become of the excluded? He would be cut off then not only from men, as now, but from Christ. By his crime he would have transgressed not only against men but against the Church of Christ. This is so even now, of course, strictly speaking, but it is not clearly enunciated, and very, very often the criminal of to-day compromises with his conscience: 'I steal,' he says, 'but I don't go against the Church. I'm not an enemy of Christ.' That's what the criminal of to-day is continually saying to himself, but when the Church takes the place of the State it will be difficult for him, in opposition to the Church all over the world, to say: 'All men are mistaken, all in error, all mankind are the false Church. I, a thief and murderer, am the only true Christian Church.' It will be very difficult to say this to himself; it requires a rare combination of unusual circumstances. Now, on the other side, take the Church's own view of crime: is it not bound to renounce the present almost pagan attitude, and to change from a mechanical cutting off of its tainted member for the preservation of society, as at present, into completely and honestly adopting the idea of the regeneration of the man, of his reformation and salvation?" "What do you mean? I fail to understand again," Miuesov interrupted. "Some sort of dream again. Something shapeless and even incomprehensible. What is excommunication? What sort of exclusion? I suspect you are simply amusing yourself, Ivan Fyodorovitch." "Yes, but you know, in reality it is so now," said the elder suddenly, and all turned to him at once. "If it were not for the Church of Christ there would be nothing to restrain the criminal from evil-doing, no real chastisement for it afterwards; none, that is, but the mechanical punishment spoken of just now, which in the majority of cases only embitters the heart; and not the real punishment, the only effectual one, the only deterrent and softening one, which lies in the recognition of sin by conscience." "How is that, may one inquire?" asked Miuesov, with lively curiosity. "Why," began the elder, "all these sentences to exile with hard labor, and formerly with flogging also, reform no one, and what's more, deter hardly a single criminal, and the number of crimes does not diminish but is continually on the increase. You must admit that. Consequently the security of society is not preserved, for, although the obnoxious member is mechanically cut off and sent far away out of sight, another criminal always comes to take his place at once, and often two of them. If anything does preserve society, even in our time, and does regenerate and transform the criminal, it is only the law of Christ speaking in his conscience. It is only by recognizing his wrong-doing as a son of a Christian society--that is, of the Church--that he recognizes his sin against society--that is, against the Church. So that it is only against the Church, and not against the State, that the criminal of to-day can recognize that he has sinned. If society, as a Church, had jurisdiction, then it would know when to bring back from exclusion and to reunite to itself. Now the Church having no real jurisdiction, but only the power of moral condemnation, withdraws of her own accord from punishing the criminal actively. She does not excommunicate him but simply persists in motherly exhortation of him. What is more, the Church even tries to preserve all Christian communion with the criminal. She admits him to church services, to the holy sacrament, gives him alms, and treats him more as a captive than as a convict. And what would become of the criminal, O Lord, if even the Christian society--that is, the Church--were to reject him even as the civil law rejects him and cuts him off? What would become of him if the Church punished him with her excommunication as the direct consequence of the secular law? There could be no more terrible despair, at least for a Russian criminal, for Russian criminals still have faith. Though, who knows, perhaps then a fearful thing would happen, perhaps the despairing heart of the criminal would lose its faith and then what would become of him? But the Church, like a tender, loving mother, holds aloof from active punishment herself, as the sinner is too severely punished already by the civil law, and there must be at least some one to have pity on him. The Church holds aloof, above all, because its judgment is the only one that contains the truth, and therefore cannot practically and morally be united to any other judgment even as a temporary compromise. She can enter into no compact about that. The foreign criminal, they say, rarely repents, for the very doctrines of to-day confirm him in the idea that his crime is not a crime, but only a reaction against an unjustly oppressive force. Society cuts him off completely by a force that triumphs over him mechanically and (so at least they say of themselves in Europe) accompanies this exclusion with hatred, forgetfulness, and the most profound indifference as to the ultimate fate of the erring brother. In this way, it all takes place without the compassionate intervention of the Church, for in many cases there are no churches there at all, for though ecclesiastics and splendid church buildings remain, the churches themselves have long ago striven to pass from Church into State and to disappear in it completely. So it seems at least in Lutheran countries. As for Rome, it was proclaimed a State instead of a Church a thousand years ago. And so the criminal is no longer conscious of being a member of the Church and sinks into despair. If he returns to society, often it is with such hatred that society itself instinctively cuts him off. You can judge for yourself how it must end. In many cases it would seem to be the same with us, but the difference is that besides the established law courts we have the Church too, which always keeps up relations with the criminal as a dear and still precious son. And besides that, there is still preserved, though only in thought, the judgment of the Church, which though no longer existing in practice is still living as a dream for the future, and is, no doubt, instinctively recognized by the criminal in his soul. What was said here just now is true too, that is, that if the jurisdiction of the Church were introduced in practice in its full force, that is, if the whole of the society were changed into the Church, not only the judgment of the Church would have influence on the reformation of the criminal such as it never has now, but possibly also the crimes themselves would be incredibly diminished. And there can be no doubt that the Church would look upon the criminal and the crime of the future in many cases quite differently and would succeed in restoring the excluded, in restraining those who plan evil, and in regenerating the fallen. It is true," said Father Zossima, with a smile, "the Christian society now is not ready and is only resting on some seven righteous men, but as they are never lacking, it will continue still unshaken in expectation of its complete transformation from a society almost heathen in character into a single universal and all-powerful Church. So be it, so be it! Even though at the end of the ages, for it is ordained to come to pass! And there is no need to be troubled about times and seasons, for the secret of the times and seasons is in the wisdom of God, in His foresight, and His love. And what in human reckoning seems still afar off, may by the Divine ordinance be close at hand, on the eve of its appearance. And so be it, so be it!" "So be it, so be it!" Father Paissy repeated austerely and reverently. "Strange, extremely strange!" Miuesov pronounced, not so much with heat as with latent indignation. "What strikes you as so strange?" Father Iosif inquired cautiously. "Why, it's beyond anything!" cried Miuesov, suddenly breaking out; "the State is eliminated and the Church is raised to the position of the State. It's not simply Ultramontanism, it's arch-Ultramontanism! It's beyond the dreams of Pope Gregory the Seventh!" "You are completely misunderstanding it," said Father Paissy sternly. "Understand, the Church is not to be transformed into the State. That is Rome and its dream. That is the third temptation of the devil. On the contrary, the State is transformed into the Church, will ascend and become a Church over the whole world--which is the complete opposite of Ultramontanism and Rome, and your interpretation, and is only the glorious destiny ordained for the Orthodox Church. This star will arise in the east!" Miuesov was significantly silent. His whole figure expressed extraordinary personal dignity. A supercilious and condescending smile played on his lips. Alyosha watched it all with a throbbing heart. The whole conversation stirred him profoundly. He glanced casually at Rakitin, who was standing immovable in his place by the door listening and watching intently though with downcast eyes. But from the color in his cheeks Alyosha guessed that Rakitin was probably no less excited, and he knew what caused his excitement. "Allow me to tell you one little anecdote, gentlemen," Miuesov said impressively, with a peculiarly majestic air. "Some years ago, soon after the _coup d'etat_ of December, I happened to be calling in Paris on an extremely influential personage in the Government, and I met a very interesting man in his house. This individual was not precisely a detective but was a sort of superintendent of a whole regiment of political detectives--a rather powerful position in its own way. I was prompted by curiosity to seize the opportunity of conversation with him. And as he had not come as a visitor but as a subordinate official bringing a special report, and as he saw the reception given me by his chief, he deigned to speak with some openness, to a certain extent only, of course. He was rather courteous than open, as Frenchmen know how to be courteous, especially to a foreigner. But I thoroughly understood him. The subject was the socialist revolutionaries who were at that time persecuted. I will quote only one most curious remark dropped by this person. 'We are not particularly afraid,' said he, 'of all these socialists, anarchists, infidels, and revolutionists; we keep watch on them and know all their goings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who believe in God and are Christians, but at the same time are socialists. These are the people we are most afraid of. They are dreadful people! The socialist who is a Christian is more to be dreaded than a socialist who is an atheist.' The words struck me at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to me here, gentlemen." "You apply them to us, and look upon us as socialists?" Father Paissy asked directly, without beating about the bush. But before Pyotr Alexandrovitch could think what to answer, the door opened, and the guest so long expected, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, came in. They had, in fact, given up expecting him, and his sudden appearance caused some surprise for a moment. Chapter VI. Why Is Such A Man Alive? Dmitri Fyodorovitch, a young man of eight and twenty, of medium height and agreeable countenance, looked older than his years. He was muscular, and showed signs of considerable physical strength. Yet there was something not healthy in his face. It was rather thin, his cheeks were hollow, and there was an unhealthy sallowness in their color. His rather large, prominent, dark eyes had an expression of firm determination, and yet there was a vague look in them, too. Even when he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow his mood, but betrayed something else, sometimes quite incongruous with what was passing. "It's hard to tell what he's thinking," those who talked to him sometimes declared. People who saw something pensive and sullen in his eyes were startled by his sudden laugh, which bore witness to mirthful and light- hearted thoughts at the very time when his eyes were so gloomy. A certain strained look in his face was easy to understand at this moment. Every one knew, or had heard of, the extremely restless and dissipated life which he had been leading of late, as well as of the violent anger to which he had been roused in his quarrels with his father. There were several stories current in the town about it. It is true that he was irascible by nature, "of an unstable and unbalanced mind," as our justice of the peace, Katchalnikov, happily described him. He was stylishly and irreproachably dressed in a carefully buttoned frock- coat. He wore black gloves and carried a top-hat. Having only lately left the army, he still had mustaches and no beard. His dark brown hair was cropped short, and combed forward on his temples. He had the long, determined stride of a military man. He stood still for a moment on the threshold, and glancing at the whole party went straight up to the elder, guessing him to be their host. He made him a low bow, and asked his blessing. Father Zossima, rising in his chair, blessed him. Dmitri kissed his hand respectfully, and with intense feeling, almost anger, he said: "Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long, but Smerdyakov, the valet sent me by my father, in reply to my inquiries, told me twice over that the appointment was for one. Now I suddenly learn--" "Don't disturb yourself," interposed the elder. "No matter. You are a little late. It's of no consequence...." "I'm extremely obliged to you, and expected no less from your goodness." Saying this, Dmitri bowed once more. Then, turning suddenly towards his father, made him, too, a similarly low and respectful bow. He had evidently considered it beforehand, and made this bow in all seriousness, thinking it his duty to show his respect and good intentions. Although Fyodor Pavlovitch was taken unawares, he was equal to the occasion. In response to Dmitri's bow he jumped up from his chair and made his son a bow as low in return. His face was suddenly solemn and impressive, which gave him a positively malignant look. Dmitri bowed generally to all present, and without a word walked to the window with his long, resolute stride, sat down on the only empty chair, near Father Paissy, and, bending forward, prepared to listen to the conversation he had interrupted. Dmitri's entrance had taken no more than two minutes, and the conversation was resumed. But this time Miuesov thought it unnecessary to reply to Father Paissy's persistent and almost irritable question. "Allow me to withdraw from this discussion," he observed with a certain well-bred nonchalance. "It's a subtle question, too. Here Ivan Fyodorovitch is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to say about that also. Ask him." "Nothing special, except one little remark," Ivan replied at once. "European Liberals in general, and even our liberal dilettanti, often mix up the final results of socialism with those of Christianity. This wild notion is, of course, a characteristic feature. But it's not only Liberals and dilettanti who mix up socialism and Christianity, but, in many cases, it appears, the police--the foreign police, of course--do the same. Your Paris anecdote is rather to the point, Pyotr Alexandrovitch." "I ask your permission to drop this subject altogether," Miuesov repeated. "I will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and rather characteristic anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovitch himself. Only five days ago, in a gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly declared in argument that there was nothing in the whole world to make men love their neighbors. That there was no law of nature that man should love mankind, and that, if there had been any love on earth hitherto, it was not owing to a natural law, but simply because men have believed in immortality. Ivan Fyodorovitch added in parenthesis that the whole natural law lies in that faith, and that if you were to destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not only love but every living force maintaining the life of the world would at once be dried up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral, everything would be lawful, even cannibalism. That's not all. He ended by asserting that for every individual, like ourselves, who does not believe in God or immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that egoism, even to crime, must become not only lawful but even recognized as the inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position. From this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our eccentric and paradoxical friend Ivan Fyodorovitch's theories." "Excuse me," Dmitri cried suddenly; "if I've heard aright, crime must not only be permitted but even recognized as the inevitable and the most rational outcome of his position for every infidel! Is that so or not?" "Quite so," said Father Paissy. "I'll remember it." Having uttered these words Dmitri ceased speaking as suddenly as he had begun. Every one looked at him with curiosity. "Is that really your conviction as to the consequences of the disappearance of the faith in immortality?" the elder asked Ivan suddenly. "Yes. That was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no immortality." "You are blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy." "Why unhappy?" Ivan asked smiling. "Because, in all probability you don't believe yourself in the immortality of your soul, nor in what you have written yourself in your article on Church jurisdiction." "Perhaps you are right! ... But I wasn't altogether joking," Ivan suddenly and strangely confessed, flushing quickly. "You were not altogether joking. That's true. The question is still fretting your heart, and not answered. But the martyr likes sometimes to divert himself with his despair, as it were driven to it by despair itself. Meanwhile, in your despair, you, too, divert yourself with magazine articles, and discussions in society, though you don't believe your own arguments, and with an aching heart mock at them inwardly.... That question you have not answered, and it is your great grief, for it clamors for an answer." "But can it be answered by me? Answered in the affirmative?" Ivan went on asking strangely, still looking at the elder with the same inexplicable smile. "If it can't be decided in the affirmative, it will never be decided in the negative. You know that that is the peculiarity of your heart, and all its suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator who has given you a lofty heart capable of such suffering; of thinking and seeking higher things, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant that your heart will attain the answer on earth, and may God bless your path." The elder raised his hand and would have made the sign of the cross over Ivan from where he stood. But the latter rose from his seat, went up to him, received his blessing, and kissing his hand went back to his place in silence. His face looked firm and earnest. This action and all the preceding conversation, which was so surprising from Ivan, impressed every one by its strangeness and a certain solemnity, so that all were silent for a moment, and there was a look almost of apprehension in Alyosha's face. But Miuesov suddenly shrugged his shoulders. And at the same moment Fyodor Pavlovitch jumped up from his seat. "Most pious and holy elder," he cried, pointing to Ivan, "that is my son, flesh of my flesh, the dearest of my flesh! He is my most dutiful Karl Moor, so to speak, while this son who has just come in, Dmitri, against whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful Franz Moor--they are both out of Schiller's _Robbers_, and so I am the reigning Count von Moor! Judge and save us! We need not only your prayers but your prophecies!" "Speak without buffoonery, and don't begin by insulting the members of your family," answered the elder, in a faint, exhausted voice. He was obviously getting more and more fatigued, and his strength was failing. "An unseemly farce which I foresaw when I came here!" cried Dmitri indignantly. He too leapt up. "Forgive it, reverend Father," he added, addressing the elder. "I am not a cultivated man, and I don't even know how to address you properly, but you have been deceived and you have been too good-natured in letting us meet here. All my father wants is a scandal. Why he wants it only he can tell. He always has some motive. But I believe I know why--" "They all blame me, all of them!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch in his turn. "Pyotr Alexandrovitch here blames me too. You have been blaming me, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you have!" he turned suddenly to Miuesov, although the latter was not dreaming of interrupting him. "They all accuse me of having hidden the children's money in my boots, and cheated them, but isn't there a court of law? There they will reckon out for you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, from your notes, your letters, and your agreements, how much money you had, how much you have spent, and how much you have left. Why does Pyotr Alexandrovitch refuse to pass judgment? Dmitri is not a stranger to him. Because they are all against me, while Dmitri Fyodorovitch is in debt to me, and not a little, but some thousands of which I have documentary proof. The whole town is echoing with his debaucheries. And where he was stationed before, he several times spent a thousand or two for the seduction of some respectable girl; we know all about that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, in its most secret details. I'll prove it.... Would you believe it, holy Father, he has captivated the heart of the most honorable of young ladies of good family and fortune, daughter of a gallant colonel, formerly his superior officer, who had received many honors and had the Anna Order on his breast. He compromised the girl by his promise of marriage, now she is an orphan and here; she is betrothed to him, yet before her very eyes he is dancing attendance on a certain enchantress. And although this enchantress has lived in, so to speak, civil marriage with a respectable man, yet she is of an independent character, an unapproachable fortress for everybody, just like a legal wife--for she is virtuous, yes, holy Fathers, she is virtuous. Dmitri Fyodorovitch wants to open this fortress with a golden key, and that's why he is insolent to me now, trying to get money from me, though he has wasted thousands on this enchantress already. He's continually borrowing money for the purpose. From whom do you think? Shall I say, Mitya?" "Be silent!" cried Dmitri, "wait till I'm gone. Don't dare in my presence to asperse the good name of an honorable girl! That you should utter a word about her is an outrage, and I won't permit it!" He was breathless. "Mitya! Mitya!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch hysterically, squeezing out a tear. "And is your father's blessing nothing to you? If I curse you, what then?" "Shameless hypocrite!" exclaimed Dmitri furiously. "He says that to his father! his father! What would he be with others? Gentlemen, only fancy; there's a poor but honorable man living here, burdened with a numerous family, a captain who got into trouble and was discharged from the army, but not publicly, not by court-martial, with no slur on his honor. And three weeks ago, Dmitri seized him by the beard in a tavern, dragged him out into the street and beat him publicly, and all because he is an agent in a little business of mine." "It's all a lie! Outwardly it's the truth, but inwardly a lie!" Dmitri was trembling with rage. "Father, I don't justify my action. Yes, I confess it publicly, I behaved like a brute to that captain, and I regret it now, and I'm disgusted with myself for my brutal rage. But this captain, this agent of yours, went to that lady whom you call an enchantress, and suggested to her from you, that she should take I.O.U.'s of mine which were in your possession, and should sue me for the money so as to get me into prison by means of them, if I persisted in claiming an account from you of my property. Now you reproach me for having a weakness for that lady when you yourself incited her to captivate me! She told me so to my face.... She told me the story and laughed at you.... You wanted to put me in prison because you are jealous of me with her, because you'd begun to force your attentions upon her; and I know all about that, too; she laughed at you for that as well--you hear--she laughed at you as she described it. So here you have this man, this father who reproaches his profligate son! Gentlemen, forgive my anger, but I foresaw that this crafty old man would only bring you together to create a scandal. I had come to forgive him if he held out his hand; to forgive him, and ask forgiveness! But as he has just this minute insulted not only me, but an honorable young lady, for whom I feel such reverence that I dare not take her name in vain, I have made up my mind to show up his game, though he is my father...." He could not go on. His eyes were glittering and he breathed with difficulty. But every one in the cell was stirred. All except Father Zossima got up from their seats uneasily. The monks looked austere but waited for guidance from the elder. He sat still, pale, not from excitement but from the weakness of disease. An imploring smile lighted up his face; from time to time he raised his hand, as though to check the storm, and, of course, a gesture from him would have been enough to end the scene; but he seemed to be waiting for something and watched them intently as though trying to make out something which was not perfectly clear to him. At last Miuesov felt completely humiliated and disgraced. "We are all to blame for this scandalous scene," he said hotly. "But I did not foresee it when I came, though I knew with whom I had to deal. This must be stopped at once! Believe me, your reverence, I had no precise knowledge of the details that have just come to light, I was unwilling to believe them, and I learn for the first time.... A father is jealous of his son's relations with a woman of loose behavior and intrigues with the creature to get his son into prison! This is the company in which I have been forced to be present! I was deceived. I declare to you all that I was as much deceived as any one." "Dmitri Fyodorovitch," yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, in an unnatural voice, "if you were not my son I would challenge you this instant to a duel ... with pistols, at three paces ... across a handkerchief," he ended, stamping with both feet. With old liars who have been acting all their lives there are moments when they enter so completely into their part that they tremble or shed tears of emotion in earnest, although at that very moment, or a second later, they are able to whisper to themselves, "You know you are lying, you shameless old sinner! You're acting now, in spite of your 'holy' wrath." Dmitri frowned painfully, and looked with unutterable contempt at his father. "I thought ... I thought," he said, in a soft and, as it were, controlled voice, "that I was coming to my native place with the angel of my heart, my betrothed, to cherish his old age, and I find nothing but a depraved profligate, a despicable clown!" "A duel!" yelled the old wretch again, breathless and spluttering at each syllable. "And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, let me tell you that there has never been in all your family a loftier, and more honest--you hear--more honest woman than this 'creature,' as you have dared to call her! And you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, have abandoned your betrothed for that 'creature,' so you must yourself have thought that your betrothed couldn't hold a candle to her. That's the woman called a 'creature'!" "Shameful!" broke from Father Iosif. "Shameful and disgraceful!" Kalganov, flushing crimson, cried in a boyish voice, trembling with emotion. He had been silent till that moment. "Why is such a man alive?" Dmitri, beside himself with rage, growled in a hollow voice, hunching up his shoulders till he looked almost deformed. "Tell me, can he be allowed to go on defiling the earth?" He looked round at every one and pointed at the old man. He spoke evenly and deliberately. "Listen, listen, monks, to the parricide!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, rushing up to Father Iosif. "That's the answer to your 'shameful!' What is shameful? That 'creature,' that 'woman of loose behavior' is perhaps holier than you are yourselves, you monks who are seeking salvation! She fell perhaps in her youth, ruined by her environment. But she loved much, and Christ himself forgave the woman 'who loved much.' " "It was not for such love Christ forgave her," broke impatiently from the gentle Father Iosif. "Yes, it was for such, monks, it was! You save your souls here, eating cabbage, and think you are the righteous. You eat a gudgeon a day, and you think you bribe God with gudgeon." "This is unendurable!" was heard on all sides in the cell. But this unseemly scene was cut short in a most unexpected way. Father Zossima rose suddenly from his seat. Almost distracted with anxiety for the elder and every one else, Alyosha succeeded, however, in supporting him by the arm. Father Zossima moved towards Dmitri and reaching him sank on his knees before him. Alyosha thought that he had fallen from weakness, but this was not so. The elder distinctly and deliberately bowed down at Dmitri's feet till his forehead touched the floor. Alyosha was so astounded that he failed to assist him when he got up again. There was a faint smile on his lips. "Good-by! Forgive me, all of you!" he said, bowing on all sides to his guests. Dmitri stood for a few moments in amazement. Bowing down to him--what did it mean? Suddenly he cried aloud, "Oh, God!" hid his face in his hands, and rushed out of the room. All the guests flocked out after him, in their confusion not saying good-by, or bowing to their host. Only the monks went up to him again for a blessing. "What did it mean, falling at his feet like that? Was it symbolic or what?" said Fyodor Pavlovitch, suddenly quieted and trying to reopen conversation without venturing to address anybody in particular. They were all passing out of the precincts of the hermitage at the moment. "I can't answer for a madhouse and for madmen," Miuesov answered at once ill-humoredly, "but I will spare myself your company, Fyodor Pavlovitch, and, trust me, for ever. Where's that monk?" "That monk," that is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the Superior, did not keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came down the steps from the elder's cell, as though he had been waiting for them all the time. "Reverend Father, kindly do me a favor. Convey my deepest respect to the Father Superior, apologize for me, personally, Miuesov, to his reverence, telling him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen circumstances I am unable to have the honor of being present at his table, greatly as I should desire to do so," Miuesov said irritably to the monk. "And that unforeseen circumstance, of course, is myself," Fyodor Pavlovitch cut in immediately. "Do you hear, Father; this gentleman doesn't want to remain in my company or else he'd come at once. And you shall go, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, pray go to the Father Superior and good appetite to you. I will decline, and not you. Home, home, I'll eat at home, I don't feel equal to it here, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, my amiable relative." "I am not your relative and never have been, you contemptible man!" "I said it on purpose to madden you, because you always disclaim the relationship, though you really are a relation in spite of your shuffling. I'll prove it by the church calendar. As for you, Ivan, stay if you like. I'll send the horses for you later. Propriety requires you to go to the Father Superior, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to apologize for the disturbance we've been making...." "Is it true that you are going home? Aren't you lying?" "Pyotr Alexandrovitch! How could I dare after what's happened! Forgive me, gentlemen, I was carried away! And upset besides! And, indeed, I am ashamed. Gentlemen, one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon and another the heart of the little dog Fido. Mine is that of the little dog Fido. I am ashamed! After such an escapade how can I go to dinner, to gobble up the monastery's sauces? I am ashamed, I can't. You must excuse me!" "The devil only knows, what if he deceives us?" thought Miuesov, still hesitating, and watching the retreating buffoon with distrustful eyes. The latter turned round, and noticing that Miuesov was watching him, waved him a kiss. "Well, are you coming to the Superior?" Miuesov asked Ivan abruptly. "Why not? I was especially invited yesterday." "Unfortunately I feel myself compelled to go to this confounded dinner," said Miuesov with the same irritability, regardless of the fact that the monk was listening. "We ought, at least, to apologize for the disturbance, and explain that it was not our doing. What do you think?" "Yes, we must explain that it wasn't our doing. Besides, father won't be there," observed Ivan. "Well, I should hope not! Confound this dinner!" They all walked on, however. The monk listened in silence. On the road through the copse he made one observation however--that the Father Superior had been waiting a long time, and that they were more than half an hour late. He received no answer. Miuesov looked with hatred at Ivan. "Here he is, going to the dinner as though nothing had happened," he thought. "A brazen face, and the conscience of a Karamazov!" Chapter VII. A Young Man Bent On A Career Alyosha helped Father Zossima to his bedroom and seated him on his bed. It was a little room furnished with the bare necessities. There was a narrow iron bedstead, with a strip of felt for a mattress. In the corner, under the ikons, was a reading-desk with a cross and the Gospel lying on it. The elder sank exhausted on the bed. His eyes glittered and he breathed hard. He looked intently at Alyosha, as though considering something. "Go, my dear boy, go. Porfiry is enough for me. Make haste, you are needed there, go and wait at the Father Superior's table." "Let me stay here," Alyosha entreated. "You are more needed there. There is no peace there. You will wait, and be of service. If evil spirits rise up, repeat a prayer. And remember, my son"--the elder liked to call him that--"this is not the place for you in the future. When it is God's will to call me, leave the monastery. Go away for good." Alyosha started. "What is it? This is not your place for the time. I bless you for great service in the world. Yours will be a long pilgrimage. And you will have to take a wife, too. You will have to bear _all_ before you come back. There will be much to do. But I don't doubt of you, and so I send you forth. Christ is with you. Do not abandon Him and He will not abandon you. You will see great sorrow, and in that sorrow you will be happy. This is my last message to you: in sorrow seek happiness. Work, work unceasingly. Remember my words, for although I shall talk with you again, not only my days but my hours are numbered." Alyosha's face again betrayed strong emotion. The corners of his mouth quivered. "What is it again?" Father Zossima asked, smiling gently. "The worldly may follow the dead with tears, but here we rejoice over the father who is departing. We rejoice and pray for him. Leave me, I must pray. Go, and make haste. Be near your brothers. And not near one only, but near both." Father Zossima raised his hand to bless him. Alyosha could make no protest, though he had a great longing to remain. He longed, moreover, to ask the significance of his bowing to Dmitri, the question was on the tip of his tongue, but he dared not ask it. He knew that the elder would have explained it unasked if he had thought fit. But evidently it was not his will. That action had made a terrible impression on Alyosha; he believed blindly in its mysterious significance. Mysterious, and perhaps awful. As he hastened out of the hermitage precincts to reach the monastery in time to serve at the Father Superior's dinner, he felt a sudden pang at his heart, and stopped short. He seemed to hear again Father Zossima's words, foretelling his approaching end. What he had foretold so exactly must infallibly come to pass. Alyosha believed that implicitly. But how could he be left without him? How could he live without seeing and hearing him? Where should he go? He had told him not to weep, and to leave the monastery. Good God! It was long since Alyosha had known such anguish. He hurried through the copse that divided the monastery from the hermitage, and unable to bear the burden of his thoughts, he gazed at the ancient pines beside the path. He had not far to go--about five hundred paces. He expected to meet no one at that hour, but at the first turn of the path he noticed Rakitin. He was waiting for some one. "Are you waiting for me?" asked Alyosha, overtaking him. "Yes," grinned Rakitin. "You are hurrying to the Father Superior, I know; he has a banquet. There's not been such a banquet since the Superior entertained the Bishop and General Pahatov, do you remember? I shan't be there, but you go and hand the sauces. Tell me one thing, Alexey, what does that vision mean? That's what I want to ask you." "What vision?" "That bowing to your brother, Dmitri. And didn't he tap the ground with his forehead, too!" "You speak of Father Zossima?" "Yes, of Father Zossima." "Tapped the ground?" "Ah, an irreverent expression! Well, what of it? Anyway, what does that vision mean?" "I don't know what it means, Misha." "I knew he wouldn't explain it to you! There's nothing wonderful about it, of course, only the usual holy mummery. But there was an object in the performance. All the pious people in the town will talk about it and spread the story through the province, wondering what it meant. To my thinking the old man really has a keen nose; he sniffed a crime. Your house stinks of it." "What crime?" Rakitin evidently had something he was eager to speak of. "It'll be in your family, this crime. Between your brothers and your rich old father. So Father Zossima flopped down to be ready for what may turn up. If something happens later on, it'll be: 'Ah, the holy man foresaw it, prophesied it!' though it's a poor sort of prophecy, flopping like that. 'Ah, but it was symbolic,' they'll say, 'an allegory,' and the devil knows what all! It'll be remembered to his glory: 'He predicted the crime and marked the criminal!' That's always the way with these crazy fanatics; they cross themselves at the tavern and throw stones at the temple. Like your elder, he takes a stick to a just man and falls at the feet of a murderer." "What crime? What murderer? What do you mean?" Alyosha stopped dead. Rakitin stopped, too. "What murderer? As though you didn't know! I'll bet you've thought of it before. That's interesting, too, by the way. Listen, Alyosha, you always speak the truth, though you're always between two stools. Have you thought of it or not? Answer." "I have," answered Alyosha in a low voice. Even Rakitin was taken aback. "What? Have you really?" he cried. "I ... I've not exactly thought it," muttered Alyosha, "but directly you began speaking so strangely, I fancied I had thought of it myself." "You see? (And how well you expressed it!) Looking at your father and your brother Mitya to-day you thought of a crime. Then I'm not mistaken?" "But wait, wait a minute," Alyosha broke in uneasily. "What has led you to see all this? Why does it interest you? That's the first question." "Two questions, disconnected, but natural. I'll deal with them separately. What led me to see it? I shouldn't have seen it, if I hadn't suddenly understood your brother Dmitri, seen right into the very heart of him all at once. I caught the whole man from one trait. These very honest but passionate people have a line which mustn't be crossed. If it were, he'd run at your father with a knife. But your father's a drunken and abandoned old sinner, who can never draw the line--if they both let themselves go, they'll both come to grief." "No, Misha, no. If that's all, you've reassured me. It won't come to that." "But why are you trembling? Let me tell you; he may be honest, our Mitya (he is stupid, but honest), but he's--a sensualist. That's the very definition and inner essence of him. It's your father has handed him on his low sensuality. Do you know, I simply wonder at you, Alyosha, how you can have kept your purity. You're a Karamazov too, you know! In your family sensuality is carried to a disease. But now, these three sensualists are watching one another, with their knives in their belts. The three of them are knocking their heads together, and you may be the fourth." "You are mistaken about that woman. Dmitri--despises her," said Alyosha, with a sort of shudder. "Grushenka? No, brother, he doesn't despise her. Since he has openly abandoned his betrothed for her, he doesn't despise her. There's something here, my dear boy, that you don't understand yet. A man will fall in love with some beauty, with a woman's body, or even with a part of a woman's body (a sensualist can understand that), and he'll abandon his own children for her, sell his father and mother, and his country, Russia, too. If he's honest, he'll steal; if he's humane, he'll murder; if he's faithful, he'll deceive. Pushkin, the poet of women's feet, sung of their feet in his verse. Others don't sing their praises, but they can't look at their feet without a thrill--and it's not only their feet. Contempt's no help here, brother, even if he did despise Grushenka. He does, but he can't tear himself away." "I understand that," Alyosha jerked out suddenly. "Really? Well, I dare say you do understand, since you blurt it out at the first word," said Rakitin, malignantly. "That escaped you unawares, and the confession's the more precious. So it's a familiar subject; you've thought about it already, about sensuality, I mean! Oh, you virgin soul! You're a quiet one, Alyosha, you're a saint, I know, but the devil only knows what you've thought about, and what you know already! You are pure, but you've been down into the depths.... I've been watching you a long time. You're a Karamazov yourself; you're a thorough Karamazov--no doubt birth and selection have something to answer for. You're a sensualist from your father, a crazy saint from your mother. Why do you tremble? Is it true, then? Do you know, Grushenka has been begging me to bring you along. 'I'll pull off his cassock,' she says. You can't think how she keeps begging me to bring you. I wondered why she took such an interest in you. Do you know, she's an extraordinary woman, too!" "Thank her and say I'm not coming," said Alyosha, with a strained smile. "Finish what you were saying, Misha. I'll tell you my idea after." "There's nothing to finish. It's all clear. It's the same old tune, brother. If even you are a sensualist at heart, what of your brother, Ivan? He's a Karamazov, too. What is at the root of all you Karamazovs is that you're all sensual, grasping and crazy! Your brother Ivan writes theological articles in joke, for some idiotic, unknown motive of his own, though he's an atheist, and he admits it's a fraud himself--that's your brother Ivan. He's trying to get Mitya's betrothed for himself, and I fancy he'll succeed, too. And what's more, it's with Mitya's consent. For Mitya will surrender his betrothed to him to be rid of her, and escape to Grushenka. And he's ready to do that in spite of all his nobility and disinterestedness. Observe that. Those are the most fatal people! Who the devil can make you out? He recognizes his vileness and goes on with it! Let me tell you, too, the old man, your father, is standing in Mitya's way now. He has suddenly gone crazy over Grushenka. His mouth waters at the sight of her. It's simply on her account he made that scene in the cell just now, simply because Miuesov called her an 'abandoned creature.' He's worse than a tom-cat in love. At first she was only employed by him in connection with his taverns and in some other shady business, but now he has suddenly realized all she is and has gone wild about her. He keeps pestering her with his offers, not honorable ones, of course. And they'll come into collision, the precious father and son, on that path! But Grushenka favors neither of them, she's still playing with them, and teasing them both, considering which she can get most out of. For though she could filch a lot of money from the papa he wouldn't marry her, and maybe he'll turn stingy in the end, and keep his purse shut. That's where Mitya's value comes in; he has no money, but he's ready to marry her. Yes, ready to marry her! to abandon his betrothed, a rare beauty, Katerina Ivanovna, who's rich, and the daughter of a colonel, and to marry Grushenka, who has been the mistress of a dissolute old merchant, Samsonov, a coarse, uneducated, provincial mayor. Some murderous conflict may well come to pass from all this, and that's what your brother Ivan is waiting for. It would suit him down to the ground. He'll carry off Katerina Ivanovna, for whom he is languishing, and pocket her dowry of sixty thousand. That's very alluring to start with, for a man of no consequence and a beggar. And, take note, he won't be wronging Mitya, but doing him the greatest service. For I know as a fact that Mitya only last week, when he was with some gypsy girls drunk in a tavern, cried out aloud that he was unworthy of his betrothed, Katya, but that his brother Ivan, he was the man who deserved her. And Katerina Ivanovna will not in the end refuse such a fascinating man as Ivan. She's hesitating between the two of them already. And how has that Ivan won you all, so that you all worship him? He is laughing at you, and enjoying himself at your expense." "How do you know? How can you speak so confidently?" Alyosha asked sharply, frowning. "Why do you ask, and are frightened at my answer? It shows that you know I'm speaking the truth." "You don't like Ivan. Ivan wouldn't be tempted by money." "Really? And the beauty of Katerina Ivanovna? It's not only the money, though a fortune of sixty thousand is an attraction." "Ivan is above that. He wouldn't make up to any one for thousands. It is not money, it's not comfort Ivan is seeking. Perhaps it's suffering he is seeking." "What wild dream now? Oh, you--aristocrats!" "Ah, Misha, he has a stormy spirit. His mind is in bondage. He is haunted by a great, unsolved doubt. He is one of those who don't want millions, but an answer to their questions." "That's plagiarism, Alyosha. You're quoting your elder's phrases. Ah, Ivan has set you a problem!" cried Rakitin, with undisguised malice. His face changed, and his lips twitched. "And the problem's a stupid one. It is no good guessing it. Rack your brains--you'll understand it. His article is absurd and ridiculous. And did you hear his stupid theory just now: if there's no immortality of the soul, then there's no virtue, and everything is lawful. (And by the way, do you remember how your brother Mitya cried out: 'I will remember!') An attractive theory for scoundrels!--(I'm being abusive, that's stupid.) Not for scoundrels, but for pedantic _poseurs_, 'haunted by profound, unsolved doubts.' He's showing off, and what it all comes to is, 'on the one hand we cannot but admit' and 'on the other it must be confessed!' His whole theory is a fraud! Humanity will find in itself the power to live for virtue even without believing in immortality. It will find it in love for freedom, for equality, for fraternity." Rakitin could hardly restrain himself in his heat, but, suddenly, as though remembering something, he stopped short. "Well, that's enough," he said, with a still more crooked smile. "Why are you laughing? Do you think I'm a vulgar fool?" "No, I never dreamed of thinking you a vulgar fool. You are clever but ... never mind, I was silly to smile. I understand your getting hot about it, Misha. I guess from your warmth that you are not indifferent to Katerina Ivanovna yourself; I've suspected that for a long time, brother, that's why you don't like my brother Ivan. Are you jealous of him?" "And jealous of her money, too? Won't you add that?" "I'll say nothing about money. I am not going to insult you." "I believe it, since you say so, but confound you, and your brother Ivan with you. Don't you understand that one might very well dislike him, apart from Katerina Ivanovna. And why the devil should I like him? He condescends to abuse me, you know. Why haven't I a right to abuse him?" "I never heard of his saying anything about you, good or bad. He doesn't speak of you at all." "But I heard that the day before yesterday at Katerina Ivanovna's he was abusing me for all he was worth--you see what an interest he takes in your humble servant. And which is the jealous one after that, brother, I can't say. He was so good as to express the opinion that, if I don't go in for the career of an archimandrite in the immediate future and don't become a monk, I shall be sure to go to Petersburg and get on to some solid magazine as a reviewer, that I shall write for the next ten years, and in the end become the owner of the magazine, and bring it out on the liberal and atheistic side, with a socialistic tinge, with a tiny gloss of socialism, but keeping a sharp look out all the time, that is, keeping in with both sides and hoodwinking the fools. According to your brother's account, the tinge of socialism won't hinder me from laying by the proceeds and investing them under the guidance of some Jew, till at the end of my career I build a great house in Petersburg and move my publishing offices to it, and let out the upper stories to lodgers. He has even chosen the place for it, near the new stone bridge across the Neva, which they say is to be built in Petersburg." "Ah, Misha, that's just what will really happen, every word of it," cried Alyosha, unable to restrain a good-humored smile. "You are pleased to be sarcastic, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch." "No, no, I'm joking, forgive me. I've something quite different in my mind. But, excuse me, who can have told you all this? You can't have been at Katerina Ivanovna's yourself when he was talking about you?" "I wasn't there, but Dmitri Fyodorovitch was; and I heard him tell it with my own ears; if you want to know, he didn't tell me, but I overheard him, unintentionally, of course, for I was sitting in Grushenka's bedroom and I couldn't go away because Dmitri Fyodorovitch was in the next room." "Oh, yes, I'd forgotten she was a relation of yours." "A relation! That Grushenka a relation of mine!" cried Rakitin, turning crimson. "Are you mad? You're out of your mind!" "Why, isn't she a relation of yours? I heard so." "Where can you have heard it? You Karamazovs brag of being an ancient, noble family, though your father used to run about playing the buffoon at other men's tables, and was only admitted to the kitchen as a favor. I may be only a priest's son, and dirt in the eyes of noblemen like you, but don't insult me so lightly and wantonly. I have a sense of honor, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I couldn't be a relation of Grushenka, a common harlot. I beg you to understand that!" Rakitin was intensely irritated. "Forgive me, for goodness' sake, I had no idea ... besides ... how can you call her a harlot? Is she ... that sort of woman?" Alyosha flushed suddenly. "I tell you again, I heard that she was a relation of yours. You often go to see her, and you told me yourself you're not her lover. I never dreamed that you of all people had such contempt for her! Does she really deserve it?" "I may have reasons of my own for visiting her. That's not your business. But as for relationship, your brother, or even your father, is more likely to make her yours than mine. Well, here we are. You'd better go to the kitchen. Hullo! what's wrong, what is it? Are we late? They can't have finished dinner so soon! Have the Karamazovs been making trouble again? No doubt they have. Here's your father and your brother Ivan after him. They've broken out from the Father Superior's. And look, Father Isidor's shouting out something after them from the steps. And your father's shouting and waving his arms. I expect he's swearing. Bah, and there goes Miuesov driving away in his carriage. You see, he's going. And there's old Maximov running!--there must have been a row. There can't have been any dinner. Surely they've not been beating the Father Superior! Or have they, perhaps, been beaten? It would serve them right!" There was reason for Rakitin's exclamations. There had been a scandalous, an unprecedented scene. It had all come from the impulse of a moment. Chapter VIII. The Scandalous Scene Miuesov, as a man of breeding and delicacy, could not but feel some inward qualms, when he reached the Father Superior's with Ivan: he felt ashamed of having lost his temper. He felt that he ought to have disdained that despicable wretch, Fyodor Pavlovitch, too much to have been upset by him in Father Zossima's cell, and so to have forgotten himself. "The monks were not to blame, in any case," he reflected, on the steps. "And if they're decent people here (and the Father Superior, I understand, is a nobleman) why not be friendly and courteous with them? I won't argue, I'll fall in with everything, I'll win them by politeness, and ... and ... show them that I've nothing to do with that AEsop, that buffoon, that Pierrot, and have merely been taken in over this affair, just as they have." He determined to drop his litigation with the monastery, and relinquish his claims to the wood-cutting and fishery rights at once. He was the more ready to do this because the rights had become much less valuable, and he had indeed the vaguest idea where the wood and river in question were. These excellent intentions were strengthened when he entered the Father Superior's dining-room, though, strictly speaking, it was not a dining- room, for the Father Superior had only two rooms altogether; they were, however, much larger and more comfortable than Father Zossima's. But there was no great luxury about the furnishing of these rooms either. The furniture was of mahogany, covered with leather, in the old-fashioned style of 1820; the floor was not even stained, but everything was shining with cleanliness, and there were many choice flowers in the windows; the most sumptuous thing in the room at the moment was, of course, the beautifully decorated table. The cloth was clean, the service shone; there were three kinds of well-baked bread, two bottles of wine, two of excellent mead, and a large glass jug of kvas--both the latter made in the monastery, and famous in the neighborhood. There was no vodka. Rakitin related afterwards that there were five dishes: fish-soup made of sterlets, served with little fish patties; then boiled fish served in a special way; then salmon cutlets, ice pudding and compote, and finally, blanc-mange. Rakitin found out about all these good things, for he could not resist peeping into the kitchen, where he already had a footing. He had a footing everywhere, and got information about everything. He was of an uneasy and envious temper. He was well aware of his own considerable abilities, and nervously exaggerated them in his self-conceit. He knew he would play a prominent part of some sort, but Alyosha, who was attached to him, was distressed to see that his friend Rakitin was dishonorable, and quite unconscious of being so himself, considering, on the contrary, that because he would not steal money left on the table he was a man of the highest integrity. Neither Alyosha nor any one else could have influenced him in that. Rakitin, of course, was a person of too little consequence to be invited to the dinner, to which Father Iosif, Father Paissy, and one other monk were the only inmates of the monastery invited. They were already waiting when Miuesov, Kalganov, and Ivan arrived. The other guest, Maximov, stood a little aside, waiting also. The Father Superior stepped into the middle of the room to receive his guests. He was a tall, thin, but still vigorous old man, with black hair streaked with gray, and a long, grave, ascetic face. He bowed to his guests in silence. But this time they approached to receive his blessing. Miuesov even tried to kiss his hand, but the Father Superior drew it back in time to avoid the salute. But Ivan and Kalganov went through the ceremony in the most simple-hearted and complete manner, kissing his hand as peasants do. "We must apologize most humbly, your reverence," began Miuesov, simpering affably, and speaking in a dignified and respectful tone. "Pardon us for having come alone without the gentleman you invited, Fyodor Pavlovitch. He felt obliged to decline the honor of your hospitality, and not without reason. In the reverend Father Zossima's cell he was carried away by the unhappy dissension with his son, and let fall words which were quite out of keeping ... in fact, quite unseemly ... as"--he glanced at the monks--"your reverence is, no doubt, already aware. And therefore, recognizing that he had been to blame, he felt sincere regret and shame, and begged me, and his son Ivan Fyodorovitch, to convey to you his apologies and regrets. In brief, he hopes and desires to make amends later. He asks your blessing, and begs you to forget what has taken place." As he uttered the last word of his tirade, Miuesov completely recovered his self-complacency, and all traces of his former irritation disappeared. He fully and sincerely loved humanity again. The Father Superior listened to him with dignity, and, with a slight bend of the head, replied: "I sincerely deplore his absence. Perhaps at our table he might have learnt to like us, and we him. Pray be seated, gentlemen." He stood before the holy image, and began to say grace, aloud. All bent their heads reverently, and Maximov clasped his hands before him, with peculiar fervor. It was at this moment that Fyodor Pavlovitch played his last prank. It must be noted that he really had meant to go home, and really had felt the impossibility of going to dine with the Father Superior as though nothing had happened, after his disgraceful behavior in the elder's cell. Not that he was so very much ashamed of himself--quite the contrary perhaps. But still he felt it would be unseemly to go to dinner. Yet his creaking carriage had hardly been brought to the steps of the hotel, and he had hardly got into it, when he suddenly stopped short. He remembered his own words at the elder's: "I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon; so I say let me play the buffoon, for you are, every one of you, stupider and lower than I." He longed to revenge himself on every one for his own unseemliness. He suddenly recalled how he had once in the past been asked, "Why do you hate so and so, so much?" And he had answered them, with his shameless impudence, "I'll tell you. He has done me no harm. But I played him a dirty trick, and ever since I have hated him." Remembering that now, he smiled quietly and malignantly, hesitating for a moment. His eyes gleamed, and his lips positively quivered. "Well, since I have begun, I may as well go on," he decided. His predominant sensation at that moment might be expressed in the following words, "Well, there is no rehabilitating myself now. So let me shame them for all I am worth. I will show them I don't care what they think--that's all!" He told the coachman to wait, while with rapid steps he returned to the monastery and straight to the Father Superior's. He had no clear idea what he would do, but he knew that he could not control himself, and that a touch might drive him to the utmost limits of obscenity, but only to obscenity, to nothing criminal, nothing for which he could be legally punished. In the last resort, he could always restrain himself, and had marveled indeed at himself, on that score, sometimes. He appeared in the Father Superior's dining-room, at the moment when the prayer was over, and all were moving to the table. Standing in the doorway, he scanned the company, and laughing his prolonged, impudent, malicious chuckle, looked them all boldly in the face. "They thought I had gone, and here I am again," he cried to the whole room. For one moment every one stared at him without a word; and at once every one felt that something revolting, grotesque, positively scandalous, was about to happen. Miuesov passed immediately from the most benevolent frame of mind to the most savage. All the feelings that had subsided and died down in his heart revived instantly. "No! this I cannot endure!" he cried. "I absolutely cannot! and ... I certainly cannot!" The blood rushed to his head. He positively stammered; but he was beyond thinking of style, and he seized his hat. "What is it he cannot?" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "that he absolutely cannot and certainly cannot? Your reverence, am I to come in or not? Will you receive me as your guest?" "You are welcome with all my heart," answered the Superior. "Gentlemen!" he added, "I venture to beg you most earnestly to lay aside your dissensions, and to be united in love and family harmony--with prayer to the Lord at our humble table." "No, no, it is impossible!" cried Miuesov, beside himself. "Well, if it is impossible for Pyotr Alexandrovitch, it is impossible for me, and I won't stop. That is why I came. I will keep with Pyotr Alexandrovitch everywhere now. If you will go away, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, I will go away too, if you remain, I will remain. You stung him by what you said about family harmony, Father Superior, he does not admit he is my relation. That's right, isn't it, von Sohn? Here's von Sohn. How are you, von Sohn?" "Do you mean me?" muttered Maximov, puzzled. "Of course I mean you," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. "Who else? The Father Superior could not be von Sohn." "But I am not von Sohn either. I am Maximov." "No, you are von Sohn. Your reverence, do you know who von Sohn was? It was a famous murder case. He was killed in a house of harlotry--I believe that is what such places are called among you--he was killed and robbed, and in spite of his venerable age, he was nailed up in a box and sent from Petersburg to Moscow in the luggage van, and while they were nailing him up, the harlots sang songs and played the harp, that is to say, the piano. So this is that very von Sohn. He has risen from the dead, hasn't he, von Sohn?" "What is happening? What's this?" voices were heard in the group of monks. "Let us go," cried Miuesov, addressing Kalganov. "No, excuse me," Fyodor Pavlovitch broke in shrilly, taking another step into the room. "Allow me to finish. There in the cell you blamed me for behaving disrespectfully just because I spoke of eating gudgeon, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. Miuesov, my relation, prefers to have _plus de noblesse que de sincerite_ in his words, but I prefer in mine _plus de sincerite que de noblesse_, and--damn the _noblesse_! That's right, isn't it, von Sohn? Allow me, Father Superior, though I am a buffoon and play the buffoon, yet I am the soul of honor, and I want to speak my mind. Yes, I am the soul of honor, while in Pyotr Alexandrovitch there is wounded vanity and nothing else. I came here perhaps to have a look and speak my mind. My son, Alexey, is here, being saved. I am his father; I care for his welfare, and it is my duty to care. While I've been playing the fool, I have been listening and having a look on the sly; and now I want to give you the last act of the performance. You know how things are with us? As a thing falls, so it lies. As a thing once has fallen, so it must lie for ever. Not a bit of it! I want to get up again. Holy Father, I am indignant with you. Confession is a great sacrament, before which I am ready to bow down reverently; but there in the cell, they all kneel down and confess aloud. Can it be right to confess aloud? It was ordained by the holy Fathers to confess in secret: then only your confession will be a mystery, and so it was of old. But how can I explain to him before every one that I did this and that ... well, you understand what--sometimes it would not be proper to talk about it--so it is really a scandal! No, Fathers, one might be carried along with you to the Flagellants, I dare say ... at the first opportunity I shall write to the Synod, and I shall take my son, Alexey, home." We must note here that Fyodor Pavlovitch knew where to look for the weak spot. There had been at one time malicious rumors which had even reached the Archbishop (not only regarding our monastery, but in others where the institution of elders existed) that too much respect was paid to the elders, even to the detriment of the authority of the Superior, that the elders abused the sacrament of confession and so on and so on--absurd charges which had died away of themselves everywhere. But the spirit of folly, which had caught up Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was bearing him on the current of his own nerves into lower and lower depths of ignominy, prompted him with this old slander. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not understand a word of it, and he could not even put it sensibly, for on this occasion no one had been kneeling and confessing aloud in the elder's cell, so that he could not have seen anything of the kind. He was only speaking from confused memory of old slanders. But as soon as he had uttered his foolish tirade, he felt he had been talking absurd nonsense, and at once longed to prove to his audience, and above all to himself, that he had not been talking nonsense. And, though he knew perfectly well that with each word he would be adding more and more absurdity, he could not restrain himself, and plunged forward blindly. "How disgraceful!" cried Pyotr Alexandrovitch. "Pardon me!" said the Father Superior. "It was said of old, 'Many have begun to speak against me and have uttered evil sayings about me. And hearing it I have said to myself: it is the correction of the Lord and He has sent it to heal my vain soul.' And so we humbly thank you, honored guest!" and he made Fyodor Pavlovitch a low bow. "Tut--tut--tut--sanctimoniousness and stock phrases! Old phrases and old gestures. The old lies and formal prostrations. We know all about them. A kiss on the lips and a dagger in the heart, as in Schiller's _Robbers_. I don't like falsehood, Fathers, I want the truth. But the truth is not to be found in eating gudgeon and that I proclaim aloud! Father monks, why do you fast? Why do you expect reward in heaven for that? Why, for reward like that I will come and fast too! No, saintly monk, you try being virtuous in the world, do good to society, without shutting yourself up in a monastery at other people's expense, and without expecting a reward up aloft for it--you'll find that a bit harder. I can talk sense, too, Father Superior. What have they got here?" He went up to the table. "Old port wine, mead brewed by the Eliseyev Brothers. Fie, fie, fathers! That is something beyond gudgeon. Look at the bottles the fathers have brought out, he he he! And who has provided it all? The Russian peasant, the laborer, brings here the farthing earned by his horny hand, wringing it from his family and the tax-gatherer! You bleed the people, you know, holy fathers." "This is too disgraceful!" said Father Iosif. Father Paissy kept obstinately silent. Miuesov rushed from the room, and Kalganov after him. "Well, Father, I will follow Pyotr Alexandrovitch! I am not coming to see you again. You may beg me on your knees, I shan't come. I sent you a thousand roubles, so you have begun to keep your eye on me. He he he! No, I'll say no more. I am taking my revenge for my youth, for all the humiliation I endured." He thumped the table with his fist in a paroxysm of simulated feeling. "This monastery has played a great part in my life! It has cost me many bitter tears. You used to set my wife, the crazy one, against me. You cursed me with bell and book, you spread stories about me all over the place. Enough, fathers! This is the age of Liberalism, the age of steamers and railways. Neither a thousand, nor a hundred roubles, no, nor a hundred farthings will you get out of me!" It must be noted again that our monastery never had played any great part in his life, and he never had shed a bitter tear owing to it. But he was so carried away by his simulated emotion, that he was for one moment almost believing it himself. He was so touched he was almost weeping. But at that very instant, he felt that it was time to draw back. The Father Superior bowed his head at his malicious lie, and again spoke impressively: "It is written again, 'Bear circumspectly and gladly dishonor that cometh upon thee by no act of thine own, be not confounded and hate not him who hath dishonored thee.' And so will we." "Tut, tut, tut! Bethinking thyself and the rest of the rigmarole. Bethink yourselves, Fathers, I will go. But I will take my son, Alexey, away from here for ever, on my parental authority. Ivan Fyodorovitch, my most dutiful son, permit me to order you to follow me. Von Sohn, what have you to stay for? Come and see me now in the town. It is fun there. It is only one short verst; instead of lenten oil, I will give you sucking-pig and kasha. We will have dinner with some brandy and liqueur to it.... I've cloudberry wine. Hey, von Sohn, don't lose your chance." He went out, shouting and gesticulating. It was at that moment Rakitin saw him and pointed him out to Alyosha. "Alexey!" his father shouted, from far off, catching sight of him. "You come home to me to-day, for good, and bring your pillow and mattress, and leave no trace behind." Alyosha stood rooted to the spot, watching the scene in silence. Meanwhile, Fyodor Pavlovitch had got into the carriage, and Ivan was about to follow him in grim silence without even turning to say good-by to Alyosha. But at this point another almost incredible scene of grotesque buffoonery gave the finishing touch to the episode. Maximov suddenly appeared by the side of the carriage. He ran up, panting, afraid of being too late. Rakitin and Alyosha saw him running. He was in such a hurry that in his impatience he put his foot on the step on which Ivan's left foot was still resting, and clutching the carriage he kept trying to jump in. "I am going with you!" he kept shouting, laughing a thin mirthful laugh with a look of reckless glee in his face. "Take me, too." "There!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, delighted. "Did I not say he was von Sohn. It is von Sohn himself, risen from the dead. Why, how did you tear yourself away? What did you _vonsohn_ there? And how could you get away from the dinner? You must be a brazen-faced fellow! I am that myself, but I am surprised at you, brother! Jump in, jump in! Let him pass, Ivan. It will be fun. He can lie somewhere at our feet. Will you lie at our feet, von Sohn? Or perch on the box with the coachman. Skip on to the box, von Sohn!" But Ivan, who had by now taken his seat, without a word gave Maximov a violent punch in the breast and sent him flying. It was quite by chance he did not fall. "Drive on!" Ivan shouted angrily to the coachman. "Why, what are you doing, what are you about? Why did you do that?" Fyodor Pavlovitch protested. But the carriage had already driven away. Ivan made no reply. "Well, you are a fellow," Fyodor Pavlovitch said again. After a pause of two minutes, looking askance at his son, "Why, it was you got up all this monastery business. You urged it, you approved of it. Why are you angry now?" "You've talked rot enough. You might rest a bit now," Ivan snapped sullenly. Fyodor Pavlovitch was silent again for two minutes. "A drop of brandy would be nice now," he observed sententiously, but Ivan made no response. "You shall have some, too, when we get home." Ivan was still silent. Fyodor Pavlovitch waited another two minutes. "But I shall take Alyosha away from the monastery, though you will dislike it so much, most honored Karl von Moor." Ivan shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and turning away stared at the road. And they did not speak again all the way home.

Book II: Chapters 5-8

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219142226/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/b/the-brothers-karamazov/summary-and-analysis/part-1-book-ii-chapters-58

When Father Zossima and Alyosha return to the elder's cell, Ivan is discussing with two of the monks his article on the position of the ecclesiastical courts. He explains that he opposes the separation of church and state primarily because when a criminal needs to be punished, the public should not have to rely on the state to administer such punishment. Ivan states that if the church had the authority to punish and also to excommunicate the criminal, then a vast number of crimes would be diminished. To a degree, Father Zossima agrees, but he points out that the only effective punishment "lies in the recognition of sin by conscience." According to the elder, the church has no real authority to punish the criminal and, therefore, withdraws "of her own accord" and relies upon "the power of moral condemnation." The discussion continues but is interrupted as Dmitri bursts into the cell unexpectedly. Breathless, the overwrought Karamazov apologizes for being late, explaining that he was incorrectly informed of the time. He then goes forward, receives Father Zossima's blessing, and sits quietly in the background. As the discussion resumes, Ivan begins to detail his views on immortality and virtue but is interrupted by Miusov, who scoffs at Ivan's hypothesis that if immortality does not exist then there can be no reason for virtue in the world. Dmitri is deeply disturbed by his brother's theory, especially by his suggesting that without immortality any crime could be committed without fear. When Ivan and the monks grow quiet, Fyodor nervously resumes his crude verbal antics, then begins to insult Dmitri. In particular, he accuses him of duplicity in his relationships with Katerina Ivanovna and also with Grushenka, an unconventional young woman. Dmitri snaps that Fyodor is only being nasty because he is jealous; he too is infatuated with Grushenka! As the argument mounts and everyone grows more dreadfully embarrassed, Father Zossima suddenly rises from his place and kneels at Dmitri's feet. Then, without uttering a word, he retires to his cell. Everyone is confused as to the meaning of this mysterious act, and they comment upon it as they leave the elder's cell to join the Father Superior for lunch. But there is one who cannot remain with the party. Fyodor explains that he is far too embarrassed to accompany them; he says that he is going home. Alyosha accompanies Father Zossima to his cell and is told by the Father that he must leave the monastery. It is the elder's wish that the young Karamazov rejoin the world. Alyosha does not understand Zossima's request; he desires especially to remain in the monastery -- most of all because he knows that Zossima is seriously ill. He desires, as long as possible, to be near the elder. On the way to the Father Superior's house, Alyosha and Rakitin discuss Zossima's reverent bow before Dmitri. The seminarist says that the bow means the elder has sensed that the Karamazov house will soon be bathed in blood. The bow, he says, will be remembered, and people will say that Zossima foresaw the tragedy for the family. Rakitin continues, tossing out disparaging remarks about the Karamazovs and teasing Alyosha about Grushenka's designs on him. Alyosha, unaware of Rakitin's motives, innocently refers to Grushenka as one of Rakitin's relatives and is surprised when the young seminarist becomes highly indignant and loudly denies such relationship. Meanwhile, Fyodor has changed his mind about attending the luncheon. He returns and unleashes his vicious temper on all present. He delivers a vulgar tirade about the immorality and hypocrisy of the monks and elders, making the most absurd and ridiculous charges he can conjure up. Ivan finally manages to get the old man in a carriage, but the father is not yet subdued. As they are leaving, he shouts to Alyosha and orders him to leave the monastery.

In a novel of ideas, the views of a certain character often indicate the deep, essential quality of the personality far more thoroughly than any other device that an author might use. In these chapters, for instance, Ivan's character is revealed through his ideas, especially his views concerning the ecclesiastical courts and the relationship between church and state. Ivan, unlike many people, does not believe in the separation of church and state on the grounds that the church has no business dealing with criminals. Ivan is, in fact, an unbeliever in the Christian sense, but, as a practical matter, he believes that the vast amount of crime in Russia can be curbed by a simple solution. He believes that the state should use the church as a tool in all criminal procedures. Criminals have altogether too easy a lot, he believes. The criminal who steals, for instance, does not feel that he is committing a crime against the church when he steals because the church does not punish him. But, were the church incorporated into the state, any crime would be, besides against the state, automatically against the church. If a potential criminal were threatened with excommunication, then crime would be virtually nonexistent. Besides his views on church and state, Ivan also greatly stresses the power of immortality; without it, there would be no need for man to behave virtuously. Without the matter of immortality, man could commit any crime with no fear of eternal punishment. A belief in immortality, consequently, acts as a deterrent for the potential criminal and restrains him from committing crimes against society that otherwise he would have no compunction about committing. Such extreme views are central to many of Ivan's later struggles, and they will have to be reconciled with new concepts following the death of old Karamazov. After Ivan finishes, Father Zossima, who does not argue with him, penetrates Ivan's inner self and senses that Ivan is indeed troubled about the problem of faith. The elder is aware that perhaps Ivan does not even know whether or not he actually disbelieves in immortality; perhaps he is only being ironic. This penetrating insight on the part of Father Zossima again attests to his unusual understanding of human nature. Later, of course, it develops that Ivan's madness results from his dilemma over belief and disbelief. Earlier in the novel, Father Zossima's humanity and his simple faith in the healing power of love were stressed. Now, another dimension is added. In these chapters we see that he can easily maintain an intellectual argument. He is no simple mystic; he has an active, alert mind that proves to be a deft opponent for Ivan's parryings. Also, Father Zossima's view of the criminal buttresses his earlier concepts of the power of love. He feels that the worst punishment for a criminal lies in what he calls the "recognition of sin by conscience." The state, according to him, can punish the criminal, but physical punishment does not reform a man, nor does it deter future crime. A criminal must realize that crime is a wrongdoing by a son of a Christian society. Only in this realization can a criminal be deterred. Ivan recognizes Father Zossima's deep understanding of human nature, for after their discussion, he goes forward to receive the elder's blessings. When he came to the cell, remember, he did not go forward either to greet the elder or to receive a blessing. The much-discussed bow of Zossima can be explained as being a part of his instinctive understanding of Dmitri's nature. He knows that Dmitri will suffer immeasurably but that his basic nature is honorable. Also, remember that unlike the others, Dmitri arrived and immediately went forward to receive a blessing from the Father. Zossima noted the act and later was keenly aware of Dmitri's dismay when he heard Ivan's theory on immortality and its relation to crime. In Dmitri, Zossima sees great love, great suffering, and ultimately a great redemption. Karamazov's flagrantly vulgar behavior is best explained in terms of Dostoevsky's purpose. The author is creating a portrait of a repulsive profligate for whom one can feel no sympathy. In this way, Dostoevsky alleviates much of the horror that might otherwise accompany the murder. In this book, we are given our first reports about Grushenka. We hear, for example, that she is brazen enough to say openly that she hopes to devour young Alyosha. These reports, however, are hearsay; they vary from the character whom we eventually meet.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_0_part_11.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 11

chapter 11

{"name": "Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-1-chapters-1-11", "summary": "Tess admits to Alec that she is much obliged to him. He asks her why she dislikes him kissing her, and she says it is because she does not love him, and is angry with him sometimes. Alec did not object to this confession, because he prefers her anger to frigidity. He asks if he has offended her by love-making, and she says sometimes. She does not answer when he asks if she is offended every time he tries. Tess is weary, and nearly falls asleep on Alec's shoulder. Alec stops the horse and encloses her waist with his arm to support her, which immediately puts her on the defensive. When she pushes him away, he calls her devilish unkind, for he means no harm. He asks if she can show her belief in him by letting him clasp her with his arm. She finally submits and allows him to do so. Later on their journey, Tess finds that Alec has prolonged the ride home, and they are now in The Chase, the oldest wood in England. Tess calls him treacherous, and asks him to let her down so she may walk home. He agrees to let her walk home only after he finds a nearby house and ascertains their distance from Trantridge. Alec gives her an overcoat and walks away. In the meantime, he goes to ascertain which quarter of The Chase he is actually in, for he had purposely ridden at random. He returns to Tess and finds her sleeping. Tess' guardian angel' is nowhere to be seen, and Tess is seduced by Alec d'Urberville.", "analysis": "The final conquest of Tess Durbeyfield comes to fruition in this chapter, in which Alec d'Urberville uses several factors particular to this situation to seduce his distant relative. The seduction does not come easily; in fact Hardy leaves the details of the conquest so vague that it allows the distinct possibility that Tess did not consent at all to Alec. Nevertheless, assuming that Tess consented to Alec's demands, Hardy constructs several factors that precipitated the event. At this point in the novel Alec is at his most heroic to Tess, having saved her from Car Darch. Alec frames his arguments against Tess as evidence that she is frigid, untrusting and ungrateful; she must defend her refusal to give in to Alec rather than Alec having to defend his much less excusable behavior. Finally, and perhaps most critical in Tess letting down her guard is that she is intensely tired and Alec's final proposition of her is unexpected. He comes upon her when she is sleeping and, at last, she may not have had the strength to refuse him at this point"}

The twain cantered along for some time without speech, Tess as she clung to him still panting in her triumph, yet in other respects dubious. She had perceived that the horse was not the spirited one he sometimes rose, and felt no alarm on that score, though her seat was precarious enough despite her tight hold of him. She begged him to slow the animal to a walk, which Alec accordingly did. "Neatly done, was it not, dear Tess?" he said by and by. "Yes!" said she. "I am sure I ought to be much obliged to you." "And are you?" She did not reply. "Tess, why do you always dislike my kissing you?" "I suppose--because I don't love you." "You are quite sure?" "I am angry with you sometimes!" "Ah, I half feared as much." Nevertheless, Alec did not object to that confession. He knew that anything was better then frigidity. "Why haven't you told me when I have made you angry?" "You know very well why. Because I cannot help myself here." "I haven't offended you often by love-making?" "You have sometimes." "How many times?" "You know as well as I--too many times." "Every time I have tried?" She was silent, and the horse ambled along for a considerable distance, till a faint luminous fog, which had hung in the hollows all the evening, became general and enveloped them. It seemed to hold the moonlight in suspension, rendering it more pervasive than in clear air. Whether on this account, or from absent-mindedness, or from sleepiness, she did not perceive that they had long ago passed the point at which the lane to Trantridge branched from the highway, and that her conductor had not taken the Trantridge track. She was inexpressibly weary. She had risen at five o'clock every morning of that week, had been on foot the whole of each day, and on this evening had in addition walked the three miles to Chaseborough, waited three hours for her neighbours without eating or drinking, her impatience to start them preventing either; she had then walked a mile of the way home, and had undergone the excitement of the quarrel, till, with the slow progress of their steed, it was now nearly one o'clock. Only once, however, was she overcome by actual drowsiness. In that moment of oblivion her head sank gently against him. D'Urberville stopped the horse, withdrew his feet from the stirrups, turned sideways on the saddle, and enclosed her waist with his arm to support her. This immediately put her on the defensive, and with one of those sudden impulses of reprisal to which she was liable she gave him a little push from her. In his ticklish position he nearly lost his balance and only just avoided rolling over into the road, the horse, though a powerful one, being fortunately the quietest he rode. "That is devilish unkind!" he said. "I mean no harm--only to keep you from falling." She pondered suspiciously, till, thinking that this might after all be true, she relented, and said quite humbly, "I beg your pardon, sir." "I won't pardon you unless you show some confidence in me. Good God!" he burst out, "what am I, to be repulsed so by a mere chit like you? For near three mortal months have you trifled with my feelings, eluded me, and snubbed me; and I won't stand it!" "I'll leave you to-morrow, sir." "No, you will not leave me to-morrow! Will you, I ask once more, show your belief in me by letting me clasp you with my arm? Come, between us two and nobody else, now. We know each other well; and you know that I love you, and think you the prettiest girl in the world, which you are. Mayn't I treat you as a lover?" She drew a quick pettish breath of objection, writhing uneasily on her seat, looked far ahead, and murmured, "I don't know--I wish--how can I say yes or no when--" He settled the matter by clasping his arm round her as he desired, and Tess expressed no further negative. Thus they sidled slowly onward till it struck her they had been advancing for an unconscionable time--far longer than was usually occupied by the short journey from Chaseborough, even at this walking pace, and that they were no longer on hard road, but in a mere trackway. "Why, where be we?" she exclaimed. "Passing by a wood." "A wood--what wood? Surely we are quite out of the road?" "A bit of The Chase--the oldest wood in England. It is a lovely night, and why should we not prolong our ride a little?" "How could you be so treacherous!" said Tess, between archness and real dismay, and getting rid of his arm by pulling open his fingers one by one, though at the risk of slipping off herself. "Just when I've been putting such trust in you, and obliging you to please you, because I thought I had wronged you by that push! Please set me down, and let me walk home." "You cannot walk home, darling, even if the air were clear. We are miles away from Trantridge, if I must tell you, and in this growing fog you might wander for hours among these trees." "Never mind that," she coaxed. "Put me down, I beg you. I don't mind where it is; only let me get down, sir, please!" "Very well, then, I will--on one condition. Having brought you here to this out-of-the-way place, I feel myself responsible for your safe-conduct home, whatever you may yourself feel about it. As to your getting to Trantridge without assistance, it is quite impossible; for, to tell the truth, dear, owing to this fog, which so disguises everything, I don't quite know where we are myself. Now, if you will promise to wait beside the horse while I walk through the bushes till I come to some road or house, and ascertain exactly our whereabouts, I'll deposit you here willingly. When I come back I'll give you full directions, and if you insist upon walking you may; or you may ride--at your pleasure." She accepted these terms, and slid off on the near side, though not till he had stolen a cursory kiss. He sprang down on the other side. "I suppose I must hold the horse?" said she. "Oh no; it's not necessary," replied Alec, patting the panting creature. "He's had enough of it for to-night." He turned the horse's head into the bushes, hitched him on to a bough, and made a sort of couch or nest for her in the deep mass of dead leaves. "Now, you sit there," he said. "The leaves have not got damp as yet. Just give an eye to the horse--it will be quite sufficient." He took a few steps away from her, but, returning, said, "By the bye, Tess, your father has a new cob to-day. Somebody gave it to him." "Somebody? You!" D'Urberville nodded. "O how very good of you that is!" she exclaimed, with a painful sense of the awkwardness of having to thank him just then. "And the children have some toys." "I didn't know--you ever sent them anything!" she murmured, much moved. "I almost wish you had not--yes, I almost wish it!" "Why, dear?" "It--hampers me so." "Tessy--don't you love me ever so little now?" "I'm grateful," she reluctantly admitted. "But I fear I do not--" The sudden vision of his passion for herself as a factor in this result so distressed her that, beginning with one slow tear, and then following with another, she wept outright. "Don't cry, dear, dear one! Now sit down here, and wait till I come." She passively sat down amid the leaves he had heaped, and shivered slightly. "Are you cold?" he asked. "Not very--a little." He touched her with his fingers, which sank into her as into down. "You have only that puffy muslin dress on--how's that?" "It's my best summer one. 'Twas very warm when I started, and I didn't know I was going to ride, and that it would be night." "Nights grow chilly in September. Let me see." He pulled off a light overcoat that he had worn, and put it round her tenderly. "That's it--now you'll feel warmer," he continued. "Now, my pretty, rest there; I shall soon be back again." Having buttoned the overcoat round her shoulders he plunged into the webs of vapour which by this time formed veils between the trees. She could hear the rustling of the branches as he ascended the adjoining slope, till his movements were no louder than the hopping of a bird, and finally died away. With the setting of the moon the pale light lessened, and Tess became invisible as she fell into reverie upon the leaves where he had left her. In the meantime Alec d'Urberville had pushed on up the slope to clear his genuine doubt as to the quarter of The Chase they were in. He had, in fact, ridden quite at random for over an hour, taking any turning that came to hand in order to prolong companionship with her, and giving far more attention to Tess's moonlit person than to any wayside object. A little rest for the jaded animal being desirable, he did not hasten his search for landmarks. A clamber over the hill into the adjoining vale brought him to the fence of a highway whose contours he recognized, which settled the question of their whereabouts. D'Urberville thereupon turned back; but by this time the moon had quite gone down, and partly on account of the fog The Chase was wrapped in thick darkness, although morning was not far off. He was obliged to advance with outstretched hands to avoid contact with the boughs, and discovered that to hit the exact spot from which he had started was at first entirely beyond him. Roaming up and down, round and round, he at length heard a slight movement of the horse close at hand; and the sleeve of his overcoat unexpectedly caught his foot. "Tess!" said d'Urberville. There was no answer. The obscurity was now so great that he could see absolutely nothing but a pale nebulousness at his feet, which represented the white muslin figure he had left upon the dead leaves. Everything else was blackness alike. D'Urberville stooped; and heard a gentle regular breathing. He knelt and bent lower, till her breath warmed his face, and in a moment his cheek was in contact with hers. She was sleeping soundly, and upon her eyelashes there lingered tears. Darkness and silence ruled everywhere around. Above them rose the primeval yews and oaks of The Chase, in which there poised gentle roosting birds in their last nap; and about them stole the hopping rabbits and hares. But, might some say, where was Tess's guardian angel? where was the providence of her simple faith? Perhaps, like that other god of whom the ironical Tishbite spoke, he was talking, or he was pursuing, or he was in a journey, or he was sleeping and not to be awaked. Why it was that upon this beautiful feminine tissue, sensitive as gossamer, and practically blank as snow as yet, there should have been traced such a coarse pattern as it was doomed to receive; why so often the coarse appropriates the finer thus, the wrong man the woman, the wrong woman the man, many thousand years of analytical philosophy have failed to explain to our sense of order. One may, indeed, admit the possibility of a retribution lurking in the present catastrophe. Doubtless some of Tess d'Urberville's mailed ancestors rollicking home from a fray had dealt the same measure even more ruthlessly towards peasant girls of their time. But though to visit the sins of the fathers upon the children may be a morality good enough for divinities, it is scorned by average human nature; and it therefore does not mend the matter. As Tess's own people down in those retreats are never tired of saying among each other in their fatalistic way: "It was to be." There lay the pity of it. An immeasurable social chasm was to divide our heroine's personality thereafter from that previous self of hers who stepped from her mother's door to try her fortune at Trantridge poultry-farm. END OF PHASE THE FIRST Phase the Second: Maiden No More

Chapter 11

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

Tess admits to Alec that she is much obliged to him. He asks her why she dislikes him kissing her, and she says it is because she does not love him, and is angry with him sometimes. Alec did not object to this confession, because he prefers her anger to frigidity. He asks if he has offended her by love-making, and she says sometimes. She does not answer when he asks if she is offended every time he tries. Tess is weary, and nearly falls asleep on Alec's shoulder. Alec stops the horse and encloses her waist with his arm to support her, which immediately puts her on the defensive. When she pushes him away, he calls her devilish unkind, for he means no harm. He asks if she can show her belief in him by letting him clasp her with his arm. She finally submits and allows him to do so. Later on their journey, Tess finds that Alec has prolonged the ride home, and they are now in The Chase, the oldest wood in England. Tess calls him treacherous, and asks him to let her down so she may walk home. He agrees to let her walk home only after he finds a nearby house and ascertains their distance from Trantridge. Alec gives her an overcoat and walks away. In the meantime, he goes to ascertain which quarter of The Chase he is actually in, for he had purposely ridden at random. He returns to Tess and finds her sleeping. Tess' guardian angel' is nowhere to be seen, and Tess is seduced by Alec d'Urberville.

The final conquest of Tess Durbeyfield comes to fruition in this chapter, in which Alec d'Urberville uses several factors particular to this situation to seduce his distant relative. The seduction does not come easily; in fact Hardy leaves the details of the conquest so vague that it allows the distinct possibility that Tess did not consent at all to Alec. Nevertheless, assuming that Tess consented to Alec's demands, Hardy constructs several factors that precipitated the event. At this point in the novel Alec is at his most heroic to Tess, having saved her from Car Darch. Alec frames his arguments against Tess as evidence that she is frigid, untrusting and ungrateful; she must defend her refusal to give in to Alec rather than Alec having to defend his much less excusable behavior. Finally, and perhaps most critical in Tess letting down her guard is that she is intensely tired and Alec's final proposition of her is unexpected. He comes upon her when she is sleeping and, at last, she may not have had the strength to refuse him at this point

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/45.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_43_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 45

chapter 45

{"name": "Chapter 45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim54.asp", "summary": "Tamb'Itam paddles madly until he reaches the village. There he finds the people waiting to welcome Dain Waris. He hurries to the fort and along the way informs Jewel of what has happened. At the fort, he wakes Jim and tells him the news. Jim's first reaction is to pursue the criminals. Tamb'Itam urges him not to go, and Jim realizes that he does not stand a chance. He understands that he has lost everything; the Bugis had trusted him, but he has failed them. Both Jewel and Tamb'Itam urge Jim to flee, but Jim refuses. Jewel then begs him to fight Brown, but he cannot do this either. He looks at Jewel and begs her forgiveness. She does not understand Jim's refusals and calls him a liar. She thinks he is deserting her, like all white men do. Jewel says she can never forgive him. Dain Waris' body is carried to Doramin. He is totally stunned by his son's death. When someone points out the ring that Jim had sent him on his finger, Doramin lets out a roar of pain. As it grows dark, Doramin sits with a pair of pistols on his knees. Jim crosses the river and climbs the slope to Doramin's village, knowing that certain death is awaiting him. The crowds look at Jim in disbelief. Jim presents himself before Doramin and declares that he has come in sorrow and without arms. Doramin gets up and Stein's silver ring falls at his feet. Doramin then looks at Jim and fires a shot through his chest. Jim falls dead. Marlow says that he died as \"one of us.\"", "analysis": "Notes: The last chapter is full of controversy. Some critics feel that Jim's actions are equivalent to a suicide; others say his death is a triumph. In Jim's mind, he has no choice. He must present himself to Doramin, for he has pledged his life over Brown. In spite of the pleas of Jewel and Tamb'Itam, he must not jump away again; he cannot flee. On Patusan, he has conquered fear and shame; he refuses to live in guilt in again. He stands up to his principles and faces death bravely. Conrad presents Lord Jim as a tragic hero who has atoned for his past sin. The climax of the novel comes in this final chapter of the book. Until the end, Conrad does not disclose that Jim is dead, thereby keeping the reader in suspense and totally involved in the story. The Mood of the last chapter is totally tragic. Jewel cries out to Jim, begging him to flee or to fight. When he refuses, she calls him a liar and says she will never forgive him. Doramin cries out in pain over the dead body of his son. When Jim presents himself before Doramin, the ring which has given fame and honor to Jim rolls to the ground and symbolizes his tragic fall from grace with the Bugis. Though Jim falls from honor in the eyes of the natives, he dies a proud man. According to his principles, he has done the correct thing. He has not \"jumped\" again; therefore, he dies with self-esteem and in personal triumph. It is an appropriate romantic death, for a totally romantic character."}

'When Tamb' Itam, paddling madly, came into the town-reach, the women, thronging the platforms before the houses, were looking out for the return of Dain Waris's little fleet of boats. The town had a festive air; here and there men, still with spears or guns in their hands, could be seen moving or standing on the shore in groups. Chinamen's shops had been opened early; but the market-place was empty, and a sentry, still posted at the corner of the fort, made out Tamb' Itam, and shouted to those within. The gate was wide open. Tamb' Itam jumped ashore and ran in headlong. The first person he met was the girl coming down from the house. 'Tamb' Itam, disordered, panting, with trembling lips and wild eyes, stood for a time before her as if a sudden spell had been laid on him. Then he broke out very quickly: "They have killed Dain Waris and many more." She clapped her hands, and her first words were, "Shut the gates." Most of the fortmen had gone back to their houses, but Tamb' Itam hurried on the few who remained for their turn of duty within. The girl stood in the middle of the courtyard while the others ran about. "Doramin," she cried despairingly, as Tamb' Itam passed her. Next time he went by he answered her thought rapidly, "Yes. But we have all the powder in Patusan." She caught him by the arm, and, pointing at the house, "Call him out," she whispered, trembling. 'Tamb' Itam ran up the steps. His master was sleeping. "It is I, Tamb' Itam," he cried at the door, "with tidings that cannot wait." He saw Jim turn over on the pillow and open his eyes, and he burst out at once. "This, Tuan, is a day of evil, an accursed day." His master raised himself on his elbow to listen--just as Dain Waris had done. And then Tamb' Itam began his tale, trying to relate the story in order, calling Dain Waris Panglima, and saying: "The Panglima then called out to the chief of his own boatmen, 'Give Tamb' Itam something to eat'"--when his master put his feet to the ground and looked at him with such a discomposed face that the words remained in his throat. '"Speak out," said Jim. "Is he dead?" "May you live long," cried Tamb' Itam. "It was a most cruel treachery. He ran out at the first shots and fell." . . . His master walked to the window and with his fist struck at the shutter. The room was made light; and then in a steady voice, but speaking fast, he began to give him orders to assemble a fleet of boats for immediate pursuit, go to this man, to the other--send messengers; and as he talked he sat down on the bed, stooping to lace his boots hurriedly, and suddenly looked up. "Why do you stand here?" he asked very red-faced. "Waste no time." Tamb' Itam did not move. "Forgive me, Tuan, but . . . but," he began to stammer. "What?" cried his master aloud, looking terrible, leaning forward with his hands gripping the edge of the bed. "It is not safe for thy servant to go out amongst the people," said Tamb' Itam, after hesitating a moment. 'Then Jim understood. He had retreated from one world, for a small matter of an impulsive jump, and now the other, the work of his own hands, had fallen in ruins upon his head. It was not safe for his servant to go out amongst his own people! I believe that in that very moment he had decided to defy the disaster in the only way it occurred to him such a disaster could be defied; but all I know is that, without a word, he came out of his room and sat before the long table, at the head of which he was accustomed to regulate the affairs of his world, proclaiming daily the truth that surely lived in his heart. The dark powers should not rob him twice of his peace. He sat like a stone figure. Tamb' Itam, deferential, hinted at preparations for defence. The girl he loved came in and spoke to him, but he made a sign with his hand, and she was awed by the dumb appeal for silence in it. She went out on the verandah and sat on the threshold, as if to guard him with her body from dangers outside. 'What thoughts passed through his head--what memories? Who can tell? Everything was gone, and he who had been once unfaithful to his trust had lost again all men's confidence. It was then, I believe, he tried to write--to somebody--and gave it up. Loneliness was closing on him. People had trusted him with their lives--only for that; and yet they could never, as he had said, never be made to understand him. Those without did not hear him make a sound. Later, towards the evening, he came to the door and called for Tamb' Itam. "Well?" he asked. "There is much weeping. Much anger too," said Tamb' Itam. Jim looked up at him. "You know," he murmured. "Yes, Tuan," said Tamb' Itam. "Thy servant does know, and the gates are closed. We shall have to fight." "Fight! What for?" he asked. "For our lives." "I have no life," he said. Tamb' Itam heard a cry from the girl at the door. "Who knows?" said Tamb' Itam. "By audacity and cunning we may even escape. There is much fear in men's hearts too." He went out, thinking vaguely of boats and of open sea, leaving Jim and the girl together. 'I haven't the heart to set down here such glimpses as she had given me of the hour or more she passed in there wrestling with him for the possession of her happiness. Whether he had any hope--what he expected, what he imagined--it is impossible to say. He was inflexible, and with the growing loneliness of his obstinacy his spirit seemed to rise above the ruins of his existence. She cried "Fight!" into his ear. She could not understand. There was nothing to fight for. He was going to prove his power in another way and conquer the fatal destiny itself. He came out into the courtyard, and behind him, with streaming hair, wild of face, breathless, she staggered out and leaned on the side of the doorway. "Open the gates," he ordered. Afterwards, turning to those of his men who were inside, he gave them leave to depart to their homes. "For how long, Tuan?" asked one of them timidly. "For all life," he said, in a sombre tone. 'A hush had fallen upon the town after the outburst of wailing and lamentation that had swept over the river, like a gust of wind from the opened abode of sorrow. But rumours flew in whispers, filling the hearts with consternation and horrible doubts. The robbers were coming back, bringing many others with them, in a great ship, and there would be no refuge in the land for any one. A sense of utter insecurity as during an earthquake pervaded the minds of men, who whispered their suspicions, looking at each other as if in the presence of some awful portent. 'The sun was sinking towards the forests when Dain Waris's body was brought into Doramin's campong. Four men carried it in, covered decently with a white sheet which the old mother had sent out down to the gate to meet her son on his return. They laid him at Doramin's feet, and the old man sat still for a long time, one hand on each knee, looking down. The fronds of palms swayed gently, and the foliage of fruit trees stirred above his head. Every single man of his people was there, fully armed, when the old nakhoda at last raised his eyes. He moved them slowly over the crowd, as if seeking for a missing face. Again his chin sank on his breast. The whispers of many men mingled with the slight rustling of the leaves. 'The Malay who had brought Tamb' Itam and the girl to Samarang was there too. "Not so angry as many," he said to me, but struck with a great awe and wonder at the "suddenness of men's fate, which hangs over their heads like a cloud charged with thunder." He told me that when Dain Waris's body was uncovered at a sign of Doramin's, he whom they often called the white lord's friend was disclosed lying unchanged with his eyelids a little open as if about to wake. Doramin leaned forward a little more, like one looking for something fallen on the ground. His eyes searched the body from its feet to its head, for the wound maybe. It was in the forehead and small; and there was no word spoken while one of the by-standers, stooping, took off the silver ring from the cold stiff hand. In silence he held it up before Doramin. A murmur of dismay and horror ran through the crowd at the sight of that familiar token. The old nakhoda stared at it, and suddenly let out one great fierce cry, deep from the chest, a roar of pain and fury, as mighty as the bellow of a wounded bull, bringing great fear into men's hearts, by the magnitude of his anger and his sorrow that could be plainly discerned without words. There was a great stillness afterwards for a space, while the body was being borne aside by four men. They laid it down under a tree, and on the instant, with one long shriek, all the women of the household began to wail together; they mourned with shrill cries; the sun was setting, and in the intervals of screamed lamentations the high sing-song voices of two old men intoning the Koran chanted alone. 'About this time Jim, leaning on a gun-carriage, looked at the river, and turned his back on the house; and the girl, in the doorway, panting as if she had run herself to a standstill, was looking at him across the yard. Tamb' Itam stood not far from his master, waiting patiently for what might happen. All at once Jim, who seemed to be lost in quiet thought, turned to him and said, "Time to finish this." '"Tuan?" said Tamb' Itam, advancing with alacrity. He did not know what his master meant, but as soon as Jim made a movement the girl started too and walked down into the open space. It seems that no one else of the people of the house was in sight. She tottered slightly, and about half-way down called out to Jim, who had apparently resumed his peaceful contemplation of the river. He turned round, setting his back against the gun. "Will you fight?" she cried. "There is nothing to fight for," he said; "nothing is lost." Saying this he made a step towards her. "Will you fly?" she cried again. "There is no escape," he said, stopping short, and she stood still also, silent, devouring him with her eyes. "And you shall go?" she said slowly. He bent his head. "Ah!" she exclaimed, peering at him as it were, "you are mad or false. Do you remember the night I prayed you to leave me, and you said that you could not? That it was impossible! Impossible! Do you remember you said you would never leave me? Why? I asked you for no promise. You promised unasked--remember." "Enough, poor girl," he said. "I should not be worth having." 'Tamb' Itam said that while they were talking she would laugh loud and senselessly like one under the visitation of God. His master put his hands to his head. He was fully dressed as for every day, but without a hat. She stopped laughing suddenly. "For the last time," she cried menacingly, "will you defend yourself?" "Nothing can touch me," he said in a last flicker of superb egoism. Tamb' Itam saw her lean forward where she stood, open her arms, and run at him swiftly. She flung herself upon his breast and clasped him round the neck. '"Ah! but I shall hold thee thus," she cried. . . . "Thou art mine!" 'She sobbed on his shoulder. The sky over Patusan was blood-red, immense, streaming like an open vein. An enormous sun nestled crimson amongst the tree-tops, and the forest below had a black and forbidding face. 'Tamb' Itam tells me that on that evening the aspect of the heavens was angry and frightful. I may well believe it, for I know that on that very day a cyclone passed within sixty miles of the coast, though there was hardly more than a languid stir of air in the place. 'Suddenly Tamb' Itam saw Jim catch her arms, trying to unclasp her hands. She hung on them with her head fallen back; her hair touched the ground. "Come here!" his master called, and Tamb' Itam helped to ease her down. It was difficult to separate her fingers. Jim, bending over her, looked earnestly upon her face, and all at once ran to the landing-stage. Tamb' Itam followed him, but turning his head, he saw that she had struggled up to her feet. She ran after them a few steps, then fell down heavily on her knees. "Tuan! Tuan!" called Tamb' Itam, "look back;" but Jim was already in a canoe, standing up paddle in hand. He did not look back. Tamb' Itam had just time to scramble in after him when the canoe floated clear. The girl was then on her knees, with clasped hands, at the water-gate. She remained thus for a time in a supplicating attitude before she sprang up. "You are false!" she screamed out after Jim. "Forgive me," he cried. "Never! Never!" she called back. 'Tamb' Itam took the paddle from Jim's hands, it being unseemly that he should sit while his lord paddled. When they reached the other shore his master forbade him to come any farther; but Tamb' Itam did follow him at a distance, walking up the slope to Doramin's campong. 'It was beginning to grow dark. Torches twinkled here and there. Those they met seemed awestruck, and stood aside hastily to let Jim pass. The wailing of women came from above. The courtyard was full of armed Bugis with their followers, and of Patusan people. 'I do not know what this gathering really meant. Were these preparations for war, or for vengeance, or to repulse a threatened invasion? Many days elapsed before the people had ceased to look out, quaking, for the return of the white men with long beards and in rags, whose exact relation to their own white man they could never understand. Even for those simple minds poor Jim remains under a cloud. 'Doramin, alone! immense and desolate, sat in his arm-chair with the pair of flintlock pistols on his knees, faced by a armed throng. When Jim appeared, at somebody's exclamation, all the heads turned round together, and then the mass opened right and left, and he walked up a lane of averted glances. Whispers followed him; murmurs: "He has worked all the evil." "He hath a charm." . . . He heard them--perhaps! 'When he came up into the light of torches the wailing of the women ceased suddenly. Doramin did not lift his head, and Jim stood silent before him for a time. Then he looked to the left, and moved in that direction with measured steps. Dain Waris's mother crouched at the head of the body, and the grey dishevelled hair concealed her face. Jim came up slowly, looked at his dead friend, lifting the sheet, than dropped it without a word. Slowly he walked back. '"He came! He came!" was running from lip to lip, making a murmur to which he moved. "He hath taken it upon his own head," a voice said aloud. He heard this and turned to the crowd. "Yes. Upon my head." A few people recoiled. Jim waited awhile before Doramin, and then said gently, "I am come in sorrow." He waited again. "I am come ready and unarmed," he repeated. 'The unwieldy old man, lowering his big forehead like an ox under a yoke, made an effort to rise, clutching at the flintlock pistols on his knees. From his throat came gurgling, choking, inhuman sounds, and his two attendants helped him from behind. People remarked that the ring which he had dropped on his lap fell and rolled against the foot of the white man, and that poor Jim glanced down at the talisman that had opened for him the door of fame, love, and success within the wall of forests fringed with white foam, within the coast that under the western sun looks like the very stronghold of the night. Doramin, struggling to keep his feet, made with his two supporters a swaying, tottering group; his little eyes stared with an expression of mad pain, of rage, with a ferocious glitter, which the bystanders noticed; and then, while Jim stood stiffened and with bared head in the light of torches, looking him straight in the face, he clung heavily with his left arm round the neck of a bowed youth, and lifting deliberately his right, shot his son's friend through the chest. 'The crowd, which had fallen apart behind Jim as soon as Doramin had raised his hand, rushed tumultuously forward after the shot. They say that the white man sent right and left at all those faces a proud and unflinching glance. Then with his hand over his lips he fell forward, dead. 'And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic. Not in the wildest days of his boyish visions could he have seen the alluring shape of such an extraordinary success! For it may very well be that in the short moment of his last proud and unflinching glance, he had beheld the face of that opportunity which, like an Eastern bride, had come veiled to his side. 'But we can see him, an obscure conqueror of fame, tearing himself out of the arms of a jealous love at the sign, at the call of his exalted egoism. He goes away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct. Is he satisfied--quite, now, I wonder? We ought to know. He is one of us--and have I not stood up once, like an evoked ghost, to answer for his eternal constancy? Was I so very wrong after all? Now he is no more, there are days when the reality of his existence comes to me with an immense, with an overwhelming force; and yet upon my honour there are moments, too when he passes from my eyes like a disembodied spirit astray amongst the passions of this earth, ready to surrender himself faithfully to the claim of his own world of shades. 'Who knows? He is gone, inscrutable at heart, and the poor girl is leading a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house. Stein has aged greatly of late. He feels it himself, and says often that he is "preparing to leave all this; preparing to leave . . ." while he waves his hand sadly at his butterflies.'

Chapter 45

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim54.asp

Tamb'Itam paddles madly until he reaches the village. There he finds the people waiting to welcome Dain Waris. He hurries to the fort and along the way informs Jewel of what has happened. At the fort, he wakes Jim and tells him the news. Jim's first reaction is to pursue the criminals. Tamb'Itam urges him not to go, and Jim realizes that he does not stand a chance. He understands that he has lost everything; the Bugis had trusted him, but he has failed them. Both Jewel and Tamb'Itam urge Jim to flee, but Jim refuses. Jewel then begs him to fight Brown, but he cannot do this either. He looks at Jewel and begs her forgiveness. She does not understand Jim's refusals and calls him a liar. She thinks he is deserting her, like all white men do. Jewel says she can never forgive him. Dain Waris' body is carried to Doramin. He is totally stunned by his son's death. When someone points out the ring that Jim had sent him on his finger, Doramin lets out a roar of pain. As it grows dark, Doramin sits with a pair of pistols on his knees. Jim crosses the river and climbs the slope to Doramin's village, knowing that certain death is awaiting him. The crowds look at Jim in disbelief. Jim presents himself before Doramin and declares that he has come in sorrow and without arms. Doramin gets up and Stein's silver ring falls at his feet. Doramin then looks at Jim and fires a shot through his chest. Jim falls dead. Marlow says that he died as "one of us."

Notes: The last chapter is full of controversy. Some critics feel that Jim's actions are equivalent to a suicide; others say his death is a triumph. In Jim's mind, he has no choice. He must present himself to Doramin, for he has pledged his life over Brown. In spite of the pleas of Jewel and Tamb'Itam, he must not jump away again; he cannot flee. On Patusan, he has conquered fear and shame; he refuses to live in guilt in again. He stands up to his principles and faces death bravely. Conrad presents Lord Jim as a tragic hero who has atoned for his past sin. The climax of the novel comes in this final chapter of the book. Until the end, Conrad does not disclose that Jim is dead, thereby keeping the reader in suspense and totally involved in the story. The Mood of the last chapter is totally tragic. Jewel cries out to Jim, begging him to flee or to fight. When he refuses, she calls him a liar and says she will never forgive him. Doramin cries out in pain over the dead body of his son. When Jim presents himself before Doramin, the ring which has given fame and honor to Jim rolls to the ground and symbolizes his tragic fall from grace with the Bugis. Though Jim falls from honor in the eyes of the natives, he dies a proud man. According to his principles, he has done the correct thing. He has not "jumped" again; therefore, he dies with self-esteem and in personal triumph. It is an appropriate romantic death, for a totally romantic character.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/chapters_40_to_41.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_28_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapters 40-41

chapters 40-41

{"name": "Chapters 40-41", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-4041", "summary": "Mrs. Jennings questioned Elinor about her talk with Colonel Brandon, and the two women were soon at cross purposes. Mrs. Jennings was left with the impression that Elinor and the colonel wanted Edward to perform their wedding ceremony. Before she learned the truth, Edward called and was greatly surprised to learn from Elinor of the colonel's offer of the Delaford living. He was most grateful, naturally concluding that Elinor had played some part in the offer. When he left to go and thank the colonel, Mrs. Jennings returned. During a talk with Elinor, they both realized her misunderstanding about the engagement and were much amused. Edward thanked the colonel and proceeded to tell Lucy his news. She was \"able to reassure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life.\" Elinor, out of courtesy, went to call on her sister-in-law and found her half-brother at home. He told her that she would be pleased to know that Mrs. Ferrars would have even preferred Elinor to Lucy Steele. When Elinor made no comment, John again alluded to a match between her and Colonel Brandon. While Elinor was still there, Robert Ferrars turned up, and his patronizing and unfeeling attitude towards Edward confirmed \"her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.\"", "analysis": "Country squires like Colonel Brandon, who had the power to bestow livings, often accepted money from those who wished to be given a living on the death of the incumbent. As John Dashwood said, they sometimes received as much as fourteen hundred pounds. Sometimes parents or guardians bought a living for a young man, and a clergyman was employed temporarily until the youth was grown up and ordained. Elinor again shows her strength of character by visiting the \"ailing\" Mrs. Dashwood, who has treated her so badly. Robert is confirmed as the shallow fop he appeared to be on their first meeting at Gray's. He has no sympathy for his brother, finding Edward's sad situation a source of laughter and contempt."}

"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I TRIED to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma'am," said Elinor. "It is a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life." "Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an't the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings--"Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them." "You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a faint smile. "Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw." "He spoke of its being out of repair." "Well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it?--who should do it but himself?" They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said,-- "Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it." Marianne had left the room before the conversation began. "Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention it at present to any body else." "Oh! very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. "Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn to-day." "No, ma'am, not even Lucy if you please. One day's delay will not be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do THAT directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination." This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments' reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed;-- "Oh, ho!--I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself?--sure, he is the proper person." Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself." "And so YOU are forced to do it. Well THAT is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write.) You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed." And away she went; but returning again in a moment, "I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at your leisure." "Certainly, ma'am," replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject. How she should begin--how she should express herself in her note to Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself. He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business. Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment.--Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair. "Mrs. Jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with me, at least I understood her so--or I certainly should not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister; especially as it will most likely be some time--it is not probable that I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford tomorrow." "You would not have gone, however," said Elinor, recovering herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on the point of communicating by paper. I am charged with a most agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.) Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living--it is about two hundred a-year--were much more considerable, and such as might better enable you to--as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself--such, in short, as might establish all your views of happiness." What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him. He LOOKED all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words, "Colonel Brandon!" "Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, "Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed--for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you--a concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion." "Colonel Brandon give ME a living!--Can it be possible?" "The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship any where." "No," replied he, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in YOU; for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all.--I feel it--I would express it if I could--but, as you well know, I am no orator." "You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps--indeed I know he HAS, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation." Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak;--at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, "Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman." "Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he SHOULD be all this." Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Elinor told him the number of the house. "I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give YOU; to assure him that he has made me a very--an exceedingly happy man." Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on HER side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on HIS, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right?--And I suppose you had no great difficulty--You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma'am; THAT was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready?--For it seems all to depend upon that." "Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me!--I am sure it would put ME quite out of patience!--And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma'am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of?-- Why, Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear!--Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely MAY be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds!--and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage!-- It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it." "But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's being enough to allow them to marry." "The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan't go if Lucy an't there." Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more. Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life. Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edward WOULD give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry. It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit.--This was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her carriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike. Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in. They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.--Nobody was there. "Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said he:--"I will go to her presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the world to seeing YOU.-- Very far from it, indeed. NOW especially there cannot be--but however, you and Marianne were always great favourites.--Why would not Marianne come?"-- Elinor made what excuse she could for her. "I am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for I have a good deal to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's--can it be true?--has he really given it to Edward?--I heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it." "It is perfectly true.--Colonel Brandon has given the living of Delaford to Edward." "Really!--Well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no connection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a price!--what was the value of this?" "About two hundred a year." "Very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that value--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and likely to vacate it soon--he might have got I dare say--fourteen hundred pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before this person's death?--NOW indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a man of Colonel Brandon's sense!--I wonder he should be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!--Well, I am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human character. I suppose, however--on recollection--that the case may probably be THIS. Edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to take it.--Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it." Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority. "It is truly astonishing!"--he cried, after hearing what she said--"what could be the Colonel's motive?" "A very simple one--to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky man.--You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like to hear it much talked of." Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished. "Mrs. Ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and I believe it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be.-- When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all." "But why should such precaution be used?--Though it is not to be supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for THAT must be quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all?--She has done with her son, she cast him off for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him.-- She would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!" "Ah! Elinor," said John, "your reasoning is very good, but it is founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy match takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son." "You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory by THIS time." "You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most affectionate mothers in the world." Elinor was silent. "We think NOW,"--said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, "of ROBERT'S marrying Miss Morton." Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's tone, calmly replied, "The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair." "Choice!--how do you mean?" "I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert." "Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that one is superior to the other." Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.--His reflections ended thus. "Of ONE thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand, and speaking in an awful whisper,--"I may assure you;--and I WILL do it, because I know it must gratify you. I have good reason to think--indeed I have it from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very wrong to say any thing about it--but I have it from the very best authority--not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say it herself--but her daughter DID, and I have it from her--That in short, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a certain connection--you understand me--it would have been far preferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation that THIS does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that light--a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all. 'It would have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound NOW for nothing worse.' But however, all that is quite out of the question--not to be thought of or mentioned--as to any attachment you know--it never could be--all that is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason to regret, my dear Elinor. There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well--quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately?" Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her brother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments' chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart. They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very different, was not less striking than it had been on HIM. He laughed most immoderately. The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous. Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility. "We may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the moment--"but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. Poor Edward! he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it--for I know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge of him, Miss Dashwood, from YOUR slight acquaintance.--Poor Edward!--His manners are certainly not the happiest in nature.--But we are not all born, you know, with the same powers,--the same address.-- Poor fellow!--to see him in a circle of strangers!--to be sure it was pitiable enough!--but upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and I declare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. I could not believe it.-- My mother was the first person who told me of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her, 'My dear madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must say, that if Edward does marry this young woman, I never will see him again.' That was what I said immediately.-- I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed!--Poor Edward!--he has done for himself completely--shut himself out for ever from all decent society!--but, as I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least surprised at it; from his style of education, it was always to be expected. My poor mother was half frantic." "Have you ever seen the lady?" "Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty.-- I remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late THEN, I found, to do any thing, for unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier--I think it is most probable--that something might have been hit on. I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. 'My dear fellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you are doing. You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be starved, you know;--that is certain; absolutely starved." He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though SHE never spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of them;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.

Chapters 40-41

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-4041

Mrs. Jennings questioned Elinor about her talk with Colonel Brandon, and the two women were soon at cross purposes. Mrs. Jennings was left with the impression that Elinor and the colonel wanted Edward to perform their wedding ceremony. Before she learned the truth, Edward called and was greatly surprised to learn from Elinor of the colonel's offer of the Delaford living. He was most grateful, naturally concluding that Elinor had played some part in the offer. When he left to go and thank the colonel, Mrs. Jennings returned. During a talk with Elinor, they both realized her misunderstanding about the engagement and were much amused. Edward thanked the colonel and proceeded to tell Lucy his news. She was "able to reassure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life." Elinor, out of courtesy, went to call on her sister-in-law and found her half-brother at home. He told her that she would be pleased to know that Mrs. Ferrars would have even preferred Elinor to Lucy Steele. When Elinor made no comment, John again alluded to a match between her and Colonel Brandon. While Elinor was still there, Robert Ferrars turned up, and his patronizing and unfeeling attitude towards Edward confirmed "her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart."

Country squires like Colonel Brandon, who had the power to bestow livings, often accepted money from those who wished to be given a living on the death of the incumbent. As John Dashwood said, they sometimes received as much as fourteen hundred pounds. Sometimes parents or guardians bought a living for a young man, and a clergyman was employed temporarily until the youth was grown up and ordained. Elinor again shows her strength of character by visiting the "ailing" Mrs. Dashwood, who has treated her so badly. Robert is confirmed as the shallow fop he appeared to be on their first meeting at Gray's. He has no sympathy for his brother, finding Edward's sad situation a source of laughter and contempt.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/03.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_1_part_1.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 3

chapter 3

{"name": "Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210228142327/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/doriangray/section2/", "summary": "Shortly after his first meeting with Dorian Gray, Lord Henry visits his uncle, Lord Fermor, a \"genial if somewhat rough-mannered\" old nobleman. When Lord Henry asks his uncle about Dorian Gray's past, the old man tells him that Dorian comes from an unhappy family with a dark, tangled history. He relates that Dorian's mother, a noblewoman, eloped with a poor soldier; the woman's father, a villainous old lord, arranged to have his daughter's husband killed just before Dorian was born. The grieving widow died soon thereafter, leaving Dorian to be raised by a loveless tyrant. With this information, Lord Henry becomes increasingly fascinated with Dorian; he finds the story romantic and delights in the thought that he might influence the young man, making \"that wonderful spirit his own. Shortly thereafter, Lord Henry goes to dine at the home of his aunt, Lady Agatha, where several of London's elite upper class--Dorian included--have gathered. Lord Henry scandalizes the group by going on at length about the virtues of hedonism and selfishness and mocking his aunt's philanthropic efforts. I can sympathize with everything,\" he remarks at one point, \"except suffering. He insists that one's life should be spent appreciating beauty and seeking out pleasure rather than searching for ways to alleviate pain and tragedy. Many of the guests are appalled by his selfishness, but he is so clever and witty that they are charmed in spite of themselves. Dorian Gray is particularly fascinated, so much so that he leaves with Lord Henry and abandons his earlier plans to visit Basil", "analysis": "The Picture of Dorian Gray is a curious mixture of different genres. It displays Wilde's incomparable talent for social comedy and satire, even as it veers toward the formula for Gothic literature. Gothic fiction, which was tremendously popular in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, focused on tales of romance, cruelty, and horror. By the end of the nineteenth century, the formula had changed considerably, but these basic tenets remained intact. Dorian's mysterious and melodramatic heritage alludes to conventions of the Gothic novel: his wicked grandfather, his parents' cursed elopement, his father's murder, and his mother's early death represent a type of moody romance popular among Gothic authors. As the critic Donald Lawler points out, Dorian's ancestry is identical to that of the main characters in three of Wilde's short stories. The first two chapters of the novel show Lord Henry's powers of seduction, but in Chapters Three and Four Lord Henry himself is seduced. Strictly speaking, it is not a person who draws Lord Henry in, but the possibility of having a profound effect on a person, namely Dorian: \"there was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence.\" To project his soul onto Dorian and seize his spirit just as Dorian has seized Basil's imagination becomes Lord Henry's greatest desire. In Lord Henry's mind, life and art are not only connected but interchangeable. By molding Dorian into \"a marvellous type\" of boy, Lord Henry believes that he is countering the effects of \"an age so limited and vulgar\" as his own. He imagines that he will take his place among such masters as the great Italian artist Michelangelo, with whom he shares the imperative to create something of beauty. The fact that Lord Henry considers the life of another human being a viable medium for artistic expression indicates \"he new manner in art\" that Wilde so tirelessly advocated. Indeed, many readers might find Lord Henry heartless, given his willingness to watch Dorian's development with practically no thought of consequence. After all, Dorian's beauty is all that matters to him, and \"t was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end.\" This behavior merely links Lord Henry to the tenets of aestheticism, whereby beauty is of primary importance, and vice and virtue--as Wilde states in the novel's preface--are nothing more than \"materials for an art.\" If the opening chapters position the three main characters in a triangular relationship, wherein Lord Henry and Basil vie for Dorian's soul and affections, Lord Henry quickly wins at the end of Chapter Three. In Dorian's declaration that he will miss his appointment with Basil in order to hear Lord Henry speak, we see that Lord Henry's hopes to dominate and influence the young man have more or less been fulfilled. Dorian gives his affections over largely because of Lord Henry's conversational skill; he asks Lord Henry to \"promise to talk to me all the time.\" Indeed, Lord Henry is a great talker, a wonderful philosopher of \"the new Hedonism,\" but, unlike Dorian, he acts on nothing that would damage his respectable reputation or life."}

At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his father's secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. "Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything." "Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don't want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor's tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." "Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso's grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him." "Kelso's grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso's grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow--a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public--paid him, sir, to do it, paid him--and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap." "He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry. "I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man. "He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn't dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies." "I don't know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?" "Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and there wasn't a girl in London at the time who wasn't after him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain't English girls good enough for him?" "It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George." "I'll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor, striking the table with his fist. "The betting is on the Americans." "They don't last, I am told," muttered his uncle. "A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a steeplechase. They take things flying. I don't think Dartmoor has a chance." "Who are her people?" grumbled the old gentleman. "Has she got any?" Lord Henry shook his head. "American girls are as clever at concealing their parents, as English women are at concealing their past," he said, rising to go. "They are pork-packers, I suppose?" "I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor's sake. I am told that pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after politics." "Is she pretty?" "She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm." "Why can't these American women stay in their own country? They are always telling us that it is the paradise for women." "It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively anxious to get out of it," said Lord Henry. "Good-bye, Uncle George. I shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones." "Where are you lunching, Harry?" "At Aunt Agatha's. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest _protege_." "Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads." "All right, Uncle George, I'll tell her, but it won't have any effect. Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their distinguishing characteristic." The old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street and turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square. So that was the story of Dorian Gray's parentage. Crudely as it had been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a strange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an interesting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might blow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer rose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the bow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. No other activity was like it. To project one's soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one's own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey one's temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in that--perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and grossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad, whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil's studio, or could be fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for us. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him--had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of love and death. Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt's some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and passed into the dining-room. "Late as usual, Harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt's oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?" "I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess." "How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. The duchess looked puzzled. "Don't mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means anything that he says." "When America was discovered," said the Radical member--and he began to give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It is most unfair." "Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr. Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected." "Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the duchess vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same." "They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris," chuckled Sir Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour's cast-off clothes. "Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired the duchess. "They go to America," murmured Lord Henry. Sir Thomas frowned. "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country," he said to Lady Agatha. "I have travelled all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it." "But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr. Erskine plaintively. "I don't feel up to the journey." Sir Thomas waved his hand. "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans." "How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect." "I do not understand you," said Sir Thomas, growing rather red. "I do, Lord Henry," murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile. "Paradoxes are all very well in their way...." rejoined the baronet. "Was that a paradox?" asked Mr. Erskine. "I did not think so. Perhaps it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become acrobats, we can judge them." "Dear me!" said Lady Agatha, "how you men argue! I am sure I never can make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love his playing." "I want him to play to me," cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked down the table and caught a bright answering glance. "But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel," continued Lady Agatha. "I can sympathize with everything except suffering," said Lord Henry, shrugging his shoulders. "I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores, the better." "Still, the East End is a very important problem," remarked Sir Thomas with a grave shake of the head. "Quite so," answered the young lord. "It is the problem of slavery, and we try to solve it by amusing the slaves." The politician looked at him keenly. "What change do you propose, then?" he asked. Lord Henry laughed. "I don't desire to change anything in England except the weather," he answered. "I am quite content with philosophic contemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not emotional." "But we have such grave responsibilities," ventured Mrs. Vandeleur timidly. "Terribly grave," echoed Lady Agatha. Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. "Humanity takes itself too seriously. It is the world's original sin. If the caveman had known how to laugh, history would have been different." "You are really very comforting," warbled the duchess. "I have always felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no interest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look her in the face without a blush." "A blush is very becoming, Duchess," remarked Lord Henry. "Only when one is young," she answered. "When an old woman like myself blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell me how to become young again." He thought for a moment. "Can you remember any great error that you committed in your early days, Duchess?" he asked, looking at her across the table. "A great many, I fear," she cried. "Then commit them over again," he said gravely. "To get back one's youth, one has merely to repeat one's follies." "A delightful theory!" she exclaimed. "I must put it into practice." "A dangerous theory!" came from Sir Thomas's tight lips. Lady Agatha shook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened. "Yes," he continued, "that is one of the great secrets of life. Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes." A laugh ran round the table. He played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent with fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went on, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over the vat's black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary improvisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him, and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they followed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes. At last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room in the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was waiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. "How annoying!" she cried. "I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take him to some absurd meeting at Willis's Rooms, where he is going to be in the chair. If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn't have a scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word would ruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you are quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don't know what to say about your views. You must come and dine with us some night. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?" "For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess," said Lord Henry with a bow. "Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you," she cried; "so mind you come"; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the other ladies. When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm. "You talk books away," he said; "why don't you write one?" "I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely as a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty of literature." "I fear you are right," answered Mr. Erskine. "I myself used to have literary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear young friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you really meant all that you said to us at lunch?" "I quite forget what I said," smiled Lord Henry. "Was it all very bad?" "Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if anything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being primarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The generation into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you are tired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your philosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate enough to possess." "I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. It has a perfect host, and a perfect library." "You will complete it," answered the old gentleman with a courteous bow. "And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at the Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there." "All of you, Mr. Erskine?" "Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English Academy of Letters." Lord Henry laughed and rose. "I am going to the park," he cried. As he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm. "Let me come with you," he murmured. "But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him," answered Lord Henry. "I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do let me. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks so wonderfully as you do." "Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day," said Lord Henry, smiling. "All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with me, if you care to."

Chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210228142327/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/doriangray/section2/

Shortly after his first meeting with Dorian Gray, Lord Henry visits his uncle, Lord Fermor, a "genial if somewhat rough-mannered" old nobleman. When Lord Henry asks his uncle about Dorian Gray's past, the old man tells him that Dorian comes from an unhappy family with a dark, tangled history. He relates that Dorian's mother, a noblewoman, eloped with a poor soldier; the woman's father, a villainous old lord, arranged to have his daughter's husband killed just before Dorian was born. The grieving widow died soon thereafter, leaving Dorian to be raised by a loveless tyrant. With this information, Lord Henry becomes increasingly fascinated with Dorian; he finds the story romantic and delights in the thought that he might influence the young man, making "that wonderful spirit his own. Shortly thereafter, Lord Henry goes to dine at the home of his aunt, Lady Agatha, where several of London's elite upper class--Dorian included--have gathered. Lord Henry scandalizes the group by going on at length about the virtues of hedonism and selfishness and mocking his aunt's philanthropic efforts. I can sympathize with everything," he remarks at one point, "except suffering. He insists that one's life should be spent appreciating beauty and seeking out pleasure rather than searching for ways to alleviate pain and tragedy. Many of the guests are appalled by his selfishness, but he is so clever and witty that they are charmed in spite of themselves. Dorian Gray is particularly fascinated, so much so that he leaves with Lord Henry and abandons his earlier plans to visit Basil

The Picture of Dorian Gray is a curious mixture of different genres. It displays Wilde's incomparable talent for social comedy and satire, even as it veers toward the formula for Gothic literature. Gothic fiction, which was tremendously popular in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, focused on tales of romance, cruelty, and horror. By the end of the nineteenth century, the formula had changed considerably, but these basic tenets remained intact. Dorian's mysterious and melodramatic heritage alludes to conventions of the Gothic novel: his wicked grandfather, his parents' cursed elopement, his father's murder, and his mother's early death represent a type of moody romance popular among Gothic authors. As the critic Donald Lawler points out, Dorian's ancestry is identical to that of the main characters in three of Wilde's short stories. The first two chapters of the novel show Lord Henry's powers of seduction, but in Chapters Three and Four Lord Henry himself is seduced. Strictly speaking, it is not a person who draws Lord Henry in, but the possibility of having a profound effect on a person, namely Dorian: "there was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence." To project his soul onto Dorian and seize his spirit just as Dorian has seized Basil's imagination becomes Lord Henry's greatest desire. In Lord Henry's mind, life and art are not only connected but interchangeable. By molding Dorian into "a marvellous type" of boy, Lord Henry believes that he is countering the effects of "an age so limited and vulgar" as his own. He imagines that he will take his place among such masters as the great Italian artist Michelangelo, with whom he shares the imperative to create something of beauty. The fact that Lord Henry considers the life of another human being a viable medium for artistic expression indicates "he new manner in art" that Wilde so tirelessly advocated. Indeed, many readers might find Lord Henry heartless, given his willingness to watch Dorian's development with practically no thought of consequence. After all, Dorian's beauty is all that matters to him, and "t was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end." This behavior merely links Lord Henry to the tenets of aestheticism, whereby beauty is of primary importance, and vice and virtue--as Wilde states in the novel's preface--are nothing more than "materials for an art." If the opening chapters position the three main characters in a triangular relationship, wherein Lord Henry and Basil vie for Dorian's soul and affections, Lord Henry quickly wins at the end of Chapter Three. In Dorian's declaration that he will miss his appointment with Basil in order to hear Lord Henry speak, we see that Lord Henry's hopes to dominate and influence the young man have more or less been fulfilled. Dorian gives his affections over largely because of Lord Henry's conversational skill; he asks Lord Henry to "promise to talk to me all the time." Indeed, Lord Henry is a great talker, a wonderful philosopher of "the new Hedonism," but, unlike Dorian, he acts on nothing that would damage his respectable reputation or life.

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finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_2_part_2.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 2.chapter 6

book 2, chapter 6

{"name": "book 2, Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section3/", "summary": "Why Is Such a Man Alive. Dmitri asks for Zosima's blessing and says that he is late because his father's messenger gave him the wrong time. Not wishing to interrupt the debate, Dmitri finds a chair and sits quietly. Ivan goes on to say that, in his view, the entire notion of morality depends on the idea of the immortality of the soul. If people did not believe in an afterlife, he says, there would be no reason for them to worry about behaving morally. They could simply act to satisfy their desires. This idea scandalizes Miusov and troubles Dmitri. Zosima gently notes that Ivan himself is beset with doubt and advocates positions he does not entirely believe, merely to toy with his own despair. As the debate enters a lull, Fyodor Pavlovich begins to criticize and insult Dmitri. He accuses his son of dealing falsely with his fiancee, Katerina, and deserting her after falling in love with another woman, Grushenka. As the others look on in embarrassment, Dmitri gives an angry reply that helps explain the conflict between -Dmitri and his father: Dmitri says that Fyodor Pavlovich is jealous because Fyodor Pavlovich also lusts after Grushenka and has made a fool of himself trying to win her heart. Dmitri says that Fyodor Pavlovich has even tried to convince Grushenka to collaborate with him to send Dmitri to prison. The men go on shouting at one another, until suddenly Zosima stands up. He walks over to Dmitri and kneels before him. Then, wordlessly, he leaves the room. The others are baffled by this gesture. As they prepare to have lunch with the Father Superior, Fyodor Pavlovich leaves in a huff", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VI. Why Is Such A Man Alive? Dmitri Fyodorovitch, a young man of eight and twenty, of medium height and agreeable countenance, looked older than his years. He was muscular, and showed signs of considerable physical strength. Yet there was something not healthy in his face. It was rather thin, his cheeks were hollow, and there was an unhealthy sallowness in their color. His rather large, prominent, dark eyes had an expression of firm determination, and yet there was a vague look in them, too. Even when he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow his mood, but betrayed something else, sometimes quite incongruous with what was passing. "It's hard to tell what he's thinking," those who talked to him sometimes declared. People who saw something pensive and sullen in his eyes were startled by his sudden laugh, which bore witness to mirthful and light- hearted thoughts at the very time when his eyes were so gloomy. A certain strained look in his face was easy to understand at this moment. Every one knew, or had heard of, the extremely restless and dissipated life which he had been leading of late, as well as of the violent anger to which he had been roused in his quarrels with his father. There were several stories current in the town about it. It is true that he was irascible by nature, "of an unstable and unbalanced mind," as our justice of the peace, Katchalnikov, happily described him. He was stylishly and irreproachably dressed in a carefully buttoned frock- coat. He wore black gloves and carried a top-hat. Having only lately left the army, he still had mustaches and no beard. His dark brown hair was cropped short, and combed forward on his temples. He had the long, determined stride of a military man. He stood still for a moment on the threshold, and glancing at the whole party went straight up to the elder, guessing him to be their host. He made him a low bow, and asked his blessing. Father Zossima, rising in his chair, blessed him. Dmitri kissed his hand respectfully, and with intense feeling, almost anger, he said: "Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long, but Smerdyakov, the valet sent me by my father, in reply to my inquiries, told me twice over that the appointment was for one. Now I suddenly learn--" "Don't disturb yourself," interposed the elder. "No matter. You are a little late. It's of no consequence...." "I'm extremely obliged to you, and expected no less from your goodness." Saying this, Dmitri bowed once more. Then, turning suddenly towards his father, made him, too, a similarly low and respectful bow. He had evidently considered it beforehand, and made this bow in all seriousness, thinking it his duty to show his respect and good intentions. Although Fyodor Pavlovitch was taken unawares, he was equal to the occasion. In response to Dmitri's bow he jumped up from his chair and made his son a bow as low in return. His face was suddenly solemn and impressive, which gave him a positively malignant look. Dmitri bowed generally to all present, and without a word walked to the window with his long, resolute stride, sat down on the only empty chair, near Father Paissy, and, bending forward, prepared to listen to the conversation he had interrupted. Dmitri's entrance had taken no more than two minutes, and the conversation was resumed. But this time Miuesov thought it unnecessary to reply to Father Paissy's persistent and almost irritable question. "Allow me to withdraw from this discussion," he observed with a certain well-bred nonchalance. "It's a subtle question, too. Here Ivan Fyodorovitch is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to say about that also. Ask him." "Nothing special, except one little remark," Ivan replied at once. "European Liberals in general, and even our liberal dilettanti, often mix up the final results of socialism with those of Christianity. This wild notion is, of course, a characteristic feature. But it's not only Liberals and dilettanti who mix up socialism and Christianity, but, in many cases, it appears, the police--the foreign police, of course--do the same. Your Paris anecdote is rather to the point, Pyotr Alexandrovitch." "I ask your permission to drop this subject altogether," Miuesov repeated. "I will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and rather characteristic anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovitch himself. Only five days ago, in a gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly declared in argument that there was nothing in the whole world to make men love their neighbors. That there was no law of nature that man should love mankind, and that, if there had been any love on earth hitherto, it was not owing to a natural law, but simply because men have believed in immortality. Ivan Fyodorovitch added in parenthesis that the whole natural law lies in that faith, and that if you were to destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not only love but every living force maintaining the life of the world would at once be dried up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral, everything would be lawful, even cannibalism. That's not all. He ended by asserting that for every individual, like ourselves, who does not believe in God or immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that egoism, even to crime, must become not only lawful but even recognized as the inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position. From this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our eccentric and paradoxical friend Ivan Fyodorovitch's theories." "Excuse me," Dmitri cried suddenly; "if I've heard aright, crime must not only be permitted but even recognized as the inevitable and the most rational outcome of his position for every infidel! Is that so or not?" "Quite so," said Father Paissy. "I'll remember it." Having uttered these words Dmitri ceased speaking as suddenly as he had begun. Every one looked at him with curiosity. "Is that really your conviction as to the consequences of the disappearance of the faith in immortality?" the elder asked Ivan suddenly. "Yes. That was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no immortality." "You are blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy." "Why unhappy?" Ivan asked smiling. "Because, in all probability you don't believe yourself in the immortality of your soul, nor in what you have written yourself in your article on Church jurisdiction." "Perhaps you are right! ... But I wasn't altogether joking," Ivan suddenly and strangely confessed, flushing quickly. "You were not altogether joking. That's true. The question is still fretting your heart, and not answered. But the martyr likes sometimes to divert himself with his despair, as it were driven to it by despair itself. Meanwhile, in your despair, you, too, divert yourself with magazine articles, and discussions in society, though you don't believe your own arguments, and with an aching heart mock at them inwardly.... That question you have not answered, and it is your great grief, for it clamors for an answer." "But can it be answered by me? Answered in the affirmative?" Ivan went on asking strangely, still looking at the elder with the same inexplicable smile. "If it can't be decided in the affirmative, it will never be decided in the negative. You know that that is the peculiarity of your heart, and all its suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator who has given you a lofty heart capable of such suffering; of thinking and seeking higher things, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant that your heart will attain the answer on earth, and may God bless your path." The elder raised his hand and would have made the sign of the cross over Ivan from where he stood. But the latter rose from his seat, went up to him, received his blessing, and kissing his hand went back to his place in silence. His face looked firm and earnest. This action and all the preceding conversation, which was so surprising from Ivan, impressed every one by its strangeness and a certain solemnity, so that all were silent for a moment, and there was a look almost of apprehension in Alyosha's face. But Miuesov suddenly shrugged his shoulders. And at the same moment Fyodor Pavlovitch jumped up from his seat. "Most pious and holy elder," he cried, pointing to Ivan, "that is my son, flesh of my flesh, the dearest of my flesh! He is my most dutiful Karl Moor, so to speak, while this son who has just come in, Dmitri, against whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful Franz Moor--they are both out of Schiller's _Robbers_, and so I am the reigning Count von Moor! Judge and save us! We need not only your prayers but your prophecies!" "Speak without buffoonery, and don't begin by insulting the members of your family," answered the elder, in a faint, exhausted voice. He was obviously getting more and more fatigued, and his strength was failing. "An unseemly farce which I foresaw when I came here!" cried Dmitri indignantly. He too leapt up. "Forgive it, reverend Father," he added, addressing the elder. "I am not a cultivated man, and I don't even know how to address you properly, but you have been deceived and you have been too good-natured in letting us meet here. All my father wants is a scandal. Why he wants it only he can tell. He always has some motive. But I believe I know why--" "They all blame me, all of them!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch in his turn. "Pyotr Alexandrovitch here blames me too. You have been blaming me, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you have!" he turned suddenly to Miuesov, although the latter was not dreaming of interrupting him. "They all accuse me of having hidden the children's money in my boots, and cheated them, but isn't there a court of law? There they will reckon out for you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, from your notes, your letters, and your agreements, how much money you had, how much you have spent, and how much you have left. Why does Pyotr Alexandrovitch refuse to pass judgment? Dmitri is not a stranger to him. Because they are all against me, while Dmitri Fyodorovitch is in debt to me, and not a little, but some thousands of which I have documentary proof. The whole town is echoing with his debaucheries. And where he was stationed before, he several times spent a thousand or two for the seduction of some respectable girl; we know all about that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, in its most secret details. I'll prove it.... Would you believe it, holy Father, he has captivated the heart of the most honorable of young ladies of good family and fortune, daughter of a gallant colonel, formerly his superior officer, who had received many honors and had the Anna Order on his breast. He compromised the girl by his promise of marriage, now she is an orphan and here; she is betrothed to him, yet before her very eyes he is dancing attendance on a certain enchantress. And although this enchantress has lived in, so to speak, civil marriage with a respectable man, yet she is of an independent character, an unapproachable fortress for everybody, just like a legal wife--for she is virtuous, yes, holy Fathers, she is virtuous. Dmitri Fyodorovitch wants to open this fortress with a golden key, and that's why he is insolent to me now, trying to get money from me, though he has wasted thousands on this enchantress already. He's continually borrowing money for the purpose. From whom do you think? Shall I say, Mitya?" "Be silent!" cried Dmitri, "wait till I'm gone. Don't dare in my presence to asperse the good name of an honorable girl! That you should utter a word about her is an outrage, and I won't permit it!" He was breathless. "Mitya! Mitya!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch hysterically, squeezing out a tear. "And is your father's blessing nothing to you? If I curse you, what then?" "Shameless hypocrite!" exclaimed Dmitri furiously. "He says that to his father! his father! What would he be with others? Gentlemen, only fancy; there's a poor but honorable man living here, burdened with a numerous family, a captain who got into trouble and was discharged from the army, but not publicly, not by court-martial, with no slur on his honor. And three weeks ago, Dmitri seized him by the beard in a tavern, dragged him out into the street and beat him publicly, and all because he is an agent in a little business of mine." "It's all a lie! Outwardly it's the truth, but inwardly a lie!" Dmitri was trembling with rage. "Father, I don't justify my action. Yes, I confess it publicly, I behaved like a brute to that captain, and I regret it now, and I'm disgusted with myself for my brutal rage. But this captain, this agent of yours, went to that lady whom you call an enchantress, and suggested to her from you, that she should take I.O.U.'s of mine which were in your possession, and should sue me for the money so as to get me into prison by means of them, if I persisted in claiming an account from you of my property. Now you reproach me for having a weakness for that lady when you yourself incited her to captivate me! She told me so to my face.... She told me the story and laughed at you.... You wanted to put me in prison because you are jealous of me with her, because you'd begun to force your attentions upon her; and I know all about that, too; she laughed at you for that as well--you hear--she laughed at you as she described it. So here you have this man, this father who reproaches his profligate son! Gentlemen, forgive my anger, but I foresaw that this crafty old man would only bring you together to create a scandal. I had come to forgive him if he held out his hand; to forgive him, and ask forgiveness! But as he has just this minute insulted not only me, but an honorable young lady, for whom I feel such reverence that I dare not take her name in vain, I have made up my mind to show up his game, though he is my father...." He could not go on. His eyes were glittering and he breathed with difficulty. But every one in the cell was stirred. All except Father Zossima got up from their seats uneasily. The monks looked austere but waited for guidance from the elder. He sat still, pale, not from excitement but from the weakness of disease. An imploring smile lighted up his face; from time to time he raised his hand, as though to check the storm, and, of course, a gesture from him would have been enough to end the scene; but he seemed to be waiting for something and watched them intently as though trying to make out something which was not perfectly clear to him. At last Miuesov felt completely humiliated and disgraced. "We are all to blame for this scandalous scene," he said hotly. "But I did not foresee it when I came, though I knew with whom I had to deal. This must be stopped at once! Believe me, your reverence, I had no precise knowledge of the details that have just come to light, I was unwilling to believe them, and I learn for the first time.... A father is jealous of his son's relations with a woman of loose behavior and intrigues with the creature to get his son into prison! This is the company in which I have been forced to be present! I was deceived. I declare to you all that I was as much deceived as any one." "Dmitri Fyodorovitch," yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, in an unnatural voice, "if you were not my son I would challenge you this instant to a duel ... with pistols, at three paces ... across a handkerchief," he ended, stamping with both feet. With old liars who have been acting all their lives there are moments when they enter so completely into their part that they tremble or shed tears of emotion in earnest, although at that very moment, or a second later, they are able to whisper to themselves, "You know you are lying, you shameless old sinner! You're acting now, in spite of your 'holy' wrath." Dmitri frowned painfully, and looked with unutterable contempt at his father. "I thought ... I thought," he said, in a soft and, as it were, controlled voice, "that I was coming to my native place with the angel of my heart, my betrothed, to cherish his old age, and I find nothing but a depraved profligate, a despicable clown!" "A duel!" yelled the old wretch again, breathless and spluttering at each syllable. "And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, let me tell you that there has never been in all your family a loftier, and more honest--you hear--more honest woman than this 'creature,' as you have dared to call her! And you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, have abandoned your betrothed for that 'creature,' so you must yourself have thought that your betrothed couldn't hold a candle to her. That's the woman called a 'creature'!" "Shameful!" broke from Father Iosif. "Shameful and disgraceful!" Kalganov, flushing crimson, cried in a boyish voice, trembling with emotion. He had been silent till that moment. "Why is such a man alive?" Dmitri, beside himself with rage, growled in a hollow voice, hunching up his shoulders till he looked almost deformed. "Tell me, can he be allowed to go on defiling the earth?" He looked round at every one and pointed at the old man. He spoke evenly and deliberately. "Listen, listen, monks, to the parricide!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, rushing up to Father Iosif. "That's the answer to your 'shameful!' What is shameful? That 'creature,' that 'woman of loose behavior' is perhaps holier than you are yourselves, you monks who are seeking salvation! She fell perhaps in her youth, ruined by her environment. But she loved much, and Christ himself forgave the woman 'who loved much.' " "It was not for such love Christ forgave her," broke impatiently from the gentle Father Iosif. "Yes, it was for such, monks, it was! You save your souls here, eating cabbage, and think you are the righteous. You eat a gudgeon a day, and you think you bribe God with gudgeon." "This is unendurable!" was heard on all sides in the cell. But this unseemly scene was cut short in a most unexpected way. Father Zossima rose suddenly from his seat. Almost distracted with anxiety for the elder and every one else, Alyosha succeeded, however, in supporting him by the arm. Father Zossima moved towards Dmitri and reaching him sank on his knees before him. Alyosha thought that he had fallen from weakness, but this was not so. The elder distinctly and deliberately bowed down at Dmitri's feet till his forehead touched the floor. Alyosha was so astounded that he failed to assist him when he got up again. There was a faint smile on his lips. "Good-by! Forgive me, all of you!" he said, bowing on all sides to his guests. Dmitri stood for a few moments in amazement. Bowing down to him--what did it mean? Suddenly he cried aloud, "Oh, God!" hid his face in his hands, and rushed out of the room. All the guests flocked out after him, in their confusion not saying good-by, or bowing to their host. Only the monks went up to him again for a blessing. "What did it mean, falling at his feet like that? Was it symbolic or what?" said Fyodor Pavlovitch, suddenly quieted and trying to reopen conversation without venturing to address anybody in particular. They were all passing out of the precincts of the hermitage at the moment. "I can't answer for a madhouse and for madmen," Miuesov answered at once ill-humoredly, "but I will spare myself your company, Fyodor Pavlovitch, and, trust me, for ever. Where's that monk?" "That monk," that is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the Superior, did not keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came down the steps from the elder's cell, as though he had been waiting for them all the time. "Reverend Father, kindly do me a favor. Convey my deepest respect to the Father Superior, apologize for me, personally, Miuesov, to his reverence, telling him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen circumstances I am unable to have the honor of being present at his table, greatly as I should desire to do so," Miuesov said irritably to the monk. "And that unforeseen circumstance, of course, is myself," Fyodor Pavlovitch cut in immediately. "Do you hear, Father; this gentleman doesn't want to remain in my company or else he'd come at once. And you shall go, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, pray go to the Father Superior and good appetite to you. I will decline, and not you. Home, home, I'll eat at home, I don't feel equal to it here, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, my amiable relative." "I am not your relative and never have been, you contemptible man!" "I said it on purpose to madden you, because you always disclaim the relationship, though you really are a relation in spite of your shuffling. I'll prove it by the church calendar. As for you, Ivan, stay if you like. I'll send the horses for you later. Propriety requires you to go to the Father Superior, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to apologize for the disturbance we've been making...." "Is it true that you are going home? Aren't you lying?" "Pyotr Alexandrovitch! How could I dare after what's happened! Forgive me, gentlemen, I was carried away! And upset besides! And, indeed, I am ashamed. Gentlemen, one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon and another the heart of the little dog Fido. Mine is that of the little dog Fido. I am ashamed! After such an escapade how can I go to dinner, to gobble up the monastery's sauces? I am ashamed, I can't. You must excuse me!" "The devil only knows, what if he deceives us?" thought Miuesov, still hesitating, and watching the retreating buffoon with distrustful eyes. The latter turned round, and noticing that Miuesov was watching him, waved him a kiss. "Well, are you coming to the Superior?" Miuesov asked Ivan abruptly. "Why not? I was especially invited yesterday." "Unfortunately I feel myself compelled to go to this confounded dinner," said Miuesov with the same irritability, regardless of the fact that the monk was listening. "We ought, at least, to apologize for the disturbance, and explain that it was not our doing. What do you think?" "Yes, we must explain that it wasn't our doing. Besides, father won't be there," observed Ivan. "Well, I should hope not! Confound this dinner!" They all walked on, however. The monk listened in silence. On the road through the copse he made one observation however--that the Father Superior had been waiting a long time, and that they were more than half an hour late. He received no answer. Miuesov looked with hatred at Ivan. "Here he is, going to the dinner as though nothing had happened," he thought. "A brazen face, and the conscience of a Karamazov!"

book 2, Chapter 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section3/

Why Is Such a Man Alive. Dmitri asks for Zosima's blessing and says that he is late because his father's messenger gave him the wrong time. Not wishing to interrupt the debate, Dmitri finds a chair and sits quietly. Ivan goes on to say that, in his view, the entire notion of morality depends on the idea of the immortality of the soul. If people did not believe in an afterlife, he says, there would be no reason for them to worry about behaving morally. They could simply act to satisfy their desires. This idea scandalizes Miusov and troubles Dmitri. Zosima gently notes that Ivan himself is beset with doubt and advocates positions he does not entirely believe, merely to toy with his own despair. As the debate enters a lull, Fyodor Pavlovich begins to criticize and insult Dmitri. He accuses his son of dealing falsely with his fiancee, Katerina, and deserting her after falling in love with another woman, Grushenka. As the others look on in embarrassment, Dmitri gives an angry reply that helps explain the conflict between -Dmitri and his father: Dmitri says that Fyodor Pavlovich is jealous because Fyodor Pavlovich also lusts after Grushenka and has made a fool of himself trying to win her heart. Dmitri says that Fyodor Pavlovich has even tried to convince Grushenka to collaborate with him to send Dmitri to prison. The men go on shouting at one another, until suddenly Zosima stands up. He walks over to Dmitri and kneels before him. Then, wordlessly, he leaves the room. The others are baffled by this gesture. As they prepare to have lunch with the Father Superior, Fyodor Pavlovich leaves in a huff

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/30.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_29_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 30

chapter 30

{"name": "Chapter 30", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-30", "summary": "Mrs. Jennings arrives home and busts in on the sisters, looking anxious. She inquires after Marianne, then makes a shocking announcement: Willoughby is to be married very soon, to a certain Miss Grey. Her news delivered, Mrs. Jennings retreats, leaving the sisters to their troubles. Marianne insists upon coming down to dinner that night, and seems calmer. Mrs. Jennings, who's really a good lady at heart, feels terrible about the whole thing and spends the rest of the evening spoiling Marianne. After a while, this treatment gets a little old, and Marianne flees back to her room. Elinor and Mrs. Jennings stay downstairs and talk over the matter of Willoughby. It turns out that his fiancee, Miss Grey, is quite rich - she's otherwise rather unremarkable. Mrs. Jennings realizes that Willoughby has been the cause of Marianne's downcast behavior all week, and can't wait to tell everyone else the bad news. Elinor tells her to make sure nobody brings up the subject in front of Marianne ever again. The pair agrees that talking and gossiping about this event will only make it worse . Mrs. Jennings, trying to look at the bright side, observes that this is a good sign for Colonel Brandon. Surely Marianne will just settle down and marry him now! Elinor can't take this matchmaking talk at the moment, and goes up to check on Marianne. Marianne doesn't want company, though, so Elinor is forced back downstairs, where Mrs. Jennings, who wants her to take a glass of special wine to Marianne. Elinor informs her that Marianne has gone to bed, and drinks the wine herself, thinking that she could also use a cure for a broken heart. Colonel Brandon turns up the next day, saying that he's heard tell of Willoughby's new engagement. He and Elinor discuss the matter at length. He asks how Marianne's doing - and Elinor tells him that her sister doesn't blame Willoughby himself. Colonel Brandon absorbs this information pensively. Mrs. Jennings is rather surprised that he doesn't magically transform into a bubbly, happy guy at the news that his affection for Marianne is now unobstructed.", "analysis": ""}

Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern. "How do you do my dear?"--said she in a voice of great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer. "How is she, Miss Dashwood?--Poor thing! she looks very bad.-- No wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon--a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her." She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise. Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less." Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it. When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her. Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room. "Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care no more about such things!--" "The lady then--Miss Grey I think you called her--is very rich?" "Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don't signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age." "Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be amiable?" "I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree."-- "And who are the Ellisons?" "Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made!--What now," after pausing a moment--"your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?" "Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest." "Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them tomorrow." "It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe." "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. And what does talking ever do you know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do THIS justice to Mr. Willoughby--he has broken no positive engagement with my sister." "Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!" Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! 'tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we CAN but put Willoughby out of her head!" "Ay, if we can do THAT, Ma'am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light. "You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received from her. "I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to do. Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her. In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand. "My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the world. Do take it to your sister." "Dear Ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are! But I have just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the wine myself." Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister. Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered-- "The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see. He knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear." He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her sister. "Marianne is not well," said she. "She has been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed." "Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I heard this morning may be--there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at first." "What did you hear?" "That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think--in short, that a man, whom I KNEW to be engaged--but how shall I tell you? If you know it already, as surely you must, I may be spared." "You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness, "Mr. Willoughby's marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we DO know it all. This seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear it?" "In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey--it was no longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing, especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still more:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!--but it would be impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt, on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey's guardian." "It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation." "It may be so; but Willoughby is capable--at least I think"--he stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "And your sister--how did she--" "Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they may be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps--but I am almost convinced that he never was really attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him." "Ah!" said Colonel Brandon, "there is, indeed! But your sister does not--I think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do?" "You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still justify him if she could." He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual.

Chapter 30

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-30

Mrs. Jennings arrives home and busts in on the sisters, looking anxious. She inquires after Marianne, then makes a shocking announcement: Willoughby is to be married very soon, to a certain Miss Grey. Her news delivered, Mrs. Jennings retreats, leaving the sisters to their troubles. Marianne insists upon coming down to dinner that night, and seems calmer. Mrs. Jennings, who's really a good lady at heart, feels terrible about the whole thing and spends the rest of the evening spoiling Marianne. After a while, this treatment gets a little old, and Marianne flees back to her room. Elinor and Mrs. Jennings stay downstairs and talk over the matter of Willoughby. It turns out that his fiancee, Miss Grey, is quite rich - she's otherwise rather unremarkable. Mrs. Jennings realizes that Willoughby has been the cause of Marianne's downcast behavior all week, and can't wait to tell everyone else the bad news. Elinor tells her to make sure nobody brings up the subject in front of Marianne ever again. The pair agrees that talking and gossiping about this event will only make it worse . Mrs. Jennings, trying to look at the bright side, observes that this is a good sign for Colonel Brandon. Surely Marianne will just settle down and marry him now! Elinor can't take this matchmaking talk at the moment, and goes up to check on Marianne. Marianne doesn't want company, though, so Elinor is forced back downstairs, where Mrs. Jennings, who wants her to take a glass of special wine to Marianne. Elinor informs her that Marianne has gone to bed, and drinks the wine herself, thinking that she could also use a cure for a broken heart. Colonel Brandon turns up the next day, saying that he's heard tell of Willoughby's new engagement. He and Elinor discuss the matter at length. He asks how Marianne's doing - and Elinor tells him that her sister doesn't blame Willoughby himself. Colonel Brandon absorbs this information pensively. Mrs. Jennings is rather surprised that he doesn't magically transform into a bubbly, happy guy at the news that his affection for Marianne is now unobstructed.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_2_part_8.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 23

chapter 23

{"name": "Chapter 23", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-3-chapters-16-24", "summary": "On Sunday, after milking the milkers travel to church in the rain. The lane leading from the parish has been flooded. While they cling to the bank, the girls find Angel Clare advancing toward them through the water. Angel asks the girls, avoiding Tess, whether they are going to church, and he vows to carry them through the flooded area. Tess is the final one to be carried, and she refuses, thinking that he must be so tired. Angel tells her that he carried the other girls so that he may get the opportunity to carry Tess. On the way to church, Marian remarks that the other girls have no chance against Tess, for Angel would have kissed her if she had encouraged him. Tess's heart aches, for there is no concealing the fact that she loves Angel Clare. That night, she vows that she will never stand in the way of Retty or the other girls. Izz tells Tess that a young lady of Angel's rank who supports him will marry Angel. After this disclosure Tess nourishes no further foolish thought that there lurks a grave import in Clare's attention to her, thinking that the love is a passing summer love for her face.", "analysis": "Tess continues to resist Angel Clare's advances in this chapter, although his declaration of affection for her is entirely without reproach. However, even if Angel behaves quite nobly to Tess and the other girls, even carrying them across flooded terrain and refraining from kissing Tess when he has the opportunity, he remains persistent. There is a great deal of inevitability concerning the romance between Angel and Tess; she cannot hide that she loves Angel, yet believes that his affection for her is only passing. Nevertheless, there is overwhelming evidence to the contrary; Tess's belief that Angel only has a temporary affection for her is based not on Angel's behavior but instead on her own anxieties and experience with Alec, which has taught her of the inconstancy of men's affections. The test of whether or not Tess will declare her love for Angel is not whether Angel loves her, but rather whether Tess may accept his love"}

The hot weather of July had crept upon them unawares, and the atmosphere of the flat vale hung heavy as an opiate over the dairy-folk, the cows, and the trees. Hot steaming rains fell frequently, making the grass where the cows fed yet more rank, and hindering the late hay-making in the other meads. It was Sunday morning; the milking was done; the outdoor milkers had gone home. Tess and the other three were dressing themselves rapidly, the whole bevy having agreed to go together to Mellstock Church, which lay some three or four miles distant from the dairy-house. She had now been two months at Talbothays, and this was her first excursion. All the preceding afternoon and night heavy thunderstorms had hissed down upon the meads, and washed some of the hay into the river; but this morning the sun shone out all the more brilliantly for the deluge, and the air was balmy and clear. The crooked lane leading from their own parish to Mellstock ran along the lowest levels in a portion of its length, and when the girls reached the most depressed spot they found that the result of the rain had been to flood the lane over-shoe to a distance of some fifty yards. This would have been no serious hindrance on a week-day; they would have clicked through it in their high pattens and boots quite unconcerned; but on this day of vanity, this Sun's-day, when flesh went forth to coquet with flesh while hypocritically affecting business with spiritual things; on this occasion for wearing their white stockings and thin shoes, and their pink, white, and lilac gowns, on which every mud spot would be visible, the pool was an awkward impediment. They could hear the church-bell calling--as yet nearly a mile off. "Who would have expected such a rise in the river in summer-time!" said Marian, from the top of the roadside bank on which they had climbed, and were maintaining a precarious footing in the hope of creeping along its slope till they were past the pool. "We can't get there anyhow, without walking right through it, or else going round the Turnpike way; and that would make us so very late!" said Retty, pausing hopelessly. "And I do colour up so hot, walking into church late, and all the people staring round," said Marian, "that I hardly cool down again till we get into the That-it-may-please-Thees." While they stood clinging to the bank they heard a splashing round the bend of the road, and presently appeared Angel Clare, advancing along the lane towards them through the water. Four hearts gave a big throb simultaneously. His aspect was probably as un-Sabbatarian a one as a dogmatic parson's son often presented; his attire being his dairy clothes, long wading boots, a cabbage-leaf inside his hat to keep his head cool, with a thistle-spud to finish him off. "He's not going to church," said Marian. "No--I wish he was!" murmured Tess. Angel, in fact, rightly or wrongly (to adopt the safe phrase of evasive controversialists), preferred sermons in stones to sermons in churches and chapels on fine summer days. This morning, moreover, he had gone out to see if the damage to the hay by the flood was considerable or not. On his walk he observed the girls from a long distance, though they had been so occupied with their difficulties of passage as not to notice him. He knew that the water had risen at that spot, and that it would quite check their progress. So he had hastened on, with a dim idea of how he could help them--one of them in particular. The rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed quartet looked so charming in their light summer attire, clinging to the roadside bank like pigeons on a roof-slope, that he stopped a moment to regard them before coming close. Their gauzy skirts had brushed up from the grass innumerable flies and butterflies which, unable to escape, remained caged in the transparent tissue as in an aviary. Angel's eye at last fell upon Tess, the hindmost of the four; she, being full of suppressed laughter at their dilemma, could not help meeting his glance radiantly. He came beneath them in the water, which did not rise over his long boots; and stood looking at the entrapped flies and butterflies. "Are you trying to get to church?" he said to Marian, who was in front, including the next two in his remark, but avoiding Tess. "Yes, sir; and 'tis getting late; and my colour do come up so--" "I'll carry you through the pool--every Jill of you." The whole four flushed as if one heart beat through them. "I think you can't, sir," said Marian. "It is the only way for you to get past. Stand still. Nonsense--you are not too heavy! I'd carry you all four together. Now, Marian, attend," he continued, "and put your arms round my shoulders, so. Now! Hold on. That's well done." Marian had lowered herself upon his arm and shoulder as directed, and Angel strode off with her, his slim figure, as viewed from behind, looking like the mere stem to the great nosegay suggested by hers. They disappeared round the curve of the road, and only his sousing footsteps and the top ribbon of Marian's bonnet told where they were. In a few minutes he reappeared. Izz Huett was the next in order upon the bank. "Here he comes," she murmured, and they could hear that her lips were dry with emotion. "And I have to put my arms round his neck and look into his face as Marian did." "There's nothing in that," said Tess quickly. "There's a time for everything," continued Izz, unheeding. "A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; the first is now going to be mine." "Fie--it is Scripture, Izz!" "Yes," said Izz, "I've always a' ear at church for pretty verses." Angel Clare, to whom three-quarters of this performance was a commonplace act of kindness, now approached Izz. She quietly and dreamily lowered herself into his arms, and Angel methodically marched off with her. When he was heard returning for the third time Retty's throbbing heart could be almost seen to shake her. He went up to the red-haired girl, and while he was seizing her he glanced at Tess. His lips could not have pronounced more plainly, "It will soon be you and I." Her comprehension appeared in her face; she could not help it. There was an understanding between them. Poor little Retty, though by far the lightest weight, was the most troublesome of Clare's burdens. Marian had been like a sack of meal, a dead weight of plumpness under which he has literally staggered. Izz had ridden sensibly and calmly. Retty was a bunch of hysterics. However, he got through with the disquieted creature, deposited her, and returned. Tess could see over the hedge the distant three in a group, standing as he had placed them on the next rising ground. It was now her turn. She was embarrassed to discover that excitement at the proximity of Mr Clare's breath and eyes, which she had contemned in her companions, was intensified in herself; and as if fearful of betraying her secret, she paltered with him at the last moment. "I may be able to clim' along the bank perhaps--I can clim' better than they. You must be so tired, Mr Clare!" "No, no, Tess," said he quickly. And almost before she was aware, she was seated in his arms and resting against his shoulder. "Three Leahs to get one Rachel," he whispered. "They are better women than I," she replied, magnanimously sticking to her resolve. "Not to me," said Angel. He saw her grow warm at this; and they went some steps in silence. "I hope I am not too heavy?" she said timidly. "O no. You should lift Marian! Such a lump. You are like an undulating billow warmed by the sun. And all this fluff of muslin about you is the froth." "It is very pretty--if I seem like that to you." "Do you know that I have undergone three-quarters of this labour entirely for the sake of the fourth quarter?" "No." "I did not expect such an event to-day." "Nor I... The water came up so sudden." That the rise in the water was what she understood him to refer to, the state of breathing belied. Clare stood still and inclinced his face towards hers. "O Tessy!" he exclaimed. The girl's cheeks burned to the breeze, and she could not look into his eyes for her emotion. It reminded Angel that he was somewhat unfairly taking advantage of an accidental position; and he went no further with it. No definite words of love had crossed their lips as yet, and suspension at this point was desirable now. However, he walked slowly, to make the remainder of the distance as long as possible; but at last they came to the bend, and the rest of their progress was in full view of the other three. The dry land was reached, and he set her down. Her friends were looking with round thoughtful eyes at her and him, and she could see that they had been talking of her. He hastily bade them farewell, and splashed back along the stretch of submerged road. The four moved on together as before, till Marian broke the silence by saying-- "No--in all truth; we have no chance against her!" She looked joylessly at Tess. "What do you mean?" asked the latter. "He likes 'ee best--the very best! We could see it as he brought 'ee. He would have kissed 'ee, if you had encouraged him to do it, ever so little." "No, no," said she. The gaiety with which they had set out had somehow vanished; and yet there was no enmity or malice between them. They were generous young souls; they had been reared in the lonely country nooks where fatalism is a strong sentiment, and they did not blame her. Such supplanting was to be. Tess's heart ached. There was no concealing from herself the fact that she loved Angel Clare, perhaps all the more passionately from knowing that the others had also lost their hearts to him. There is contagion in this sentiment, especially among women. And yet that same hungry nature had fought against this, but too feebly, and the natural result had followed. "I will never stand in your way, nor in the way of either of you!" she declared to Retty that night in the bedroom (her tears running down). "I can't help this, my dear! I don't think marrying is in his mind at all; but if he were ever to ask me I should refuse him, as I should refuse any man." "Oh! would you? Why?" said wondering Retty. "It cannot be! But I will be plain. Putting myself quite on one side, I don't think he will choose either of you." "I have never expected it--thought of it!" moaned Retty. "But O! I wish I was dead!" The poor child, torn by a feeling which she hardly understood, turned to the other two girls who came upstairs just then. "We be friends with her again," she said to them. "She thinks no more of his choosing her than we do." So the reserve went off, and they were confiding and warm. "I don't seem to care what I do now," said Marian, whose mood was turned to its lowest bass. "I was going to marry a dairyman at Stickleford, who's asked me twice; but--my soul--I would put an end to myself rather'n be his wife now! Why don't ye speak, Izz?" "To confess, then," murmured Izz, "I made sure to-day that he was going to kiss me as he held me; and I lay still against his breast, hoping and hoping, and never moved at all. But he did not. I don't like biding here at Talbothays any longer! I shall go hwome." The air of the sleeping-chamber seemed to palpitate with the hopeless passion of the girls. They writhed feverishly under the oppressiveness of an emotion thrust on them by cruel Nature's law--an emotion which they had neither expected nor desired. The incident of the day had fanned the flame that was burning the inside of their hearts out, and the torture was almost more than they could endure. The differences which distinguished them as individuals were abstracted by this passion, and each was but portion of one organism called sex. There was so much frankness and so little jealousy because there was no hope. Each one was a girl of fair common sense, and she did not delude herself with any vain conceits, or deny her love, or give herself airs, in the idea of outshining the others. The full recognition of the futility of their infatuation, from a social point of view; its purposeless beginning; its self-bounded outlook; its lack of everything to justify its existence in the eye of civilization (while lacking nothing in the eye of Nature); the one fact that it did exist, ecstasizing them to a killing joy--all this imparted to them a resignation, a dignity, which a practical and sordid expectation of winning him as a husband would have destroyed. They tossed and turned on their little beds, and the cheese-wring dripped monotonously downstairs. "B' you awake, Tess?" whispered one, half-an-hour later. It was Izz Huett's voice. Tess replied in the affirmative, whereupon also Retty and Marian suddenly flung the bedclothes off them, and sighed-- "So be we!" "I wonder what she is like--the lady they say his family have looked out for him!" "I wonder," said Izz. "Some lady looked out for him?" gasped Tess, starting. "I have never heard o' that!" "O yes--'tis whispered; a young lady of his own rank, chosen by his family; a Doctor of Divinity's daughter near his father's parish of Emminster; he don't much care for her, they say. But he is sure to marry her." They had heard so very little of this; yet it was enough to build up wretched dolorous dreams upon, there in the shade of the night. They pictured all the details of his being won round to consent, of the wedding preparations, of the bride's happiness, of her dress and veil, of her blissful home with him, when oblivion would have fallen upon themselves as far as he and their love were concerned. Thus they talked, and ached, and wept till sleep charmed their sorrow away. After this disclosure Tess nourished no further foolish thought that there lurked any grave and deliberate import in Clare's attentions to her. It was a passing summer love of her face, for love's own temporary sake--nothing more. And the thorny crown of this sad conception was that she whom he really did prefer in a cursory way to the rest, she who knew herself to be more impassioned in nature, cleverer, more beautiful than they, was in the eyes of propriety far less worthy of him than the homelier ones whom he ignored.

Chapter 23

https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-3-chapters-16-24

On Sunday, after milking the milkers travel to church in the rain. The lane leading from the parish has been flooded. While they cling to the bank, the girls find Angel Clare advancing toward them through the water. Angel asks the girls, avoiding Tess, whether they are going to church, and he vows to carry them through the flooded area. Tess is the final one to be carried, and she refuses, thinking that he must be so tired. Angel tells her that he carried the other girls so that he may get the opportunity to carry Tess. On the way to church, Marian remarks that the other girls have no chance against Tess, for Angel would have kissed her if she had encouraged him. Tess's heart aches, for there is no concealing the fact that she loves Angel Clare. That night, she vows that she will never stand in the way of Retty or the other girls. Izz tells Tess that a young lady of Angel's rank who supports him will marry Angel. After this disclosure Tess nourishes no further foolish thought that there lurks a grave import in Clare's attention to her, thinking that the love is a passing summer love for her face.

Tess continues to resist Angel Clare's advances in this chapter, although his declaration of affection for her is entirely without reproach. However, even if Angel behaves quite nobly to Tess and the other girls, even carrying them across flooded terrain and refraining from kissing Tess when he has the opportunity, he remains persistent. There is a great deal of inevitability concerning the romance between Angel and Tess; she cannot hide that she loves Angel, yet believes that his affection for her is only passing. Nevertheless, there is overwhelming evidence to the contrary; Tess's belief that Angel only has a temporary affection for her is based not on Angel's behavior but instead on her own anxieties and experience with Alec, which has taught her of the inconstancy of men's affections. The test of whether or not Tess will declare her love for Angel is not whether Angel loves her, but rather whether Tess may accept his love

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_15_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 16

chapter 16

{"name": "Chapter 16", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219150422/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/summary-and-analysis/chapter-16", "summary": "As Dorian rides toward his destination, he recalls Lord Henry's saying, the first day they met, \"To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul.\" Dorian intends to do just that. He is heading for an opium den, where old sins are forgotten and new ones found. Dorian craves opium. He feels afraid, and he is certain that there is no way to atone for his sins. The best he can hope for is to forget. In just three days, he thinks, he can find freedom by losing himself in the drug. The carriage arrives at the intended destination, and Dorian enters the shabby inn. At the end of the hall inside, he pulls aside a tattered curtain and enters a long, dark, low room. Dorian climbs a small staircase at the end of the room, leading to an even darker room. In the upper chamber, Dorian finds Adrian Singleton, one of the young men whom Basil accused Dorian of corrupting. However, Dorian decides not to stay. Adrian's presence bothers him; he prefers to be where no one knows him. At times, Dorian thinks he sees Basil's eyes following him. Dorian calls Adrian to the bar for a farewell shot of brandy. A woman approaches Dorian, but he gives her some money and tells her to leave. She is not so easily dissuaded. As Dorian is leaving, she shouts after him: \"Prince Charming is what you like to be called, ain't it?\" Her shouting startles a drowsy sailor who looks around rabidly and hurries out in pursuit of Dorian. Dorian hurries toward a different opium den. As he takes a short cut through a den archway, someone suddenly grabs him from behind and shoves him against a wall, his hand choking Dorian, who hears the click of a revolver. The man who chokes Dorian is James Vane, brother of Sibyl Vane, the actress who killed herself eighteen years before. He has sought Dorian, not even knowing the real name of \"Prince Charming\" all this time. Having heard his sister's pet name for the \"gentleman\" who did her wrong, James feels certain that he finally has found the cad. Dorian denies ever knowing the girl and asks how long ago this all took place. When James replies that it was eighteen years, Dorian laughs triumphantly and implores James merely to look at him under a nearby street lamp. James sees the face of a twenty-year-old lad. Clearly, he has erred. He apologizes and releases Dorian, who disappears into the night. As James stands trembling at his mistake, the woman from the bar appears and asks why James did not kill Dorian. The woman bitterly tells him that it has been eighteen years since \"Prince Charming\" made her what she is. She swears this before God and adds, \"They say he sold himself to the devil for a pretty face.\" She asks James for money for her room that night, but he is interested only in pursuing Dorian. Dorian, however, is gone.", "analysis": "In some of the finest descriptive writing in the novel, Wilde finally allows the reader to see Dorian's secret world. The opening paragraphs of the chapter set the scene for taking the reader into the hell that is Dorian's chosen life. The opium den is a city of lost souls, a city that Dorian easily moves within. Appropriately, Dorian muses on his own salvation as he rides toward the den. True to the Faust legend, he is certain that he has no hope for atonement. He believes that forgiveness is not possible. The best he can hope for is the numb of opium. Most important in this chapter is that the reader sees Dorian suffering from a physical as well as a mental addiction. His hands tremble as he rides to the opium den, and the reader can only surmise that he is heading to the den to satisfy both a physical and a mental need. Although Dorian may not age, he has not escaped the personal prison created by his own desires. Even in the opium den, he can't escape the paranoid feeling that Basil's eyes are watching him. Dorian's physical and mental addiction to opium is significant because it is the first sign the reader sees that although Dorian cannot be destroyed by nature, he can destroy himself. Wilde's descriptive style in this chapter is Gothic in its grotesque, macabre, and fantastic imagery and chilling detail. He fashions a mood of desolation and despair. His similes, which appear seldom in other chapters, are very effective in relating the grimness of the world Dorian now occupies. He creates revealing similarities with the use of \"like\" and \"as\" -- for example, the \"moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull,\" and the streets are \"like the black web of some sprawling spider.\" Note that the moon resembles a \"yellow skull,\" an allusion to death that so pervades the novel in these late chapters. In no small way, the dangers of excess even threaten Dorian's Aestheticism. Instead of admiring beauty, he craves ugliness. He once detested ugliness because it made things too real, but now he pursues it as his one reality: \"The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more vivid, in their intense factuality of impression, than all the gracious shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song.\" Wilde reveals the dangers of Aestheticism gone so wrong that it is the opposite of itself. At the same time, Wilde is not teaching or preaching. As he says in the preface to the novel, there is no such thing as a \"moral\" or \"immoral\" book. Books are simply written well or badly. In this chapter, Wilde writes very, very well. Glossary quay a wharf where ships are loaded and unloaded. merchantman a commercial ship. coaling filling up with coal. mackintosh a waterproof raincoat. Malays native people of Malaysia, Indonesia, and surrounding areas. marionettes puppets manipulated by strings."}

A cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly in the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim men and women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. From some of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others, drunkards brawled and screamed. Lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, Dorian Gray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and now and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said to him on the first day they had met, "To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul." Yes, that was the secret. He had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were opium dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new. The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time a huge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. The gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the man lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from the horse as it splashed up the puddles. The sidewindows of the hansom were clogged with a grey-flannel mist. "To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul!" How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was sick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent blood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there was no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness was possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing out, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one. Indeed, what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who had made him a judge over others? He had said things that were dreadful, horrible, not to be endured. On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each step. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster. The hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned and his delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the horse madly with his stick. The driver laughed and whipped up. He laughed in answer, and the man was silent. The way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some sprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mist thickened, he felt afraid. Then they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange, fanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in the darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a rut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop. After some time they left the clay road and rattled again over rough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. He watched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and made gestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his heart. As they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them from an open door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. The driver beat at them with his whip. It is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with hideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshaped those subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in them the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by intellectual approval, passions that without such justification would still have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all man's appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre. Ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real, became dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one reality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more vivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he needed for forgetfulness. In three days he would be free. Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over the low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black masts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the yards. "Somewhere about here, sir, ain't it?" he asked huskily through the trap. Dorian started and peered round. "This will do," he answered, and having got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had promised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and there a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The light shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an outward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like a wet mackintosh. He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of the top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock. After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the street. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were crouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing their white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women, mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression of disgust. "He thinks he's got red ants on him," laughed one of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and began to whimper. At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating manner. "You here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian. "Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the chaps will speak to me now." "I thought you had left England." "Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at last. George doesn't speak to me either.... I don't care," he added with a sigh. "As long as one has this stuff, one doesn't want friends. I think I have had too many friends." Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself. "I am going on to the other place," he said after a pause. "On the wharf?" "Yes." "That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won't have her in this place now." Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better." "Much the same." "I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have something." "I don't want anything," murmured the young man. "Never mind." Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton. A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of the women. "We are very proud to-night," she sneered. "For God's sake don't talk to me," cried Dorian, stamping his foot on the ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don't ever talk to me again." Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman's sodden eyes, then flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion watched her enviously. "It's no use," sighed Adrian Singleton. "I don't care to go back. What does it matter? I am quite happy here." "You will write to me if you want anything, won't you?" said Dorian, after a pause. "Perhaps." "Good night, then." "Good night," answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping his parched mouth with a handkerchief. Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the woman who had taken his money. "There goes the devil's bargain!" she hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice. "Curse you!" he answered, "don't call me that." She snapped her fingers. "Prince Charming is what you like to be called, ain't it?" she yelled after him. The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly round. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He rushed out as if in pursuit. Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as Basil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did it matter to him? One's days were too brief to take the burden of another's errors on one's shoulders. Each man lived his own life and paid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed. In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts. There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm. For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell. Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat. He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him. "What do you want?" he gasped. "Keep quiet," said the man. "If you stir, I shoot you." "You are mad. What have I done to you?" "You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane," was the answer, "and Sibyl Vane was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your door. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you. I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night you are going to die." Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her," he stammered. "I never heard of her. You are mad." "You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you are going to die." There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know what to say or do. "Down on your knees!" growled the man. "I give you one minute to make your peace--no more. I go on board to-night for India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That's all." Dorian's arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "Stop," he cried. "How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!" "Eighteen years," said the man. "Why do you ask me? What do years matter?" "Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice. "Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!" James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway. Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been when they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was not the man who had destroyed her life. He loosened his hold and reeled back. "My God! my God!" he cried, "and I would have murdered you!" Dorian Gray drew a long breath. "You have been on the brink of committing a terrible crime, my man," he said, looking at him sternly. "Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own hands." "Forgive me, sir," muttered James Vane. "I was deceived. A chance word I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track." "You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into trouble," said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the street. James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar. "Why didn't you kill him?" she hissed out, putting haggard face quite close to his. "I knew you were following him when you rushed out from Daly's. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and he's as bad as bad." "He is not the man I am looking for," he answered, "and I want no man's money. I want a man's life. The man whose life I want must be nearly forty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not got his blood upon my hands." The woman gave a bitter laugh. "Little more than a boy!" she sneered. "Why, man, it's nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me what I am." "You lie!" cried James Vane. She raised her hand up to heaven. "Before God I am telling the truth," she cried. "Before God?" "Strike me dumb if it ain't so. He is the worst one that comes here. They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It's nigh on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn't changed much since then. I have, though," she added, with a sickly leer. "You swear this?" "I swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "But don't give me away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him. Let me have some money for my night's lodging." He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had vanished also.

Chapter 16

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219150422/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/summary-and-analysis/chapter-16

As Dorian rides toward his destination, he recalls Lord Henry's saying, the first day they met, "To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul." Dorian intends to do just that. He is heading for an opium den, where old sins are forgotten and new ones found. Dorian craves opium. He feels afraid, and he is certain that there is no way to atone for his sins. The best he can hope for is to forget. In just three days, he thinks, he can find freedom by losing himself in the drug. The carriage arrives at the intended destination, and Dorian enters the shabby inn. At the end of the hall inside, he pulls aside a tattered curtain and enters a long, dark, low room. Dorian climbs a small staircase at the end of the room, leading to an even darker room. In the upper chamber, Dorian finds Adrian Singleton, one of the young men whom Basil accused Dorian of corrupting. However, Dorian decides not to stay. Adrian's presence bothers him; he prefers to be where no one knows him. At times, Dorian thinks he sees Basil's eyes following him. Dorian calls Adrian to the bar for a farewell shot of brandy. A woman approaches Dorian, but he gives her some money and tells her to leave. She is not so easily dissuaded. As Dorian is leaving, she shouts after him: "Prince Charming is what you like to be called, ain't it?" Her shouting startles a drowsy sailor who looks around rabidly and hurries out in pursuit of Dorian. Dorian hurries toward a different opium den. As he takes a short cut through a den archway, someone suddenly grabs him from behind and shoves him against a wall, his hand choking Dorian, who hears the click of a revolver. The man who chokes Dorian is James Vane, brother of Sibyl Vane, the actress who killed herself eighteen years before. He has sought Dorian, not even knowing the real name of "Prince Charming" all this time. Having heard his sister's pet name for the "gentleman" who did her wrong, James feels certain that he finally has found the cad. Dorian denies ever knowing the girl and asks how long ago this all took place. When James replies that it was eighteen years, Dorian laughs triumphantly and implores James merely to look at him under a nearby street lamp. James sees the face of a twenty-year-old lad. Clearly, he has erred. He apologizes and releases Dorian, who disappears into the night. As James stands trembling at his mistake, the woman from the bar appears and asks why James did not kill Dorian. The woman bitterly tells him that it has been eighteen years since "Prince Charming" made her what she is. She swears this before God and adds, "They say he sold himself to the devil for a pretty face." She asks James for money for her room that night, but he is interested only in pursuing Dorian. Dorian, however, is gone.

In some of the finest descriptive writing in the novel, Wilde finally allows the reader to see Dorian's secret world. The opening paragraphs of the chapter set the scene for taking the reader into the hell that is Dorian's chosen life. The opium den is a city of lost souls, a city that Dorian easily moves within. Appropriately, Dorian muses on his own salvation as he rides toward the den. True to the Faust legend, he is certain that he has no hope for atonement. He believes that forgiveness is not possible. The best he can hope for is the numb of opium. Most important in this chapter is that the reader sees Dorian suffering from a physical as well as a mental addiction. His hands tremble as he rides to the opium den, and the reader can only surmise that he is heading to the den to satisfy both a physical and a mental need. Although Dorian may not age, he has not escaped the personal prison created by his own desires. Even in the opium den, he can't escape the paranoid feeling that Basil's eyes are watching him. Dorian's physical and mental addiction to opium is significant because it is the first sign the reader sees that although Dorian cannot be destroyed by nature, he can destroy himself. Wilde's descriptive style in this chapter is Gothic in its grotesque, macabre, and fantastic imagery and chilling detail. He fashions a mood of desolation and despair. His similes, which appear seldom in other chapters, are very effective in relating the grimness of the world Dorian now occupies. He creates revealing similarities with the use of "like" and "as" -- for example, the "moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull," and the streets are "like the black web of some sprawling spider." Note that the moon resembles a "yellow skull," an allusion to death that so pervades the novel in these late chapters. In no small way, the dangers of excess even threaten Dorian's Aestheticism. Instead of admiring beauty, he craves ugliness. He once detested ugliness because it made things too real, but now he pursues it as his one reality: "The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more vivid, in their intense factuality of impression, than all the gracious shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song." Wilde reveals the dangers of Aestheticism gone so wrong that it is the opposite of itself. At the same time, Wilde is not teaching or preaching. As he says in the preface to the novel, there is no such thing as a "moral" or "immoral" book. Books are simply written well or badly. In this chapter, Wilde writes very, very well. Glossary quay a wharf where ships are loaded and unloaded. merchantman a commercial ship. coaling filling up with coal. mackintosh a waterproof raincoat. Malays native people of Malaysia, Indonesia, and surrounding areas. marionettes puppets manipulated by strings.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/part_2_chapters_8_to_9.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Red and the Black/section_11_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapters 8-9

chapters 8-9

{"name": "Chapters 8-9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-2-chapters-89", "summary": "Julien sees Mathilde after a period of separation, and she commands him to attend a ball with her brother. Julien is dazzled by the magnificence of the Hotel de Retz and by the brilliance of the aristocracy in attendance. Although Mathilde is the center of attraction, she is bored with the lack of color that characterizes all of her suitors. Julien and Altamira, a liberal condemned to die, are the only men present who intrigue her, and they seem unmoved by her charm, unlike Croisenois and the others of his ilk. In her boredom and because of her fascination with the unconventional, the exciting, the unusual, Mathilde seeks out the company of Julien and Altamira, who are deeply engrossed in a conversation about political expediency and idealism. They remain oblivious to her presence. Piqued, Mathilde seeks to tire herself by dancing and engages in a verbal bout with the impertinent Fervaques, a bout in which she is pitilessly victorious. Julien's admiration for Altamira is unbounded, and the day after the ball, as he works in the library, he is still engaged in an endless inner debate between expediency and idealism. Mathilde appears and reappears, hoping to attract his attention. When Julien deigns to answer her question about the object of his thoughts, he overwhelms her with his reflections. Mathilde hastily retires, realizing that she has interrupted his thoughts.", "analysis": "These chapters serve as preparation for the beginning of Julien's affair with Mathilde. Unaware that she is doing so, she will instinctively seek out Julien as a potential realization of the ideal she seeks -- a noble soul capable of self-sacrifice for great ideals. The chief point of view of narration is that of Mathilde. Stendhal's artistry as a psychological novelist requires that the reader supply the explicit formulation of the characters' motivation. Why does Mathilde command Julien's presence at the ball? We are to conclude that this is precipitated by her boredom and by the conversation she has had with her father concerning Julien. In that conversation, the marquis praised Julien for being capable of the unexpected and found his own son inferior by comparison. Stendhal transforms psychological analysis into action, expecting the reader to supply the explicit description of the psychological movement. Not even Mathilde arrives at an awareness of her own motivation. Stendhal creates the ball, in all its sterile glitter, as a fitting stage where Mathilde's boredom may be displayed as having reached its paroxysm. In this regard, the ball scene is the culmination of the salon scenes in the Hotel de la Mole. Stendhal takes little interest in describing the ball as such. He presents no exhaustive description of costumes, physical surroundings, or of guests. We have the impression of crowds mainly because Mathilde seems endlessly searching for Julien. Stendhal limits the point of view to that of Mathilde and Julien. The reader's appreciation of the ball is, therefore, limited to that of the characters. This represents a partial abandonment of the traditional omniscient point of view and previews more radical innovations in technique by late nineteenth- and twentieth-century novelists. Were Mathilde less appealing to her suitors, she would be less bored. Stendhal emphasizes her role as the most sought-after beauty of the season in order to put her boredom in relief. Any unearned victory, rather victory as such, is considered by Mathilde as a defeat since it supposes an end to battle. Happiness, for the \"beyliste,\" is no more than the search for happiness. Ironically, only those potential realizations of Mathilde's ideal are indifferent to her -- Altamira and Julien. It would be inexact to say that Mathilde is, at this stage, directing her attentions exclusively toward Julien as an individual. Julien and Altamira appear not as individuals but as a human type, a realization of her ideal. Mathilde's ideal will ultimately individualize itself into Julien. Julien finds a kindred soul in Altamira, the only individual in the novel who earns the hero's unreserved admiration. In these chapters, Stendhal gives more ample consideration to the conflict between idealism and expediency. Ironically, Julien aspires to revolutionary liberalism, but he is becoming more firmly entrenched in the home of an ultra. He, an ambitious pariah, idolizes Altamira, a liberal whose idealism has condemned him to death. This, Stendhal is saying, is the lamentable state to which the glorious revolutionary principles have degenerated during the autocratic Restoration. Altamira is Julien's double. Because of her pride and superiority, Mathilde is very worthy of Julien, although he continues to find her unattractive, and her pride offends his. Julien has become a dandy, Stendhal tells us, and he conducts himself coldly as a defense against Mathilde's haughtiness. He will not fail to notice, however, that others admire her, that, in fact, she is the attraction of the ball. He will begin to see her differently since, prized by others, she must be worthy. Note that Julien disagrees with Altamira, although the reader realizes that Julien is really undecided as he defends so forcibly the position of expediency. The graphic image of character disposition that may be seen in the ball scene is the following: Altamira is impassioned by his ideal of freedom; Julien shares this ideal and is only attentive to its exponent, Altamira; Mathilde instinctively pursues both as representatives of her own heroic ideal. The result, temporarily, is parallel and unfulfilled aspirations."}

CHAPTER XXXVIII WHAT IS THE DECORATION WHICH CONFERS DISTINCTION? "Thy water refreshes me not," said the transformed genie. "'Tis nevertheless the freshest well in all Diar-Bekir"--_Pellico_. One day Julien had just returned from the charming estate of Villequier on the banks of the Seine, which was the especial subject of M. de la Mole's interest because it was the only one of all his properties which had belonged to the celebrated Boniface de la Mole. He found the marquise and her daughter, who had just come back from Hyeres, in the hotel. Julien was a dandy now, and understood the art of Paris life. He manifested a perfect coldness towards mademoiselle de la Mole. He seemed to have retained no recollection of the day when she had asked him so gaily for details of his fall from his horse. Mademoiselle de la Mole thought that he had grown taller and paler. There was no longer anything of the provincial in his figure or his appearance. It was not so with his conversation. Too much of the serious and too much of the positive element were still noticeable. In spite of these sober qualities, his conversation, thanks to his pride, was destitute of any trace of the subordinate. One simply felt that there were still too many things which he took seriously. But one saw that he was the kind of man to stick to his guns. "He lacks lightness of touch, but not brains," said mademoiselle de la Mole to her father, as she rallied him on the cross that he had given Julien. "My brother has been asking you for it for sixteen months, and he is a La Mole." "Yes, but Julien has surprises, and that's what the de la Mole, whom you were referring to, has never been guilty of." M. the duc de Retz was announced. Mathilde felt herself seized by an irresistible attack of yawning. She knew so well the old gildings and the old habitues of her father's salon. She conjured up an absolutely boring picture of the life which she was going to take up at Paris, and yet, when at Hyeres, she had regretted Paris. "And yet I am nineteen," she thought. "That's the age of happiness, say all those gilt-edged ninnies." She looked at eight or ten new volumes of poetry which had accumulated on the table in the salon during her journey in Provence. She had the misfortune to have more brains than M.M. de Croisnois, de Caylus, de Luz, and her other friends. She anticipated all that they were going to tell her about the fine sky of Provence, poetry, the South, etc., etc. These fine eyes, which were the home of the deepest ennui, and worse still, of the despair of ever finding pleasure, lingered on Julien. At any rate, he was not exactly like the others. "Monsieur Sorel," she said, in that short, sharp voice, destitute of all femininity, which is so frequent among young women of the upper class. "Monsieur Sorel, are you coming to-night to M. de Retz's ball?" "Mademoiselle, I have not had the honour of being presented to M. the duke." (One would have said that these words and that title seared the mouth of the proud provincial). "He asked my brother to take you there, and if you go, you could tell me some details about the Villequier estate. We are thinking of going there in the spring, and I would like to know if the chateau is habitable, and if the neighbouring places are as pretty as they say. There are so many unmerited reputations." Julien did not answer. "Come to the ball with my brother," she added, very dryly. Julien bowed respectfully. "So I owe my due to the members of the family, even in the middle of a ball. Am I not paid to be their business man?" His bad temper added, "God knows, moreover, if what I tell the daughter will not put out the plans of the father, brother, and mother. It is just like the court of a sovereign prince. You have to be absolutely negative, and yet give no one any right to complain." "How that big girl displeases me!" he thought, as he watched the walk of Mademoiselle de la Mole, whom her mother had called to present to several women friends of hers. She exaggerates all the fashions. Her dress almost falls down to her shoulders, she is even paler than before she went away. How nondescript her hair has grown as the result of being blonde! You would say that the light passed through it. What a haughty way of bowing and of looking at you! What queenly gestures! Mademoiselle de la Mole had just called her brother at the moment when he was leaving the salon. The comte de Norbert approached Julien. "My dear Sorel," he said to him. "Where would you like me to pick you up to-night for Monsieur's ball. He expressly asked me to bring you." "I know well whom I have to thank for so much kindness," answered Julien bowing to the ground. His bad temper, being unable to find anything to lay hold of in the polite and almost sympathetic tone in which Norbert had spoken to him, set itself to work on the answer he had made to that courteous invitation. He detected in it a trace of subservience. When he arrived at the ball in the evening, he was struck with the magnificence of the Hotel de Retz. The courtyard at the entrance was covered with an immense tent of crimson with golden stars. Nothing could have been more elegant. Beyond the tent, the court had been transformed into a wood of orange trees and of pink laurels in full flower. As they had been careful to bury the vases sufficiently deep, the laurel trees and the orange trees appeared to come straight out of the ground. The road which the carriages traversed was sanded. All this seemed extraordinary to our provincial. He had never had any idea of such magnificence. In a single instant his thrilled imagination had left his bad temper a thousand leagues behind. In the carriage on their way to the ball Norbert had been happy, while he saw everything in black colours. They had scarcely entered the courtyard before the roles changed. Norbert was only struck by a few details which, in the midst of all that magnificence, had not been able to be attended to. He calculated the expense of each item, and Julien remarked that the nearer he got to a sum total, the more jealous and bad-tempered he appeared. As for himself, he was fascinated and full of admiration when he reached the first of the salons where they were dancing. His emotion was so great that it almost made him nervous. There was a crush at the door of the second salon, and the crowd was so great that he found it impossible to advance. The decorations of the second salon presented the Alhambra of Grenada. "That's the queen of the ball one must admit," said a young man with a moustache whose shoulder stuck into Julien's chest. "Mademoiselle Formant who has been the prettiest all the winter, realises that she will have to go down to the second place. See how strange she looks." "In truth she is straining every nerve to please. Just look at that gracious smile now that she is doing the figure in that quadrille all alone. On my honour it is unique." "Mademoiselle de la Mole looks as if she controlled the pleasure which she derives from her triumph, of which she is perfectly conscious. One might say that she fears to please anyone who talks to her." "Very good. That is the art of alluring." Julien vainly endeavoured to catch sight of the alluring woman. Seven or eight men who were taller than he prevented him from seeing her. "There is quite a lot of coquetry in that noble reserve," said the young man with a moustache. "And in those big blue eyes, which are lowered so slowly when one would think they were on the point of betraying themselves," answered his neighbour. "On my faith, nothing could be cleverer." "See the pretty Formant looking quite common next to her," said the first. "That air of reserve means how much sweetness would I spend on you if you were the man who was worthy of me." "And who could be worthy of the sublime Mathilde," said the first man. "Some sovereign prince, handsome, witty, well-made, a hero in war, and twenty years old at the most." "The natural son of the Emperor of Russia ... who would be made a sovereign in honour of his marriage, or quite simply the comte de Thaler, who looks like a dressed-up peasant." The door was free, and Julien could go in. "Since these puppets consider her so remarkable, it is worth while for me to study her," he thought. "I shall then understand what these people regard as perfection." As his eyes were trying to find her, Mathilde looked at him. "My duty calls me," said Julien to himself. But it was only his expression which was bad-humoured. His curiosity made him advance with a pleasure which the extremely low cut dress on Mathilde's shoulder very quickly accentuated, in a manner which was scarcely flattering for his own self-respect. "Her beauty has youth," he thought. Five or six people, whom Julien recognised as those who had been speaking at the door were between her and him. "Now, Monsieur, you have been here all the winter," she said to him. "Is it not true that this is the finest ball of the season." He did not answer. "This quadrille of Coulon's strikes me as admirable, and those ladies dance it perfectly." The young men turned round to see who was the happy man, an answer from whom was positively insisted on. The answer was not encouraging. "I shall not be able to be a good judge, mademoiselle, I pass my life in writing. This is the first ball of this magnificence which I have ever seen." The young men with moustaches were scandalised. "You are a wise man, Monsieur Sorel," came the answer with a more marked interest. "You look upon all these balls, all these festivities, like a philosopher, like J. J. Rousseau. All these follies astonish without alluring you." Julien's imagination had just hit upon an epigram which banished all illusions from his mind. His mouth assumed the expression of a perhaps slightly exaggerated disdain. "J. J. Rousseau," he answered, "is in my view only a fool when he takes it upon himself to criticise society. He did not understand it, and he went into it with the spirit of a lackey who has risen above his station." "He wrote the _Contrat Social_," answered Mathilde reverently. "While he preaches the Republic, and the overthrow of monarchical dignities, the parvenu was intoxicated with happiness if a duke would go out of his way after dinner to one of his friends." "Oh yes, the Duke of Luxembourg at Montmorency, used to accompany a Coindet from the neighbourhood of Paris," went on Mademoiselle de la Mole, with all the pleasure and enthusiasm of her first flush of pedantry. She was intoxicated with her knowledge, almost like the academician who discovered the existence of King Feretrius. Julien's look was still penetrating and severe. Mathilde had had a moment's enthusiasm. Her partner's coldness disconcerted her profoundly. She was all the more astonished, as it was she who was accustomed to produce that particular effect on others. At this moment the marquis de Croisenois was advancing eagerly towards mademoiselle de la Mole. He was for a moment three yards away from her. He was unable to get closer because of the crowd. He smiled at the obstacle. The young marquise de Rouvray was near her. She was a cousin of Mathilde. She was giving her arm to her husband who had only married her a fortnight ago. The marquis de Rouvray, who was also very young, had all the love which seizes a man who, having contracted a marriage of convenience exclusively arranged by the notaries, finds a person who is ideally pretty. M. de Rouvray would be a duke on the death of a very old uncle. While the marquis de Croisenois was struggling to get through the crowd, and smiling at Mathilde she fixed her big divinely blue eyes on him and his neighbours. "Could anything be flatter," she said to herself. "There is Croisenois who wants to marry me, he is gentle and polite, he has perfect manners like M. de Rouvray. If they did not bore, those gentlemen would be quite charming. He too, would accompany me to the ball with that smug limited expression. One year after the marriage I shall have my carriage, my horses, my dresses, my chateau twenty leagues from Paris. All this would be as nice as possible, and enough to make a Countess de Roiville, for example, die of envy and afterwards--" Mathilde bored herself in anticipation. The marquis de Croisenois managed to approach her and spoke to her, but she was dreaming and did not listen to him. The noise of his words began to get mixed with the buzz of the ball. Her eye mechanically followed Julien who had gone away, with an air which, though respectful, was yet proud and discontented. She noticed in a corner far from the moving crowd, the comte Altamira who had been condemned to death in his own country and whom the reader knows already. One of his relatives had married a Prince de Conti in the reign of Louis XIV. This historical fact was some protection against the police of the congregation. "I think being condemned to death is the only real distinction," said Mathilde. "It is the only thing which cannot be bought." "Why, that's an epigram, I just said, what a pity it did not come at a moment when I could have reaped all the credit for it." Mathilde had too much taste to work into the conversation a prepared epigram but at the same time she was too vain not to be extremely pleased with herself. A happy expression succeeded the palpable boredom of her face. The marquis de Croisenois, who had never left off talking, saw a chance of success and waxed twice as eloquent. "What objection could a caviller find with my epigram," said Mathilde to herself. "I would answer my critic in this way: The title of baron or vicomte is to be bought; a cross, why it is a gift. My brother has just got one. What has he done? A promotion, why that can be obtained by being ten years in a garrison or have the minister of war for a relative, and you'll be a chief of a squadron like Norbert. A great fortune! That's rather more difficult, and consequently more meritorious. It is really quite funny. It's the opposite of what the books say. Well, to win a fortune why you marry M. Rothschild's daughter. Really my epigram is quite deep. Being condemned to death is still the one privilege which one has never thought of canvassing." "Do you know the comte Altamira," she said to M. de Croisenois. Her thoughts seemed to have been so far away, and this question had so little connection with all that the poor marquis had been saying for the last five minutes, that his good temper was ruffled. He was nevertheless a man of wit and celebrated for being so. "Mathilde is eccentric," he thought, "that's a nuisance, but she will give her husband such a fine social position. I don't know how the marquis de la Mole manages. He is connected with all that is best in all parties. He is a man who is bound to come out on top. And, besides, this eccentricity of Mathilde's may pass for genius. Genius when allied with good birth and a large fortune, so far from being ridiculous, is highly distinguished. She has wit, moreover, when she wants to, that mixture in fact of brains, character, and ready wit which constitute perfection." As it is difficult to do two things at the same time, the marquis answered Mathilde with a vacant expression as though he were reciting a lesson. "Who does not know that poor Altamira?" and he told her the history of his conspiracy, abortive, ridiculous and absurd. "Very absurd," said Mathilde as if she were talking to herself, "but he has done something. I want to see a man; bring him to me," she said to the scandalized marquis. Comte Altamira was one of the most avowed admirers of mademoiselle de la Mole's haughty and impertinent manner. In his opinion she was one of the most beautiful persons in Paris. "How fine she would be on a throne," he said to M. de Croisenois; and made no demur at being taken up to Mathilde. There are a good number of people in society who would like to establish the fact that nothing is in such bad form as a conspiracy, in the nineteenth century; it smacks of Jacobinism. And what could be more sordid than unsuccessful Jacobinism. Mathilde's expression made fun a little of Altamira and M. de Croisenois, but she listened to him with pleasure. "A conspirator at a ball, what a pretty contrast," she thought. She thought that this man with his black moustache looked like a lion at rest, but she soon perceived that his mind had only one point of view: _utility, admiration for utility_. The young comte thought nothing worthy his attention except what tended to give his country two chamber government. He left Mathilde, who was the prettiest person at the ball, with alacrity, because he saw a Peruvian general come in. Desparing of Europe such as M. de Metternich had arranged it, poor Altamira had been reduced to thinking that when the States of South America had become strong and powerful they could restore to Europe the liberty which Mirabeau has given it. A crowd of moustachised young men had approached Mathilde. She realized that Altamira had not felt allured, and was piqued by his departure. She saw his black eye gleam as he talked to the Peruvian general. Mademoiselle de la Mole looked at the young Frenchmen with that profound seriousness which none of her rivals could imitate, "which of them," she thought, "could get himself condemned to death, even supposing he had a favourable opportunity?" This singular look flattered those who were not very intelligent, but disconcerted the others. They feared the discharge of some stinging epigram that would be difficult to answer. "Good birth vouchsafes a hundred qualities whose absence would offend me. I see as much in the case of Julien," thought Mathilde, "but it withers up those qualities of soul which make a man get condemned to death." At that moment some one was saying near her: "Comte Altamira is the second son of the Prince of San Nazaro-Pimentel; it was a Pimentel who tried to save Conradin, was beheaded in 1268. It is one of the noblest families in Naples." "So," said Mathilde to herself, "what a pretty proof this is of my maxim, that good birth deprives a man of that force of character in default of which a man does not get condemned to death. I seem doomed to reason falsely to-night. Since I am only a woman like any other, well I must dance." She yielded to the solicitations of M. de Croisenois who had been asking for a gallop for the last hour. To distract herself from her failure in philosophy, Mathilde made a point of being perfectly fascinating. M. de Croisenois was enchanted. But neither the dance nor her wish to please one of the handsomest men at court, nor anything at all, succeeded in distracting Mathilde. She could not possibly have been more of a success. She was the queen of the ball. She coldly appreciated the fact. "What a blank life I shall pass with a person like Croisenois," she said to herself as he took her back to her place an hour afterwards. "What pleasure do I get," she added sadly, "if after an absence of six months I find myself at a ball which all the women of Paris were mad with jealousy to go to? And what is more I am surrounded by the homage of an ideally constituted circle of society. The only bourgeois are some peers and perhaps one or two Juliens. And yet," she added with increasing sadness, "what advantages has not fate bestowed upon me! Distinction, fortune, youth, everything except happiness. My most dubious advantages are the very ones they have been speaking to me about all the evening. Wit, I believe I have it, because I obviously frighten everyone. If they venture to tackle a serious subject, they will arrive after five minutes of conversation and as though they had made a great discovery at a conclusion which we have been repeating to them for the last hour. I am beautiful, I have that advantage for which madame de Stael would have sacrificed everything, and yet I'm dying of boredom. Shall I have reason to be less bored when I have changed my name for that of the marquis de Croisenois? "My God though," she added, while she almost felt as if she would like to cry, "isn't he really quite perfect? He's a paragon of the education of the age; you can't look at him without his finding something charming and even witty to say to you; he is brave. But that Sorel is strange," she said to herself, and the expression of her eyes changed from melancholy to anger. "I told him that I had something to say to him and he hasn't deigned to reappear." CHAPTER XXXIX THE BALL The luxurious dresses, the glitter of the candles; all those pretty arms and fine shoulders; the bouquets, the intoxicating strains of Rossini, the paintings of Ciceri. I am beside myself.--_Journeys of Useri_. "You are in a bad temper," said the marquise de la Mole to her; "let me caution you, it is ungracious at a ball." "I only have a headache," answered Mathilde disdainfully, "it is too hot here." At this moment the old Baron Tolly became ill and fell down, as though to justify mademoiselle de la Mole's remark. They were obliged to carry him away. They talked about apoplexy. It was a disagreeable incident. Mathilde did not bother much about it. She made a point of never looking at old men, or at anyone who had the reputation of being bad company. She danced in order to escape the conversation about the apoplexy, which was not apoplexy inasmuch as the baron put in an appearance the following day. "But Sorel does not come," she said to herself after she had danced. She was almost looking round for him when she found him in another salon. Astonishing, but he seemed to have lost that impassive coldness that was so natural to him; he no longer looked English. "He is talking to comte Altamira who was sentenced to death," said Mathilde to herself. "His eye is full of a sombre fire; he looks like a prince in disguise; his haughtiness has become twice as pronounced." Julien came back to where she was, still talking to Altamira. She looked at Altamira fixedly, studying his features in order to trace those lofty qualities which can earn a man the honour of being condemned to death. "Yes," he was saying to comte Altamira as he passed by her, "Danton was a real man." "Heavens can he be a Danton?" said Mathilde to herself, "but he has so noble a face, and that Danton was so horribly ugly, a butcher I believe." Julien was still fairly near her. She did not hesitate to call him; she had the consciousness and the pride of putting a question that was unusual for a young girl. "Was not Danton a butcher?" she said to him. "Yes, in the eyes of certain persons," Julien answered her with the most thinly disguised expression of contempt. His eyes were still ardent from his conversation with Altamira, "but unfortunately for the people of good birth he was an advocate at Mery-sur-Seine, that is to say, mademoiselle," he added maliciously, "he began like many peers whom I see here. It was true that Danton laboured under a great disadvantage in the eyes of beauty; he was ugly." These last few words were spoken rapidly in an extraordinary and indeed very discourteous manner. Julien waited for a moment, leaning slightly forward and with an air of proud humility. He seemed to be saying, "I am paid to answer you and I live on my pay." He did not deign to look up at Mathilde. She looked like his slave with her fine eyes open abnormally wide and fixed on him. Finally as the silence continued he looked at her, like a valet looking at his master to receive orders. Although his eyes met the full gaze of Mathilde which were fixed on him all the time with a strange expression, he went away with a marked eagerness. "To think of a man who is as handsome as he is," said Mathilde to herself as she emerged from her reverie, "praising ugliness in such a way, he is not like Caylus or Croisenois. This Sorel has something like my father's look when he goes to a fancy dress ball as Napoleon." She had completely forgotten Danton. "Yes, I am decidedly bored to-night." She took her brother's arm and to his great disgust made him take her round the ball-room. The idea occurred to her of following the conversation between Julien and the man who had been condemned to death. The crowd was enormous. She managed to find them, however, at the moment when two yards in front of her Altamira was going near a dumb-waiter to take an ice. He was talking to Julien with his body half turned round. He saw an arm in an embroidered coat which was taking an ice close by. The embroidery seemed to attract his attention. He turned round to look at the person to whom the arm belonged. His noble and yet simple eyes immediately assumed a slightly disdainful expression. "You see that man," he said to Julien in a low voice; "that is the Prince of Araceli Ambassador of ----. He asked M. de Nerval, your Minister for Foreign Affairs, for my extradition this morning. See, there he is over there playing whist. Monsieur de Nerval is willing enough to give me up, for we gave up two or three conspirators to you in 1816. If I am given up to my king I shall be hanged in twenty-four hours. It will be one of those handsome moustachioed gentlemen who will arrest me." "The wretches!" exclaimed Julien half aloud. Mathilde did not lose a syllable of their conversation. Her ennui had vanished. "They are not scoundrels," replied Count Altamira. "I talk to you about myself in order to give you a vivid impression. Look at the Prince of Araceli. He casts his eyes on his golden fleece every five minutes; he cannot get over the pleasure of seeing that decoration on his breast. In reality the poor man is really an anachronism. The fleece was a signal honour a hundred years ago, but he would have been nowhere near it in those days. But nowadays, so far as people of birth are concerned, you have to be an Araceli to be delighted with it. He had a whole town hanged in order to get it." "Is that the price he had to pay?" said Julien anxiously. "Not exactly," answered Altamira coldly, "he probably had about thirty rich landed proprietors in his district who had the reputation of being Liberals thrown into the river." "What a monster!" pursued Julien. Mademoiselle de la Mole who was leaning her head forward with keenest interest was so near him that her beautiful hair almost touched his shoulder. "You are very young," answered Altamira. "I was telling you that I had a married sister in Provence. She is still pretty, good and gentle; she is an excellent mother, performs all her duties faithfully, is pious but not a bigot." "What is he driving at?" thought mademoiselle de la Mole. "She is happy," continued the comte Altamira; "she was so in 1815. I was then in hiding at her house on her estate near the Antibes. Well the moment she learnt of marshall Ney's execution she began to dance." "Is it possible?" said Julien, thunderstruck. "It's party spirit," replied Altamira. "There are no longer any real passions in the nineteenth century: that's why one is so bored in France. People commit acts of the greatest cruelty, but without any feeling of cruelty." "So much the worse," said Julien, "when one does commit a crime one ought at least to take pleasure in committing it; that's the only good thing they have about them and that's the only way in which they have the slightest justification." Mademoiselle de la Mole had entirely forgotten what she owed to herself and placed herself completely between Altamira and Julien. Her brother, who was giving her his arm, and was accustomed to obey her, was looking at another part of the room, and in order to keep himself in countenance was pretending to be stopped by the crowd. "You are right," Altamira went on, "one takes pleasure in nothing one does, and one does not remember it: this applies even to crimes. I can show you perhaps ten men in this ballroom who have been convicted of murder. They have forgotten all about it and everybody else as well." "Many are moved to the point of tears if their dog breaks a paw. When you throw flowers on their grave at Pere-la-Chaise, as you say so humorously in Paris, we learn they united all the virtues of the knights of chivalry, and we speak about the noble feats of their great-grandfather who lived in the reign of Henri IV. If, in spite of the good offices of the Prince de Araceli, I escape hanging and I ever manage to enjoy the use of my money in Paris, I will get you to dine with eight or ten of these respected and callous murderers. "At that dinner you and I will be the only ones whose blood is pure, but I shall be despised and almost hated as a monster, while you will be simply despised as a man of the people who has pushed his way into good society." "Nothing could be truer," said mademoiselle de la Mole. Altamira looked at her in astonishment; but Julien did not deign to look at her. "Observe that the revolution, at whose head I found myself," continued the comte Altamira, "only failed for the one reason that I would not cut off three heads and distribute among our partisans seven or eight millions which happened to be in a box of which I happened to have the key. My king, who is burning to have me hanged to-day, and who called me by my christian name before the rebellion, would have given me the great ribbon of his order if I had had those three heads cut off and had had the money in those boxes distributed; for I should have had at least a semi-success and my country would have had a charta like ----. So wags the world; it's a game of chess." "At that time," answered Julien with a fiery eye, "you did not know the game; now...." "You mean I would have the heads cut off, and I would not be a Girondin, as you said I was the other day? I will give you your answer," said Altamira sadly, "when you have killed a man in a duel--a far less ugly matter than having him put to death by an executioner." "Upon my word," said Julien, "the end justifies the means. If instead of being an insignificant man I had some power I would have three men hanged in order to save four men's lives." His eyes expressed the fire of his own conscience; they met the eyes of mademoiselle de la Mole who was close by him, and their contempt, so far from changing into politeness seemed to redouble. She was deeply shocked; but she found herself unable to forget Julien; she dragged her brother away and went off in a temper. "I must take some punch and dance a lot," she said to herself. "I will pick out the best partner and cut some figure at any price. Good, there is that celebrated cynic, the comte de Fervaques." She accepted his invitation; they danced. "The question is," she thought, "which of us two will be the more impertinent, but in order to make absolute fun of him, I must get him to talk." Soon all the other members of the quadrille were dancing as a matter of formality, they did not want to lose any of Mathilde's cutting reparte. M. de Fervaques felt uneasy and as he could only find elegant expressions instead of ideas, began to scowl. Mathilde, who was in a bad temper was cruel, and made an enemy of him. She danced till daylight and then went home terribly tired. But when she was in the carriage the little vitality she had left, was still employed in making her sad and unhappy. She had been despised by Julien and could not despise him. Julien was at the zenith of his happiness. He was enchanted without his knowing it by the music, the flowers, the pretty women, the general elegance, and above all by his own imagination which dreamt of distinctions for himself and of liberty for all. "What a fine ball," he said to the comte. "Nothing is lacking." "Thought is lacking" answered Altamira, and his face betrayed that contempt which is only more deadly from the very fact that a manifest effort is being made to hide it as a matter of politeness. "You are right, monsieur the comte, there isn't any thought at all, let alone enough to make a conspiracy." "I am here because of my name, but thought is hated in your salons. Thought must not soar above the level of the point of a Vaudeville couplet: it is then rewarded. But as for your man who thinks, if he shows energy and originality we call him a cynic. Was not that name given by one of your judges to Courier. You put him in prison as well as Beranger. The priestly congregation hands over to the police everyone who is worth anything amongst you individually; and good society applauds. "The fact is your effete society prizes conventionalism above everything else. You will never get beyond military bravery. You will have Murats, never Washingtons. I can see nothing in France except vanity. A man who goes on speaking on the spur of the moment may easily come to make an imprudent witticism and the master of the house thinks himself insulted." As he was saying this, the carriage in which the comte was seeing Julien home stopped before the Hotel de la Mole. Julien was in love with his conspirator. Altamira had paid him this great compliment which was evidently the expression of a sound conviction. "You have not got the French flippancy and you understand the principle of _utility_." It happened that Julien had seen the day before _Marino Faliero_, a tragedy, by Casmir Delavigne. "Has not Israel Bertuccio got more character than all those noble Venetians?" said our rebellious plebeian to himself, "and yet those are the people whose nobility goes back to the year seven hundred, a century before Charlemagne, while the cream of the nobility at M. de Ritz's ball to-night only goes back, and that rather lamely, to the thirteenth century. Well, in spite of all the noble Venetians whose birth makes so great, it is Israel Bertuccio whom one remembers. "A conspiracy annihilates all titles conferred by social caprice. There, a man takes for his crest the rank that is given him by the way in which he faces death. The intellect itself loses some of its power. "What would Danton have been to-day in this age of the Valenods and the Renals? Not even a deputy for the Public Prosecutor. "What am I saying? He would have sold himself to the priests, he would have been a minister, for after all the great Danton did steal. Mirabeau also sold himself. Napoleon stole millions in Italy, otherwise he would have been stopped short in his career by poverty like Pichegru. Only La Fayette refrained from stealing. Ought one to steal, ought one to sell oneself?" thought Julien. This question pulled him up short. He passed the rest of the night in reading the history of the revolution. When he wrote his letters in the library the following day, his mind was still concentrated on his conversation with count Altamira. "As a matter of fact," he said to himself after a long reverie, "If the Spanish Liberals had not injured their nation by crimes they would not have been cleared out as easily as they were. "They were haughty, talkative children--just like I am!" he suddenly exclaimed as though waking up with a start. "What difficulty have I surmounted that entitles me to judge such devils who, once alive, dared to begin to act. I am like a man who exclaims at the close of a meal, 'I won't dine to-morrow; but that won't prevent me from feeling as strong and merry like I do to-day.' Who knows what one feels when one is half-way through a great action?" These lofty thoughts were disturbed by the unexpected arrival in the library of mademoiselle de la Mole. He was so animated by his admiration for the great qualities of such invincibles as Danton, Mirabeau, and Carnot that, though he fixed his eyes on mademoiselle de la Mole, he neither gave her a thought nor bowed to her, and scarcely even saw her. When finally his big, open eyes realized her presence, their expression vanished. Mademoiselle de la Mole noticed it with bitterness. It was in vain that she asked him for Vely's History of France which was on the highest shelf, and thus necessitated Julien going to fetch the longer of the two ladders. Julien had brought the ladder and had fetched the volume and given it to her, but had not yet been able to give her a single thought. As he was taking the ladder back he hit in his hurry one of the glass panes in the library with his elbow; the noise of the glass falling on the floor finally brought him to himself. He hastened to apologise to mademoiselle de la Mole. He tried to be polite and was certainly nothing more. Mathilde saw clearly that she had disturbed him, and that he would have preferred to have gone on thinking about what he had been engrossed in before her arrival, to speaking to her. After looking at him for some time she went slowly away. Julien watched her walk. He enjoyed the contrast of her present dress with the elegant magnificence of the previous night. The difference between the two expressions was equally striking. The young girl who had been so haughty at the Duke de Retz's ball, had, at the present moment, an almost plaintive expression. "As a matter of fact," said Julien to himself, "that black dress makes the beauty of her figure all the more striking. She has a queenly carriage; but why is she in mourning?" "If I ask someone the reason for this mourning, they will think I am putting my foot in it again." Julien had now quite emerged from the depth of his enthusiasm. "I must read over again all the letters I have written this morning. God knows how many missed out words and blunders I shall find. As he was forcing himself to concentrate his mind on the first of these letters he heard the rustle of a silk dress near him. He suddenly turned round, mademoiselle de la Mole was two yards from his table, she was smiling. This second interruption put Julien into a bad temper. Mathilde had just fully realized that she meant nothing to this young man. Her smile was intended to hide her embarrassment; she succeeded in doing so. "You are evidently thinking of something very interesting, Monsieur Sorel. Is it not some curious anecdote about that conspiracy which is responsible for comte Altamira being in Paris? Tell me what it is about, I am burning to know. I will be discreet, I swear it." She was astonished at hearing herself utter these words. What! was she asking a favour of an inferior! Her embarrassment increased, and she added with a little touch of flippancy, "What has managed to turn such a usually cold person as yourself, into an inspired being, a kind of Michael Angelo prophet?" This sharp and indiscreet question wounded Julien deeply, and rendered him madder than ever. "Was Danton right in stealing?" he said to her brusquely in a manner that grew more and more surly. "Ought the revolutionaries of Piedmont and of Spain to have injured the people by crimes? To have given all the places in the army and all the orders to undeserving persons? Would not the persons who wore these orders have feared the return of the king? Ought they to have allowed the treasure of Turin to be looted? In a word, mademoiselle," he said, coming near her with a terrifying expression, "ought the man who wishes to chase ignorance and crime from the world to pass like the whirlwind and do evil indiscriminately?" Mathilde felt frightened, was unable to stand his look, and retreated a couples of paces. She looked at him a moment, and then ashamed of her own fear, left the library with a light step.

Chapters 8-9

https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-2-chapters-89

Julien sees Mathilde after a period of separation, and she commands him to attend a ball with her brother. Julien is dazzled by the magnificence of the Hotel de Retz and by the brilliance of the aristocracy in attendance. Although Mathilde is the center of attraction, she is bored with the lack of color that characterizes all of her suitors. Julien and Altamira, a liberal condemned to die, are the only men present who intrigue her, and they seem unmoved by her charm, unlike Croisenois and the others of his ilk. In her boredom and because of her fascination with the unconventional, the exciting, the unusual, Mathilde seeks out the company of Julien and Altamira, who are deeply engrossed in a conversation about political expediency and idealism. They remain oblivious to her presence. Piqued, Mathilde seeks to tire herself by dancing and engages in a verbal bout with the impertinent Fervaques, a bout in which she is pitilessly victorious. Julien's admiration for Altamira is unbounded, and the day after the ball, as he works in the library, he is still engaged in an endless inner debate between expediency and idealism. Mathilde appears and reappears, hoping to attract his attention. When Julien deigns to answer her question about the object of his thoughts, he overwhelms her with his reflections. Mathilde hastily retires, realizing that she has interrupted his thoughts.

These chapters serve as preparation for the beginning of Julien's affair with Mathilde. Unaware that she is doing so, she will instinctively seek out Julien as a potential realization of the ideal she seeks -- a noble soul capable of self-sacrifice for great ideals. The chief point of view of narration is that of Mathilde. Stendhal's artistry as a psychological novelist requires that the reader supply the explicit formulation of the characters' motivation. Why does Mathilde command Julien's presence at the ball? We are to conclude that this is precipitated by her boredom and by the conversation she has had with her father concerning Julien. In that conversation, the marquis praised Julien for being capable of the unexpected and found his own son inferior by comparison. Stendhal transforms psychological analysis into action, expecting the reader to supply the explicit description of the psychological movement. Not even Mathilde arrives at an awareness of her own motivation. Stendhal creates the ball, in all its sterile glitter, as a fitting stage where Mathilde's boredom may be displayed as having reached its paroxysm. In this regard, the ball scene is the culmination of the salon scenes in the Hotel de la Mole. Stendhal takes little interest in describing the ball as such. He presents no exhaustive description of costumes, physical surroundings, or of guests. We have the impression of crowds mainly because Mathilde seems endlessly searching for Julien. Stendhal limits the point of view to that of Mathilde and Julien. The reader's appreciation of the ball is, therefore, limited to that of the characters. This represents a partial abandonment of the traditional omniscient point of view and previews more radical innovations in technique by late nineteenth- and twentieth-century novelists. Were Mathilde less appealing to her suitors, she would be less bored. Stendhal emphasizes her role as the most sought-after beauty of the season in order to put her boredom in relief. Any unearned victory, rather victory as such, is considered by Mathilde as a defeat since it supposes an end to battle. Happiness, for the "beyliste," is no more than the search for happiness. Ironically, only those potential realizations of Mathilde's ideal are indifferent to her -- Altamira and Julien. It would be inexact to say that Mathilde is, at this stage, directing her attentions exclusively toward Julien as an individual. Julien and Altamira appear not as individuals but as a human type, a realization of her ideal. Mathilde's ideal will ultimately individualize itself into Julien. Julien finds a kindred soul in Altamira, the only individual in the novel who earns the hero's unreserved admiration. In these chapters, Stendhal gives more ample consideration to the conflict between idealism and expediency. Ironically, Julien aspires to revolutionary liberalism, but he is becoming more firmly entrenched in the home of an ultra. He, an ambitious pariah, idolizes Altamira, a liberal whose idealism has condemned him to death. This, Stendhal is saying, is the lamentable state to which the glorious revolutionary principles have degenerated during the autocratic Restoration. Altamira is Julien's double. Because of her pride and superiority, Mathilde is very worthy of Julien, although he continues to find her unattractive, and her pride offends his. Julien has become a dandy, Stendhal tells us, and he conducts himself coldly as a defense against Mathilde's haughtiness. He will not fail to notice, however, that others admire her, that, in fact, she is the attraction of the ball. He will begin to see her differently since, prized by others, she must be worthy. Note that Julien disagrees with Altamira, although the reader realizes that Julien is really undecided as he defends so forcibly the position of expediency. The graphic image of character disposition that may be seen in the ball scene is the following: Altamira is impassioned by his ideal of freedom; Julien shares this ideal and is only attentive to its exponent, Altamira; Mathilde instinctively pursues both as representatives of her own heroic ideal. The result, temporarily, is parallel and unfulfilled aspirations.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Prince/section_8_part_3.txt

The Prince.chapter xxii

chapter xxii

{"name": "Chapter XXII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section9/", "summary": "Concerning the Prince's Ministers The selection of ministers is a critical task because ministers give visitors their first impression of the prince. Wise and loyal ministers contribute to the image of a wise prince. Inversely, incompetent and disloyal ministers give the prince the image of incompetence. There are three types of intellect that men can possess: the ability to understand things independently, the ability to appreciate another person's ability to understand things, and the ability to do neither. The first kind is best, the second acceptable, and the third useless. If a prince possesses at least the second kind of intellect, he can judge whether his ministers' actions are good or bad. If a minister thinks more of himself than of the prince and does everything for personal profit, then he is a bad minister. A prince should recognize this state of affairs. Good ministers, however, should be rewarded to maintain their loyalty. Rewards can be paid in money, honor, and expanded responsibilities. It is crucial for a prince to have a confident relationship with his ministers", "analysis": ""}

The choice of servants is of no little importance to a prince, and they are good or not according to the discrimination of the prince. And the first opinion which one forms of a prince, and of his understanding, is by observing the men he has around him; and when they are capable and faithful he may always be considered wise, because he has known how to recognize the capable and to keep them faithful. But when they are otherwise one cannot form a good opinion of him, for the prime error which he made was in choosing them. There were none who knew Messer Antonio da Venafro as the servant of Pandolfo Petrucci, Prince of Siena, who would not consider Pandolfo to be a very clever man in having Venafro for his servant. Because there are three classes of intellects: one which comprehends by itself; another which appreciates what others comprehended; and a third which neither comprehends by itself nor by the showing of others; the first is the most excellent, the second is good, the third is useless. Therefore, it follows necessarily that, if Pandolfo was not in the first rank, he was in the second, for whenever one has judgment to know good and bad when it is said and done, although he himself may not have the initiative, yet he can recognize the good and the bad in his servant, and the one he can praise and the other correct; thus the servant cannot hope to deceive him, and is kept honest. But to enable a prince to form an opinion of his servant there is one test which never fails; when you see the servant thinking more of his own interests than of yours, and seeking inwardly his own profit in everything, such a man will never make a good servant, nor will you ever be able to trust him; because he who has the state of another in his hands ought never to think of himself, but always of his prince, and never pay any attention to matters in which the prince is not concerned. On the other hand, to keep his servant honest the prince ought to study him, honouring him, enriching him, doing him kindnesses, sharing with him the honours and cares; and at the same time let him see that he cannot stand alone, so that many honours may not make him desire more, many riches make him wish for more, and that many cares may make him dread chances. When, therefore, servants, and princes towards servants, are thus disposed, they can trust each other, but when it is otherwise, the end will always be disastrous for either one or the other.

Chapter XXII

https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section9/

Concerning the Prince's Ministers The selection of ministers is a critical task because ministers give visitors their first impression of the prince. Wise and loyal ministers contribute to the image of a wise prince. Inversely, incompetent and disloyal ministers give the prince the image of incompetence. There are three types of intellect that men can possess: the ability to understand things independently, the ability to appreciate another person's ability to understand things, and the ability to do neither. The first kind is best, the second acceptable, and the third useless. If a prince possesses at least the second kind of intellect, he can judge whether his ministers' actions are good or bad. If a minister thinks more of himself than of the prince and does everything for personal profit, then he is a bad minister. A prince should recognize this state of affairs. Good ministers, however, should be rewarded to maintain their loyalty. Rewards can be paid in money, honor, and expanded responsibilities. It is crucial for a prince to have a confident relationship with his ministers

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/32.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_31_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 32

chapter 32

{"name": "Phase IV: \"The Consequence,\" Chapter Thirty-Two", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-32", "summary": "Tess still hasn't named the wedding day by the time November rolls around . It's calving season, and Tess and Angel walk together between the cow hospital, where the calves are born, and the dairy. Angel points out that, with calving season, there are fewer cows to milk , and so she won't be needed at the dairy anymore. He suggests that they get married at around Christmas, and she agrees. When they get back to the house, they tell the Cricks, and they are congratulated appropriately. Tess still feels anxious, and wants to tell him everything before they're married, since she thinks that a man like Angel wouldn't appreciate being told after the fact. She writes to her mother asking for advice on this subject, but her mother already said her piece, and doesn't respond. The date they agree upon is December 31--New Year's Eve. One Sunday, about three weeks before the wedding, Izz Huett comes home from church and tells Tess that her name hasn't been read out. Historical Context time: Back in the day, it was traditional for a proposed wedding to be announced three Sundays in a row at church before the ceremony. That way, if anyone knew of a reason why the couple shouldn't marry, they'd have a chance to get their say in. This tradition was called \"reading the banns,\" or \"publishing the banns.\" And that's why Izz thought it was important to tell Tess that the banns hadn't been read that Sunday: because now there would only be two Sundays left until the ceremony, instead of the required three. But Angel says that he didn't want to have a big public ceremony, anyway, and that he'd just applied for a marriage license, instead. It would be more private that way. Tess is relieved--if anyone knew about her history and saw or heard the banns, they might say something. The next question is about her wedding clothes--should she wear her best white dress, or should she buy something new? Before she's able to ask Angel, he presents her with a package. He'd ordered a whole new outfit for her, down to gloves and shoes. It's not all that fancy, but it's nicer than anything she's ever had. She's very grateful, and goes to try it on, but can't seem to shake her sense of dread.", "analysis": ""}

This penitential mood kept her from naming the wedding-day. The beginning of November found its date still in abeyance, though he asked her at the most tempting times. But Tess's desire seemed to be for a perpetual betrothal in which everything should remain as it was then. The meads were changing now; but it was still warm enough in early afternoons before milking to idle there awhile, and the state of dairy-work at this time of year allowed a spare hour for idling. Looking over the damp sod in the direction of the sun, a glistening ripple of gossamer webs was visible to their eyes under the luminary, like the track of moonlight on the sea. Gnats, knowing nothing of their brief glorification, wandered across the shimmer of this pathway, irradiated as if they bore fire within them, then passed out of its line, and were quite extinct. In the presence of these things he would remind her that the date was still the question. Or he would ask her at night, when he accompanied her on some mission invented by Mrs Crick to give him the opportunity. This was mostly a journey to the farmhouse on the slopes above the vale, to inquire how the advanced cows were getting on in the straw-barton to which they were relegated. For it was a time of the year that brought great changes to the world of kine. Batches of the animals were sent away daily to this lying-in hospital, where they lived on straw till their calves were born, after which event, and as soon as the calf could walk, mother and offspring were driven back to the dairy. In the interval which elapsed before the calves were sold there was, of course, little milking to be done, but as soon as the calf had been taken away the milkmaids would have to set to work as usual. Returning from one of these dark walks they reached a great gravel-cliff immediately over the levels, where they stood still and listened. The water was now high in the streams, squirting through the weirs, and tinkling under culverts; the smallest gullies were all full; there was no taking short cuts anywhere, and foot-passengers were compelled to follow the permanent ways. From the whole extent of the invisible vale came a multitudinous intonation; it forced upon their fancy that a great city lay below them, and that the murmur was the vociferation of its populace. "It seems like tens of thousands of them," said Tess; "holding public-meetings in their market-places, arguing, preaching, quarrelling, sobbing, groaning, praying, and cursing." Clare was not particularly heeding. "Did Crick speak to you to-day, dear, about his not wanting much assistance during the winter months?" "No." "The cows are going dry rapidly." "Yes. Six or seven went to the straw-barton yesterday, and three the day before, making nearly twenty in the straw already. Ah--is it that the farmer don't want my help for the calving? O, I am not wanted here any more! And I have tried so hard to--" "Crick didn't exactly say that he would no longer require you. But, knowing what our relations were, he said in the most good-natured and respectful manner possible that he supposed on my leaving at Christmas I should take you with me, and on my asking what he would do without you he merely observed that, as a matter of fact, it was a time of year when he could do with a very little female help. I am afraid I was sinner enough to feel rather glad that he was in this way forcing your hand." "I don't think you ought to have felt glad, Angel. Because 'tis always mournful not to be wanted, even if at the same time 'tis convenient." "Well, it is convenient--you have admitted that." He put his finger upon her cheek. "Ah!" he said. "What?" "I feel the red rising up at her having been caught! But why should I trifle so! We will not trifle--life is too serious." "It is. Perhaps I saw that before you did." She was seeing it then. To decline to marry him after all--in obedience to her emotion of last night--and leave the dairy, meant to go to some strange place, not a dairy; for milkmaids were not in request now calving-time was coming on; to go to some arable farm where no divine being like Angel Clare was. She hated the thought, and she hated more the thought of going home. "So that, seriously, dearest Tess," he continued, "since you will probably have to leave at Christmas, it is in every way desirable and convenient that I should carry you off then as my property. Besides, if you were not the most uncalculating girl in the world you would know that we could not go on like this for ever." "I wish we could. That it would always be summer and autumn, and you always courting me, and always thinking as much of me as you have done through the past summer-time!" "I always shall." "O, I know you will!" she cried, with a sudden fervour of faith in him. "Angel, I will fix the day when I will become yours for always!" Thus at last it was arranged between them, during that dark walk home, amid the myriads of liquid voices on the right and left. When they reached the dairy Mr and Mrs Crick were promptly told--with injunctions of secrecy; for each of the lovers was desirous that the marriage should be kept as private as possible. The dairyman, though he had thought of dismissing her soon, now made a great concern about losing her. What should he do about his skimming? Who would make the ornamental butter-pats for the Anglebury and Sandbourne ladies? Mrs Crick congratulated Tess on the shilly-shallying having at last come to an end, and said that directly she set eyes on Tess she divined that she was to be the chosen one of somebody who was no common outdoor man; Tess had looked so superior as she walked across the barton on that afternoon of her arrival; that she was of a good family she could have sworn. In point of fact Mrs Crick did remember thinking that Tess was graceful and good-looking as she approached; but the superiority might have been a growth of the imagination aided by subsequent knowledge. Tess was now carried along upon the wings of the hours, without the sense of a will. The word had been given; the number of the day written down. Her naturally bright intelligence had begun to admit the fatalistic convictions common to field-folk and those who associate more extensively with natural phenomena than with their fellow-creatures; and she accordingly drifted into that passive responsiveness to all things her lover suggested, characteristic of the frame of mind. But she wrote anew to her mother, ostensibly to notify the wedding-day; really to again implore her advice. It was a gentleman who had chosen her, which perhaps her mother had not sufficiently considered. A post-nuptial explanation, which might be accepted with a light heart by a rougher man, might not be received with the same feeling by him. But this communication brought no reply from Mrs Durbeyfield. Despite Angel Clare's plausible representation to himself and to Tess of the practical need for their immediate marriage, there was in truth an element of precipitancy in the step, as became apparent at a later date. He loved her dearly, though perhaps rather ideally and fancifully than with the impassioned thoroughness of her feeling for him. He had entertained no notion, when doomed as he had thought to an unintellectual bucolic life, that such charms as he beheld in this idyllic creature would be found behind the scenes. Unsophistication was a thing to talk of; but he had not known how it really struck one until he came here. Yet he was very far from seeing his future track clearly, and it might be a year or two before he would be able to consider himself fairly started in life. The secret lay in the tinge of recklessness imparted to his career and character by the sense that he had been made to miss his true destiny through the prejudices of his family. "Don't you think 'twould have been better for us to wait till you were quite settled in your midland farm?" she once asked timidly. (A midland farm was the idea just then.) "To tell the truth, my Tess, I don't like you to be left anywhere away from my protection and sympathy." The reason was a good one, so far as it went. His influence over her had been so marked that she had caught his manner and habits, his speech and phrases, his likings and his aversions. And to leave her in farmland would be to let her slip back again out of accord with him. He wished to have her under his charge for another reason. His parents had naturally desired to see her once at least before he carried her off to a distant settlement, English or colonial; and as no opinion of theirs was to be allowed to change his intention, he judged that a couple of months' life with him in lodgings whilst seeking for an advantageous opening would be of some social assistance to her at what she might feel to be a trying ordeal--her presentation to his mother at the Vicarage. Next, he wished to see a little of the working of a flour-mill, having an idea that he might combine the use of one with corn-growing. The proprietor of a large old water-mill at Wellbridge--once the mill of an Abbey--had offered him the inspection of his time-honoured mode of procedure, and a hand in the operations for a few days, whenever he should choose to come. Clare paid a visit to the place, some few miles distant, one day at this time, to inquire particulars, and returned to Talbothays in the evening. She found him determined to spend a short time at the Wellbridge flour-mills. And what had determined him? Less the opportunity of an insight into grinding and bolting than the casual fact that lodgings were to be obtained in that very farmhouse which, before its mutilation, had been the mansion of a branch of the d'Urberville family. This was always how Clare settled practical questions; by a sentiment which had nothing to do with them. They decided to go immediately after the wedding, and remain for a fortnight, instead of journeying to towns and inns. "Then we will start off to examine some farms on the other side of London that I have heard of," he said, "and by March or April we will pay a visit to my father and mother." Questions of procedure such as these arose and passed, and the day, the incredible day, on which she was to become his, loomed large in the near future. The thirty-first of December, New Year's Eve, was the date. His wife, she said to herself. Could it ever be? Their two selves together, nothing to divide them, every incident shared by them; why not? And yet why? One Sunday morning Izz Huett returned from church, and spoke privately to Tess. "You was not called home this morning." "What?" "It should ha' been the first time of asking to-day," she answered, looking quietly at Tess. "You meant to be married New Year's Eve, deary?" The other returned a quick affirmative. "And there must be three times of asking. And now there be only two Sundays left between." Tess felt her cheek paling; Izz was right; of course there must be three. Perhaps he had forgotten! If so, there must be a week's postponement, and that was unlucky. How could she remind her lover? She who had been so backward was suddenly fired with impatience and alarm lest she should lose her dear prize. A natural incident relieved her anxiety. Izz mentioned the omission of the banns to Mrs Crick, and Mrs Crick assumed a matron's privilege of speaking to Angel on the point. "Have ye forgot 'em, Mr Clare? The banns, I mean." "No, I have not forgot 'em," says Clare. As soon as he caught Tess alone he assured her: "Don't let them tease you about the banns. A licence will be quieter for us, and I have decided on a licence without consulting you. So if you go to church on Sunday morning you will not hear your own name, if you wished to." "I didn't wish to hear it, dearest," she said proudly. But to know that things were in train was an immense relief to Tess notwithstanding, who had well-nigh feared that somebody would stand up and forbid the banns on the ground of her history. How events were favouring her! "I don't quite feel easy," she said to herself. "All this good fortune may be scourged out of me afterwards by a lot of ill. That's how Heaven mostly does. I wish I could have had common banns!" But everything went smoothly. She wondered whether he would like her to be married in her present best white frock, or if she ought to buy a new one. The question was set at rest by his forethought, disclosed by the arrival of some large packages addressed to her. Inside them she found a whole stock of clothing, from bonnet to shoes, including a perfect morning costume, such as would well suit the simple wedding they planned. He entered the house shortly after the arrival of the packages, and heard her upstairs undoing them. A minute later she came down with a flush on her face and tears in her eyes. "How thoughtful you've been!" she murmured, her cheek upon his shoulder. "Even to the gloves and handkerchief! My own love--how good, how kind!" "No, no, Tess; just an order to a tradeswoman in London--nothing more." And to divert her from thinking too highly of him, he told her to go upstairs, and take her time, and see if it all fitted; and, if not, to get the village sempstress to make a few alterations. She did return upstairs, and put on the gown. Alone, she stood for a moment before the glass looking at the effect of her silk attire; and then there came into her head her mother's ballad of the mystic robe-- That never would become that wife That had once done amiss, which Mrs Durbeyfield had used to sing to her as a child, so blithely and so archly, her foot on the cradle, which she rocked to the tune. Suppose this robe should betray her by changing colour, as her robe had betrayed Queen Guinevere. Since she had been at the dairy she had not once thought of the lines till now.

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

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-32

Tess still hasn't named the wedding day by the time November rolls around . It's calving season, and Tess and Angel walk together between the cow hospital, where the calves are born, and the dairy. Angel points out that, with calving season, there are fewer cows to milk , and so she won't be needed at the dairy anymore. He suggests that they get married at around Christmas, and she agrees. When they get back to the house, they tell the Cricks, and they are congratulated appropriately. Tess still feels anxious, and wants to tell him everything before they're married, since she thinks that a man like Angel wouldn't appreciate being told after the fact. She writes to her mother asking for advice on this subject, but her mother already said her piece, and doesn't respond. The date they agree upon is December 31--New Year's Eve. One Sunday, about three weeks before the wedding, Izz Huett comes home from church and tells Tess that her name hasn't been read out. Historical Context time: Back in the day, it was traditional for a proposed wedding to be announced three Sundays in a row at church before the ceremony. That way, if anyone knew of a reason why the couple shouldn't marry, they'd have a chance to get their say in. This tradition was called "reading the banns," or "publishing the banns." And that's why Izz thought it was important to tell Tess that the banns hadn't been read that Sunday: because now there would only be two Sundays left until the ceremony, instead of the required three. But Angel says that he didn't want to have a big public ceremony, anyway, and that he'd just applied for a marriage license, instead. It would be more private that way. Tess is relieved--if anyone knew about her history and saw or heard the banns, they might say something. The next question is about her wedding clothes--should she wear her best white dress, or should she buy something new? Before she's able to ask Angel, he presents her with a package. He'd ordered a whole new outfit for her, down to gloves and shoes. It's not all that fancy, but it's nicer than anything she's ever had. She's very grateful, and goes to try it on, but can't seem to shake her sense of dread.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/12915-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The White Devil/section_14_part_0.txt

The White Devil.act 5.scene 5

act 5, scene 5

{"name": "Act 5, Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-5-scene-5", "summary": "Francisco, Lodovico, and Hortensio enter. Hortensio is listening in. Lodovico says that it's too dangerous for Francisco to stick around and risk his life--he's done enough already. Lodovico vows to finish the vengeance on his own . He exits. Francisco bids Lodovico farewell and says that he'll make sure he's famous and remembered if he dies during the attempt. Francisco exits. Hortensio overhears all this and says he senses something evil is afoot. He heads off to raise some guards from the citadel.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE V Enter Francisco, Lodovico, and Hortensio Lodo. My lord, upon my soul you shall no further; You have most ridiculously engag'd yourself Too far already. For my part, I have paid All my debts: so, if I should chance to fall, My creditors fall not with me; and I vow, To quit all in this bold assembly, To the meanest follower. My lord, leave the city, Or I 'll forswear the murder. [Exit. Fran. Farewell, Lodovico: If thou dost perish in this glorious act, I 'll rear unto thy memory that fame, Shall in the ashes keep alive thy name. [Exit. Hort. There 's some black deed on foot. I 'll presently Down to the citadel, and raise some force. These strong court-factions, that do brook no checks, In the career oft break the riders' necks. [Exit.

Act 5, Scene 5

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

Francisco, Lodovico, and Hortensio enter. Hortensio is listening in. Lodovico says that it's too dangerous for Francisco to stick around and risk his life--he's done enough already. Lodovico vows to finish the vengeance on his own . He exits. Francisco bids Lodovico farewell and says that he'll make sure he's famous and remembered if he dies during the attempt. Francisco exits. Hortensio overhears all this and says he senses something evil is afoot. He heads off to raise some guards from the citadel.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/09.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Prince/section_3_part_2.txt

The Prince.chapter ix

chapter ix

{"name": "Chapter IX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section4/", "summary": "Concerning the Civil Principality The other way a prince can come to power is through the favor of his fellow citizens. Princes who rise through this route are heads of what Machiavelli calls constitutional principalities. Machiavelli argues that every city is populated by two groups of citizens: common people and nobles. The common people are naturally disposed to avoid domination and oppression by the nobles. The nobles are naturally disposed to dominate and oppress the common people. The opposition between the two groups results in the establishment of either a principality, a free city, or anarchy. The power to form a principality lies with either the nobles or the people. If the nobles realize they cannot dominate the people, they will try to strengthen their position by making one of the nobles a prince. They hope to accomplish their own ends through the prince's authority. The people will follow the same course of action; if they realize they cannot withstand the nobles, they will make one of the people a prince and hope to be protected by the prince's authority. A prince placed in power by nobles will find it more difficult to maintain his position because those who surround him will consider themselves his equals and his selection as prince arbitrary. However, a prince created by the people stands alone at the top. Not only are nobles much harder to satisfy than the people, they are less honest in their motives because they seek to oppress the people. The people, on the other hand, only seek to be left alone. If the people are hostile to the prince, the worst that can happen is desertion. However, if the nobles are hostile, the prince can expect both desertion and active opposition. Nobles are astute and cunning and always safeguard their interests. Nobles will either become dependent on the prince or remain independent of his control. A prince should honor and love those nobles who have become dependent on him. Nobles who remain independent are either timid or ambitious. Timid nobles are benign, but a prince should be wary of ambitious nobles, since they will become enemies in times of adversity. A prince created by the people must retain the people's friendship, a fairly easy task. A prince created by the nobles must still try to win over the people's affection, because they can serve as protection from hostile nobles. Benevolence is the best way to maintain the mandate of the people. If people expect hostility from a prince but instead receive kindness and favors, they feel a great obligation to their prince. Principalities usually face difficulties when switching from a government with limited powers to one that is more absolute. To make this transition, a prince can either rule directly or through magistrates. The prince is more vulnerable in the latter case because he is dependent on the will of his magistrates. In times of adversity, the magistrates may depose him, through direct action against him or simply by disobeying his orders. Moreover, if the magistrates do revolt, the prince will be unable to assume absolute power, because the people are accustomed to obeying the magistrates rather than the prince. In prosperous times, it is fashionable to declare allegiance to a prince. But during times of danger, trusted men become scarce. A wise prince must find a way to ensure that his citizens are always dependent on his authority. Thus, they will always remain loyal.", "analysis": "These chapters describe how different types of princes should establish power, within a state's environment of fluctuating power dynamics. Machiavelli makes an eloquent argument for the importance of a domestic power base. He does not hesitate to acknowledge the necessity of cruelty and crime in establishing this power and even explains how to use cruelty most effectively. He does not advise moderation in the degree of cruelty used, but rather a limit on how long extreme cruelty is to be employed. That is, Machiavelli does not say that princes must be cruel but not extremely cruel. Instead, he argues that cruel acts must be committed as necessary, but all at once and then ceased, so that the populace will forget them. This kind of argument is extremely pragmatic and ignores all questions of right and wrong. Taking historical examples as the basis for his argument, Machiavelli simply describes how power has effectively been deployed and consolidated in the past, and does not assume that human nature will take a turn for the better in the future. Even when princes do not need to rely on cruelty, Machiavelli still describes a necessary, dangerous game of internal politics, which involves the pitting of one group of citizens against another. As a guiding principle, a prince's power invariably depends on internal support. Whether a prince uses cruelty or benevolence to obtain that support is secondary to the necessity of gaining the support itself. Machiavelli is more than the amoral pragmatist he is sometimes made out to be. The distinction made between power and glory indicates that, in Machiavelli's view, some princes are better than others. While any prince can achieve and maintain power, glory remains a more elusive goal. Although Machiavelli is primarily concerned with how princes perform as rulers, he also gives an assessment of the different kinds of princes. Machiavelli's view is that the prince who rises and survives by means of treachery and the prince who succeeds by his innate prowess are both technically princes. But he also admits that the two are not equal in honor or glory, and, perhaps, even moral worth. Moreover, Machiavelli also characterizes the use of cruelty as \"evil. In some cases, cruelty is a necessary evil, and using it can be justified in the interests of some greater public good, like internal stability or protection from invasion. Yet Machiavelli's very recognition of the intrinsic immorality of cruel behavior contradicts the depiction of The Prince as a completely amoral book. Machiavelli's description of class conflict in Chapter IX, which states that there is an inevitable tension between common people and nobles, is also worth noting. Superficially, this statement brings Machiavelli in line with political philosophers such as Karl Marx, who view class conflict as an inevitable aspect of civilized society. But Machiavelli's description of \"classes\" is much less sophisticated than that of Marx. More fundamentally, Machiavelli does not see class conflict as a driving force behind political structures. Rather, it is one of a number of challenges that a prince must learn to negotiate if he is to be successful. Consequently, in describing the great struggle between commoners and nobles, Machiavelli does not side with either group. Instead, his stance is more detached, focusing only on a hypothetical prince's relationship with these groups. One of the most significant components of Machiavelli's argumentative style is his use of definition by division, a rhetorical device that can be quite convincing. This device can be described schematically as \"A prince must accomplish X. Accomplishing X entails either method Y or method Z. Y is preferable to Z, so a prince should choose method Y. It is a logical and practical line of reasoning, but if the original assumption linking the chain of logic is fallacious, then all the conclusions that follow are necessarily questionable. If Y and Z aren't the only way to accomplish X, then the course of action that Machiavelli proposes for a prince is not necessarily the best possible option. One might ask, for example, whether there are other ways of becoming a prince besides prowess, fortune, crime, and favor. And it may be possible that there are other, more various factions within cities besides commoners and nobles. For that matter, it can be argued that there are other more subtle ways to win support than cruelty and benevolence"}

But coming to the other point--where a leading citizen becomes the prince of his country, not by wickedness or any intolerable violence, but by the favour of his fellow citizens--this may be called a civil principality: nor is genius or fortune altogether necessary to attain to it, but rather a happy shrewdness. I say then that such a principality is obtained either by the favour of the people or by the favour of the nobles. Because in all cities these two distinct parties are found, and from this it arises that the people do not wish to be ruled nor oppressed by the nobles, and the nobles wish to rule and oppress the people; and from these two opposite desires there arises in cities one of three results, either a principality, self-government, or anarchy. A principality is created either by the people or by the nobles, accordingly as one or other of them has the opportunity; for the nobles, seeing they cannot withstand the people, begin to cry up the reputation of one of themselves, and they make him a prince, so that under his shadow they can give vent to their ambitions. The people, finding they cannot resist the nobles, also cry up the reputation of one of themselves, and make him a prince so as to be defended by his authority. He who obtains sovereignty by the assistance of the nobles maintains himself with more difficulty than he who comes to it by the aid of the people, because the former finds himself with many around him who consider themselves his equals, and because of this he can neither rule nor manage them to his liking. But he who reaches sovereignty by popular favour finds himself alone, and has none around him, or few, who are not prepared to obey him. Besides this, one cannot by fair dealing, and without injury to others, satisfy the nobles, but you can satisfy the people, for their object is more righteous than that of the nobles, the latter wishing to oppress, while the former only desire not to be oppressed. It is to be added also that a prince can never secure himself against a hostile people, because of there being too many, whilst from the nobles he can secure himself, as they are few in number. The worst that a prince may expect from a hostile people is to be abandoned by them; but from hostile nobles he has not only to fear abandonment, but also that they will rise against him; for they, being in these affairs more far-seeing and astute, always come forward in time to save themselves, and to obtain favours from him whom they expect to prevail. Further, the prince is compelled to live always with the same people, but he can do well without the same nobles, being able to make and unmake them daily, and to give or take away authority when it pleases him. Therefore, to make this point clearer, I say that the nobles ought to be looked at mainly in two ways: that is to say, they either shape their course in such a way as binds them entirely to your fortune, or they do not. Those who so bind themselves, and are not rapacious, ought to be honoured and loved; those who do not bind themselves may be dealt with in two ways; they may fail to do this through pusillanimity and a natural want of courage, in which case you ought to make use of them, especially of those who are of good counsel; and thus, whilst in prosperity you honour them, in adversity you do not have to fear them. But when for their own ambitious ends they shun binding themselves, it is a token that they are giving more thought to themselves than to you, and a prince ought to guard against such, and to fear them as if they were open enemies, because in adversity they always help to ruin him. Therefore, one who becomes a prince through the favour of the people ought to keep them friendly, and this he can easily do seeing they only ask not to be oppressed by him. But one who, in opposition to the people, becomes a prince by the favour of the nobles, ought, above everything, to seek to win the people over to himself, and this he may easily do if he takes them under his protection. Because men, when they receive good from him of whom they were expecting evil, are bound more closely to their benefactor; thus the people quickly become more devoted to him than if he had been raised to the principality by their favours; and the prince can win their affections in many ways, but as these vary according to the circumstances one cannot give fixed rules, so I omit them; but, I repeat, it is necessary for a prince to have the people friendly, otherwise he has no security in adversity. Nabis,(*) Prince of the Spartans, sustained the attack of all Greece, and of a victorious Roman army, and against them he defended his country and his government; and for the overcoming of this peril it was only necessary for him to make himself secure against a few, but this would not have been sufficient had the people been hostile. And do not let any one impugn this statement with the trite proverb that "He who builds on the people, builds on the mud," for this is true when a private citizen makes a foundation there, and persuades himself that the people will free him when he is oppressed by his enemies or by the magistrates; wherein he would find himself very often deceived, as happened to the Gracchi in Rome and to Messer Giorgio Scali(+) in Florence. But granted a prince who has established himself as above, who can command, and is a man of courage, undismayed in adversity, who does not fail in other qualifications, and who, by his resolution and energy, keeps the whole people encouraged--such a one will never find himself deceived in them, and it will be shown that he has laid his foundations well. (*) Nabis, tyrant of Sparta, conquered by the Romans under Flamininus in 195 B.C.; killed 192 B.C. (+) Messer Giorgio Scali. This event is to be found in Machiavelli's "Florentine History," Book III. These principalities are liable to danger when they are passing from the civil to the absolute order of government, for such princes either rule personally or through magistrates. In the latter case their government is weaker and more insecure, because it rests entirely on the goodwill of those citizens who are raised to the magistracy, and who, especially in troubled times, can destroy the government with great ease, either by intrigue or open defiance; and the prince has not the chance amid tumults to exercise absolute authority, because the citizens and subjects, accustomed to receive orders from magistrates, are not of a mind to obey him amid these confusions, and there will always be in doubtful times a scarcity of men whom he can trust. For such a prince cannot rely upon what he observes in quiet times, when citizens have need of the state, because then every one agrees with him; they all promise, and when death is far distant they all wish to die for him; but in troubled times, when the state has need of its citizens, then he finds but few. And so much the more is this experiment dangerous, inasmuch as it can only be tried once. Therefore a wise prince ought to adopt such a course that his citizens will always in every sort and kind of circumstance have need of the state and of him, and then he will always find them faithful.

Chapter IX

https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section4/

Concerning the Civil Principality The other way a prince can come to power is through the favor of his fellow citizens. Princes who rise through this route are heads of what Machiavelli calls constitutional principalities. Machiavelli argues that every city is populated by two groups of citizens: common people and nobles. The common people are naturally disposed to avoid domination and oppression by the nobles. The nobles are naturally disposed to dominate and oppress the common people. The opposition between the two groups results in the establishment of either a principality, a free city, or anarchy. The power to form a principality lies with either the nobles or the people. If the nobles realize they cannot dominate the people, they will try to strengthen their position by making one of the nobles a prince. They hope to accomplish their own ends through the prince's authority. The people will follow the same course of action; if they realize they cannot withstand the nobles, they will make one of the people a prince and hope to be protected by the prince's authority. A prince placed in power by nobles will find it more difficult to maintain his position because those who surround him will consider themselves his equals and his selection as prince arbitrary. However, a prince created by the people stands alone at the top. Not only are nobles much harder to satisfy than the people, they are less honest in their motives because they seek to oppress the people. The people, on the other hand, only seek to be left alone. If the people are hostile to the prince, the worst that can happen is desertion. However, if the nobles are hostile, the prince can expect both desertion and active opposition. Nobles are astute and cunning and always safeguard their interests. Nobles will either become dependent on the prince or remain independent of his control. A prince should honor and love those nobles who have become dependent on him. Nobles who remain independent are either timid or ambitious. Timid nobles are benign, but a prince should be wary of ambitious nobles, since they will become enemies in times of adversity. A prince created by the people must retain the people's friendship, a fairly easy task. A prince created by the nobles must still try to win over the people's affection, because they can serve as protection from hostile nobles. Benevolence is the best way to maintain the mandate of the people. If people expect hostility from a prince but instead receive kindness and favors, they feel a great obligation to their prince. Principalities usually face difficulties when switching from a government with limited powers to one that is more absolute. To make this transition, a prince can either rule directly or through magistrates. The prince is more vulnerable in the latter case because he is dependent on the will of his magistrates. In times of adversity, the magistrates may depose him, through direct action against him or simply by disobeying his orders. Moreover, if the magistrates do revolt, the prince will be unable to assume absolute power, because the people are accustomed to obeying the magistrates rather than the prince. In prosperous times, it is fashionable to declare allegiance to a prince. But during times of danger, trusted men become scarce. A wise prince must find a way to ensure that his citizens are always dependent on his authority. Thus, they will always remain loyal.

These chapters describe how different types of princes should establish power, within a state's environment of fluctuating power dynamics. Machiavelli makes an eloquent argument for the importance of a domestic power base. He does not hesitate to acknowledge the necessity of cruelty and crime in establishing this power and even explains how to use cruelty most effectively. He does not advise moderation in the degree of cruelty used, but rather a limit on how long extreme cruelty is to be employed. That is, Machiavelli does not say that princes must be cruel but not extremely cruel. Instead, he argues that cruel acts must be committed as necessary, but all at once and then ceased, so that the populace will forget them. This kind of argument is extremely pragmatic and ignores all questions of right and wrong. Taking historical examples as the basis for his argument, Machiavelli simply describes how power has effectively been deployed and consolidated in the past, and does not assume that human nature will take a turn for the better in the future. Even when princes do not need to rely on cruelty, Machiavelli still describes a necessary, dangerous game of internal politics, which involves the pitting of one group of citizens against another. As a guiding principle, a prince's power invariably depends on internal support. Whether a prince uses cruelty or benevolence to obtain that support is secondary to the necessity of gaining the support itself. Machiavelli is more than the amoral pragmatist he is sometimes made out to be. The distinction made between power and glory indicates that, in Machiavelli's view, some princes are better than others. While any prince can achieve and maintain power, glory remains a more elusive goal. Although Machiavelli is primarily concerned with how princes perform as rulers, he also gives an assessment of the different kinds of princes. Machiavelli's view is that the prince who rises and survives by means of treachery and the prince who succeeds by his innate prowess are both technically princes. But he also admits that the two are not equal in honor or glory, and, perhaps, even moral worth. Moreover, Machiavelli also characterizes the use of cruelty as "evil. In some cases, cruelty is a necessary evil, and using it can be justified in the interests of some greater public good, like internal stability or protection from invasion. Yet Machiavelli's very recognition of the intrinsic immorality of cruel behavior contradicts the depiction of The Prince as a completely amoral book. Machiavelli's description of class conflict in Chapter IX, which states that there is an inevitable tension between common people and nobles, is also worth noting. Superficially, this statement brings Machiavelli in line with political philosophers such as Karl Marx, who view class conflict as an inevitable aspect of civilized society. But Machiavelli's description of "classes" is much less sophisticated than that of Marx. More fundamentally, Machiavelli does not see class conflict as a driving force behind political structures. Rather, it is one of a number of challenges that a prince must learn to negotiate if he is to be successful. Consequently, in describing the great struggle between commoners and nobles, Machiavelli does not side with either group. Instead, his stance is more detached, focusing only on a hypothetical prince's relationship with these groups. One of the most significant components of Machiavelli's argumentative style is his use of definition by division, a rhetorical device that can be quite convincing. This device can be described schematically as "A prince must accomplish X. Accomplishing X entails either method Y or method Z. Y is preferable to Z, so a prince should choose method Y. It is a logical and practical line of reasoning, but if the original assumption linking the chain of logic is fallacious, then all the conclusions that follow are necessarily questionable. If Y and Z aren't the only way to accomplish X, then the course of action that Machiavelli proposes for a prince is not necessarily the best possible option. One might ask, for example, whether there are other ways of becoming a prince besides prowess, fortune, crime, and favor. And it may be possible that there are other, more various factions within cities besides commoners and nobles. For that matter, it can be argued that there are other more subtle ways to win support than cruelty and benevolence

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Prince/section_5_part_2.txt

The Prince.chapter xiii

chapter xiii

{"name": "Chapter XIII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section6/", "summary": "Concerning Auxiliary, Mixed, and Native Forces Auxiliary troops--armies borrowed from a more powerful state--are as useless as mercenaries. Although they often fight well, a prince who calls on auxiliaries places himself in a no-win situation. If the auxiliaries fail, he is defenseless, whereas if the auxiliaries are successful, he still owes his victory to the power of another. Auxiliary troops are often skilled and organized, yet their first loyalty is to another ruler. Thus, they pose an even more dangerous threat to the prince than mercenaries. If a prince does not command his own native troops, the principality can never be secure. Depending on outside armies is essentially the same as depending on good fortune. The use of auxiliaries and mercenaries is effective during prosperous times, but in times of adversity, reliance on borrowed troops, like reliance on fortune, is a perilous liability", "analysis": ""}

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

Chapter XIII

https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section6/

Concerning Auxiliary, Mixed, and Native Forces Auxiliary troops--armies borrowed from a more powerful state--are as useless as mercenaries. Although they often fight well, a prince who calls on auxiliaries places himself in a no-win situation. If the auxiliaries fail, he is defenseless, whereas if the auxiliaries are successful, he still owes his victory to the power of another. Auxiliary troops are often skilled and organized, yet their first loyalty is to another ruler. Thus, they pose an even more dangerous threat to the prince than mercenaries. If a prince does not command his own native troops, the principality can never be secure. Depending on outside armies is essentially the same as depending on good fortune. The use of auxiliaries and mercenaries is effective during prosperous times, but in times of adversity, reliance on borrowed troops, like reliance on fortune, is a perilous liability

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_23_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 1.chapter 24

part 1, chapter 24

{"name": "Part 1, Chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-24", "summary": "Julien arrives in Besancon. The first thing he does there is go into a cafe because he likes the feeling of being a solitary, handsome traveller in a strange new place. When he reaches the cafe, he strikes up a conversation with a waitress and flirts with her. Soon enough, one of the waitress' boyfriends shows up and starts giving him a mean stare. He decides he wants to fight a duel with the guy, but the waitress stops him. She writes her name on a card for him and tells him to come ask for her later, saying that he's her cousin from away. Julien leaves thinking he's scored a romantic victory. Before going to the seminary, Julien asks an older woman to watch his clothes for him. He wants access to them in case he goes back to meet the girl from the cafe.", "analysis": ""}

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

Part 1, Chapter 24

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-24

Julien arrives in Besancon. The first thing he does there is go into a cafe because he likes the feeling of being a solitary, handsome traveller in a strange new place. When he reaches the cafe, he strikes up a conversation with a waitress and flirts with her. Soon enough, one of the waitress' boyfriends shows up and starts giving him a mean stare. He decides he wants to fight a duel with the guy, but the waitress stops him. She writes her name on a card for him and tells him to come ask for her later, saying that he's her cousin from away. Julien leaves thinking he's scored a romantic victory. Before going to the seminary, Julien asks an older woman to watch his clothes for him. He wants access to them in case he goes back to meet the girl from the cafe.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/book_iv.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_5_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book iv.chapter i-chapter vii

book iv

{"name": "Book IV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219142226/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/b/the-brothers-karamazov/summary-and-analysis/part-2-book-iv", "summary": "Nearing death, Father Zossima rallies a bit and gathers his friends and disciples around him. He speaks to them of the necessity of loving one another and all men and urges them to remember that each human being shares responsibility for the sins of all others. Alyosha leaves the cell, aware of the tense sorrow that hovers over the monastery. All members of the holy community, he is sure, anticipate some sort of miracle, one occurring immediately after the elder's death. There are, in fact, already rumors of Father Zossima's being responsible for a recent miracle. Not quite all, however, share Alyosha's idealization of Zossima. Living in the monastery is another very old monk, Father Ferapont, \"antagonistic to Father Zossima and the whole institution of elders.\" Ferapont believes in a religion based on severe fasting and on fear of Satan, a belief totally opposite to the doctrine of love advocated by Father Zossima. Ferapont sees the devil at work in all things and frequently has visions of lurking devils waiting to ensnare innocent souls. He is admired by only a few people because of such severity, but he does have a coterie of staunch followers. After Father Zossima has retired to his cell, he calls for Alyosha and reminds the boy that he hopes Alyosha will return to the town in order to fulfill his responsibilities to his father and to his brothers. Alyosha acquiesces. On his return, Alyosha finds his father alone. The old man insists that he plans to live a long time but that he needs much money to attract young \"wenches\" to come to him in his later years, when he has lost much of his vigor. He vehemently proclaims that above all other things, he will remain a sensualist until he is forced to bed down with death. Alyosha listens and then leaves his father's house. Outside he encounters a group of schoolboys throwing rocks at an outcast young lad, a frail young child about nine years old. Despite his frailty, the boy returns the violence and flings back sharp rocks at the squadron of young hoodlums. Then suddenly he breaks and runs. Alyosha dashes after the boy, eager to discover what lies under such antagonism. But when he catches him, the youngster is sullen and defiant. He hits Alyosha with a rock and lunges at him, biting his hand. He escapes once more and leaves Alyosha perplexed as to the meaning of such corrosive bitterness. Alyosha's next stop is at the home of Madame Hohlakov. There he is surprised to learn that Ivan is also a visitor, upstairs at the moment with Katerina. Dmitri's presence might have been in order, but certainly Ivan's is unexpected to the young Karamazov. He asks for some cloth to bandage his hand, and when Madame Hohlakov goes in search of medication, he is immediately set upon by Lise. She implores him to return her letter; it was a bad joke, she says. But Alyosha refuses to part with the letter. He believed its contents, he says, but he cannot return it; he does not have it with him. Alyosha then leaves Lise and goes to talk with Ivan and Katerina. Katerina repeats to Alyosha what she has just told Ivan -- that she will never abandon Dmitri, even if he marries Grushenka. Furthermore, she intends to help and protect him even though he does not appreciate it. Ivan agrees with her, though he admits that in another woman such behavior would be considered neurotic. Alyosha can no longer retain himself. He tries to convince them that they love each other; they are only torturing themselves by their theorizings. Ivan admits that he does love Katerina but says that she needs someone like Dmitri because of her excessive self-esteem. Then he says that he is leaving the next day for Moscow and excuses himself. After Ivan leaves, Katerina tells Alyosha of a poor captain, a Mr. Snegiryov, who was once brutally beaten by Dmitri while the captain's young son stood by and begged for mercy. She has never forgotten the incident and asks Alyosha to take 200 rubles to the captain as a token of her deep sympathy. Alyosha says that he will do as she asks and leaves. The captain in question lives in a ramshackle old house with a mentally deranged wife, two daughters , and his young son, Ilusha. Coincidentally, Ilusha turns out to be the outcast who earlier bit Alyosha's hand. Before Alyosha can explain why he has come, the boy cries out that the young Karamazov has come to complain about the hand-biting. And it is then that Alyosha understands why the boy attacked him so savagely: he was defending his father's honor against a Karamazov. The captain takes Alyosha outside and tells him the story of his encounter with Dmitri and how terribly the episode affected his young son. He further emphasizes the family's poverty, and Alyosha -- overjoyed that he can relieve the old man's poverty -- explains that he has come to give him 200 rubles. The captain is delighted by such unexpected good luck and speaks of the many things he can now do for his sick and hungry family. But suddenly he changes his mind. With a proud gesture, he throws the money to the ground, saying that if he accepts the sum he can never gain his son's love and respect. Alyosha retrieves the money and starts back to Katerina to report his failure.", "analysis": "At the end of Book III, Alyosha wonders why Father Zossima has asked him to leave the monastery. Book IV is Dostoevsky's explanation. From chapter to chapter, Alyosha moves among the characters as they grapple with their assorted problems. He fast becomes the living embodiment of the elder's teachings. Each chapter illustrates Alyosha's influences. In Chapter 2 he travels to his father's house and listens to the frustrations that plague the old man. Then he goes to Madame Hohlakov's and tries to pacify young Lise by calmly accepting her hysterical outcries. While there he makes an effort to bring Ivan and Katerina together as lovers. Next, he goes to the cottage of the destitute Captain Snegiryov. Obviously Dostoevsky intends us to see that Alyosha is meant for a life of activity, not for the quiet passivity of the monastery. The message of Father Zossima is of particular importance in this book. Earlier he emphasized the value of love and admonished his adherents to love one another, to love all of God's people. Now he reminds his followers that simply because they have assumed a monastic life does not imply that they are more blessed than other people. In fact, \"from the very fact of coming here, each of us has confessed to himself that he is worse than others.\" He also reminds his listeners that each man is responsible for every other man and that \"he is responsible to all men for all and everything, for all human sins, national and individual.\" This speech alone contains all the reasons for Alyosha's leaving the monastery. A life of seclusion does not test one's strength if he is to be a representative of Zossima's theories. The elder's ideas can be tested only in the midst of busy society. Father Zossima's ideas concerning the responsibility of one man for another take on added weight in the conversations that Alyosha has with Ivan. Ivan refuses to take responsibility for Dmitri's sins and tells Alyosha that he is not his brother's keeper. Later, Zossima's concept of responsibility triggers Alyosha into considering his own responsibility for Karamazov's murder. At the end of Zossima's talk, rumors spread of a forthcoming miracle, one that will coincide with the elder's death. Alyosha is intrigued by the rumors, especially since he believes Zossima to be saint-like, but he is sorely tested when his beloved elder's body rapidly decomposes. As Alyosha begins his journey through the complex world of society, he goes first to his father's house and listens to all kinds of vulgar and disgusting stories. His father tells him that he will need much money in later years to tempt young \"wenches\" to sleep with him and suggests that Ivan is trying to marry Katerina so that Dmitri will have to marry Grushenka; thus old Karamazov will be prevented from remarrying and leaving his fortune to a new wife -- in other words, to Grushenka. All these wild accusations color more darkly Dostoevsky's portrait of Karamazov as a repulsive and bestial type. Throughout the confession, Alyosha is able to retain his peaceful mien and never compromises his inner nature of dignity and love. In the scene with young Ilusha, Alyosha still remains a perfectly self-contained individual. He does not even use violence when Ilusha bites him so viciously. It is a bitter entrance into the world -- stoned and bitten only because one is a Karamazov; none of this, of course, would have happened if Alyosha had remained in seclusion at the monastery. But Alyosha has made his choice according to Zossima's wishes and according to the dictates of the elder who told him that he must marry and become one with the world. He, therefore, tells the young invalid Lise that when she comes of age they will marry. As for another marriage -- one between Ivan and Katerina -- the solution is not quite so simple. They are apparently in love with each other, but both are so arrogant that they cannot come to an understanding. Part of the difficulty lies in Katerina's fantastic personality. She feels the need to suffer or to be humiliated by Dmitri, and her statement that she will never abandon Dmitri, even if he marries Grushenka, indicates the fanatical degree to which she plans to carry her suffering and martyrdom. Ivan sums up her peculiar nature well when he says that she needs Dmitri \"so as to contemplate continually your heroic fidelity and to reproach him for infidelity.\" For the present, then, Katerina's declaration results in an impasse; her views of the two brothers will not be resolved until the trial, and even then real objectivity will be impossible. Nevertheless, it is true that she feels the need to be humiliated by Dmitri. Proof of this lies in her deep sympathy with Captain Snegiryov, a man whom Dmitri has humiliated. She asks Alyosha to take him 200 rubles \"as a token of sympathy,\" but her sympathy is of far greater than token value. Alyosha fast becomes involved in social intrigues. But one should be aware that there is no rancor or bitterness in his new role. Alyosha has no resentment, even following the Ilusha incident. Quite the contrary, he has great compassion for a young boy who will try to defend his father's honor. Book IV then places the neophyte Alyosha in a variety of new situations, and the boy's skill in dealing with them suggests the future potential that Father Zossima sensed in him. Looking ahead, however, one might note that success is not total. Further along, it will become apparent that Alyosha often fails with adults. It is with children that he most succeeds; with the younger generation his qualities of quiet love and devotion find the most fertile sympathy. This, of course, is part of Dostoevsky's vision -- children represent the future of all hope and salvation. In this novel Alyosha entrusts Zossima's ideal of love and honor to the new generation."}

PART II Book IV. Lacerations Chapter I. Father Ferapont Alyosha was roused early, before daybreak. Father Zossima woke up feeling very weak, though he wanted to get out of bed and sit up in a chair. His mind was quite clear; his face looked very tired, yet bright and almost joyful. It wore an expression of gayety, kindness and cordiality. "Maybe I shall not live through the coming day," he said to Alyosha. Then he desired to confess and take the sacrament at once. He always confessed to Father Paissy. After taking the communion, the service of extreme unction followed. The monks assembled and the cell was gradually filled up by the inmates of the hermitage. Meantime it was daylight. People began coming from the monastery. After the service was over the elder desired to kiss and take leave of every one. As the cell was so small the earlier visitors withdrew to make room for others. Alyosha stood beside the elder, who was seated again in his arm-chair. He talked as much as he could. Though his voice was weak, it was fairly steady. "I've been teaching you so many years, and therefore I've been talking aloud so many years, that I've got into the habit of talking, and so much so that it's almost more difficult for me to hold my tongue than to talk, even now, in spite of my weakness, dear Fathers and brothers," he jested, looking with emotion at the group round him. Alyosha remembered afterwards something of what he said to them. But though he spoke out distinctly and his voice was fairly steady, his speech was somewhat disconnected. He spoke of many things, he seemed anxious before the moment of death to say everything he had not said in his life, and not simply for the sake of instructing them, but as though thirsting to share with all men and all creation his joy and ecstasy, and once more in his life to open his whole heart. "Love one another, Fathers," said Father Zossima, as far as Alyosha could remember afterwards. "Love God's people. Because we have come here and shut ourselves within these walls, we are no holier than those that are outside, but on the contrary, from the very fact of coming here, each of us has confessed to himself that he is worse than others, than all men on earth.... And the longer the monk lives in his seclusion, the more keenly he must recognize that. Else he would have had no reason to come here. When he realizes that he is not only worse than others, but that he is responsible to all men for all and everything, for all human sins, national and individual, only then the aim of our seclusion is attained. For know, dear ones, that every one of us is undoubtedly responsible for all men and everything on earth, not merely through the general sinfulness of creation, but each one personally for all mankind and every individual man. This knowledge is the crown of life for the monk and for every man. For monks are not a special sort of men, but only what all men ought to be. Only through that knowledge, our heart grows soft with infinite, universal, inexhaustible love. Then every one of you will have the power to win over the whole world by love and to wash away the sins of the world with your tears.... Each of you keep watch over your heart and confess your sins to yourself unceasingly. Be not afraid of your sins, even when perceiving them, if only there be penitence, but make no conditions with God. Again I say, Be not proud. Be proud neither to the little nor to the great. Hate not those who reject you, who insult you, who abuse and slander you. Hate not the atheists, the teachers of evil, the materialists--and I mean not only the good ones--for there are many good ones among them, especially in our day--hate not even the wicked ones. Remember them in your prayers thus: Save, O Lord, all those who have none to pray for them, save too all those who will not pray. And add: it is not in pride that I make this prayer, O Lord, for I am lower than all men.... Love God's people, let not strangers draw away the flock, for if you slumber in your slothfulness and disdainful pride, or worse still, in covetousness, they will come from all sides and draw away your flock. Expound the Gospel to the people unceasingly ... be not extortionate.... Do not love gold and silver, do not hoard them.... Have faith. Cling to the banner and raise it on high." But the elder spoke more disconnectedly than Alyosha reported his words afterwards. Sometimes he broke off altogether, as though to take breath, and recover his strength, but he was in a sort of ecstasy. They heard him with emotion, though many wondered at his words and found them obscure.... Afterwards all remembered those words. When Alyosha happened for a moment to leave the cell, he was struck by the general excitement and suspense in the monks who were crowding about it. This anticipation showed itself in some by anxiety, in others by devout solemnity. All were expecting that some marvel would happen immediately after the elder's death. Their suspense was, from one point of view, almost frivolous, but even the most austere of the monks were affected by it. Father Paissy's face looked the gravest of all. Alyosha was mysteriously summoned by a monk to see Rakitin, who had arrived from town with a singular letter for him from Madame Hohlakov. In it she informed Alyosha of a strange and very opportune incident. It appeared that among the women who had come on the previous day to receive Father Zossima's blessing, there had been an old woman from the town, a sergeant's widow, called Prohorovna. She had inquired whether she might pray for the rest of the soul of her son, Vassenka, who had gone to Irkutsk, and had sent her no news for over a year. To which Father Zossima had answered sternly, forbidding her to do so, and saying that to pray for the living as though they were dead was a kind of sorcery. He afterwards forgave her on account of her ignorance, and added, "as though reading the book of the future" (this was Madame Hohlakov's expression), words of comfort: "that her son Vassya was certainly alive and he would either come himself very shortly or send a letter, and that she was to go home and expect him." And "Would you believe it?" exclaimed Madame Hohlakov enthusiastically, "the prophecy has been fulfilled literally indeed, and more than that." Scarcely had the old woman reached home when they gave her a letter from Siberia which had been awaiting her. But that was not all; in the letter written on the road from Ekaterinenburg, Vassya informed his mother that he was returning to Russia with an official, and that three weeks after her receiving the letter he hoped "to embrace his mother." Madame Hohlakov warmly entreated Alyosha to report this new "miracle of prediction" to the Superior and all the brotherhood. "All, all, ought to know of it!" she concluded. The letter had been written in haste, the excitement of the writer was apparent in every line of it. But Alyosha had no need to tell the monks, for all knew of it already. Rakitin had commissioned the monk who brought his message "to inform most respectfully his reverence Father Paissy, that he, Rakitin, has a matter to speak of with him, of such gravity that he dare not defer it for a moment, and humbly begs forgiveness for his presumption." As the monk had given the message to Father Paissy before that to Alyosha, the latter found after reading the letter, there was nothing left for him to do but to hand it to Father Paissy in confirmation of the story. And even that austere and cautious man, though he frowned as he read the news of the "miracle," could not completely restrain some inner emotion. His eyes gleamed, and a grave and solemn smile came into his lips. "We shall see greater things!" broke from him. "We shall see greater things, greater things yet!" the monks around repeated. But Father Paissy, frowning again, begged all of them, at least for a time, not to speak of the matter "till it be more fully confirmed, seeing there is so much credulity among those of this world, and indeed this might well have chanced naturally," he added, prudently, as it were to satisfy his conscience, though scarcely believing his own disavowal, a fact his listeners very clearly perceived. Within the hour the "miracle" was of course known to the whole monastery, and many visitors who had come for the mass. No one seemed more impressed by it than the monk who had come the day before from St. Sylvester, from the little monastery of Obdorsk in the far North. It was he who had been standing near Madame Hohlakov the previous day and had asked Father Zossima earnestly, referring to the "healing" of the lady's daughter, "How can you presume to do such things?" He was now somewhat puzzled and did not know whom to believe. The evening before he had visited Father Ferapont in his cell apart, behind the apiary, and had been greatly impressed and overawed by the visit. This Father Ferapont was that aged monk so devout in fasting and observing silence who has been mentioned already, as antagonistic to Father Zossima and the whole institution of "elders," which he regarded as a pernicious and frivolous innovation. He was a very formidable opponent, although from his practice of silence he scarcely spoke a word to any one. What made him formidable was that a number of monks fully shared his feeling, and many of the visitors looked upon him as a great saint and ascetic, although they had no doubt that he was crazy. But it was just his craziness attracted them. Father Ferapont never went to see the elder. Though he lived in the hermitage they did not worry him to keep its regulations, and this too because he behaved as though he were crazy. He was seventy-five or more, and he lived in a corner beyond the apiary in an old decaying wooden cell which had been built long ago for another great ascetic, Father Iona, who had lived to be a hundred and five, and of whose saintly doings many curious stories were still extant in the monastery and the neighborhood. Father Ferapont had succeeded in getting himself installed in this same solitary cell seven years previously. It was simply a peasant's hut, though it looked like a chapel, for it contained an extraordinary number of ikons with lamps perpetually burning before them--which men brought to the monastery as offerings to God. Father Ferapont had been appointed to look after them and keep the lamps burning. It was said (and indeed it was true) that he ate only two pounds of bread in three days. The beekeeper, who lived close by the apiary, used to bring him the bread every three days, and even to this man who waited upon him, Father Ferapont rarely uttered a word. The four pounds of bread, together with the sacrament bread, regularly sent him on Sundays after the late mass by the Father Superior, made up his weekly rations. The water in his jug was changed every day. He rarely appeared at mass. Visitors who came to do him homage saw him sometimes kneeling all day long at prayer without looking round. If he addressed them, he was brief, abrupt, strange, and almost always rude. On very rare occasions, however, he would talk to visitors, but for the most part he would utter some one strange saying which was a complete riddle, and no entreaties would induce him to pronounce a word in explanation. He was not a priest, but a simple monk. There was a strange belief, chiefly however among the most ignorant, that Father Ferapont had communication with heavenly spirits and would only converse with them, and so was silent with men. The monk from Obdorsk, having been directed to the apiary by the beekeeper, who was also a very silent and surly monk, went to the corner where Father Ferapont's cell stood. "Maybe he will speak as you are a stranger and maybe you'll get nothing out of him," the beekeeper had warned him. The monk, as he related afterwards, approached in the utmost apprehension. It was rather late in the evening. Father Ferapont was sitting at the door of his cell on a low bench. A huge old elm was lightly rustling overhead. There was an evening freshness in the air. The monk from Obdorsk bowed down before the saint and asked his blessing. "Do you want me to bow down to you, monk?" said Father Ferapont. "Get up!" The monk got up. "Blessing, be blessed! Sit beside me. Where have you come from?" What most struck the poor monk was the fact that in spite of his strict fasting and great age, Father Ferapont still looked a vigorous old man. He was tall, held himself erect, and had a thin, but fresh and healthy face. There was no doubt he still had considerable strength. He was of athletic build. In spite of his great age he was not even quite gray, and still had very thick hair and a full beard, both of which had once been black. His eyes were gray, large and luminous, but strikingly prominent. He spoke with a broad accent. He was dressed in a peasant's long reddish coat of coarse convict cloth (as it used to be called) and had a stout rope round his waist. His throat and chest were bare. Beneath his coat, his shirt of the coarsest linen showed almost black with dirt, not having been changed for months. They said that he wore irons weighing thirty pounds under his coat. His stockingless feet were thrust in old slippers almost dropping to pieces. "From the little Obdorsk monastery, from St. Sylvester," the monk answered humbly, whilst his keen and inquisitive, but rather frightened little eyes kept watch on the hermit. "I have been at your Sylvester's. I used to stay there. Is Sylvester well?" The monk hesitated. "You are a senseless lot! How do you keep the fasts?" "Our dietary is according to the ancient conventual rules. During Lent there are no meals provided for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. For Tuesday and Thursday we have white bread, stewed fruit with honey, wild berries, or salt cabbage and wholemeal stirabout. On Saturday white cabbage soup, noodles with peas, kasha, all with hemp oil. On weekdays we have dried fish and kasha with the cabbage soup. From Monday till Saturday evening, six whole days in Holy Week, nothing is cooked, and we have only bread and water, and that sparingly; if possible not taking food every day, just the same as is ordered for first week in Lent. On Good Friday nothing is eaten. In the same way on the Saturday we have to fast till three o'clock, and then take a little bread and water and drink a single cup of wine. On Holy Thursday we drink wine and have something cooked without oil or not cooked at all, inasmuch as the Laodicean council lays down for Holy Thursday: 'It is unseemly by remitting the fast on the Holy Thursday to dishonor the whole of Lent!' This is how we keep the fast. But what is that compared with you, holy Father," added the monk, growing more confident, "for all the year round, even at Easter, you take nothing but bread and water, and what we should eat in two days lasts you full seven. It's truly marvelous--your great abstinence." "And mushrooms?" asked Father Ferapont, suddenly. "Mushrooms?" repeated the surprised monk. "Yes. I can give up their bread, not needing it at all, and go away into the forest and live there on the mushrooms or the berries, but they can't give up their bread here, wherefore they are in bondage to the devil. Nowadays the unclean deny that there is need of such fasting. Haughty and unclean is their judgment." "Och, true," sighed the monk. "And have you seen devils among them?" asked Ferapont. "Among them? Among whom?" asked the monk, timidly. "I went to the Father Superior on Trinity Sunday last year, I haven't been since. I saw a devil sitting on one man's chest hiding under his cassock, only his horns poked out; another had one peeping out of his pocket with such sharp eyes, he was afraid of me; another settled in the unclean belly of one, another was hanging round a man's neck, and so he was carrying him about without seeing him." "You--can see spirits?" the monk inquired. "I tell you I can see, I can see through them. When I was coming out from the Superior's I saw one hiding from me behind the door, and a big one, a yard and a half or more high, with a thick long gray tail, and the tip of his tail was in the crack of the door and I was quick and slammed the door, pinching his tail in it. He squealed and began to struggle, and I made the sign of the cross over him three times. And he died on the spot like a crushed spider. He must have rotted there in the corner and be stinking, but they don't see, they don't smell it. It's a year since I have been there. I reveal it to you, as you are a stranger." "Your words are terrible! But, holy and blessed Father," said the monk, growing bolder and bolder, "is it true, as they noise abroad even to distant lands about you, that you are in continual communication with the Holy Ghost?" "He does fly down at times." "How does he fly down? In what form?" "As a bird." "The Holy Ghost in the form of a dove?" "There's the Holy Ghost and there's the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit can appear as other birds--sometimes as a swallow, sometimes a goldfinch and sometimes as a blue-tit." "How do you know him from an ordinary tit?" "He speaks." "How does he speak, in what language?" "Human language." "And what does he tell you?" "Why, to-day he told me that a fool would visit me and would ask me unseemly questions. You want to know too much, monk." "Terrible are your words, most holy and blessed Father," the monk shook his head. But there was a doubtful look in his frightened little eyes. "Do you see this tree?" asked Father Ferapont, after a pause. "I do, blessed Father." "You think it's an elm, but for me it has another shape." "What sort of shape?" inquired the monk, after a pause of vain expectation. "It happens at night. You see those two branches? In the night it is Christ holding out His arms to me and seeking me with those arms, I see it clearly and tremble. It's terrible, terrible!" "What is there terrible if it's Christ Himself?" "Why, He'll snatch me up and carry me away." "Alive?" "In the spirit and glory of Elijah, haven't you heard? He will take me in His arms and bear me away." Though the monk returned to the cell he was sharing with one of the brothers, in considerable perplexity of mind, he still cherished at heart a greater reverence for Father Ferapont than for Father Zossima. He was strongly in favor of fasting, and it was not strange that one who kept so rigid a fast as Father Ferapont should "see marvels." His words seemed certainly queer, but God only could tell what was hidden in those words, and were not worse words and acts commonly seen in those who have sacrificed their intellects for the glory of God? The pinching of the devil's tail he was ready and eager to believe, and not only in the figurative sense. Besides he had, before visiting the monastery, a strong prejudice against the institution of "elders," which he only knew of by hearsay and believed to be a pernicious innovation. Before he had been long at the monastery, he had detected the secret murmurings of some shallow brothers who disliked the institution. He was, besides, a meddlesome, inquisitive man, who poked his nose into everything. This was why the news of the fresh "miracle" performed by Father Zossima reduced him to extreme perplexity. Alyosha remembered afterwards how their inquisitive guest from Obdorsk had been continually flitting to and fro from one group to another, listening and asking questions among the monks that were crowding within and without the elder's cell. But he did not pay much attention to him at the time, and only recollected it afterwards. He had no thought to spare for it indeed, for when Father Zossima, feeling tired again, had gone back to bed, he thought of Alyosha as he was closing his eyes, and sent for him. Alyosha ran at once. There was no one else in the cell but Father Paissy, Father Iosif, and the novice Porfiry. The elder, opening his weary eyes and looking intently at Alyosha, asked him suddenly: "Are your people expecting you, my son?" Alyosha hesitated. "Haven't they need of you? Didn't you promise some one yesterday to see them to-day?" "I did promise--to my father--my brothers--others too." "You see, you must go. Don't grieve. Be sure I shall not die without your being by to hear my last word. To you I will say that word, my son, it will be my last gift to you. To you, dear son, because you love me. But now go to keep your promise." Alyosha immediately obeyed, though it was hard to go. But the promise that he should hear his last word on earth, that it should be the last gift to him, Alyosha, sent a thrill of rapture through his soul. He made haste that he might finish what he had to do in the town and return quickly. Father Paissy, too, uttered some words of exhortation which moved and surprised him greatly. He spoke as they left the cell together. "Remember, young man, unceasingly," Father Paissy began, without preface, "that the science of this world, which has become a great power, has, especially in the last century, analyzed everything divine handed down to us in the holy books. After this cruel analysis the learned of this world have nothing left of all that was sacred of old. But they have only analyzed the parts and overlooked the whole, and indeed their blindness is marvelous. Yet the whole still stands steadfast before their eyes, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. Has it not lasted nineteen centuries, is it not still a living, a moving power in the individual soul and in the masses of people? It is still as strong and living even in the souls of atheists, who have destroyed everything! For even those who have renounced Christianity and attack it, in their inmost being still follow the Christian ideal, for hitherto neither their subtlety nor the ardor of their hearts has been able to create a higher ideal of man and of virtue than the ideal given by Christ of old. When it has been attempted, the result has been only grotesque. Remember this especially, young man, since you are being sent into the world by your departing elder. Maybe, remembering this great day, you will not forget my words, uttered from the heart for your guidance, seeing you are young, and the temptations of the world are great and beyond your strength to endure. Well, now go, my orphan." With these words Father Paissy blessed him. As Alyosha left the monastery and thought them over, he suddenly realized that he had met a new and unexpected friend, a warmly loving teacher, in this austere monk who had hitherto treated him sternly. It was as though Father Zossima had bequeathed him to him at his death, and "perhaps that's just what had passed between them," Alyosha thought suddenly. The philosophic reflections he had just heard so unexpectedly testified to the warmth of Father Paissy's heart. He was in haste to arm the boy's mind for conflict with temptation and to guard the young soul left in his charge with the strongest defense he could imagine. Chapter II. At His Father's First of all, Alyosha went to his father. On the way he remembered that his father had insisted the day before that he should come without his brother Ivan seeing him. "Why so?" Alyosha wondered suddenly. "Even if my father has something to say to me alone, why should I go in unseen? Most likely in his excitement yesterday he meant to say something different," he decided. Yet he was very glad when Marfa Ignatyevna, who opened the garden gate to him (Grigory, it appeared, was ill in bed in the lodge), told him in answer to his question that Ivan Fyodorovitch had gone out two hours ago. "And my father?" "He is up, taking his coffee," Marfa answered somewhat dryly. Alyosha went in. The old man was sitting alone at the table wearing slippers and a little old overcoat. He was amusing himself by looking through some accounts, rather inattentively however. He was quite alone in the house, for Smerdyakov too had gone out marketing. Though he had got up early and was trying to put a bold face on it, he looked tired and weak. His forehead, upon which huge purple bruises had come out during the night, was bandaged with a red handkerchief; his nose too had swollen terribly in the night, and some smaller bruises covered it in patches, giving his whole face a peculiarly spiteful and irritable look. The old man was aware of this, and turned a hostile glance on Alyosha as he came in. "The coffee is cold," he cried harshly; "I won't offer you any. I've ordered nothing but a Lenten fish soup to-day, and I don't invite any one to share it. Why have you come?" "To find out how you are," said Alyosha. "Yes. Besides, I told you to come yesterday. It's all of no consequence. You need not have troubled. But I knew you'd come poking in directly." He said this with almost hostile feeling. At the same time he got up and looked anxiously in the looking-glass (perhaps for the fortieth time that morning) at his nose. He began, too, binding his red handkerchief more becomingly on his forehead. "Red's better. It's just like the hospital in a white one," he observed sententiously. "Well, how are things over there? How is your elder?" "He is very bad; he may die to-day," answered Alyosha. But his father had not listened, and had forgotten his own question at once. "Ivan's gone out," he said suddenly. "He is doing his utmost to carry off Mitya's betrothed. That's what he is staying here for," he added maliciously, and, twisting his mouth, looked at Alyosha. "Surely he did not tell you so?" asked Alyosha. "Yes, he did, long ago. Would you believe it, he told me three weeks ago? You don't suppose he too came to murder me, do you? He must have had some object in coming." "What do you mean? Why do you say such things?" said Alyosha, troubled. "He doesn't ask for money, it's true, but yet he won't get a farthing from me. I intend living as long as possible, you may as well know, my dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, and so I need every farthing, and the longer I live, the more I shall need it," he continued, pacing from one corner of the room to the other, keeping his hands in the pockets of his loose greasy overcoat made of yellow cotton material. "I can still pass for a man at five and fifty, but I want to pass for one for another twenty years. As I get older, you know, I shan't be a pretty object. The wenches won't come to me of their own accord, so I shall want my money. So I am saving up more and more, simply for myself, my dear son Alexey Fyodorovitch. You may as well know. For I mean to go on in my sins to the end, let me tell you. For sin is sweet; all abuse it, but all men live in it, only others do it on the sly, and I openly. And so all the other sinners fall upon me for being so simple. And your paradise, Alexey Fyodorovitch, is not to my taste, let me tell you that; and it's not the proper place for a gentleman, your paradise, even if it exists. I believe that I fall asleep and don't wake up again, and that's all. You can pray for my soul if you like. And if you don't want to, don't, damn you! That's my philosophy. Ivan talked well here yesterday, though we were all drunk. Ivan is a conceited coxcomb, but he has no particular learning ... nor education either. He sits silent and smiles at one without speaking--that's what pulls him through." Alyosha listened to him in silence. "Why won't he talk to me? If he does speak, he gives himself airs. Your Ivan is a scoundrel! And I'll marry Grushenka in a minute if I want to. For if you've money, Alexey Fyodorovitch, you have only to want a thing and you can have it. That's what Ivan is afraid of, he is on the watch to prevent me getting married and that's why he is egging on Mitya to marry Grushenka himself. He hopes to keep me from Grushenka by that (as though I should leave him my money if I don't marry her!). Besides if Mitya marries Grushenka, Ivan will carry off his rich betrothed, that's what he's reckoning on! He is a scoundrel, your Ivan!" "How cross you are! It's because of yesterday; you had better lie down," said Alyosha. "There! you say that," the old man observed suddenly, as though it had struck him for the first time, "and I am not angry with you. But if Ivan said it, I should be angry with him. It is only with you I have good moments, else you know I am an ill-natured man." "You are not ill-natured, but distorted," said Alyosha with a smile. "Listen. I meant this morning to get that ruffian Mitya locked up and I don't know now what I shall decide about it. Of course in these fashionable days fathers and mothers are looked upon as a prejudice, but even now the law does not allow you to drag your old father about by the hair, to kick him in the face in his own house, and brag of murdering him outright--all in the presence of witnesses. If I liked, I could crush him and could have him locked up at once for what he did yesterday." "Then you don't mean to take proceedings?" "Ivan has dissuaded me. I shouldn't care about Ivan, but there's another thing." And bending down to Alyosha, he went on in a confidential half-whisper. "If I send the ruffian to prison, she'll hear of it and run to see him at once. But if she hears that he has beaten me, a weak old man, within an inch of my life, she may give him up and come to me.... For that's her way, everything by contraries. I know her through and through! Won't you have a drop of brandy? Take some cold coffee and I'll pour a quarter of a glass of brandy into it, it's delicious, my boy." "No, thank you. I'll take that roll with me if I may," said Alyosha, and taking a halfpenny French roll he put it in the pocket of his cassock. "And you'd better not have brandy, either," he suggested apprehensively, looking into the old man's face. "You are quite right, it irritates my nerves instead of soothing them. Only one little glass. I'll get it out of the cupboard." He unlocked the cupboard, poured out a glass, drank it, then locked the cupboard and put the key back in his pocket. "That's enough. One glass won't kill me." "You see you are in a better humor now," said Alyosha, smiling. "Um! I love you even without the brandy, but with scoundrels I am a scoundrel. Ivan is not going to Tchermashnya--why is that? He wants to spy how much I give Grushenka if she comes. They are all scoundrels! But I don't recognize Ivan, I don't know him at all. Where does he come from? He is not one of us in soul. As though I'd leave him anything! I shan't leave a will at all, you may as well know. And I'll crush Mitya like a beetle. I squash black-beetles at night with my slipper; they squelch when you tread on them. And your Mitya will squelch too. _Your_ Mitya, for you love him. Yes, you love him and I am not afraid of your loving him. But if Ivan loved him I should be afraid for myself at his loving him. But Ivan loves nobody. Ivan is not one of us. People like Ivan are not our sort, my boy. They are like a cloud of dust. When the wind blows, the dust will be gone.... I had a silly idea in my head when I told you to come to-day; I wanted to find out from you about Mitya. If I were to hand him over a thousand or maybe two now, would the beggarly wretch agree to take himself off altogether for five years or, better still, thirty-five, and without Grushenka, and give her up once for all, eh?" "I--I'll ask him," muttered Alyosha. "If you would give him three thousand, perhaps he--" "That's nonsense! You needn't ask him now, no need! I've changed my mind. It was a nonsensical idea of mine. I won't give him anything, not a penny, I want my money myself," cried the old man, waving his hand. "I'll crush him like a beetle without it. Don't say anything to him or else he will begin hoping. There's nothing for you to do here, you needn't stay. Is that betrothed of his, Katerina Ivanovna, whom he has kept so carefully hidden from me all this time, going to marry him or not? You went to see her yesterday, I believe?" "Nothing will induce her to abandon him." "There you see how dearly these fine young ladies love a rake and a scoundrel. They are poor creatures I tell you, those pale young ladies, very different from--Ah, if I had his youth and the looks I had then (for I was better-looking than he at eight and twenty) I'd have been a conquering hero just as he is. He is a low cad! But he shan't have Grushenka, anyway, he shan't! I'll crush him!" His anger had returned with the last words. "You can go. There's nothing for you to do here to-day," he snapped harshly. Alyosha went up to say good-by to him, and kissed him on the shoulder. "What's that for?" The old man was a little surprised. "We shall see each other again, or do you think we shan't?" "Not at all, I didn't mean anything." "Nor did I, I did not mean anything," said the old man, looking at him. "Listen, listen," he shouted after him, "make haste and come again and I'll have a fish soup for you, a fine one, not like to-day. Be sure to come! Come to-morrow, do you hear, to-morrow!" And as soon as Alyosha had gone out of the door, he went to the cupboard again and poured out another half-glass. "I won't have more!" he muttered, clearing his throat, and again he locked the cupboard and put the key in his pocket. Then he went into his bedroom, lay down on the bed, exhausted, and in one minute he was asleep. Chapter III. A Meeting With The Schoolboys "Thank goodness he did not ask me about Grushenka," thought Alyosha, as he left his father's house and turned towards Madame Hohlakov's, "or I might have to tell him of my meeting with Grushenka yesterday." Alyosha felt painfully that since yesterday both combatants had renewed their energies, and that their hearts had grown hard again. "Father is spiteful and angry, he's made some plan and will stick to it. And what of Dmitri? He too will be harder than yesterday, he too must be spiteful and angry, and he too, no doubt, has made some plan. Oh, I must succeed in finding him to-day, whatever happens." But Alyosha had not long to meditate. An incident occurred on the road, which, though apparently of little consequence, made a great impression on him. Just after he had crossed the square and turned the corner coming out into Mihailovsky Street, which is divided by a small ditch from the High Street (our whole town is intersected by ditches), he saw a group of schoolboys between the ages of nine and twelve, at the bridge. They were going home from school, some with their bags on their shoulders, others with leather satchels slung across them, some in short jackets, others in little overcoats. Some even had those high boots with creases round the ankles, such as little boys spoilt by rich fathers love to wear. The whole group was talking eagerly about something, apparently holding a council. Alyosha had never from his Moscow days been able to pass children without taking notice of them, and although he was particularly fond of children of three or thereabout, he liked schoolboys of ten and eleven too. And so, anxious as he was to-day, he wanted at once to turn aside to talk to them. He looked into their excited rosy faces, and noticed at once that all the boys had stones in their hands. Behind the ditch some thirty paces away, there was another schoolboy standing by a fence. He too had a satchel at his side. He was about ten years old, pale, delicate-looking and with sparkling black eyes. He kept an attentive and anxious watch on the other six, obviously his schoolfellows with whom he had just come out of school, but with whom he had evidently had a feud. Alyosha went up and, addressing a fair, curly-headed, rosy boy in a black jacket, observed: "When I used to wear a satchel like yours, I always used to carry it on my left side, so as to have my right hand free, but you've got yours on your right side. So it will be awkward for you to get at it." Alyosha had no art or premeditation in beginning with this practical remark. But it is the only way for a grown-up person to get at once into confidential relations with a child, or still more with a group of children. One must begin in a serious, businesslike way so as to be on a perfectly equal footing. Alyosha understood it by instinct. "But he is left-handed," another, a fine healthy-looking boy of eleven, answered promptly. All the others stared at Alyosha. "He even throws stones with his left hand," observed a third. At that instant a stone flew into the group, but only just grazed the left-handed boy, though it was well and vigorously thrown by the boy standing the other side of the ditch. "Give it him, hit him back, Smurov," they all shouted. But Smurov, the left-handed boy, needed no telling, and at once revenged himself; he threw a stone, but it missed the boy and hit the ground. The boy the other side of the ditch, the pocket of whose coat was visibly bulging with stones, flung another stone at the group; this time it flew straight at Alyosha and hit him painfully on the shoulder. "He aimed it at you, he meant it for you. You are Karamazov, Karamazov!" the boys shouted, laughing. "Come, all throw at him at once!" and six stones flew at the boy. One struck the boy on the head and he fell down, but at once leapt up and began ferociously returning their fire. Both sides threw stones incessantly. Many of the group had their pockets full too. "What are you about! Aren't you ashamed? Six against one! Why, you'll kill him," cried Alyosha. He ran forward and met the flying stones to screen the solitary boy. Three or four ceased throwing for a minute. "He began first!" cried a boy in a red shirt in an angry childish voice. "He is a beast, he stabbed Krassotkin in class the other day with a penknife. It bled. Krassotkin wouldn't tell tales, but he must be thrashed." "But what for? I suppose you tease him." "There, he sent a stone in your back again, he knows you," cried the children. "It's you he is throwing at now, not us. Come, all of you, at him again, don't miss, Smurov!" and again a fire of stones, and a very vicious one, began. The boy the other side of the ditch was hit in the chest; he screamed, began to cry and ran away uphill towards Mihailovsky Street. They all shouted: "Aha, he is funking, he is running away. Wisp of tow!" "You don't know what a beast he is, Karamazov, killing is too good for him," said the boy in the jacket, with flashing eyes. He seemed to be the eldest. "What's wrong with him?" asked Alyosha, "is he a tell-tale or what?" The boys looked at one another as though derisively. "Are you going that way, to Mihailovsky?" the same boy went on. "Catch him up.... You see he's stopped again, he is waiting and looking at you." "He is looking at you," the other boys chimed in. "You ask him, does he like a disheveled wisp of tow. Do you hear, ask him that!" There was a general burst of laughter. Alyosha looked at them, and they at him. "Don't go near him, he'll hurt you," cried Smurov in a warning voice. "I shan't ask him about the wisp of tow, for I expect you tease him with that question somehow. But I'll find out from him why you hate him so." "Find out then, find out," cried the boys, laughing. Alyosha crossed the bridge and walked uphill by the fence, straight towards the boy. "You'd better look out," the boys called after him; "he won't be afraid of you. He will stab you in a minute, on the sly, as he did Krassotkin." The boy waited for him without budging. Coming up to him, Alyosha saw facing him a child of about nine years old. He was an undersized weakly boy with a thin pale face, with large dark eyes that gazed at him vindictively. He was dressed in a rather shabby old overcoat, which he had monstrously outgrown. His bare arms stuck out beyond his sleeves. There was a large patch on the right knee of his trousers, and in his right boot just at the toe there was a big hole in the leather, carefully blackened with ink. Both the pockets of his great-coat were weighed down with stones. Alyosha stopped two steps in front of him, looking inquiringly at him. The boy, seeing at once from Alyosha's eyes that he wouldn't beat him, became less defiant, and addressed him first. "I am alone, and there are six of them. I'll beat them all, alone!" he said suddenly, with flashing eyes. "I think one of the stones must have hurt you badly," observed Alyosha. "But I hit Smurov on the head!" cried the boy. "They told me that you know me, and that you threw a stone at me on purpose," said Alyosha. The boy looked darkly at him. "I don't know you. Do you know me?" Alyosha continued. "Let me alone!" the boy cried irritably; but he did not move, as though he were expecting something, and again there was a vindictive light in his eyes. "Very well, I am going," said Alyosha; "only I don't know you and I don't tease you. They told me how they tease you, but I don't want to tease you. Good-by!" "Monk in silk trousers!" cried the boy, following Alyosha with the same vindictive and defiant expression, and he threw himself into an attitude of defense, feeling sure that now Alyosha would fall upon him; but Alyosha turned, looked at him, and walked away. He had not gone three steps before the biggest stone the boy had in his pocket hit him a painful blow in the back. "So you'll hit a man from behind! They tell the truth, then, when they say that you attack on the sly," said Alyosha, turning round again. This time the boy threw a stone savagely right into Alyosha's face; but Alyosha just had time to guard himself, and the stone struck him on the elbow. "Aren't you ashamed? What have I done to you?" he cried. The boy waited in silent defiance, certain that now Alyosha would attack him. Seeing that even now he would not, his rage was like a little wild beast's; he flew at Alyosha himself, and before Alyosha had time to move, the spiteful child had seized his left hand with both of his and bit his middle finger. He fixed his teeth in it and it was ten seconds before he let go. Alyosha cried out with pain and pulled his finger away with all his might. The child let go at last and retreated to his former distance. Alyosha's finger had been badly bitten to the bone, close to the nail; it began to bleed. Alyosha took out his handkerchief and bound it tightly round his injured hand. He was a full minute bandaging it. The boy stood waiting all the time. At last Alyosha raised his gentle eyes and looked at him. "Very well," he said, "you see how badly you've bitten me. That's enough, isn't it? Now tell me, what have I done to you?" The boy stared in amazement. "Though I don't know you and it's the first time I've seen you," Alyosha went on with the same serenity, "yet I must have done something to you--you wouldn't have hurt me like this for nothing. So what have I done? How have I wronged you, tell me?" Instead of answering, the boy broke into a loud tearful wail and ran away. Alyosha walked slowly after him towards Mihailovsky Street, and for a long time he saw the child running in the distance as fast as ever, not turning his head, and no doubt still keeping up his tearful wail. He made up his mind to find him out as soon as he had time, and to solve this mystery. Just now he had not the time. Chapter IV. At The Hohlakovs' Alyosha soon reached Madame Hohlakov's house, a handsome stone house of two stories, one of the finest in our town. Though Madame Hohlakov spent most of her time in another province where she had an estate, or in Moscow, where she had a house of her own, yet she had a house in our town too, inherited from her forefathers. The estate in our district was the largest of her three estates, yet she had been very little in our province before this time. She ran out to Alyosha in the hall. "Did you get my letter about the new miracle?" She spoke rapidly and nervously. "Yes." "Did you show it to every one? He restored the son to his mother!" "He is dying to-day," said Alyosha. "I have heard, I know, oh, how I long to talk to you, to you or some one, about all this. No, to you, to you! And how sorry I am I can't see him! The whole town is in excitement, they are all suspense. But now--do you know Katerina Ivanovna is here now?" "Ah, that's lucky," cried Alyosha. "Then I shall see her here. She told me yesterday to be sure to come and see her to-day." "I know, I know all. I've heard exactly what happened yesterday--and the atrocious behavior of that--creature. _C'est tragique_, and if I'd been in her place I don't know what I should have done. And your brother Dmitri Fyodorovitch, what do you think of him?--my goodness! Alexey Fyodorovitch, I am forgetting, only fancy; your brother is in there with her, not that dreadful brother who was so shocking yesterday, but the other, Ivan Fyodorovitch, he is sitting with her talking; they are having a serious conversation. If you could only imagine what's passing between them now--it's awful, I tell you it's lacerating, it's like some incredible tale of horror. They are ruining their lives for no reason any one can see. They both recognize it and revel in it. I've been watching for you! I've been thirsting for you! It's too much for me, that's the worst of it. I'll tell you all about it presently, but now I must speak of something else, the most important thing--I had quite forgotten what's most important. Tell me, why has Lise been in hysterics? As soon as she heard you were here, she began to be hysterical!" "_Maman_, it's you who are hysterical now, not I," Lise's voice caroled through a tiny crack of the door at the side. Her voice sounded as though she wanted to laugh, but was doing her utmost to control it. Alyosha at once noticed the crack, and no doubt Lise was peeping through it, but that he could not see. "And no wonder, Lise, no wonder ... your caprices will make me hysterical too. But she is so ill, Alexey Fyodorovitch, she has been so ill all night, feverish and moaning! I could hardly wait for the morning and for Herzenstube to come. He says that he can make nothing of it, that we must wait. Herzenstube always comes and says that he can make nothing of it. As soon as you approached the house, she screamed, fell into hysterics, and insisted on being wheeled back into this room here." "Mamma, I didn't know he had come. It wasn't on his account I wanted to be wheeled into this room." "That's not true, Lise, Yulia ran to tell you that Alexey Fyodorovitch was coming. She was on the look-out for you." "My darling mamma, it's not at all clever of you. But if you want to make up for it and say something very clever, dear mamma, you'd better tell our honored visitor, Alexey Fyodorovitch, that he has shown his want of wit by venturing to us after what happened yesterday and although every one is laughing at him." "Lise, you go too far. I declare I shall have to be severe. Who laughs at him? I am so glad he has come, I need him, I can't do without him. Oh, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I am exceedingly unhappy!" "But what's the matter with you, mamma, darling?" "Ah, your caprices, Lise, your fidgetiness, your illness, that awful night of fever, that awful everlasting Herzenstube, everlasting, everlasting, that's the worst of it! Everything, in fact, everything.... Even that miracle, too! Oh, how it has upset me, how it has shattered me, that miracle, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch! And that tragedy in the drawing-room, it's more than I can bear, I warn you. I can't bear it. A comedy, perhaps, not a tragedy. Tell me, will Father Zossima live till to-morrow, will he? Oh, my God! What is happening to me? Every minute I close my eyes and see that it's all nonsense, all nonsense." "I should be very grateful," Alyosha interrupted suddenly, "if you could give me a clean rag to bind up my finger with. I have hurt it, and it's very painful." Alyosha unbound his bitten finger. The handkerchief was soaked with blood. Madame Hohlakov screamed and shut her eyes. "Good heavens, what a wound, how awful!" But as soon as Lise saw Alyosha's finger through the crack, she flung the door wide open. "Come, come here," she cried, imperiously. "No nonsense now! Good heavens, why did you stand there saying nothing about it all this time? He might have bled to death, mamma! How did you do it? Water, water! You must wash it first of all, simply hold it in cold water to stop the pain, and keep it there, keep it there.... Make haste, mamma, some water in a slop-basin. But do make haste," she finished nervously. She was quite frightened at the sight of Alyosha's wound. "Shouldn't we send for Herzenstube?" cried Madame Hohlakov. "Mamma, you'll be the death of me. Your Herzenstube will come and say that he can make nothing of it! Water, water! Mamma, for goodness' sake go yourself and hurry Yulia, she is such a slowcoach and never can come quickly! Make haste, mamma, or I shall die." "Why, it's nothing much," cried Alyosha, frightened at this alarm. Yulia ran in with water and Alyosha put his finger in it. "Some lint, mamma, for mercy's sake, bring some lint and that muddy caustic lotion for wounds, what's it called? We've got some. You know where the bottle is, mamma; it's in your bedroom in the right-hand cupboard, there's a big bottle of it there with the lint." "I'll bring everything in a minute, Lise, only don't scream and don't fuss. You see how bravely Alexey Fyodorovitch bears it. Where did you get such a dreadful wound, Alexey Fyodorovitch?" Madame Hohlakov hastened away. This was all Lise was waiting for. "First of all, answer the question, where did you get hurt like this?" she asked Alyosha, quickly. "And then I'll talk to you about something quite different. Well?" Instinctively feeling that the time of her mother's absence was precious for her, Alyosha hastened to tell her of his enigmatic meeting with the schoolboys in the fewest words possible. Lise clasped her hands at his story. "How can you, and in that dress too, associate with schoolboys?" she cried angrily, as though she had a right to control him. "You are nothing but a boy yourself if you can do that, a perfect boy! But you must find out for me about that horrid boy and tell me all about it, for there's some mystery in it. Now for the second thing, but first a question: does the pain prevent you talking about utterly unimportant things, but talking sensibly?" "Of course not, and I don't feel much pain now." "That's because your finger is in the water. It must be changed directly, for it will get warm in a minute. Yulia, bring some ice from the cellar and another basin of water. Now she is gone, I can speak; will you give me the letter I sent you yesterday, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch--be quick, for mamma will be back in a minute and I don't want--" "I haven't got the letter." "That's not true, you have. I knew you would say that. You've got it in that pocket. I've been regretting that joke all night. Give me back the letter at once, give it me." "I've left it at home." "But you can't consider me as a child, a little girl, after that silly joke! I beg your pardon for that silliness, but you must bring me the letter, if you really haven't got it--bring it to-day, you must, you must." "To-day I can't possibly, for I am going back to the monastery and I shan't come and see you for the next two days--three or four perhaps--for Father Zossima--" "Four days, what nonsense! Listen. Did you laugh at me very much?" "I didn't laugh at all." "Why not?" "Because I believed all you said." "You are insulting me!" "Not at all. As soon as I read it, I thought that all that would come to pass, for as soon as Father Zossima dies, I am to leave the monastery. Then I shall go back and finish my studies, and when you reach the legal age we will be married. I shall love you. Though I haven't had time to think about it, I believe I couldn't find a better wife than you, and Father Zossima tells me I must marry." "But I am a cripple, wheeled about in a chair," laughed Lise, flushing crimson. "I'll wheel you about myself, but I'm sure you'll get well by then." "But you are mad," said Lise, nervously, "to make all this nonsense out of a joke! Here's mamma, very _a propos_, perhaps. Mamma, how slow you always are, how can you be so long! And here's Yulia with the ice!" "Oh, Lise, don't scream, above all things don't scream. That scream drives me ... How can I help it when you put the lint in another place? I've been hunting and hunting--I do believe you did it on purpose." "But I couldn't tell that he would come with a bad finger, or else perhaps I might have done it on purpose. My darling mamma, you begin to say really witty things." "Never mind my being witty, but I must say you show nice feeling for Alexey Fyodorovitch's sufferings! Oh, my dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, what's killing me is no one thing in particular, not Herzenstube, but everything together, that's what is too much for me." "That's enough, mamma, enough about Herzenstube," Lise laughed gayly. "Make haste with the lint and the lotion, mamma. That's simply Goulard's water, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I remember the name now, but it's a splendid lotion. Would you believe it, mamma, on the way here he had a fight with the boys in the street, and it was a boy bit his finger, isn't he a child, a child himself? Is he fit to be married after that? For only fancy, he wants to be married, mamma. Just think of him married, wouldn't it be funny, wouldn't it be awful?" And Lise kept laughing her thin hysterical giggle, looking slyly at Alyosha. "But why married, Lise? What makes you talk of such a thing? It's quite out of place--and perhaps the boy was rabid." "Why, mamma! As though there were rabid boys!" "Why not, Lise, as though I had said something stupid! Your boy might have been bitten by a mad dog and he would become mad and bite any one near him. How well she has bandaged it, Alexey Fyodorovitch! I couldn't have done it. Do you still feel the pain?" "It's nothing much now." "You don't feel afraid of water?" asked Lise. "Come, that's enough, Lise, perhaps I really was rather too quick talking of the boy being rabid, and you pounced upon it at once Katerina Ivanovna has only just heard that you are here, Alexey Fyodorovitch, she simply rushed at me, she's dying to see you, dying!" "Ach, mamma, go to them yourself. He can't go just now, he is in too much pain." "Not at all, I can go quite well," said Alyosha. "What! You are going away? Is that what you say?" "Well, when I've seen them, I'll come back here and we can talk as much as you like. But I should like to see Katerina Ivanovna at once, for I am very anxious to be back at the monastery as soon as I can." "Mamma, take him away quickly. Alexey Fyodorovitch, don't trouble to come and see me afterwards, but go straight back to your monastery and a good riddance. I want to sleep, I didn't sleep all night." "Ah, Lise, you are only making fun, but how I wish you would sleep!" cried Madame Hohlakov. "I don't know what I've done.... I'll stay another three minutes, five if you like," muttered Alyosha. "Even five! Do take him away quickly, mamma, he is a monster." "Lise, you are crazy. Let us go, Alexey Fyodorovitch, she is too capricious to-day. I am afraid to cross her. Oh, the trouble one has with nervous girls! Perhaps she really will be able to sleep after seeing you. How quickly you have made her sleepy, and how fortunate it is!" "Ah, mamma, how sweetly you talk! I must kiss you for it, mamma." "And I kiss you too, Lise. Listen, Alexey Fyodorovitch," Madame Hohlakov began mysteriously and importantly, speaking in a rapid whisper. "I don't want to suggest anything, I don't want to lift the veil, you will see for yourself what's going on. It's appalling. It's the most fantastic farce. She loves your brother, Ivan, and she is doing her utmost to persuade herself she loves your brother, Dmitri. It's appalling! I'll go in with you, and if they don't turn me out, I'll stay to the end." Chapter V. A Laceration In The Drawing-Room But in the drawing-room the conversation was already over. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly excited, though she looked resolute. At the moment Alyosha and Madame Hohlakov entered, Ivan Fyodorovitch stood up to take leave. His face was rather pale, and Alyosha looked at him anxiously. For this moment was to solve a doubt, a harassing enigma which had for some time haunted Alyosha. During the preceding month it had been several times suggested to him that his brother Ivan was in love with Katerina Ivanovna, and, what was more, that he meant "to carry her off" from Dmitri. Until quite lately the idea seemed to Alyosha monstrous, though it worried him extremely. He loved both his brothers, and dreaded such rivalry between them. Meantime, Dmitri had said outright on the previous day that he was glad that Ivan was his rival, and that it was a great assistance to him, Dmitri. In what way did it assist him? To marry Grushenka? But that Alyosha considered the worst thing possible. Besides all this, Alyosha had till the evening before implicitly believed that Katerina Ivanovna had a steadfast and passionate love for Dmitri; but he had only believed it till the evening before. He had fancied, too, that she was incapable of loving a man like Ivan, and that she did love Dmitri, and loved him just as he was, in spite of all the strangeness of such a passion. But during yesterday's scene with Grushenka another idea had struck him. The word "lacerating," which Madame Hohlakov had just uttered, almost made him start, because half waking up towards daybreak that night he had cried out "Laceration, laceration," probably applying it to his dream. He had been dreaming all night of the previous day's scene at Katerina Ivanovna's. Now Alyosha was impressed by Madame Hohlakov's blunt and persistent assertion that Katerina Ivanovna was in love with Ivan, and only deceived herself through some sort of pose, from "self-laceration," and tortured herself by her pretended love for Dmitri from some fancied duty of gratitude. "Yes," he thought, "perhaps the whole truth lies in those words." But in that case what was Ivan's position? Alyosha felt instinctively that a character like Katerina Ivanovna's must dominate, and she could only dominate some one like Dmitri, and never a man like Ivan. For Dmitri might at last submit to her domination "to his own happiness" (which was what Alyosha would have desired), but Ivan--no, Ivan could not submit to her, and such submission would not give him happiness. Alyosha could not help believing that of Ivan. And now all these doubts and reflections flitted through his mind as he entered the drawing-room. Another idea, too, forced itself upon him: "What if she loved neither of them--neither Ivan nor Dmitri?" It must be noted that Alyosha felt as it were ashamed of his own thoughts and blamed himself when they kept recurring to him during the last month. "What do I know about love and women and how can I decide such questions?" he thought reproachfully, after such doubts and surmises. And yet it was impossible not to think about it. He felt instinctively that this rivalry was of immense importance in his brothers' lives and that a great deal depended upon it. "One reptile will devour the other," Ivan had pronounced the day before, speaking in anger of his father and Dmitri. So Ivan looked upon Dmitri as a reptile, and perhaps had long done so. Was it perhaps since he had known Katerina Ivanovna? That phrase had, of course, escaped Ivan unawares yesterday, but that only made it more important. If he felt like that, what chance was there of peace? Were there not, on the contrary, new grounds for hatred and hostility in their family? And with which of them was Alyosha to sympathize? And what was he to wish for each of them? He loved them both, but what could he desire for each in the midst of these conflicting interests? He might go quite astray in this maze, and Alyosha's heart could not endure uncertainty, because his love was always of an active character. He was incapable of passive love. If he loved any one, he set to work at once to help him. And to do so he must know what he was aiming at; he must know for certain what was best for each, and having ascertained this it was natural for him to help them both. But instead of a definite aim, he found nothing but uncertainty and perplexity on all sides. "It was lacerating," as was said just now. But what could he understand even in this "laceration"? He did not understand the first word in this perplexing maze. Seeing Alyosha, Katerina Ivanovna said quickly and joyfully to Ivan, who had already got up to go, "A minute! Stay another minute! I want to hear the opinion of this person here whom I trust absolutely. Don't go away," she added, addressing Madame Hohlakov. She made Alyosha sit down beside her, and Madame Hohlakov sat opposite, by Ivan. "You are all my friends here, all I have in the world, my dear friends," she began warmly, in a voice which quivered with genuine tears of suffering, and Alyosha's heart warmed to her at once. "You, Alexey Fyodorovitch, were witness yesterday of that abominable scene, and saw what I did. You did not see it, Ivan Fyodorovitch, he did. What he thought of me yesterday I don't know. I only know one thing, that if it were repeated to-day, this minute, I should express the same feelings again as yesterday--the same feelings, the same words, the same actions. You remember my actions, Alexey Fyodorovitch; you checked me in one of them" ... (as she said that, she flushed and her eyes shone). "I must tell you that I can't get over it. Listen, Alexey Fyodorovitch. I don't even know whether I still love _him_. I feel _pity_ for him, and that is a poor sign of love. If I loved him, if I still loved him, perhaps I shouldn't be sorry for him now, but should hate him." Her voice quivered, and tears glittered on her eyelashes. Alyosha shuddered inwardly. "That girl is truthful and sincere," he thought, "and she does not love Dmitri any more." "That's true, that's true," cried Madame Hohlakov. "Wait, dear. I haven't told you the chief, the final decision I came to during the night. I feel that perhaps my decision is a terrible one--for me, but I foresee that nothing will induce me to change it--nothing. It will be so all my life. My dear, kind, ever-faithful and generous adviser, the one friend I have in the world, Ivan Fyodorovitch, with his deep insight into the heart, approves and commends my decision. He knows it." "Yes, I approve of it," Ivan assented, in a subdued but firm voice. "But I should like Alyosha, too (Ah! Alexey Fyodorovitch, forgive my calling you simply Alyosha), I should like Alexey Fyodorovitch, too, to tell me before my two friends whether I am right. I feel instinctively that you, Alyosha, my dear brother (for you are a dear brother to me)," she said again ecstatically, taking his cold hand in her hot one, "I foresee that your decision, your approval, will bring me peace, in spite of all my sufferings, for, after your words, I shall be calm and submit--I feel that." "I don't know what you are asking me," said Alyosha, flushing. "I only know that I love you and at this moment wish for your happiness more than my own!... But I know nothing about such affairs," something impelled him to add hurriedly. "In such affairs, Alexey Fyodorovitch, in such affairs, the chief thing is honor and duty and something higher--I don't know what--but higher perhaps even than duty. I am conscious of this irresistible feeling in my heart, and it compels me irresistibly. But it may all be put in two words. I've already decided, even if he marries that--creature," she began solemnly, "whom I never, never can forgive, _even then I will not abandon him_. Henceforward I will never, never abandon him!" she cried, breaking into a sort of pale, hysterical ecstasy. "Not that I would run after him continually, get in his way and worry him. Oh, no! I will go away to another town--where you like--but I will watch over him all my life--I will watch over him all my life unceasingly. When he becomes unhappy with that woman, and that is bound to happen quite soon, let him come to me and he will find a friend, a sister.... Only a sister, of course, and so for ever; but he will learn at least that that sister is really his sister, who loves him and has sacrificed all her life to him. I will gain my point. I will insist on his knowing me and confiding entirely in me, without reserve," she cried, in a sort of frenzy. "I will be a god to whom he can pray--and that, at least, he owes me for his treachery and for what I suffered yesterday through him. And let him see that all my life I will be true to him and the promise I gave him, in spite of his being untrue and betraying me. I will--I will become nothing but a means for his happiness, or--how shall I say?--an instrument, a machine for his happiness, and that for my whole life, my whole life, and that he may see that all his life! That's my decision. Ivan Fyodorovitch fully approves me." She was breathless. She had perhaps intended to express her idea with more dignity, art and naturalness, but her speech was too hurried and crude. It was full of youthful impulsiveness, it betrayed that she was still smarting from yesterday's insult, and that her pride craved satisfaction. She felt this herself. Her face suddenly darkened, an unpleasant look came into her eyes. Alyosha at once saw it and felt a pang of sympathy. His brother Ivan made it worse by adding: "I've only expressed my own view," he said. "From any one else, this would have been affected and overstrained, but from you--no. Any other woman would have been wrong, but you are right. I don't know how to explain it, but I see that you are absolutely genuine and, therefore, you are right." "But that's only for the moment. And what does this moment stand for? Nothing but yesterday's insult." Madame Hohlakov obviously had not intended to interfere, but she could not refrain from this very just comment. "Quite so, quite so," cried Ivan, with peculiar eagerness, obviously annoyed at being interrupted, "in any one else this moment would be only due to yesterday's impression and would be only a moment. But with Katerina Ivanovna's character, that moment will last all her life. What for any one else would be only a promise is for her an everlasting burdensome, grim perhaps, but unflagging duty. And she will be sustained by the feeling of this duty being fulfilled. Your life, Katerina Ivanovna, will henceforth be spent in painful brooding over your own feelings, your own heroism, and your own suffering; but in the end that suffering will be softened and will pass into sweet contemplation of the fulfillment of a bold and proud design. Yes, proud it certainly is, and desperate in any case, but a triumph for you. And the consciousness of it will at last be a source of complete satisfaction and will make you resigned to everything else." This was unmistakably said with some malice and obviously with intention; even perhaps with no desire to conceal that he spoke ironically and with intention. "Oh, dear, how mistaken it all is!" Madame Hohlakov cried again. "Alexey Fyodorovitch, you speak. I want dreadfully to know what you will say!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, and burst into tears. Alyosha got up from the sofa. "It's nothing, nothing!" she went on through her tears. "I'm upset, I didn't sleep last night. But by the side of two such friends as you and your brother I still feel strong--for I know--you two will never desert me." "Unluckily I am obliged to return to Moscow--perhaps to-morrow--and to leave you for a long time--And, unluckily, it's unavoidable," Ivan said suddenly. "To-morrow--to Moscow!" her face was suddenly contorted; "but--but, dear me, how fortunate!" she cried in a voice suddenly changed. In one instant there was no trace left of her tears. She underwent an instantaneous transformation, which amazed Alyosha. Instead of a poor, insulted girl, weeping in a sort of "laceration," he saw a woman completely self- possessed and even exceedingly pleased, as though something agreeable had just happened. "Oh, not fortunate that I am losing you, of course not," she corrected herself suddenly, with a charming society smile. "Such a friend as you are could not suppose that. I am only too unhappy at losing you." She rushed impulsively at Ivan, and seizing both his hands, pressed them warmly. "But what is fortunate is that you will be able in Moscow to see auntie and Agafya and to tell them all the horror of my present position. You can speak with complete openness to Agafya, but spare dear auntie. You will know how to do that. You can't think how wretched I was yesterday and this morning, wondering how I could write them that dreadful letter--for one can never tell such things in a letter.... Now it will be easy for me to write, for you will see them and explain everything. Oh, how glad I am! But I am only glad of that, believe me. Of course, no one can take your place.... I will run at once to write the letter," she finished suddenly, and took a step as though to go out of the room. "And what about Alyosha and his opinion, which you were so desperately anxious to hear?" cried Madame Hohlakov. There was a sarcastic, angry note in her voice. "I had not forgotten that," cried Katerina Ivanovna, coming to a sudden standstill, "and why are you so antagonistic at such a moment?" she added, with warm and bitter reproachfulness. "What I said, I repeat. I must have his opinion. More than that, I must have his decision! As he says, so it shall be. You see how anxious I am for your words, Alexey Fyodorovitch.... But what's the matter?" "I couldn't have believed it. I can't understand it!" Alyosha cried suddenly in distress. "What? What?" "He is going to Moscow, and you cry out that you are glad. You said that on purpose! And you begin explaining that you are not glad of that but sorry to be--losing a friend. But that was acting, too--you were playing a part--as in a theater!" "In a theater? What? What do you mean?" exclaimed Katerina Ivanovna, profoundly astonished, flushing crimson, and frowning. "Though you assure him you are sorry to lose a friend in him, you persist in telling him to his face that it's fortunate he is going," said Alyosha breathlessly. He was standing at the table and did not sit down. "What are you talking about? I don't understand." "I don't understand myself.... I seemed to see in a flash ... I know I am not saying it properly, but I'll say it all the same," Alyosha went on in the same shaking and broken voice. "What I see is that perhaps you don't love Dmitri at all ... and never have, from the beginning.... And Dmitri, too, has never loved you ... and only esteems you.... I really don't know how I dare to say all this, but somebody must tell the truth ... for nobody here will tell the truth." "What truth?" cried Katerina Ivanovna, and there was an hysterical ring in her voice. "I'll tell you," Alyosha went on with desperate haste, as though he were jumping from the top of a house. "Call Dmitri; I will fetch him--and let him come here and take your hand and take Ivan's and join your hands. For you're torturing Ivan, simply because you love him--and torturing him, because you love Dmitri through 'self-laceration'--with an unreal love--because you've persuaded yourself." Alyosha broke off and was silent. "You ... you ... you are a little religious idiot--that's what you are!" Katerina Ivanovna snapped. Her face was white and her lips were moving with anger. Ivan suddenly laughed and got up. His hat was in his hand. "You are mistaken, my good Alyosha," he said, with an expression Alyosha had never seen in his face before--an expression of youthful sincerity and strong, irresistibly frank feeling. "Katerina Ivanovna has never cared for me! She has known all the time that I cared for her--though I never said a word of my love to her--she knew, but she didn't care for me. I have never been her friend either, not for one moment; she is too proud to need my friendship. She kept me at her side as a means of revenge. She revenged with me and on me all the insults which she has been continually receiving from Dmitri ever since their first meeting. For even that first meeting has rankled in her heart as an insult--that's what her heart is like! She has talked to me of nothing but her love for him. I am going now; but, believe me, Katerina Ivanovna, you really love him. And the more he insults you, the more you love him--that's your 'laceration.' You love him just as he is; you love him for insulting you. If he reformed, you'd give him up at once and cease to love him. But you need him so as to contemplate continually your heroic fidelity and to reproach him for infidelity. And it all comes from your pride. Oh, there's a great deal of humiliation and self-abasement about it, but it all comes from pride.... I am too young and I've loved you too much. I know that I ought not to say this, that it would be more dignified on my part simply to leave you, and it would be less offensive for you. But I am going far away, and shall never come back.... It is for ever. I don't want to sit beside a 'laceration.'... But I don't know how to speak now. I've said everything.... Good-by, Katerina Ivanovna; you can't be angry with me, for I am a hundred times more severely punished than you, if only by the fact that I shall never see you again. Good-by! I don't want your hand. You have tortured me too deliberately for me to be able to forgive you at this moment. I shall forgive you later, but now I don't want your hand. 'Den Dank, Dame, begehr ich nicht,' " he added, with a forced smile, showing, however, that he could read Schiller, and read him till he knew him by heart--which Alyosha would never have believed. He went out of the room without saying good-by even to his hostess, Madame Hohlakov. Alyosha clasped his hands. "Ivan!" he cried desperately after him. "Come back, Ivan! No, nothing will induce him to come back now!" he cried again, regretfully realizing it; "but it's my fault, my fault. I began it! Ivan spoke angrily, wrongly. Unjustly and angrily. He must come back here, come back," Alyosha kept exclaiming frantically. Katerina Ivanovna went suddenly into the next room. "You have done no harm. You behaved beautifully, like an angel," Madame Hohlakov whispered rapidly and ecstatically to Alyosha. "I will do my utmost to prevent Ivan Fyodorovitch from going." Her face beamed with delight, to the great distress of Alyosha, but Katerina Ivanovna suddenly returned. She had two hundred-rouble notes in her hand. "I have a great favor to ask of you, Alexey Fyodorovitch," she began, addressing Alyosha with an apparently calm and even voice, as though nothing had happened. "A week--yes, I think it was a week ago--Dmitri Fyodorovitch was guilty of a hasty and unjust action--a very ugly action. There is a low tavern here, and in it he met that discharged officer, that captain, whom your father used to employ in some business. Dmitri Fyodorovitch somehow lost his temper with this captain, seized him by the beard and dragged him out into the street and for some distance along it, in that insulting fashion. And I am told that his son, a boy, quite a child, who is at the school here, saw it and ran beside them crying and begging for his father, appealing to every one to defend him, while every one laughed. You must forgive me, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I cannot think without indignation of that disgraceful action of _his_ ... one of those actions of which only Dmitri Fyodorovitch would be capable in his anger ... and in his passions! I can't describe it even.... I can't find my words. I've made inquiries about his victim, and find he is quite a poor man. His name is Snegiryov. He did something wrong in the army and was discharged. I can't tell you what. And now he has sunk into terrible destitution, with his family--an unhappy family of sick children, and, I believe, an insane wife. He has been living here a long time; he used to work as a copying clerk, but now he is getting nothing. I thought if you ... that is I thought ... I don't know. I am so confused. You see, I wanted to ask you, my dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, to go to him, to find some excuse to go to them--I mean to that captain--oh, goodness, how badly I explain it!--and delicately, carefully, as only you know how to" (Alyosha blushed), "manage to give him this assistance, these two hundred roubles. He will be sure to take it.... I mean, persuade him to take it.... Or, rather, what do I mean? You see it's not by way of compensation to prevent him from taking proceedings (for I believe he meant to), but simply a token of sympathy, of a desire to assist him from me, Dmitri Fyodorovitch's betrothed, not from himself.... But you know.... I would go myself, but you'll know how to do it ever so much better. He lives in Lake Street, in the house of a woman called Kalmikov.... For God's sake, Alexey Fyodorovitch, do it for me, and now ... now I am rather ... tired. Good- by!" She turned and disappeared behind the portiere so quickly that Alyosha had not time to utter a word, though he wanted to speak. He longed to beg her pardon, to blame himself, to say something, for his heart was full and he could not bear to go out of the room without it. But Madame Hohlakov took him by the hand and drew him along with her. In the hall she stopped him again as before. "She is proud, she is struggling with herself; but kind, charming, generous," she exclaimed, in a half-whisper. "Oh, how I love her, especially sometimes, and how glad I am again of everything! Dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, you didn't know, but I must tell you, that we all, all--both her aunts, I and all of us, Lise, even--have been hoping and praying for nothing for the last month but that she may give up your favorite Dmitri, who takes no notice of her and does not care for her, and may marry Ivan Fyodorovitch--such an excellent and cultivated young man, who loves her more than anything in the world. We are in a regular plot to bring it about, and I am even staying on here perhaps on that account." "But she has been crying--she has been wounded again," cried Alyosha. "Never trust a woman's tears, Alexey Fyodorovitch. I am never for the women in such cases. I am always on the side of the men." "Mamma, you are spoiling him," Lise's little voice cried from behind the door. "No, it was all my fault. I am horribly to blame," Alyosha repeated unconsoled, hiding his face in his hands in an agony of remorse for his indiscretion. "Quite the contrary; you behaved like an angel, like an angel. I am ready to say so a thousand times over." "Mamma, how has he behaved like an angel?" Lise's voice was heard again. "I somehow fancied all at once," Alyosha went on as though he had not heard Lise, "that she loved Ivan, and so I said that stupid thing.... What will happen now?" "To whom, to whom?" cried Lise. "Mamma, you really want to be the death of me. I ask you and you don't answer." At the moment the maid ran in. "Katerina Ivanovna is ill.... She is crying, struggling ... hysterics." "What is the matter?" cried Lise, in a tone of real anxiety. "Mamma, I shall be having hysterics, and not she!" "Lise, for mercy's sake, don't scream, don't persecute me. At your age one can't know everything that grown-up people know. I'll come and tell you everything you ought to know. Oh, mercy on us! I am coming, I am coming.... Hysterics is a good sign, Alexey Fyodorovitch; it's an excellent thing that she is hysterical. That's just as it ought to be. In such cases I am always against the woman, against all these feminine tears and hysterics. Run and say, Yulia, that I'll fly to her. As for Ivan Fyodorovitch's going away like that, it's her own fault. But he won't go away. Lise, for mercy's sake, don't scream! Oh, yes; you are not screaming. It's I am screaming. Forgive your mamma; but I am delighted, delighted, delighted! Did you notice, Alexey Fyodorovitch, how young, how young Ivan Fyodorovitch was just now when he went out, when he said all that and went out? I thought he was so learned, such a _savant_, and all of a sudden he behaved so warmly, openly, and youthfully, with such youthful inexperience, and it was all so fine, like you.... And the way he repeated that German verse, it was just like you! But I must fly, I must fly! Alexey Fyodorovitch, make haste to carry out her commission, and then make haste back. Lise, do you want anything now? For mercy's sake, don't keep Alexey Fyodorovitch a minute. He will come back to you at once." Madame Hohlakov at last ran off. Before leaving, Alyosha would have opened the door to see Lise. "On no account," cried Lise. "On no account now. Speak through the door. How have you come to be an angel? That's the only thing I want to know." "For an awful piece of stupidity, Lise! Good-by!" "Don't dare to go away like that!" Lise was beginning. "Lise, I have a real sorrow! I'll be back directly, but I have a great, great sorrow!" And he ran out of the room. Chapter VI. A Laceration In The Cottage He certainly was really grieved in a way he had seldom been before. He had rushed in like a fool, and meddled in what? In a love-affair. "But what do I know about it? What can I tell about such things?" he repeated to himself for the hundredth time, flushing crimson. "Oh, being ashamed would be nothing; shame is only the punishment I deserve. The trouble is I shall certainly have caused more unhappiness.... And Father Zossima sent me to reconcile and bring them together. Is this the way to bring them together?" Then he suddenly remembered how he had tried to join their hands, and he felt fearfully ashamed again. "Though I acted quite sincerely, I must be more sensible in the future," he concluded suddenly, and did not even smile at his conclusion. Katerina Ivanovna's commission took him to Lake Street, and his brother Dmitri lived close by, in a turning out of Lake Street. Alyosha decided to go to him in any case before going to the captain, though he had a presentiment that he would not find his brother. He suspected that he would intentionally keep out of his way now, but he must find him anyhow. Time was passing: the thought of his dying elder had not left Alyosha for one minute from the time he set off from the monastery. There was one point which interested him particularly about Katerina Ivanovna's commission; when she had mentioned the captain's son, the little schoolboy who had run beside his father crying, the idea had at once struck Alyosha that this must be the schoolboy who had bitten his finger when he, Alyosha, asked him what he had done to hurt him. Now Alyosha felt practically certain of this, though he could not have said why. Thinking of another subject was a relief, and he resolved to think no more about the "mischief" he had done, and not to torture himself with remorse, but to do what he had to do, let come what would. At that thought he was completely comforted. Turning to the street where Dmitri lodged, he felt hungry, and taking out of his pocket the roll he had brought from his father's, he ate it. It made him feel stronger. Dmitri was not at home. The people of the house, an old cabinet-maker, his son, and his old wife, looked with positive suspicion at Alyosha. "He hasn't slept here for the last three nights. Maybe he has gone away," the old man said in answer to Alyosha's persistent inquiries. Alyosha saw that he was answering in accordance with instructions. When he asked whether he were not at Grushenka's or in hiding at Foma's (Alyosha spoke so freely on purpose), all three looked at him in alarm. "They are fond of him, they are doing their best for him," thought Alyosha. "That's good." At last he found the house in Lake Street. It was a decrepit little house, sunk on one side, with three windows looking into the street, and with a muddy yard, in the middle of which stood a solitary cow. He crossed the yard and found the door opening into the passage. On the left of the passage lived the old woman of the house with her old daughter. Both seemed to be deaf. In answer to his repeated inquiry for the captain, one of them at last understood that he was asking for their lodgers, and pointed to a door across the passage. The captain's lodging turned out to be a simple cottage room. Alyosha had his hand on the iron latch to open the door, when he was struck by the strange hush within. Yet he knew from Katerina Ivanovna's words that the man had a family. "Either they are all asleep or perhaps they have heard me coming and are waiting for me to open the door. I'd better knock first," and he knocked. An answer came, but not at once, after an interval of perhaps ten seconds. "Who's there?" shouted some one in a loud and very angry voice. Then Alyosha opened the door and crossed the threshold. He found himself in a regular peasant's room. Though it was large, it was cumbered up with domestic belongings of all sorts, and there were several people in it. On the left was a large Russian stove. From the stove to the window on the left was a string running across the room, and on it there were rags hanging. There was a bedstead against the wall on each side, right and left, covered with knitted quilts. On the one on the left was a pyramid of four print-covered pillows, each smaller than the one beneath. On the other there was only one very small pillow. The opposite corner was screened off by a curtain or a sheet hung on a string. Behind this curtain could be seen a bed made up on a bench and a chair. The rough square table of plain wood had been moved into the middle window. The three windows, which consisted each of four tiny greenish mildewy panes, gave little light, and were close shut, so that the room was not very light and rather stuffy. On the table was a frying-pan with the remains of some fried eggs, a half-eaten piece of bread, and a small bottle with a few drops of vodka. A woman of genteel appearance, wearing a cotton gown, was sitting on a chair by the bed on the left. Her face was thin and yellow, and her sunken cheeks betrayed at the first glance that she was ill. But what struck Alyosha most was the expression in the poor woman's eyes--a look of surprised inquiry and yet of haughty pride. And while he was talking to her husband, her big brown eyes moved from one speaker to the other with the same haughty and questioning expression. Beside her at the window stood a young girl, rather plain, with scanty reddish hair, poorly but very neatly dressed. She looked disdainfully at Alyosha as he came in. Beside the other bed was sitting another female figure. She was a very sad sight, a young girl of about twenty, but hunchback and crippled "with withered legs," as Alyosha was told afterwards. Her crutches stood in the corner close by. The strikingly beautiful and gentle eyes of this poor girl looked with mild serenity at Alyosha. A man of forty-five was sitting at the table, finishing the fried eggs. He was spare, small and weakly built. He had reddish hair and a scanty light-colored beard, very much like a wisp of tow (this comparison and the phrase "a wisp of tow" flashed at once into Alyosha's mind for some reason, he remembered it afterwards). It was obviously this gentleman who had shouted to him, as there was no other man in the room. But when Alyosha went in, he leapt up from the bench on which he was sitting, and, hastily wiping his mouth with a ragged napkin, darted up to Alyosha. "It's a monk come to beg for the monastery. A nice place to come to!" the girl standing in the left corner said aloud. The man spun round instantly towards her and answered her in an excited and breaking voice: "No, Varvara, you are wrong. Allow me to ask," he turned again to Alyosha, "what has brought you to--our retreat?" Alyosha looked attentively at him. It was the first time he had seen him. There was something angular, flurried and irritable about him. Though he had obviously just been drinking, he was not drunk. There was extraordinary impudence in his expression, and yet, strange to say, at the same time there was fear. He looked like a man who had long been kept in subjection and had submitted to it, and now had suddenly turned and was trying to assert himself. Or, better still, like a man who wants dreadfully to hit you but is horribly afraid you will hit him. In his words and in the intonation of his shrill voice there was a sort of crazy humor, at times spiteful and at times cringing, and continually shifting from one tone to another. The question about "our retreat" he had asked as it were quivering all over, rolling his eyes, and skipping up so close to Alyosha that he instinctively drew back a step. He was dressed in a very shabby dark cotton coat, patched and spotted. He wore checked trousers of an extremely light color, long out of fashion, and of very thin material. They were so crumpled and so short that he looked as though he had grown out of them like a boy. "I am Alexey Karamazov," Alyosha began in reply. "I quite understand that, sir," the gentleman snapped out at once to assure him that he knew who he was already. "I am Captain Snegiryov, sir, but I am still desirous to know precisely what has led you--" "Oh, I've come for nothing special. I wanted to have a word with you--if only you allow me." "In that case, here is a chair, sir; kindly be seated. That's what they used to say in the old comedies, 'kindly be seated,' " and with a rapid gesture he seized an empty chair (it was a rough wooden chair, not upholstered) and set it for him almost in the middle of the room; then, taking another similar chair for himself, he sat down facing Alyosha, so close to him that their knees almost touched. "Nikolay Ilyitch Snegiryov, sir, formerly a captain in the Russian infantry, put to shame for his vices, but still a captain. Though I might not be one now for the way I talk; for the last half of my life I've learnt to say 'sir.' It's a word you use when you've come down in the world." "That's very true," smiled Alyosha. "But is it used involuntarily or on purpose?" "As God's above, it's involuntary, and I usen't to use it! I didn't use the word 'sir' all my life, but as soon as I sank into low water I began to say 'sir.' It's the work of a higher power. I see you are interested in contemporary questions, but how can I have excited your curiosity, living as I do in surroundings impossible for the exercise of hospitality?" "I've come--about that business." "About what business?" the captain interrupted impatiently. "About your meeting with my brother Dmitri Fyodorovitch," Alyosha blurted out awkwardly. "What meeting, sir? You don't mean that meeting? About my 'wisp of tow,' then?" He moved closer so that his knees positively knocked against Alyosha. His lips were strangely compressed like a thread. "What wisp of tow?" muttered Alyosha. "He is come to complain of me, father!" cried a voice familiar to Alyosha--the voice of the schoolboy--from behind the curtain. "I bit his finger just now." The curtain was pulled, and Alyosha saw his assailant lying on a little bed made up on the bench and the chair in the corner under the ikons. The boy lay covered by his coat and an old wadded quilt. He was evidently unwell, and, judging by his glittering eyes, he was in a fever. He looked at Alyosha without fear, as though he felt he was at home and could not be touched. "What! Did he bite your finger?" The captain jumped up from his chair. "Was it your finger he bit?" "Yes. He was throwing stones with other schoolboys. There were six of them against him alone. I went up to him, and he threw a stone at me and then another at my head. I asked him what I had done to him. And then he rushed at me and bit my finger badly, I don't know why." "I'll thrash him, sir, at once--this minute!" The captain jumped up from his seat. "But I am not complaining at all, I am simply telling you ... I don't want him to be thrashed. Besides, he seems to be ill." "And do you suppose I'd thrash him? That I'd take my Ilusha and thrash him before you for your satisfaction? Would you like it done at once, sir?" said the captain, suddenly turning to Alyosha, as though he were going to attack him. "I am sorry about your finger, sir; but instead of thrashing Ilusha, would you like me to chop off my four fingers with this knife here before your eyes to satisfy your just wrath? I should think four fingers would be enough to satisfy your thirst for vengeance. You won't ask for the fifth one too?" He stopped short with a catch in his throat. Every feature in his face was twitching and working; he looked extremely defiant. He was in a sort of frenzy. "I think I understand it all now," said Alyosha gently and sorrowfully, still keeping his seat. "So your boy is a good boy, he loves his father, and he attacked me as the brother of your assailant.... Now I understand it," he repeated thoughtfully. "But my brother Dmitri Fyodorovitch regrets his action, I know that, and if only it is possible for him to come to you, or better still, to meet you in that same place, he will ask your forgiveness before every one--if you wish it." "After pulling out my beard, you mean, he will ask my forgiveness? And he thinks that will be a satisfactory finish, doesn't he?" "Oh, no! On the contrary, he will do anything you like and in any way you like." "So if I were to ask his highness to go down on his knees before me in that very tavern--'The Metropolis' it's called--or in the market-place, he would do it?" "Yes, he would even go down on his knees." "You've pierced me to the heart, sir. Touched me to tears and pierced me to the heart! I am only too sensible of your brother's generosity. Allow me to introduce my family, my two daughters and my son--my litter. If I die, who will care for them, and while I live who but they will care for a wretch like me? That's a great thing the Lord has ordained for every man of my sort, sir. For there must be some one able to love even a man like me." "Ah, that's perfectly true!" exclaimed Alyosha. "Oh, do leave off playing the fool! Some idiot comes in, and you put us to shame!" cried the girl by the window, suddenly turning to her father with a disdainful and contemptuous air. "Wait a little, Varvara!" cried her father, speaking peremptorily but looking at her quite approvingly. "That's her character," he said, addressing Alyosha again. "And in all nature there was naught That could find favor in his eyes-- or rather in the feminine: that could find favor in her eyes. But now let me present you to my wife, Arina Petrovna. She is crippled, she is forty- three; she can move, but very little. She is of humble origin. Arina Petrovna, compose your countenance. This is Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov. Get up, Alexey Fyodorovitch." He took him by the hand and with unexpected force pulled him up. "You must stand up to be introduced to a lady. It's not the Karamazov, mamma, who ... h'm ... etcetera, but his brother, radiant with modest virtues. Come, Arina Petrovna, come, mamma, first your hand to be kissed." And he kissed his wife's hand respectfully and even tenderly. The girl at the window turned her back indignantly on the scene; an expression of extraordinary cordiality came over the haughtily inquiring face of the woman. "Good morning! Sit down, Mr. Tchernomazov," she said. "Karamazov, mamma, Karamazov. We are of humble origin," he whispered again. "Well, Karamazov, or whatever it is, but I always think of Tchernomazov.... Sit down. Why has he pulled you up? He calls me crippled, but I am not, only my legs are swollen like barrels, and I am shriveled up myself. Once I used to be so fat, but now it's as though I had swallowed a needle." "We are of humble origin," the captain muttered again. "Oh, father, father!" the hunchback girl, who had till then been silent on her chair, said suddenly, and she hid her eyes in her handkerchief. "Buffoon!" blurted out the girl at the window. "Have you heard our news?" said the mother, pointing at her daughters. "It's like clouds coming over; the clouds pass and we have music again. When we were with the army, we used to have many such guests. I don't mean to make any comparisons; every one to their taste. The deacon's wife used to come then and say, 'Alexandr Alexandrovitch is a man of the noblest heart, but Nastasya Petrovna,' she would say, 'is of the brood of hell.' 'Well,' I said, 'that's a matter of taste; but you are a little spitfire.' 'And you want keeping in your place,' says she. 'You black sword,' said I, 'who asked you to teach me?' 'But my breath,' says she, 'is clean, and yours is unclean.' 'You ask all the officers whether my breath is unclean.' And ever since then I had it in my mind. Not long ago I was sitting here as I am now, when I saw that very general come in who came here for Easter, and I asked him: 'Your Excellency,' said I, 'can a lady's breath be unpleasant?' 'Yes,' he answered; 'you ought to open a window- pane or open the door, for the air is not fresh here.' And they all go on like that! And what is my breath to them? The dead smell worse still! 'I won't spoil the air,' said I, 'I'll order some slippers and go away.' My darlings, don't blame your own mother! Nikolay Ilyitch, how is it I can't please you? There's only Ilusha who comes home from school and loves me. Yesterday he brought me an apple. Forgive your own mother--forgive a poor lonely creature! Why has my breath become unpleasant to you?" And the poor mad woman broke into sobs, and tears streamed down her cheeks. The captain rushed up to her. "Mamma, mamma, my dear, give over! You are not lonely. Every one loves you, every one adores you." He began kissing both her hands again and tenderly stroking her face; taking the dinner-napkin, he began wiping away her tears. Alyosha fancied that he too had tears in his eyes. "There, you see, you hear?" he turned with a sort of fury to Alyosha, pointing to the poor imbecile. "I see and hear," muttered Alyosha. "Father, father, how can you--with him! Let him alone!" cried the boy, sitting up in his bed and gazing at his father with glowing eyes. "Do give over fooling, showing off your silly antics which never lead to anything!" shouted Varvara, stamping her foot with passion. "Your anger is quite just this time, Varvara, and I'll make haste to satisfy you. Come, put on your cap, Alexey Fyodorovitch, and I'll put on mine. We will go out. I have a word to say to you in earnest, but not within these walls. This girl sitting here is my daughter Nina; I forgot to introduce her to you. She is a heavenly angel incarnate ... who has flown down to us mortals,... if you can understand." "There he is shaking all over, as though he is in convulsions!" Varvara went on indignantly. "And she there stamping her foot at me and calling me a fool just now, she is a heavenly angel incarnate too, and she has good reason to call me so. Come along, Alexey Fyodorovitch, we must make an end." And, snatching Alyosha's hand, he drew him out of the room into the street. Chapter VII. And In The Open Air "The air is fresh, but in my apartment it is not so in any sense of the word. Let us walk slowly, sir. I should be glad of your kind interest." "I too have something important to say to you," observed Alyosha, "only I don't know how to begin." "To be sure you must have business with me. You would never have looked in upon me without some object. Unless you come simply to complain of the boy, and that's hardly likely. And, by the way, about the boy: I could not explain to you in there, but here I will describe that scene to you. My tow was thicker a week ago--I mean my beard. That's the nickname they give to my beard, the schoolboys most of all. Well, your brother Dmitri Fyodorovitch was pulling me by my beard, I'd done nothing, he was in a towering rage and happened to come upon me. He dragged me out of the tavern into the market-place; at that moment the boys were coming out of school, and with them Ilusha. As soon as he saw me in such a state he rushed up to me. 'Father,' he cried, 'father!' He caught hold of me, hugged me, tried to pull me away, crying to my assailant, 'Let go, let go, it's my father, forgive him!'--yes, he actually cried 'forgive him.' He clutched at that hand, that very hand, in his little hands and kissed it.... I remember his little face at that moment, I haven't forgotten it and I never shall!" "I swear," cried Alyosha, "that my brother will express his most deep and sincere regret, even if he has to go down on his knees in that same market-place.... I'll make him or he is no brother of mine!" "Aha, then it's only a suggestion! And it does not come from him but simply from the generosity of your own warm heart. You should have said so. No, in that case allow me to tell you of your brother's highly chivalrous soldierly generosity, for he did give expression to it at the time. He left off dragging me by my beard and released me: 'You are an officer,' he said, 'and I am an officer, if you can find a decent man to be your second send me your challenge. I will give satisfaction, though you are a scoundrel.' That's what he said. A chivalrous spirit indeed! I retired with Ilusha, and that scene is a family record imprinted for ever on Ilusha's soul. No, it's not for us to claim the privileges of noblemen. Judge for yourself. You've just been in our mansion, what did you see there? Three ladies, one a cripple and weak-minded, another a cripple and hunchback and the third not crippled but far too clever. She is a student, dying to get back to Petersburg, to work for the emancipation of the Russian woman on the banks of the Neva. I won't speak of Ilusha, he is only nine. I am alone in the world, and if I die, what will become of all of them? I simply ask you that. And if I challenge him and he kills me on the spot, what then? What will become of them? And worse still, if he doesn't kill me but only cripples me: I couldn't work, but I should still be a mouth to feed. Who would feed it and who would feed them all? Must I take Ilusha from school and send him to beg in the streets? That's what it means for me to challenge him to a duel. It's silly talk and nothing else." "He will beg your forgiveness, he will bow down at your feet in the middle of the market-place," cried Alyosha again, with glowing eyes. "I did think of prosecuting him," the captain went on, "but look in our code, could I get much compensation for a personal injury? And then Agrafena Alexandrovna(3) sent for me and shouted at me: 'Don't dare to dream of it! If you proceed against him, I'll publish it to all the world that he beat you for your dishonesty, and then you will be prosecuted.' I call God to witness whose was the dishonesty and by whose commands I acted, wasn't it by her own and Fyodor Pavlovitch's? 'And what's more,' she went on, 'I'll dismiss you for good and you'll never earn another penny from me. I'll speak to my merchant too' (that's what she calls her old man) 'and he will dismiss you!' And if he dismisses me, what can I earn then from any one? Those two are all I have to look to, for your Fyodor Pavlovitch has not only given over employing me, for another reason, but he means to make use of papers I've signed to go to law against me. And so I kept quiet, and you have seen our retreat. But now let me ask you: did Ilusha hurt your finger much? I didn't like to go into it in our mansion before him." "Yes, very much, and he was in a great fury. He was avenging you on me as a Karamazov, I see that now. But if only you had seen how he was throwing stones at his school-fellows! It's very dangerous. They might kill him. They are children and stupid. A stone may be thrown and break somebody's head." "That's just what has happened. He has been bruised by a stone to-day. Not on the head but on the chest, just above the heart. He came home crying and groaning and now he is ill." "And you know he attacks them first. He is bitter against them on your account. They say he stabbed a boy called Krassotkin with a pen-knife not long ago." "I've heard about that too, it's dangerous. Krassotkin is an official here, we may hear more about it." "I would advise you," Alyosha went on warmly, "not to send him to school at all for a time till he is calmer ... and his anger is passed." "Anger!" the captain repeated, "that's just what it is. He is a little creature, but it's a mighty anger. You don't know all, sir. Let me tell you more. Since that incident all the boys have been teasing him about the 'wisp of tow.' Schoolboys are a merciless race, individually they are angels, but together, especially in schools, they are often merciless. Their teasing has stirred up a gallant spirit in Ilusha. An ordinary boy, a weak son, would have submitted, have felt ashamed of his father, sir, but he stood up for his father against them all. For his father and for truth and justice. For what he suffered when he kissed your brother's hand and cried to him 'Forgive father, forgive him,'--that only God knows--and I, his father. For our children--not your children, but ours--the children of the poor gentlemen looked down upon by every one--know what justice means, sir, even at nine years old. How should the rich know? They don't explore such depths once in their lives. But at that moment in the square when he kissed his hand, at that moment my Ilusha had grasped all that justice means. That truth entered into him and crushed him for ever, sir," the captain said hotly again with a sort of frenzy, and he struck his right fist against his left palm as though he wanted to show how "the truth" crushed Ilusha. "That very day, sir, he fell ill with fever and was delirious all night. All that day he hardly said a word to me, but I noticed he kept watching me from the corner, though he turned to the window and pretended to be learning his lessons. But I could see his mind was not on his lessons. Next day I got drunk to forget my troubles, sinful man as I am, and I don't remember much. Mamma began crying, too--I am very fond of mamma--well, I spent my last penny drowning my troubles. Don't despise me for that, sir, in Russia men who drink are the best. The best men amongst us are the greatest drunkards. I lay down and I don't remember about Ilusha, though all that day the boys had been jeering at him at school. 'Wisp of tow,' they shouted, 'your father was pulled out of the tavern by his wisp of tow, you ran by and begged forgiveness.' " "On the third day when he came back from school, I saw he looked pale and wretched. 'What is it?' I asked. He wouldn't answer. Well, there's no talking in our mansion without mamma and the girls taking part in it. What's more, the girls had heard about it the very first day. Varvara had begun snarling. 'You fools and buffoons, can you ever do anything rational?' 'Quite so,' I said, 'can we ever do anything rational?' For the time I turned it off like that. So in the evening I took the boy out for a walk, for you must know we go for a walk every evening, always the same way, along which we are going now--from our gate to that great stone which lies alone in the road under the hurdle, which marks the beginning of the town pasture. A beautiful and lonely spot, sir. Ilusha and I walked along hand in hand as usual. He has a little hand, his fingers are thin and cold--he suffers with his chest, you know. 'Father,' said he, 'father!' 'Well?' said I. I saw his eyes flashing. 'Father, how he treated you then!' 'It can't be helped, Ilusha,' I said. 'Don't forgive him, father, don't forgive him! At school they say that he has paid you ten roubles for it.' 'No, Ilusha,' said I, 'I would not take money from him for anything.' Then he began trembling all over, took my hand in both his and kissed it again. 'Father,' he said, 'father, challenge him to a duel, at school they say you are a coward and won't challenge him, and that you'll accept ten roubles from him.' 'I can't challenge him to a duel, Ilusha,' I answered. And I told briefly what I've just told you. He listened. 'Father,' he said, 'anyway don't forgive it. When I grow up I'll call him out myself and kill him.' His eyes shone and glowed. And of course I am his father, and I had to put in a word: 'It's a sin to kill,' I said, 'even in a duel.' 'Father,' he said, 'when I grow up, I'll knock him down, knock the sword out of his hand, I'll fall on him, wave my sword over him and say: "I could kill you, but I forgive you, so there!" ' You see what the workings of his little mind have been during these two days; he must have been planning that vengeance all day, and raving about it at night. "But he began to come home from school badly beaten, I found out about it the day before yesterday, and you are right, I won't send him to that school any more. I heard that he was standing up against all the class alone and defying them all, that his heart was full of resentment, of bitterness--I was alarmed about him. We went for another walk. 'Father,' he asked, 'are the rich people stronger than any one else on earth?' 'Yes, Ilusha,' I said, 'there are no people on earth stronger than the rich.' 'Father,' he said, 'I will get rich, I will become an officer and conquer everybody. The Tsar will reward me, I will come back here and then no one will dare--' Then he was silent and his lips still kept trembling. 'Father,' he said, 'what a horrid town this is.' 'Yes, Ilusha,' I said, 'it isn't a very nice town.' 'Father, let us move into another town, a nice one,' he said, 'where people don't know about us.' 'We will move, we will, Ilusha,' said I, 'only I must save up for it.' I was glad to be able to turn his mind from painful thoughts, and we began to dream of how we would move to another town, how we would buy a horse and cart. 'We will put mamma and your sisters inside, we will cover them up and we'll walk, you shall have a lift now and then, and I'll walk beside, for we must take care of our horse, we can't all ride. That's how we'll go.' He was enchanted at that, most of all at the thought of having a horse and driving him. For of course a Russian boy is born among horses. We chattered a long while. Thank God, I thought, I have diverted his mind and comforted him. "That was the day before yesterday, in the evening, but last night everything was changed. He had gone to school in the morning, he came back depressed, terribly depressed. In the evening I took him by the hand and we went for a walk; he would not talk. There was a wind blowing and no sun, and a feeling of autumn; twilight was coming on. We walked along, both of us depressed. 'Well, my boy,' said I, 'how about our setting off on our travels?' I thought I might bring him back to our talk of the day before. He didn't answer, but I felt his fingers trembling in my hand. Ah, I thought, it's a bad job; there's something fresh. We had reached the stone where we are now. I sat down on the stone. And in the air there were lots of kites flapping and whirling. There were as many as thirty in sight. Of course, it's just the season for the kites. 'Look, Ilusha,' said I, 'it's time we got out our last year's kite again. I'll mend it, where have you put it away?' My boy made no answer. He looked away and turned sideways to me. And then a gust of wind blew up the sand. He suddenly fell on me, threw both his little arms round my neck and held me tight. You know, when children are silent and proud, and try to keep back their tears when they are in great trouble and suddenly break down, their tears fall in streams. With those warm streams of tears, he suddenly wetted my face. He sobbed and shook as though he were in convulsions, and squeezed up against me as I sat on the stone. 'Father,' he kept crying, 'dear father, how he insulted you!' And I sobbed too. We sat shaking in each other's arms. 'Ilusha,' I said to him, 'Ilusha darling.' No one saw us then. God alone saw us, I hope He will record it to my credit. You must thank your brother, Alexey Fyodorovitch. No, sir, I won't thrash my boy for your satisfaction." He had gone back to his original tone of resentful buffoonery. Alyosha felt though that he trusted him, and that if there had been some one else in his, Alyosha's place, the man would not have spoken so openly and would not have told what he had just told. This encouraged Alyosha, whose heart was trembling on the verge of tears. "Ah, how I would like to make friends with your boy!" he cried. "If you could arrange it--" "Certainly, sir," muttered the captain. "But now listen to something quite different!" Alyosha went on. "I have a message for you. That same brother of mine, Dmitri, has insulted his betrothed, too, a noble-hearted girl of whom you have probably heard. I have a right to tell you of her wrong; I ought to do so, in fact, for hearing of the insult done to you and learning all about your unfortunate position, she commissioned me at once--just now--to bring you this help from her--but only from her alone, not from Dmitri, who has abandoned her. Nor from me, his brother, nor from any one else, but from her, only from her! She entreats you to accept her help.... You have both been insulted by the same man. She thought of you only when she had just received a similar insult from him--similar in its cruelty, I mean. She comes like a sister to help a brother in misfortune.... She told me to persuade you to take these two hundred roubles from her, as from a sister, knowing that you are in such need. No one will know of it, it can give rise to no unjust slander. There are the two hundred roubles, and I swear you must take them unless--unless all men are to be enemies on earth! But there are brothers even on earth.... You have a generous heart ... you must see that, you must," and Alyosha held out two new rainbow-colored hundred-rouble notes. They were both standing at the time by the great stone close to the fence, and there was no one near. The notes seemed to produce a tremendous impression on the captain. He started, but at first only from astonishment. Such an outcome of their conversation was the last thing he expected. Nothing could have been farther from his dreams than help from any one--and such a sum! He took the notes, and for a minute he was almost unable to answer, quite a new expression came into his face. "That for me? So much money--two hundred roubles! Good heavens! Why, I haven't seen so much money for the last four years! Mercy on us! And she says she is a sister.... And is that the truth?" "I swear that all I told you is the truth," cried Alyosha. The captain flushed red. "Listen, my dear, listen. If I take it, I shan't be behaving like a scoundrel? In your eyes, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I shan't be a scoundrel? No, Alexey Fyodorovitch, listen, listen," he hurried, touching Alyosha with both his hands. "You are persuading me to take it, saying that it's a sister sends it, but inwardly, in your heart won't you feel contempt for me if I take it, eh?" "No, no, on my salvation I swear I shan't! And no one will ever know but me--I, you and she, and one other lady, her great friend." "Never mind the lady! Listen, Alexey Fyodorovitch, at a moment like this you must listen, for you can't understand what these two hundred roubles mean to me now." The poor fellow went on rising gradually into a sort of incoherent, almost wild enthusiasm. He was thrown off his balance and talked extremely fast, as though afraid he would not be allowed to say all he had to say. "Besides its being honestly acquired from a 'sister,' so highly respected and revered, do you know that now I can look after mamma and Nina, my hunchback angel daughter? Doctor Herzenstube came to me in the kindness of his heart and was examining them both for a whole hour. 'I can make nothing of it,' said he, but he prescribed a mineral water which is kept at a chemist's here. He said it would be sure to do her good, and he ordered baths, too, with some medicine in them. The mineral water costs thirty copecks, and she'd need to drink forty bottles perhaps; so I took the prescription and laid it on the shelf under the ikons, and there it lies. And he ordered hot baths for Nina with something dissolved in them, morning and evening. But how can we carry out such a cure in our mansion, without servants, without help, without a bath, and without water? Nina is rheumatic all over, I don't think I told you that. All her right side aches at night, she is in agony, and, would you believe it, the angel bears it without groaning for fear of waking us. We eat what we can get, and she'll only take the leavings, what you'd scarcely give to a dog. 'I am not worth it, I am taking it from you, I am a burden on you,' that's what her angel eyes try to express. We wait on her, but she doesn't like it. 'I am a useless cripple, no good to any one.' As though she were not worth it, when she is the saving of all of us with her angelic sweetness. Without her, without her gentle word it would be hell among us! She softens even Varvara. And don't judge Varvara harshly either, she is an angel too, she, too, has suffered wrong. She came to us for the summer, and she brought sixteen roubles she had earned by lessons and saved up, to go back with to Petersburg in September, that is now. But we took her money and lived on it, so now she has nothing to go back with. Though indeed she couldn't go back, for she has to work for us like a slave. She is like an overdriven horse with all of us on her back. She waits on us all, mends and washes, sweeps the floor, puts mamma to bed. And mamma is capricious and tearful and insane! And now I can get a servant with this money, you understand, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I can get medicines for the dear creatures, I can send my student to Petersburg, I can buy beef, I can feed them properly. Good Lord, but it's a dream!" Alyosha was delighted that he had brought him such happiness and that the poor fellow had consented to be made happy. "Stay, Alexey Fyodorovitch, stay," the captain began to talk with frenzied rapidity, carried away by a new day-dream. "Do you know that Ilusha and I will perhaps really carry out our dream. We will buy a horse and cart, a black horse, he insists on its being black, and we will set off as we pretended the other day. I have an old friend, a lawyer in K. province, and I heard through a trustworthy man that if I were to go he'd give me a place as clerk in his office, so, who knows, maybe he would. So I'd just put mamma and Nina in the cart, and Ilusha could drive, and I'd walk, I'd walk.... Why, if I only succeed in getting one debt paid that's owing me, I should have perhaps enough for that too!" "There would be enough!" cried Alyosha. "Katerina Ivanovna will send you as much more as you need, and you know, I have money too, take what you want, as you would from a brother, from a friend, you can give it back later.... (You'll get rich, you'll get rich!) And you know you couldn't have a better idea than to move to another province! It would be the saving of you, especially of your boy--and you ought to go quickly, before the winter, before the cold. You must write to us when you are there, and we will always be brothers.... No, it's not a dream!" Alyosha could have hugged him, he was so pleased. But glancing at him he stopped short. The man was standing with his neck outstretched and his lips protruding, with a pale and frenzied face. His lips were moving as though trying to articulate something; no sound came, but still his lips moved. It was uncanny. "What is it?" asked Alyosha, startled. "Alexey Fyodorovitch ... I ... you," muttered the captain, faltering, looking at him with a strange, wild, fixed stare, and an air of desperate resolution. At the same time there was a sort of grin on his lips. "I ... you, sir ... wouldn't you like me to show you a little trick I know?" he murmured, suddenly, in a firm rapid whisper, his voice no longer faltering. "What trick?" "A pretty trick," whispered the captain. His mouth was twisted on the left side, his left eye was screwed up. He still stared at Alyosha. "What is the matter? What trick?" Alyosha cried, now thoroughly alarmed. "Why, look," squealed the captain suddenly, and showing him the two notes which he had been holding by one corner between his thumb and forefinger during the conversation, he crumpled them up savagely and squeezed them tight in his right hand. "Do you see, do you see?" he shrieked, pale and infuriated. And suddenly flinging up his hand, he threw the crumpled notes on the sand. "Do you see?" he shrieked again, pointing to them. "Look there!" And with wild fury he began trampling them under his heel, gasping and exclaiming as he did so: "So much for your money! So much for your money! So much for your money! So much for your money!" Suddenly he darted back and drew himself up before Alyosha, and his whole figure expressed unutterable pride. "Tell those who sent you that the wisp of tow does not sell his honor," he cried, raising his arm in the air. Then he turned quickly and began to run; but he had not run five steps before he turned completely round and kissed his hand to Alyosha. He ran another five paces and then turned round for the last time. This time his face was not contorted with laughter, but quivering all over with tears. In a tearful, faltering, sobbing voice he cried: "What should I say to my boy if I took money from you for our shame?" And then he ran on without turning. Alyosha looked after him, inexpressibly grieved. Oh, he saw that till the very last moment the man had not known he would crumple up and fling away the notes. He did not turn back. Alyosha knew he would not. He would not follow him and call him back, he knew why. When he was out of sight, Alyosha picked up the two notes. They were very much crushed and crumpled, and had been pressed into the sand, but were uninjured and even rustled like new ones when Alyosha unfolded them and smoothed them out. After smoothing them out, he folded them up, put them in his pocket and went to Katerina Ivanovna to report on the success of her commission.

Book IV

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219142226/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/b/the-brothers-karamazov/summary-and-analysis/part-2-book-iv

Nearing death, Father Zossima rallies a bit and gathers his friends and disciples around him. He speaks to them of the necessity of loving one another and all men and urges them to remember that each human being shares responsibility for the sins of all others. Alyosha leaves the cell, aware of the tense sorrow that hovers over the monastery. All members of the holy community, he is sure, anticipate some sort of miracle, one occurring immediately after the elder's death. There are, in fact, already rumors of Father Zossima's being responsible for a recent miracle. Not quite all, however, share Alyosha's idealization of Zossima. Living in the monastery is another very old monk, Father Ferapont, "antagonistic to Father Zossima and the whole institution of elders." Ferapont believes in a religion based on severe fasting and on fear of Satan, a belief totally opposite to the doctrine of love advocated by Father Zossima. Ferapont sees the devil at work in all things and frequently has visions of lurking devils waiting to ensnare innocent souls. He is admired by only a few people because of such severity, but he does have a coterie of staunch followers. After Father Zossima has retired to his cell, he calls for Alyosha and reminds the boy that he hopes Alyosha will return to the town in order to fulfill his responsibilities to his father and to his brothers. Alyosha acquiesces. On his return, Alyosha finds his father alone. The old man insists that he plans to live a long time but that he needs much money to attract young "wenches" to come to him in his later years, when he has lost much of his vigor. He vehemently proclaims that above all other things, he will remain a sensualist until he is forced to bed down with death. Alyosha listens and then leaves his father's house. Outside he encounters a group of schoolboys throwing rocks at an outcast young lad, a frail young child about nine years old. Despite his frailty, the boy returns the violence and flings back sharp rocks at the squadron of young hoodlums. Then suddenly he breaks and runs. Alyosha dashes after the boy, eager to discover what lies under such antagonism. But when he catches him, the youngster is sullen and defiant. He hits Alyosha with a rock and lunges at him, biting his hand. He escapes once more and leaves Alyosha perplexed as to the meaning of such corrosive bitterness. Alyosha's next stop is at the home of Madame Hohlakov. There he is surprised to learn that Ivan is also a visitor, upstairs at the moment with Katerina. Dmitri's presence might have been in order, but certainly Ivan's is unexpected to the young Karamazov. He asks for some cloth to bandage his hand, and when Madame Hohlakov goes in search of medication, he is immediately set upon by Lise. She implores him to return her letter; it was a bad joke, she says. But Alyosha refuses to part with the letter. He believed its contents, he says, but he cannot return it; he does not have it with him. Alyosha then leaves Lise and goes to talk with Ivan and Katerina. Katerina repeats to Alyosha what she has just told Ivan -- that she will never abandon Dmitri, even if he marries Grushenka. Furthermore, she intends to help and protect him even though he does not appreciate it. Ivan agrees with her, though he admits that in another woman such behavior would be considered neurotic. Alyosha can no longer retain himself. He tries to convince them that they love each other; they are only torturing themselves by their theorizings. Ivan admits that he does love Katerina but says that she needs someone like Dmitri because of her excessive self-esteem. Then he says that he is leaving the next day for Moscow and excuses himself. After Ivan leaves, Katerina tells Alyosha of a poor captain, a Mr. Snegiryov, who was once brutally beaten by Dmitri while the captain's young son stood by and begged for mercy. She has never forgotten the incident and asks Alyosha to take 200 rubles to the captain as a token of her deep sympathy. Alyosha says that he will do as she asks and leaves. The captain in question lives in a ramshackle old house with a mentally deranged wife, two daughters , and his young son, Ilusha. Coincidentally, Ilusha turns out to be the outcast who earlier bit Alyosha's hand. Before Alyosha can explain why he has come, the boy cries out that the young Karamazov has come to complain about the hand-biting. And it is then that Alyosha understands why the boy attacked him so savagely: he was defending his father's honor against a Karamazov. The captain takes Alyosha outside and tells him the story of his encounter with Dmitri and how terribly the episode affected his young son. He further emphasizes the family's poverty, and Alyosha -- overjoyed that he can relieve the old man's poverty -- explains that he has come to give him 200 rubles. The captain is delighted by such unexpected good luck and speaks of the many things he can now do for his sick and hungry family. But suddenly he changes his mind. With a proud gesture, he throws the money to the ground, saying that if he accepts the sum he can never gain his son's love and respect. Alyosha retrieves the money and starts back to Katerina to report his failure.

At the end of Book III, Alyosha wonders why Father Zossima has asked him to leave the monastery. Book IV is Dostoevsky's explanation. From chapter to chapter, Alyosha moves among the characters as they grapple with their assorted problems. He fast becomes the living embodiment of the elder's teachings. Each chapter illustrates Alyosha's influences. In Chapter 2 he travels to his father's house and listens to the frustrations that plague the old man. Then he goes to Madame Hohlakov's and tries to pacify young Lise by calmly accepting her hysterical outcries. While there he makes an effort to bring Ivan and Katerina together as lovers. Next, he goes to the cottage of the destitute Captain Snegiryov. Obviously Dostoevsky intends us to see that Alyosha is meant for a life of activity, not for the quiet passivity of the monastery. The message of Father Zossima is of particular importance in this book. Earlier he emphasized the value of love and admonished his adherents to love one another, to love all of God's people. Now he reminds his followers that simply because they have assumed a monastic life does not imply that they are more blessed than other people. In fact, "from the very fact of coming here, each of us has confessed to himself that he is worse than others." He also reminds his listeners that each man is responsible for every other man and that "he is responsible to all men for all and everything, for all human sins, national and individual." This speech alone contains all the reasons for Alyosha's leaving the monastery. A life of seclusion does not test one's strength if he is to be a representative of Zossima's theories. The elder's ideas can be tested only in the midst of busy society. Father Zossima's ideas concerning the responsibility of one man for another take on added weight in the conversations that Alyosha has with Ivan. Ivan refuses to take responsibility for Dmitri's sins and tells Alyosha that he is not his brother's keeper. Later, Zossima's concept of responsibility triggers Alyosha into considering his own responsibility for Karamazov's murder. At the end of Zossima's talk, rumors spread of a forthcoming miracle, one that will coincide with the elder's death. Alyosha is intrigued by the rumors, especially since he believes Zossima to be saint-like, but he is sorely tested when his beloved elder's body rapidly decomposes. As Alyosha begins his journey through the complex world of society, he goes first to his father's house and listens to all kinds of vulgar and disgusting stories. His father tells him that he will need much money in later years to tempt young "wenches" to sleep with him and suggests that Ivan is trying to marry Katerina so that Dmitri will have to marry Grushenka; thus old Karamazov will be prevented from remarrying and leaving his fortune to a new wife -- in other words, to Grushenka. All these wild accusations color more darkly Dostoevsky's portrait of Karamazov as a repulsive and bestial type. Throughout the confession, Alyosha is able to retain his peaceful mien and never compromises his inner nature of dignity and love. In the scene with young Ilusha, Alyosha still remains a perfectly self-contained individual. He does not even use violence when Ilusha bites him so viciously. It is a bitter entrance into the world -- stoned and bitten only because one is a Karamazov; none of this, of course, would have happened if Alyosha had remained in seclusion at the monastery. But Alyosha has made his choice according to Zossima's wishes and according to the dictates of the elder who told him that he must marry and become one with the world. He, therefore, tells the young invalid Lise that when she comes of age they will marry. As for another marriage -- one between Ivan and Katerina -- the solution is not quite so simple. They are apparently in love with each other, but both are so arrogant that they cannot come to an understanding. Part of the difficulty lies in Katerina's fantastic personality. She feels the need to suffer or to be humiliated by Dmitri, and her statement that she will never abandon Dmitri, even if he marries Grushenka, indicates the fanatical degree to which she plans to carry her suffering and martyrdom. Ivan sums up her peculiar nature well when he says that she needs Dmitri "so as to contemplate continually your heroic fidelity and to reproach him for infidelity." For the present, then, Katerina's declaration results in an impasse; her views of the two brothers will not be resolved until the trial, and even then real objectivity will be impossible. Nevertheless, it is true that she feels the need to be humiliated by Dmitri. Proof of this lies in her deep sympathy with Captain Snegiryov, a man whom Dmitri has humiliated. She asks Alyosha to take him 200 rubles "as a token of sympathy," but her sympathy is of far greater than token value. Alyosha fast becomes involved in social intrigues. But one should be aware that there is no rancor or bitterness in his new role. Alyosha has no resentment, even following the Ilusha incident. Quite the contrary, he has great compassion for a young boy who will try to defend his father's honor. Book IV then places the neophyte Alyosha in a variety of new situations, and the boy's skill in dealing with them suggests the future potential that Father Zossima sensed in him. Looking ahead, however, one might note that success is not total. Further along, it will become apparent that Alyosha often fails with adults. It is with children that he most succeeds; with the younger generation his qualities of quiet love and devotion find the most fertile sympathy. This, of course, is part of Dostoevsky's vision -- children represent the future of all hope and salvation. In this novel Alyosha entrusts Zossima's ideal of love and honor to the new generation.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_3_part_1.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xvi

chapter xvi

{"name": "Chapter XVI", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase3-chapter16-24", "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", "analysis": ""}

On a thyme-scented, bird-hatching morning in May, between two and three years after the return from Trantridge--silent, reconstructive years for Tess Durbeyfield--she left her home for the second time. Having packed up her luggage so that it could be sent to her later, she started in a hired trap for the little town of Stourcastle, through which it was necessary to pass on her journey, now in a direction almost opposite to that of her first adventuring. On the curve of the nearest hill she looked back regretfully at Marlott and her father's house, although she had been so anxious to get away. Her kindred dwelling there would probably continue their daily lives as heretofore, with no great diminution of pleasure in their consciousness, although she would be far off, and they deprived of her smile. In a few days the children would engage in their games as merrily as ever, without the sense of any gap left by her departure. This leaving of the younger children she had decided to be for the best; were she to remain they would probably gain less good by her precepts than harm by her example. She went through Stourcastle without pausing and onward to a junction of highways, where she could await a carrier's van that ran to the south-west; for the railways which engirdled this interior tract of country had never yet struck across it. While waiting, however, there came along a farmer in his spring cart, driving approximately in the direction that she wished to pursue. Though he was a stranger to her she accepted his offer of a seat beside him, ignoring that its motive was a mere tribute to her countenance. He was going to Weatherbury, and by accompanying him thither she could walk the remainder of the distance instead of travelling in the van by way of Casterbridge. Tess did not stop at Weatherbury, after this long drive, further than to make a slight nondescript meal at noon at a cottage to which the farmer recommended her. Thence she started on foot, basket in hand, to reach the wide upland of heath dividing this district from the low-lying meads of a further valley in which the dairy stood that was the aim and end of her day's pilgrimage. Tess had never before visited this part of the country, and yet she felt akin to the landscape. Not so very far to the left of her she could discern a dark patch in the scenery, which inquiry confirmed her in supposing to be trees marking the environs of Kingsbere--in the church of which parish the bones of her ancestors--her useless ancestors--lay entombed. She had no admiration for them now; she almost hated them for the dance they had led her; not a thing of all that had been theirs did she retain but the old seal and spoon. "Pooh--I have as much of mother as father in me!" she said. "All my prettiness comes from her, and she was only a dairymaid." The journey over the intervening uplands and lowlands of Egdon, when she reached them, was a more troublesome walk than she had anticipated, the distance being actually but a few miles. It was two hours, owing to sundry wrong turnings, ere she found herself on a summit commanding the long-sought-for vale, the Valley of the Great Dairies, the valley in which milk and butter grew to rankness, and were produced more profusely, if less delicately, than at her home--the verdant plain so well watered by the river Var or Froom. It was intrinsically different from the Vale of Little Dairies, Blackmoor Vale, which, save during her disastrous sojourn at Trantridge, she had exclusively known till now. The world was drawn to a larger pattern here. The enclosures numbered fifty acres instead of ten, the farmsteads were more extended, the groups of cattle formed tribes hereabout; there only families. These myriads of cows stretching under her eyes from the far east to the far west outnumbered any she had ever seen at one glance before. The green lea was speckled as thickly with them as a canvas by Van Alsloot or Sallaert with burghers. The ripe hue of the red and dun kine absorbed the evening sunlight, which the white-coated animals returned to the eye in rays almost dazzling, even at the distant elevation on which she stood. The bird's-eye perspective before her was not so luxuriantly beautiful, perhaps, as that other one which she knew so well; yet it was more cheering. It lacked the intensely blue atmosphere of the rival vale, and its heavy soils and scents; the new air was clear, bracing, ethereal. The river itself, which nourished the grass and cows of these renowned dairies, flowed not like the streams in Blackmoor. Those were slow, silent, often turbid; flowing over beds of mud into which the incautious wader might sink and vanish unawares. The Froom waters were clear as the pure River of Life shown to the Evangelist, rapid as the shadow of a cloud, with pebbly shallows that prattled to the sky all day long. There the water-flower was the lily; the crow-foot here. Either the change in the quality of the air from heavy to light, or the sense of being amid new scenes where there were no invidious eyes upon her, sent up her spirits wonderfully. Her hopes mingled with the sunshine in an ideal photosphere which surrounded her as she bounded along against the soft south wind. She heard a pleasant voice in every breeze, and in every bird's note seemed to lurk a joy. Her face had latterly changed with changing states of mind, continually fluctuating between beauty and ordinariness, according as the thoughts were gay or grave. One day she was pink and flawless; another pale and tragical. When she was pink she was feeling less than when pale; her more perfect beauty accorded with her less elevated mood; her more intense mood with her less perfect beauty. It was her best face physically that was now set against the south wind. The irresistible, universal, automatic tendency to find sweet pleasure somewhere, which pervades all life, from the meanest to the highest, had at length mastered Tess. Being even now only a young woman of twenty, one who mentally and sentimentally had not finished growing, it was impossible that any event should have left upon her an impression that was not in time capable of transmutation. And thus her spirits, and her thankfulness, and her hopes, rose higher and higher. She tried several ballads, but found them inadequate; till, recollecting the psalter that her eyes had so often wandered over of a Sunday morning before she had eaten of the tree of knowledge, she chanted: "O ye Sun and Moon ... O ye Stars ... ye Green Things upon the Earth ... ye Fowls of the Air ... Beasts and Cattle ... Children of Men ... bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for ever!" She suddenly stopped and murmured: "But perhaps I don't quite know the Lord as yet." And probably the half-unconscious rhapsody was a Fetishistic utterance in a Monotheistic setting; women whose chief companions are the forms and forces of outdoor Nature retain in their souls far more of the Pagan fantasy of their remote forefathers than of the systematized religion taught their race at later date. However, Tess found at least approximate expression for her feelings in the old _Benedicite_ that she had lisped from infancy; and it was enough. Such high contentment with such a slight initial performance as that of having started towards a means of independent living was a part of the Durbeyfield temperament. Tess really wished to walk uprightly, while her father did nothing of the kind; but she resembled him in being content with immediate and small achievements, and in having no mind for laborious effort towards such petty social advancement as could alone be effected by a family so heavily handicapped as the once powerful d'Urbervilles were now. There was, it might be said, the energy of her mother's unexpended family, as well as the natural energy of Tess's years, rekindled after the experience which had so overwhelmed her for the time. Let the truth be told--women do as a rule live through such humiliations, and regain their spirits, and again look about them with an interested eye. While there's life there's hope is a conviction not so entirely unknown to the "betrayed" as some amiable theorists would have us believe. Tess Durbeyfield, then, in good heart, and full of zest for life, descended the Egdon slopes lower and lower towards the dairy of her pilgrimage. The marked difference, in the final particular, between the rival vales now showed itself. The secret of Blackmoor was best discovered from the heights around; to read aright the valley before her it was necessary to descend into its midst. When Tess had accomplished this feat she found herself to be standing on a carpeted level, which stretched to the east and west as far as the eye could reach. The river had stolen from the higher tracts and brought in particles to the vale all this horizontal land; and now, exhausted, aged, and attenuated, lay serpentining along through the midst of its former spoils. Not quite sure of her direction, Tess stood still upon the hemmed expanse of verdant flatness, like a fly on a billiard-table of indefinite length, and of no more consequence to the surroundings than that fly. The sole effect of her presence upon the placid valley so far had been to excite the mind of a solitary heron, which, after descending to the ground not far from her path, stood with neck erect, looking at her. Suddenly there arose from all parts of the lowland a prolonged and repeated call--"Waow! waow! waow!" From the furthest east to the furthest west the cries spread as if by contagion, accompanied in some cases by the barking of a dog. It was not the expression of the valley's consciousness that beautiful Tess had arrived, but the ordinary announcement of milking-time--half-past four o'clock, when the dairymen set about getting in the cows. The red and white herd nearest at hand, which had been phlegmatically waiting for the call, now trooped towards the steading in the background, their great bags of milk swinging under them as they walked. Tess followed slowly in their rear, and entered the barton by the open gate through which they had entered before her. Long thatched sheds stretched round the enclosure, their slopes encrusted with vivid green moss, and their eaves supported by wooden posts rubbed to a glossy smoothness by the flanks of infinite cows and calves of bygone years, now passed to an oblivion almost inconceivable in its profundity. Between the post were ranged the milchers, each exhibiting herself at the present moment to a whimsical eye in the rear as a circle on two stalks, down the centre of which a switch moved pendulum-wise; while the sun, lowering itself behind this patient row, threw their shadows accurately inwards upon the wall. Thus it threw shadows of these obscure and homely figures every evening with as much care over each contour as if it had been the profile of a court beauty on a palace wall; copied them as diligently as it had copied Olympian shapes on marble _facades_ long ago, or the outline of Alexander, Caesar, and the Pharaohs. They were the less restful cows that were stalled. Those that would stand still of their own will were milked in the middle of the yard, where many of such better behaved ones stood waiting now--all prime milchers, such as were seldom seen out of this valley, and not always within it; nourished by the succulent feed which the water-meads supplied at this prime season of the year. Those of them that were spotted with white reflected the sunshine in dazzling brilliancy, and the polished brass knobs of their horns glittered with something of military display. Their large-veined udders hung ponderous as sandbags, the teats sticking out like the legs of a gipsy's crock; and as each animal lingered for her turn to arrive the milk oozed forth and fell in drops to the ground.

Chapter XVI

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

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

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_38_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 6.chapter 1

book 6, chapter 1

{"name": "Book 6, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-6-chapter-1", "summary": "When Alyosha arrives at the elder Zosima's quarters, he is sitting up looking relatively well, surrounded by four other monks: Father Iosif, Father Paissy, Father Mikhail , and Brother Anfim. Zosima asks Alyosha if he has seen his brother, but Alyosha isn't sure which brother he is referring to at first. Zosima explains that he had seen a fate of terrible suffering in the face of his brother Dmitri and had hoped that Alyosha could save him. He tells Alyosha to find Dmitri at all costs after their conversation. Zosima then says how much Alyosha reminds him of his own dead brother. The narrator intervenes at this point to tell the reader that what follows in the next chapter is a narrative of Zosima's life written by Alyosha, who wrote down what he remembered of that night much later.", "analysis": ""}

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

Book 6, Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-6-chapter-1

When Alyosha arrives at the elder Zosima's quarters, he is sitting up looking relatively well, surrounded by four other monks: Father Iosif, Father Paissy, Father Mikhail , and Brother Anfim. Zosima asks Alyosha if he has seen his brother, but Alyosha isn't sure which brother he is referring to at first. Zosima explains that he had seen a fate of terrible suffering in the face of his brother Dmitri and had hoped that Alyosha could save him. He tells Alyosha to find Dmitri at all costs after their conversation. Zosima then says how much Alyosha reminds him of his own dead brother. The narrator intervenes at this point to tell the reader that what follows in the next chapter is a narrative of Zosima's life written by Alyosha, who wrote down what he remembered of that night much later.

pinkmonkey

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finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_6_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapters 16-17

chapters 16 - 17

{"name": "Chapters 16 - 17", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD26.asp", "summary": "Tess proceeds to the Talbothay Farm. On this bright May day, she is in high spirits and hopeful for her future. On the way she passes by the tomb of her ancestors, but she does not let that spoil her mood. Instead, she sings ballads to herself, and her expression changes with her improving spirits. When she spies the valley of the dairies, she is encouraged by the view; it is much lovelier than the valley of Marlott. The air is sweet, the rivers are clear, and birds sing sweetly, giving Tess even greater hopes for her future. The distant mooing of the cows reminds her that she is close to her destination.", "analysis": "Notes The courage with which women bear hardship is pointed out in this chapter. They live through humiliations, regain their spirits, and move ahead with life. Since Tess is still young, she is able to recover from the sorrows of her past. When Tess leaves home for the second time, it is two and a half years after her return from Trantridge, and she is a changed person. She is no longer a naive girl, but a responsible and mature woman. As she moves away from her village, her state of mind changes; the further she travels from Marlott, the more optimistic she becomes. The soft wind soothes her spirit, and the sunshine gives her hope. The whole world begins to appear bright and cheerful. This new image of Tess is a welcome change from her melancholy and despondency. CHAPTER 17 Summary At Talbothay's, Tess is welcomed by Richard Crick, the owner of the farm. He is skeptical about her abilities due to her delicate frame, but she quickly proves herself. After her long travels, she refuses to rest and immediately joins in the milking. In the first days of her stay at Talbothay's, Tess easily slips into her role as a milkmaid and feels that she has \"laid a new foundation for her future.\" On her first day of work, Tess spies the handsome Angel Clare, who is a trainee at the farm. Although the son of a clergyman, he has chosen farming as his vocation. Tess learns at the dairy house that he is a much sought after bachelor, whom the milkmaids admire greatly. Tess remembers him from the May Day dance several years ago, but she is relieved to find that he does not recognize her; she is worried about someone finding out about her past. Notes In this chapter, Angel Clare, seen only briefly before at the May Day Dance, is developed as a character. Working as a trainee on the farm, he is looked upon as a gentleman and everyone addressed him as \"sir\". His father is a respected clergyman in Emminster, and all of his brothers have become parsons. In addition, all the milkmaids swoon over his good looks and fantasize about his falling in love with them. In this chapter, Tess shows how she has changed. She is again in control of her emotions. Although she finds Angel Clare attractive, she thinks that he is unapproachable and keeps her distance. In contrast to the other milkmaids, she is cautious and prudent. She is also thankful that he does not remember her from the May Day Dance four years ago. Tess hopes that she can remain anonymous so that no one will find out about her past."}

On a thyme-scented, bird-hatching morning in May, between two and three years after the return from Trantridge--silent, reconstructive years for Tess Durbeyfield--she left her home for the second time. Having packed up her luggage so that it could be sent to her later, she started in a hired trap for the little town of Stourcastle, through which it was necessary to pass on her journey, now in a direction almost opposite to that of her first adventuring. On the curve of the nearest hill she looked back regretfully at Marlott and her father's house, although she had been so anxious to get away. Her kindred dwelling there would probably continue their daily lives as heretofore, with no great diminution of pleasure in their consciousness, although she would be far off, and they deprived of her smile. In a few days the children would engage in their games as merrily as ever, without the sense of any gap left by her departure. This leaving of the younger children she had decided to be for the best; were she to remain they would probably gain less good by her precepts than harm by her example. She went through Stourcastle without pausing and onward to a junction of highways, where she could await a carrier's van that ran to the south-west; for the railways which engirdled this interior tract of country had never yet struck across it. While waiting, however, there came along a farmer in his spring cart, driving approximately in the direction that she wished to pursue. Though he was a stranger to her she accepted his offer of a seat beside him, ignoring that its motive was a mere tribute to her countenance. He was going to Weatherbury, and by accompanying him thither she could walk the remainder of the distance instead of travelling in the van by way of Casterbridge. Tess did not stop at Weatherbury, after this long drive, further than to make a slight nondescript meal at noon at a cottage to which the farmer recommended her. Thence she started on foot, basket in hand, to reach the wide upland of heath dividing this district from the low-lying meads of a further valley in which the dairy stood that was the aim and end of her day's pilgrimage. Tess had never before visited this part of the country, and yet she felt akin to the landscape. Not so very far to the left of her she could discern a dark patch in the scenery, which inquiry confirmed her in supposing to be trees marking the environs of Kingsbere--in the church of which parish the bones of her ancestors--her useless ancestors--lay entombed. She had no admiration for them now; she almost hated them for the dance they had led her; not a thing of all that had been theirs did she retain but the old seal and spoon. "Pooh--I have as much of mother as father in me!" she said. "All my prettiness comes from her, and she was only a dairymaid." The journey over the intervening uplands and lowlands of Egdon, when she reached them, was a more troublesome walk than she had anticipated, the distance being actually but a few miles. It was two hours, owing to sundry wrong turnings, ere she found herself on a summit commanding the long-sought-for vale, the Valley of the Great Dairies, the valley in which milk and butter grew to rankness, and were produced more profusely, if less delicately, than at her home--the verdant plain so well watered by the river Var or Froom. It was intrinsically different from the Vale of Little Dairies, Blackmoor Vale, which, save during her disastrous sojourn at Trantridge, she had exclusively known till now. The world was drawn to a larger pattern here. The enclosures numbered fifty acres instead of ten, the farmsteads were more extended, the groups of cattle formed tribes hereabout; there only families. These myriads of cows stretching under her eyes from the far east to the far west outnumbered any she had ever seen at one glance before. The green lea was speckled as thickly with them as a canvas by Van Alsloot or Sallaert with burghers. The ripe hue of the red and dun kine absorbed the evening sunlight, which the white-coated animals returned to the eye in rays almost dazzling, even at the distant elevation on which she stood. The bird's-eye perspective before her was not so luxuriantly beautiful, perhaps, as that other one which she knew so well; yet it was more cheering. It lacked the intensely blue atmosphere of the rival vale, and its heavy soils and scents; the new air was clear, bracing, ethereal. The river itself, which nourished the grass and cows of these renowned dairies, flowed not like the streams in Blackmoor. Those were slow, silent, often turbid; flowing over beds of mud into which the incautious wader might sink and vanish unawares. The Froom waters were clear as the pure River of Life shown to the Evangelist, rapid as the shadow of a cloud, with pebbly shallows that prattled to the sky all day long. There the water-flower was the lily; the crow-foot here. Either the change in the quality of the air from heavy to light, or the sense of being amid new scenes where there were no invidious eyes upon her, sent up her spirits wonderfully. Her hopes mingled with the sunshine in an ideal photosphere which surrounded her as she bounded along against the soft south wind. She heard a pleasant voice in every breeze, and in every bird's note seemed to lurk a joy. Her face had latterly changed with changing states of mind, continually fluctuating between beauty and ordinariness, according as the thoughts were gay or grave. One day she was pink and flawless; another pale and tragical. When she was pink she was feeling less than when pale; her more perfect beauty accorded with her less elevated mood; her more intense mood with her less perfect beauty. It was her best face physically that was now set against the south wind. The irresistible, universal, automatic tendency to find sweet pleasure somewhere, which pervades all life, from the meanest to the highest, had at length mastered Tess. Being even now only a young woman of twenty, one who mentally and sentimentally had not finished growing, it was impossible that any event should have left upon her an impression that was not in time capable of transmutation. And thus her spirits, and her thankfulness, and her hopes, rose higher and higher. She tried several ballads, but found them inadequate; till, recollecting the psalter that her eyes had so often wandered over of a Sunday morning before she had eaten of the tree of knowledge, she chanted: "O ye Sun and Moon ... O ye Stars ... ye Green Things upon the Earth ... ye Fowls of the Air ... Beasts and Cattle ... Children of Men ... bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for ever!" She suddenly stopped and murmured: "But perhaps I don't quite know the Lord as yet." And probably the half-unconscious rhapsody was a Fetishistic utterance in a Monotheistic setting; women whose chief companions are the forms and forces of outdoor Nature retain in their souls far more of the Pagan fantasy of their remote forefathers than of the systematized religion taught their race at later date. However, Tess found at least approximate expression for her feelings in the old _Benedicite_ that she had lisped from infancy; and it was enough. Such high contentment with such a slight initial performance as that of having started towards a means of independent living was a part of the Durbeyfield temperament. Tess really wished to walk uprightly, while her father did nothing of the kind; but she resembled him in being content with immediate and small achievements, and in having no mind for laborious effort towards such petty social advancement as could alone be effected by a family so heavily handicapped as the once powerful d'Urbervilles were now. There was, it might be said, the energy of her mother's unexpended family, as well as the natural energy of Tess's years, rekindled after the experience which had so overwhelmed her for the time. Let the truth be told--women do as a rule live through such humiliations, and regain their spirits, and again look about them with an interested eye. While there's life there's hope is a conviction not so entirely unknown to the "betrayed" as some amiable theorists would have us believe. Tess Durbeyfield, then, in good heart, and full of zest for life, descended the Egdon slopes lower and lower towards the dairy of her pilgrimage. The marked difference, in the final particular, between the rival vales now showed itself. The secret of Blackmoor was best discovered from the heights around; to read aright the valley before her it was necessary to descend into its midst. When Tess had accomplished this feat she found herself to be standing on a carpeted level, which stretched to the east and west as far as the eye could reach. The river had stolen from the higher tracts and brought in particles to the vale all this horizontal land; and now, exhausted, aged, and attenuated, lay serpentining along through the midst of its former spoils. Not quite sure of her direction, Tess stood still upon the hemmed expanse of verdant flatness, like a fly on a billiard-table of indefinite length, and of no more consequence to the surroundings than that fly. The sole effect of her presence upon the placid valley so far had been to excite the mind of a solitary heron, which, after descending to the ground not far from her path, stood with neck erect, looking at her. Suddenly there arose from all parts of the lowland a prolonged and repeated call--"Waow! waow! waow!" From the furthest east to the furthest west the cries spread as if by contagion, accompanied in some cases by the barking of a dog. It was not the expression of the valley's consciousness that beautiful Tess had arrived, but the ordinary announcement of milking-time--half-past four o'clock, when the dairymen set about getting in the cows. The red and white herd nearest at hand, which had been phlegmatically waiting for the call, now trooped towards the steading in the background, their great bags of milk swinging under them as they walked. Tess followed slowly in their rear, and entered the barton by the open gate through which they had entered before her. Long thatched sheds stretched round the enclosure, their slopes encrusted with vivid green moss, and their eaves supported by wooden posts rubbed to a glossy smoothness by the flanks of infinite cows and calves of bygone years, now passed to an oblivion almost inconceivable in its profundity. Between the post were ranged the milchers, each exhibiting herself at the present moment to a whimsical eye in the rear as a circle on two stalks, down the centre of which a switch moved pendulum-wise; while the sun, lowering itself behind this patient row, threw their shadows accurately inwards upon the wall. Thus it threw shadows of these obscure and homely figures every evening with as much care over each contour as if it had been the profile of a court beauty on a palace wall; copied them as diligently as it had copied Olympian shapes on marble _facades_ long ago, or the outline of Alexander, Caesar, and the Pharaohs. They were the less restful cows that were stalled. Those that would stand still of their own will were milked in the middle of the yard, where many of such better behaved ones stood waiting now--all prime milchers, such as were seldom seen out of this valley, and not always within it; nourished by the succulent feed which the water-meads supplied at this prime season of the year. Those of them that were spotted with white reflected the sunshine in dazzling brilliancy, and the polished brass knobs of their horns glittered with something of military display. Their large-veined udders hung ponderous as sandbags, the teats sticking out like the legs of a gipsy's crock; and as each animal lingered for her turn to arrive the milk oozed forth and fell in drops to the ground. The dairymaids and men had flocked down from their cottages and out of the dairy-house with the arrival of the cows from the meads; the maids walking in pattens, not on account of the weather, but to keep their shoes above the mulch of the barton. Each girl sat down on her three-legged stool, her face sideways, her right cheek resting against the cow, and looked musingly along the animal's flank at Tess as she approached. The male milkers, with hat-brims turned down, resting flat on their foreheads and gazing on the ground, did not observe her. One of these was a sturdy middle-aged man--whose long white "pinner" was somewhat finer and cleaner than the wraps of the others, and whose jacket underneath had a presentable marketing aspect--the master-dairyman, of whom she was in quest, his double character as a working milker and butter maker here during six days, and on the seventh as a man in shining broad-cloth in his family pew at church, being so marked as to have inspired a rhyme: Dairyman Dick All the week:-- On Sundays Mister Richard Crick. Seeing Tess standing at gaze he went across to her. The majority of dairymen have a cross manner at milking time, but it happened that Mr Crick was glad to get a new hand--for the days were busy ones now--and he received her warmly; inquiring for her mother and the rest of the family--(though this as a matter of form merely, for in reality he had not been aware of Mrs Durbeyfield's existence till apprised of the fact by a brief business-letter about Tess). "Oh--ay, as a lad I knowed your part o' the country very well," he said terminatively. "Though I've never been there since. And a aged woman of ninety that use to live nigh here, but is dead and gone long ago, told me that a family of some such name as yours in Blackmoor Vale came originally from these parts, and that 'twere a old ancient race that had all but perished off the earth--though the new generations didn't know it. But, Lord, I took no notice of the old woman's ramblings, not I." "Oh no--it is nothing," said Tess. Then the talk was of business only. "You can milk 'em clean, my maidy? I don't want my cows going azew at this time o' year." She reassured him on that point, and he surveyed her up and down. She had been staying indoors a good deal, and her complexion had grown delicate. "Quite sure you can stand it? 'Tis comfortable enough here for rough folk; but we don't live in a cowcumber frame." She declared that she could stand it, and her zest and willingness seemed to win him over. "Well, I suppose you'll want a dish o' tay, or victuals of some sort, hey? Not yet? Well, do as ye like about it. But faith, if 'twas I, I should be as dry as a kex wi' travelling so far." "I'll begin milking now, to get my hand in," said Tess. She drank a little milk as temporary refreshment--to the surprise--indeed, slight contempt--of Dairyman Crick, to whose mind it had apparently never occurred that milk was good as a beverage. "Oh, if ye can swaller that, be it so," he said indifferently, while holding up the pail that she sipped from. "'Tis what I hain't touched for years--not I. Rot the stuff; it would lie in my innerds like lead. You can try your hand upon she," he pursued, nodding to the nearest cow. "Not but what she do milk rather hard. We've hard ones and we've easy ones, like other folks. However, you'll find out that soon enough." When Tess had changed her bonnet for a hood, and was really on her stool under the cow, and the milk was squirting from her fists into the pail, she appeared to feel that she really had laid a new foundation for her future. The conviction bred serenity, her pulse slowed, and she was able to look about her. The milkers formed quite a little battalion of men and maids, the men operating on the hard-teated animals, the maids on the kindlier natures. It was a large dairy. There were nearly a hundred milchers under Crick's management, all told; and of the herd the master-dairyman milked six or eight with his own hands, unless away from home. These were the cows that milked hardest of all; for his journey-milkmen being more or less casually hired, he would not entrust this half-dozen to their treatment, lest, from indifference, they should not milk them fully; nor to the maids, lest they should fail in the same way for lack of finger-grip; with the result that in course of time the cows would "go azew"--that is, dry up. It was not the loss for the moment that made slack milking so serious, but that with the decline of demand there came decline, and ultimately cessation, of supply. After Tess had settled down to her cow there was for a time no talk in the barton, and not a sound interfered with the purr of the milk-jets into the numerous pails, except a momentary exclamation to one or other of the beasts requesting her to turn round or stand still. The only movements were those of the milkers' hands up and down, and the swing of the cows' tails. Thus they all worked on, encompassed by the vast flat mead which extended to either slope of the valley--a level landscape compounded of old landscapes long forgotten, and, no doubt, differing in character very greatly from the landscape they composed now. "To my thinking," said the dairyman, rising suddenly from a cow he had just finished off, snatching up his three-legged stool in one hand and the pail in the other, and moving on to the next hard-yielder in his vicinity, "to my thinking, the cows don't gie down their milk to-day as usual. Upon my life, if Winker do begin keeping back like this, she'll not be worth going under by midsummer." "'Tis because there's a new hand come among us," said Jonathan Kail. "I've noticed such things afore." "To be sure. It may be so. I didn't think o't." "I've been told that it goes up into their horns at such times," said a dairymaid. "Well, as to going up into their horns," replied Dairyman Crick dubiously, as though even witchcraft might be limited by anatomical possibilities, "I couldn't say; I certainly could not. But as nott cows will keep it back as well as the horned ones, I don't quite agree to it. Do ye know that riddle about the nott cows, Jonathan? Why do nott cows give less milk in a year than horned?" "I don't!" interposed the milkmaid, "Why do they?" "Because there bain't so many of 'em," said the dairyman. "Howsomever, these gam'sters do certainly keep back their milk to-day. Folks, we must lift up a stave or two--that's the only cure for't." Songs were often resorted to in dairies hereabout as an enticement to the cows when they showed signs of withholding their usual yield; and the band of milkers at this request burst into melody--in purely business-like tones, it is true, and with no great spontaneity; the result, according to their own belief, being a decided improvement during the song's continuance. When they had gone through fourteen or fifteen verses of a cheerful ballad about a murderer who was afraid to go to bed in the dark because he saw certain brimstone flames around him, one of the male milkers said-- "I wish singing on the stoop didn't use up so much of a man's wind! You should get your harp, sir; not but what a fiddle is best." Tess, who had given ear to this, thought the words were addressed to the dairyman, but she was wrong. A reply, in the shape of "Why?" came as it were out of the belly of a dun cow in the stalls; it had been spoken by a milker behind the animal, whom she had not hitherto perceived. "Oh yes; there's nothing like a fiddle," said the dairyman. "Though I do think that bulls are more moved by a tune than cows--at least that's my experience. Once there was an old aged man over at Mellstock--William Dewy by name--one of the family that used to do a good deal of business as tranters over there--Jonathan, do ye mind?--I knowed the man by sight as well as I know my own brother, in a manner of speaking. Well, this man was a coming home along from a wedding, where he had been playing his fiddle, one fine moonlight night, and for shortness' sake he took a cut across Forty-acres, a field lying that way, where a bull was out to grass. The bull seed William, and took after him, horns aground, begad; and though William runned his best, and hadn't MUCH drink in him (considering 'twas a wedding, and the folks well off), he found he'd never reach the fence and get over in time to save himself. Well, as a last thought, he pulled out his fiddle as he runned, and struck up a jig, turning to the bull, and backing towards the corner. The bull softened down, and stood still, looking hard at William Dewy, who fiddled on and on; till a sort of a smile stole over the bull's face. But no sooner did William stop his playing and turn to get over hedge than the bull would stop his smiling and lower his horns towards the seat of William's breeches. Well, William had to turn about and play on, willy-nilly; and 'twas only three o'clock in the world, and 'a knowed that nobody would come that way for hours, and he so leery and tired that 'a didn't know what to do. When he had scraped till about four o'clock he felt that he verily would have to give over soon, and he said to himself, 'There's only this last tune between me and eternal welfare! Heaven save me, or I'm a done man.' Well, then he called to mind how he'd seen the cattle kneel o' Christmas Eves in the dead o' night. It was not Christmas Eve then, but it came into his head to play a trick upon the bull. So he broke into the 'Tivity Hymm, just as at Christmas carol-singing; when, lo and behold, down went the bull on his bended knees, in his ignorance, just as if 'twere the true 'Tivity night and hour. As soon as his horned friend were down, William turned, clinked off like a long-dog, and jumped safe over hedge, before the praying bull had got on his feet again to take after him. William used to say that he'd seen a man look a fool a good many times, but never such a fool as that bull looked when he found his pious feelings had been played upon, and 'twas not Christmas Eve. ... Yes, William Dewy, that was the man's name; and I can tell you to a foot where's he a-lying in Mellstock Churchyard at this very moment--just between the second yew-tree and the north aisle." "It's a curious story; it carries us back to medieval times, when faith was a living thing!" The remark, singular for a dairy-yard, was murmured by the voice behind the dun cow; but as nobody understood the reference, no notice was taken, except that the narrator seemed to think it might imply scepticism as to his tale. "Well, 'tis quite true, sir, whether or no. I knowed the man well." "Oh yes; I have no doubt of it," said the person behind the dun cow. Tess's attention was thus attracted to the dairyman's interlocutor, of whom she could see but the merest patch, owing to his burying his head so persistently in the flank of the milcher. She could not understand why he should be addressed as "sir" even by the dairyman himself. But no explanation was discernible; he remained under the cow long enough to have milked three, uttering a private ejaculation now and then, as if he could not get on. "Take it gentle, sir; take it gentle," said the dairyman. "'Tis knack, not strength, that does it." "So I find," said the other, standing up at last and stretching his arms. "I think I have finished her, however, though she made my fingers ache." Tess could then see him at full length. He wore the ordinary white pinner and leather leggings of a dairy-farmer when milking, and his boots were clogged with the mulch of the yard; but this was all his local livery. Beneath it was something educated, reserved, subtle, sad, differing. But the details of his aspect were temporarily thrust aside by the discovery that he was one whom she had seen before. Such vicissitudes had Tess passed through since that time that for a moment she could not remember where she had met him; and then it flashed upon her that he was the pedestrian who had joined in the club-dance at Marlott--the passing stranger who had come she knew not whence, had danced with others but not with her, and slightingly left her, and gone on his way with his friends. The flood of memories brought back by this revival of an incident anterior to her troubles produced a momentary dismay lest, recognizing her also, he should by some means discover her story. But it passed away when she found no sign of remembrance in him. She saw by degrees that since their first and only encounter his mobile face had grown more thoughtful, and had acquired a young man's shapely moustache and beard--the latter of the palest straw colour where it began upon his cheeks, and deepening to a warm brown farther from its root. Under his linen milking-pinner he wore a dark velveteen jacket, cord breeches and gaiters, and a starched white shirt. Without the milking-gear nobody could have guessed what he was. He might with equal probability have been an eccentric landowner or a gentlemanly ploughman. That he was but a novice at dairy work she had realized in a moment, from the time he had spent upon the milking of one cow. Meanwhile many of the milkmaids had said to one another of the newcomer, "How pretty she is!" with something of real generosity and admiration, though with a half hope that the auditors would qualify the assertion--which, strictly speaking, they might have done, prettiness being an inexact definition of what struck the eye in Tess. When the milking was finished for the evening they straggled indoors, where Mrs Crick, the dairyman's wife--who was too respectable to go out milking herself, and wore a hot stuff gown in warm weather because the dairymaids wore prints--was giving an eye to the leads and things. Only two or three of the maids, Tess learnt, slept in the dairy-house besides herself, most of the helpers going to their homes. She saw nothing at supper-time of the superior milker who had commented on the story, and asked no questions about him, the remainder of the evening being occupied in arranging her place in the bed-chamber. It was a large room over the milk-house, some thirty feet long; the sleeping-cots of the other three indoor milkmaids being in the same apartment. They were blooming young women, and, except one, rather older than herself. By bedtime Tess was thoroughly tired, and fell asleep immediately. But one of the girls, who occupied an adjoining bed, was more wakeful than Tess, and would insist upon relating to the latter various particulars of the homestead into which she had just entered. The girl's whispered words mingled with the shades, and, to Tess's drowsy mind, they seemed to be generated by the darkness in which they floated. "Mr Angel Clare--he that is learning milking, and that plays the harp--never says much to us. He is a pa'son's son, and is too much taken up wi' his own thoughts to notice girls. He is the dairyman's pupil--learning farming in all its branches. He has learnt sheep-farming at another place, and he's now mastering dairy-work.... Yes, he is quite the gentleman-born. His father is the Reverent Mr Clare at Emminster--a good many miles from here." "Oh--I have heard of him," said her companion, now awake. "A very earnest clergyman, is he not?" "Yes--that he is--the earnestest man in all Wessex, they say--the last of the old Low Church sort, they tell me--for all about here be what they call High. All his sons, except our Mr Clare, be made pa'sons too." Tess had not at this hour the curiosity to ask why the present Mr Clare was not made a parson like his brethren, and gradually fell asleep again, the words of her informant coming to her along with the smell of the cheeses in the adjoining cheeseloft, and the measured dripping of the whey from the wrings downstairs.

Chapters 16 - 17

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Tess proceeds to the Talbothay Farm. On this bright May day, she is in high spirits and hopeful for her future. On the way she passes by the tomb of her ancestors, but she does not let that spoil her mood. Instead, she sings ballads to herself, and her expression changes with her improving spirits. When she spies the valley of the dairies, she is encouraged by the view; it is much lovelier than the valley of Marlott. The air is sweet, the rivers are clear, and birds sing sweetly, giving Tess even greater hopes for her future. The distant mooing of the cows reminds her that she is close to her destination.

Notes The courage with which women bear hardship is pointed out in this chapter. They live through humiliations, regain their spirits, and move ahead with life. Since Tess is still young, she is able to recover from the sorrows of her past. When Tess leaves home for the second time, it is two and a half years after her return from Trantridge, and she is a changed person. She is no longer a naive girl, but a responsible and mature woman. As she moves away from her village, her state of mind changes; the further she travels from Marlott, the more optimistic she becomes. The soft wind soothes her spirit, and the sunshine gives her hope. The whole world begins to appear bright and cheerful. This new image of Tess is a welcome change from her melancholy and despondency. CHAPTER 17 Summary At Talbothay's, Tess is welcomed by Richard Crick, the owner of the farm. He is skeptical about her abilities due to her delicate frame, but she quickly proves herself. After her long travels, she refuses to rest and immediately joins in the milking. In the first days of her stay at Talbothay's, Tess easily slips into her role as a milkmaid and feels that she has "laid a new foundation for her future." On her first day of work, Tess spies the handsome Angel Clare, who is a trainee at the farm. Although the son of a clergyman, he has chosen farming as his vocation. Tess learns at the dairy house that he is a much sought after bachelor, whom the milkmaids admire greatly. Tess remembers him from the May Day dance several years ago, but she is relieved to find that he does not recognize her; she is worried about someone finding out about her past. Notes In this chapter, Angel Clare, seen only briefly before at the May Day Dance, is developed as a character. Working as a trainee on the farm, he is looked upon as a gentleman and everyone addressed him as "sir". His father is a respected clergyman in Emminster, and all of his brothers have become parsons. In addition, all the milkmaids swoon over his good looks and fantasize about his falling in love with them. In this chapter, Tess shows how she has changed. She is again in control of her emotions. Although she finds Angel Clare attractive, she thinks that he is unapproachable and keeps her distance. In contrast to the other milkmaids, she is cautious and prudent. She is also thankful that he does not remember her from the May Day Dance four years ago. Tess hopes that she can remain anonymous so that no one will find out about her past.

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Lord Jim.chapters 22-23

chapters 22-23

{"name": "Chapters 22-23", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter22-23", "summary": "Two and Twenty Three . Chapter Twenty Two begins with an introduction to Patusan. It can be seen in 'collections of old voyages' and 17th century traders used to go there for pepper. These Dutch and English voyagers would defy death for it and such journeys made them heroic and pathetic. After a century, Patusan seemed to drop gradually out of the trade. . . Stein tells Marlow that there are antagonistic forces in Patusan and the Rajah is described as 'a dirty, little, used-up old man with evil eyes and a weak mouth'. The narrative shifts forward briefly to when Jim first arrives there in a dug out; he sits on a box borrowed from Marlow and nurses an unloaded revolver . Jim's first day in Patusan is almost his last and would have been if his gun had been loaded. . . Before Jim leaves, Marlow warns him that once there it would be as though he had never existed in the outside world. Jim's eyes sparkle at the thought of this and he rushes to Stein's house for final instructions. . . In Chapter Twenty Three, Jim returns from Stein's the next day with a letter for the man who he is to replace. Stein has also given him a silver ring to help with his introductions as Doramin gave it to Stein when they parted. Jim is excited about his departure and sees the ring as 'a sort of credential' and 'like something you read of in books'. Stein has told him he had saved Doramin's life accidentally, but Jim has his own opinions . . . Jim is excited at the promise of this new life and Marlow confesses to being sick of him at this point and thinks Jim is hurling defiance at the universe. As 20 years his senior, he also notes an element of youthful insolence. When Jim becomes annoyed with him and says no wonder he is excited, Marlow shouts, 'It is not I or the world who remember', 'it is you - you who remember'. . . They talk calmly again after a period of time and Marlow warns him not to be foolhardy: if he lives long enough he will want to return home. Jim replies he will never come back. Before setting off, Jim visits Marlow on his ship and Marlow offers him an old tin trunk. Jim tips the content of his valise into it and Marlow notices he is taking a copy of 'complete' Shakespeare. Marlow then gives him a revolver and cartridges and says the gun may help him remain there. He corrects himself and says it may help him 'get in'. When Jim has gone, Marlow notices he has forgotten to take the cartridges and visits Jim's ship. . . The master of this ship tells Marlow he will take Jim to the mouth of the river , but no further. He also describes Jim as already 'in the similitude of a corpse'. When Marlow questions him on this, the man imitates the act of stabbing somebody from behind. . . Jim promises Marlow that he will take care of himself and informs him that he feels as though nothing can touch him. As they part, Marlow is not sure if Jim shouts 'you will hear of me' or 'you will hear from me'. Marlow's eyes are also dazzled by the sea and thinks he is 'fated to never see him clearly'. .", "analysis": "Two and Twenty Three . It is possible to see Marlow counter Jim's idealized romantic views in Chapter Twenty Three. This may be based on a difference in age, as Marlow suggests, but Marlow's annoyance may also be seen as a pragmatic counterbalance to the inherent dangers of idealism. . . Their parting is made poignant as Marlow does not quite hear what Jim says and is unable to see him clearly. This is also a narrative device to expand on the point that it is impossible to know a person fully . Marlow and the readers only see Jim partially, just as the readers only see aspects of Marlow."}

'The conquest of love, honour, men's confidence--the pride of it, the power of it, are fit materials for a heroic tale; only our minds are struck by the externals of such a success, and to Jim's successes there were no externals. Thirty miles of forest shut it off from the sight of an indifferent world, and the noise of the white surf along the coast overpowered the voice of fame. The stream of civilisation, as if divided on a headland a hundred miles north of Patusan, branches east and south-east, leaving its plains and valleys, its old trees and its old mankind, neglected and isolated, such as an insignificant and crumbling islet between the two branches of a mighty, devouring stream. You find the name of the country pretty often in collections of old voyages. The seventeenth-century traders went there for pepper, because the passion for pepper seemed to burn like a flame of love in the breast of Dutch and English adventurers about the time of James the First. Where wouldn't they go for pepper! For a bag of pepper they would cut each other's throats without hesitation, and would forswear their souls, of which they were so careful otherwise: the bizarre obstinacy of that desire made them defy death in a thousand shapes--the unknown seas, the loathsome and strange diseases; wounds, captivity, hunger, pestilence, and despair. It made them great! By heavens! it made them heroic; and it made them pathetic too in their craving for trade with the inflexible death levying its toll on young and old. It seems impossible to believe that mere greed could hold men to such a steadfastness of purpose, to such a blind persistence in endeavour and sacrifice. And indeed those who adventured their persons and lives risked all they had for a slender reward. They left their bones to lie bleaching on distant shores, so that wealth might flow to the living at home. To us, their less tried successors, they appear magnified, not as agents of trade but as instruments of a recorded destiny, pushing out into the unknown in obedience to an inward voice, to an impulse beating in the blood, to a dream of the future. They were wonderful; and it must be owned they were ready for the wonderful. They recorded it complacently in their sufferings, in the aspect of the seas, in the customs of strange nations, in the glory of splendid rulers. 'In Patusan they had found lots of pepper, and had been impressed by the magnificence and the wisdom of the Sultan; but somehow, after a century of chequered intercourse, the country seems to drop gradually out of the trade. Perhaps the pepper had given out. Be it as it may, nobody cares for it now; the glory has departed, the Sultan is an imbecile youth with two thumbs on his left hand and an uncertain and beggarly revenue extorted from a miserable population and stolen from him by his many uncles. 'This of course I have from Stein. He gave me their names and a short sketch of the life and character of each. He was as full of information about native states as an official report, but infinitely more amusing. He _had_ to know. He traded in so many, and in some districts--as in Patusan, for instance--his firm was the only one to have an agency by special permit from the Dutch authorities. The Government trusted his discretion, and it was understood that he took all the risks. The men he employed understood that too, but he made it worth their while apparently. He was perfectly frank with me over the breakfast-table in the morning. As far as he was aware (the last news was thirteen months old, he stated precisely), utter insecurity for life and property was the normal condition. There were in Patusan antagonistic forces, and one of them was Rajah Allang, the worst of the Sultan's uncles, the governor of the river, who did the extorting and the stealing, and ground down to the point of extinction the country-born Malays, who, utterly defenceless, had not even the resource of emigrating--"For indeed," as Stein remarked, "where could they go, and how could they get away?" No doubt they did not even desire to get away. The world (which is circumscribed by lofty impassable mountains) has been given into the hand of the high-born, and _this_ Rajah they knew: he was of their own royal house. I had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman later on. He was a dirty, little, used-up old man with evil eyes and a weak mouth, who swallowed an opium pill every two hours, and in defiance of common decency wore his hair uncovered and falling in wild stringy locks about his wizened grimy face. When giving audience he would clamber upon a sort of narrow stage erected in a hall like a ruinous barn with a rotten bamboo floor, through the cracks of which you could see, twelve or fifteen feet below, the heaps of refuse and garbage of all kinds lying under the house. That is where and how he received us when, accompanied by Jim, I paid him a visit of ceremony. There were about forty people in the room, and perhaps three times as many in the great courtyard below. There was constant movement, coming and going, pushing and murmuring, at our backs. A few youths in gay silks glared from the distance; the majority, slaves and humble dependants, were half naked, in ragged sarongs, dirty with ashes and mud-stains. I had never seen Jim look so grave, so self-possessed, in an impenetrable, impressive way. In the midst of these dark-faced men, his stalwart figure in white apparel, the gleaming clusters of his fair hair, seemed to catch all the sunshine that trickled through the cracks in the closed shutters of that dim hall, with its walls of mats and a roof of thatch. He appeared like a creature not only of another kind but of another essence. Had they not seen him come up in a canoe they might have thought he had descended upon them from the clouds. He did, however, come in a crazy dug-out, sitting (very still and with his knees together, for fear of overturning the thing)--sitting on a tin box--which I had lent him--nursing on his lap a revolver of the Navy pattern--presented by me on parting--which, through an interposition of Providence, or through some wrong-headed notion, that was just like him, or else from sheer instinctive sagacity, he had decided to carry unloaded. That's how he ascended the Patusan river. Nothing could have been more prosaic and more unsafe, more extravagantly casual, more lonely. Strange, this fatality that would cast the complexion of a flight upon all his acts, of impulsive unreflecting desertion of a jump into the unknown. 'It is precisely the casualness of it that strikes me most. Neither Stein nor I had a clear conception of what might be on the other side when we, metaphorically speaking, took him up and hove him over the wall with scant ceremony. At the moment I merely wished to achieve his disappearance; Stein characteristically enough had a sentimental motive. He had a notion of paying off (in kind, I suppose) the old debt he had never forgotten. Indeed he had been all his life especially friendly to anybody from the British Isles. His late benefactor, it is true, was a Scot--even to the length of being called Alexander McNeil--and Jim came from a long way south of the Tweed; but at the distance of six or seven thousand miles Great Britain, though never diminished, looks foreshortened enough even to its own children to rob such details of their importance. Stein was excusable, and his hinted intentions were so generous that I begged him most earnestly to keep them secret for a time. I felt that no consideration of personal advantage should be allowed to influence Jim; that not even the risk of such influence should be run. We had to deal with another sort of reality. He wanted a refuge, and a refuge at the cost of danger should be offered him--nothing more. 'Upon every other point I was perfectly frank with him, and I even (as I believed at the time) exaggerated the danger of the undertaking. As a matter of fact I did not do it justice; his first day in Patusan was nearly his last--would have been his last if he had not been so reckless or so hard on himself and had condescended to load that revolver. I remember, as I unfolded our precious scheme for his retreat, how his stubborn but weary resignation was gradually replaced by surprise, interest, wonder, and by boyish eagerness. This was a chance he had been dreaming of. He couldn't think how he merited that I . . . He would be shot if he could see to what he owed . . . And it was Stein, Stein the merchant, who . . . but of course it was me he had to . . . I cut him short. He was not articulate, and his gratitude caused me inexplicable pain. I told him that if he owed this chance to any one especially, it was to an old Scot of whom he had never heard, who had died many years ago, of whom little was remembered besides a roaring voice and a rough sort of honesty. There was really no one to receive his thanks. Stein was passing on to a young man the help he had received in his own young days, and I had done no more than to mention his name. Upon this he coloured, and, twisting a bit of paper in his fingers, he remarked bashfully that I had always trusted him. 'I admitted that such was the case, and added after a pause that I wished he had been able to follow my example. "You think I don't?" he asked uneasily, and remarked in a mutter that one had to get some sort of show first; then brightening up, and in a loud voice he protested he would give me no occasion to regret my confidence, which--which . . . '"Do not misapprehend," I interrupted. "It is not in your power to make me regret anything." There would be no regrets; but if there were, it would be altogether my own affair: on the other hand, I wished him to understand clearly that this arrangement, this--this--experiment, was his own doing; he was responsible for it and no one else. "Why? Why," he stammered, "this is the very thing that I . . ." I begged him not to be dense, and he looked more puzzled than ever. He was in a fair way to make life intolerable to himself . . . "Do you think so?" he asked, disturbed; but in a moment added confidently, "I was going on though. Was I not?" It was impossible to be angry with him: I could not help a smile, and told him that in the old days people who went on like this were on the way of becoming hermits in a wilderness. "Hermits be hanged!" he commented with engaging impulsiveness. Of course he didn't mind a wilderness. . . . "I was glad of it," I said. That was where he would be going to. He would find it lively enough, I ventured to promise. "Yes, yes," he said, keenly. He had shown a desire, I continued inflexibly, to go out and shut the door after him. . . . "Did I?" he interrupted in a strange access of gloom that seemed to envelop him from head to foot like the shadow of a passing cloud. He was wonderfully expressive after all. Wonderfully! "Did I?" he repeated bitterly. "You can't say I made much noise about it. And I can keep it up, too--only, confound it! you show me a door." . . . "Very well. Pass on," I struck in. I could make him a solemn promise that it would be shut behind him with a vengeance. His fate, whatever it was, would be ignored, because the country, for all its rotten state, was not judged ripe for interference. Once he got in, it would be for the outside world as though he had never existed. He would have nothing but the soles of his two feet to stand upon, and he would have first to find his ground at that. "Never existed--that's it, by Jove," he murmured to himself. His eyes, fastened upon my lips, sparkled. If he had thoroughly understood the conditions, I concluded, he had better jump into the first gharry he could see and drive on to Stein's house for his final instructions. He flung out of the room before I had fairly finished speaking.' 'He did not return till next morning. He had been kept to dinner and for the night. There never had been such a wonderful man as Mr. Stein. He had in his pocket a letter for Cornelius ("the Johnnie who's going to get the sack," he explained, with a momentary drop in his elation), and he exhibited with glee a silver ring, such as natives use, worn down very thin and showing faint traces of chasing. 'This was his introduction to an old chap called Doramin--one of the principal men out there--a big pot--who had been Mr. Stein's friend in that country where he had all these adventures. Mr. Stein called him "war-comrade." War-comrade was good. Wasn't it? And didn't Mr. Stein speak English wonderfully well? Said he had learned it in Celebes--of all places! That was awfully funny. Was it not? He did speak with an accent--a twang--did I notice? That chap Doramin had given him the ring. They had exchanged presents when they parted for the last time. Sort of promising eternal friendship. He called it fine--did I not? They had to make a dash for dear life out of the country when that Mohammed--Mohammed--What's-his-name had been killed. I knew the story, of course. Seemed a beastly shame, didn't it? . . . 'He ran on like this, forgetting his plate, with a knife and fork in hand (he had found me at tiffin), slightly flushed, and with his eyes darkened many shades, which was with him a sign of excitement. The ring was a sort of credential--("It's like something you read of in books," he threw in appreciatively)--and Doramin would do his best for him. Mr. Stein had been the means of saving that chap's life on some occasion; purely by accident, Mr. Stein had said, but he--Jim--had his own opinion about that. Mr. Stein was just the man to look out for such accidents. No matter. Accident or purpose, this would serve his turn immensely. Hoped to goodness the jolly old beggar had not gone off the hooks meantime. Mr. Stein could not tell. There had been no news for more than a year; they were kicking up no end of an all-fired row amongst themselves, and the river was closed. Jolly awkward, this; but, no fear; he would manage to find a crack to get in. 'He impressed, almost frightened, me with his elated rattle. He was voluble like a youngster on the eve of a long holiday with a prospect of delightful scrapes, and such an attitude of mind in a grown man and in this connection had in it something phenomenal, a little mad, dangerous, unsafe. I was on the point of entreating him to take things seriously when he dropped his knife and fork (he had begun eating, or rather swallowing food, as it were, unconsciously), and began a search all round his plate. The ring! The ring! Where the devil . . . Ah! Here it was . . . He closed his big hand on it, and tried all his pockets one after another. Jove! wouldn't do to lose the thing. He meditated gravely over his fist. Had it? Would hang the bally affair round his neck! And he proceeded to do this immediately, producing a string (which looked like a bit of a cotton shoe-lace) for the purpose. There! That would do the trick! It would be the deuce if . . . He seemed to catch sight of my face for the first time, and it steadied him a little. I probably didn't realise, he said with a naive gravity, how much importance he attached to that token. It meant a friend; and it is a good thing to have a friend. He knew something about that. He nodded at me expressively, but before my disclaiming gesture he leaned his head on his hand and for a while sat silent, playing thoughtfully with the bread-crumbs on the cloth . . . "Slam the door--that was jolly well put," he cried, and jumping up, began to pace the room, reminding me by the set of the shoulders, the turn of his head, the headlong and uneven stride, of that night when he had paced thus, confessing, explaining--what you will--but, in the last instance, living--living before me, under his own little cloud, with all his unconscious subtlety which could draw consolation from the very source of sorrow. It was the same mood, the same and different, like a fickle companion that to-day guiding you on the true path, with the same eyes, the same step, the same impulse, to-morrow will lead you hopelessly astray. His tread was assured, his straying, darkened eyes seemed to search the room for something. One of his footfalls somehow sounded louder than the other--the fault of his boots probably--and gave a curious impression of an invisible halt in his gait. One of his hands was rammed deep into his trousers' pocket, the other waved suddenly above his head. "Slam the door!" he shouted. "I've been waiting for that. I'll show yet . . . I'll . . . I'm ready for any confounded thing . . . I've been dreaming of it . . . Jove! Get out of this. Jove! This is luck at last . . . You wait. I'll . . ." 'He tossed his head fearlessly, and I confess that for the first and last time in our acquaintance I perceived myself unexpectedly to be thoroughly sick of him. Why these vapourings? He was stumping about the room flourishing his arm absurdly, and now and then feeling on his breast for the ring under his clothes. Where was the sense of such exaltation in a man appointed to be a trading-clerk, and in a place where there was no trade--at that? Why hurl defiance at the universe? This was not a proper frame of mind to approach any undertaking; an improper frame of mind not only for him, I said, but for any man. He stood still over me. Did I think so? he asked, by no means subdued, and with a smile in which I seemed to detect suddenly something insolent. But then I am twenty years his senior. Youth is insolent; it is its right--its necessity; it has got to assert itself, and all assertion in this world of doubts is a defiance, is an insolence. He went off into a far corner, and coming back, he, figuratively speaking, turned to rend me. I spoke like that because I--even I, who had been no end kind to him--even I remembered--remembered--against him--what--what had happened. And what about others--the--the--world? Where's the wonder he wanted to get out, meant to get out, meant to stay out--by heavens! And I talked about proper frames of mind! '"It is not I or the world who remember," I shouted. "It is you--you, who remember." 'He did not flinch, and went on with heat, "Forget everything, everybody, everybody." . . . His voice fell. . . "But you," he added. '"Yes--me too--if it would help," I said, also in a low tone. After this we remained silent and languid for a time as if exhausted. Then he began again, composedly, and told me that Mr. Stein had instructed him to wait for a month or so, to see whether it was possible for him to remain, before he began building a new house for himself, so as to avoid "vain expense." He did make use of funny expressions--Stein did. "Vain expense" was good. . . . Remain? Why! of course. He would hang on. Let him only get in--that's all; he would answer for it he would remain. Never get out. It was easy enough to remain. '"Don't be foolhardy," I said, rendered uneasy by his threatening tone. "If you only live long enough you will want to come back." '"Come back to what?" he asked absently, with his eyes fixed upon the face of a clock on the wall. 'I was silent for a while. "Is it to be never, then?" I said. "Never," he repeated dreamily without looking at me, and then flew into sudden activity. "Jove! Two o'clock, and I sail at four!" 'It was true. A brigantine of Stein's was leaving for the westward that afternoon, and he had been instructed to take his passage in her, only no orders to delay the sailing had been given. I suppose Stein forgot. He made a rush to get his things while I went aboard my ship, where he promised to call on his way to the outer roadstead. He turned up accordingly in a great hurry and with a small leather valise in his hand. This wouldn't do, and I offered him an old tin trunk of mine supposed to be water-tight, or at least damp-tight. He effected the transfer by the simple process of shooting out the contents of his valise as you would empty a sack of wheat. I saw three books in the tumble; two small, in dark covers, and a thick green-and-gold volume--a half-crown complete Shakespeare. "You read this?" I asked. "Yes. Best thing to cheer up a fellow," he said hastily. I was struck by this appreciation, but there was no time for Shakespearian talk. A heavy revolver and two small boxes of cartridges were lying on the cuddy-table. "Pray take this," I said. "It may help you to remain." No sooner were these words out of my mouth than I perceived what grim meaning they could bear. "May help you to get in," I corrected myself remorsefully. He however was not troubled by obscure meanings; he thanked me effusively and bolted out, calling Good-bye over his shoulder. I heard his voice through the ship's side urging his boatmen to give way, and looking out of the stern-port I saw the boat rounding under the counter. He sat in her leaning forward, exciting his men with voice and gestures; and as he had kept the revolver in his hand and seemed to be presenting it at their heads, I shall never forget the scared faces of the four Javanese, and the frantic swing of their stroke which snatched that vision from under my eyes. Then turning away, the first thing I saw were the two boxes of cartridges on the cuddy-table. He had forgotten to take them. 'I ordered my gig manned at once; but Jim's rowers, under the impression that their lives hung on a thread while they had that madman in the boat, made such excellent time that before I had traversed half the distance between the two vessels I caught sight of him clambering over the rail, and of his box being passed up. All the brigantine's canvas was loose, her mainsail was set, and the windlass was just beginning to clink as I stepped upon her deck: her master, a dapper little half-caste of forty or so, in a blue flannel suit, with lively eyes, his round face the colour of lemon-peel, and with a thin little black moustache drooping on each side of his thick, dark lips, came forward smirking. He turned out, notwithstanding his self-satisfied and cheery exterior, to be of a careworn temperament. In answer to a remark of mine (while Jim had gone below for a moment) he said, "Oh yes. Patusan." He was going to carry the gentleman to the mouth of the river, but would "never ascend." His flowing English seemed to be derived from a dictionary compiled by a lunatic. Had Mr. Stein desired him to "ascend," he would have "reverentially"--(I think he wanted to say respectfully--but devil only knows)--"reverentially made objects for the safety of properties." If disregarded, he would have presented "resignation to quit." Twelve months ago he had made his last voyage there, and though Mr. Cornelius "propitiated many offertories" to Mr. Rajah Allang and the "principal populations," on conditions which made the trade "a snare and ashes in the mouth," yet his ship had been fired upon from the woods by "irresponsive parties" all the way down the river; which causing his crew "from exposure to limb to remain silent in hidings," the brigantine was nearly stranded on a sandbank at the bar, where she "would have been perishable beyond the act of man." The angry disgust at the recollection, the pride of his fluency, to which he turned an attentive ear, struggled for the possession of his broad simple face. He scowled and beamed at me, and watched with satisfaction the undeniable effect of his phraseology. Dark frowns ran swiftly over the placid sea, and the brigantine, with her fore-topsail to the mast and her main-boom amidships, seemed bewildered amongst the cat's-paws. He told me further, gnashing his teeth, that the Rajah was a "laughable hyaena" (can't imagine how he got hold of hyaenas); while somebody else was many times falser than the "weapons of a crocodile." Keeping one eye on the movements of his crew forward, he let loose his volubility--comparing the place to a "cage of beasts made ravenous by long impenitence." I fancy he meant impunity. He had no intention, he cried, to "exhibit himself to be made attached purposefully to robbery." The long-drawn wails, giving the time for the pull of the men catting the anchor, came to an end, and he lowered his voice. "Plenty too much enough of Patusan," he concluded, with energy. 'I heard afterwards he had been so indiscreet as to get himself tied up by the neck with a rattan halter to a post planted in the middle of a mud-hole before the Rajah's house. He spent the best part of a day and a whole night in that unwholesome situation, but there is every reason to believe the thing had been meant as a sort of joke. He brooded for a while over that horrid memory, I suppose, and then addressed in a quarrelsome tone the man coming aft to the helm. When he turned to me again it was to speak judicially, without passion. He would take the gentleman to the mouth of the river at Batu Kring (Patusan town "being situated internally," he remarked, "thirty miles"). But in his eyes, he continued--a tone of bored, weary conviction replacing his previous voluble delivery--the gentleman was already "in the similitude of a corpse." "What? What do you say?" I asked. He assumed a startlingly ferocious demeanour, and imitated to perfection the act of stabbing from behind. "Already like the body of one deported," he explained, with the insufferably conceited air of his kind after what they imagine a display of cleverness. Behind him I perceived Jim smiling silently at me, and with a raised hand checking the exclamation on my lips. 'Then, while the half-caste, bursting with importance, shouted his orders, while the yards swung creaking and the heavy boom came surging over, Jim and I, alone as it were, to leeward of the mainsail, clasped each other's hands and exchanged the last hurried words. My heart was freed from that dull resentment which had existed side by side with interest in his fate. The absurd chatter of the half-caste had given more reality to the miserable dangers of his path than Stein's careful statements. On that occasion the sort of formality that had been always present in our intercourse vanished from our speech; I believe I called him "dear boy," and he tacked on the words "old man" to some half-uttered expression of gratitude, as though his risk set off against my years had made us more equal in age and in feeling. There was a moment of real and profound intimacy, unexpected and short-lived like a glimpse of some everlasting, of some saving truth. He exerted himself to soothe me as though he had been the more mature of the two. "All right, all right," he said, rapidly, and with feeling. "I promise to take care of myself. Yes; I won't take any risks. Not a single blessed risk. Of course not. I mean to hang out. Don't you worry. Jove! I feel as if nothing could touch me. Why! this is luck from the word Go. I wouldn't spoil such a magnificent chance!" . . . A magnificent chance! Well, it _was_ magnificent, but chances are what men make them, and how was I to know? As he had said, even I--even I remembered--his--his misfortune against him. It was true. And the best thing for him was to go. 'My gig had dropped in the wake of the brigantine, and I saw him aft detached upon the light of the westering sun, raising his cap high above his head. I heard an indistinct shout, "You--shall--hear--of--me." Of me, or from me, I don't know which. I think it must have been of me. My eyes were too dazzled by the glitter of the sea below his feet to see him clearly; I am fated never to see him clearly; but I can assure you no man could have appeared less "in the similitude of a corpse," as that half-caste croaker had put it. I could see the little wretch's face, the shape and colour of a ripe pumpkin, poked out somewhere under Jim's elbow. He, too, raised his arm as if for a downward thrust. Absit omen!'

Chapters 22-23

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Two and Twenty Three . Chapter Twenty Two begins with an introduction to Patusan. It can be seen in 'collections of old voyages' and 17th century traders used to go there for pepper. These Dutch and English voyagers would defy death for it and such journeys made them heroic and pathetic. After a century, Patusan seemed to drop gradually out of the trade. . . Stein tells Marlow that there are antagonistic forces in Patusan and the Rajah is described as 'a dirty, little, used-up old man with evil eyes and a weak mouth'. The narrative shifts forward briefly to when Jim first arrives there in a dug out; he sits on a box borrowed from Marlow and nurses an unloaded revolver . Jim's first day in Patusan is almost his last and would have been if his gun had been loaded. . . Before Jim leaves, Marlow warns him that once there it would be as though he had never existed in the outside world. Jim's eyes sparkle at the thought of this and he rushes to Stein's house for final instructions. . . In Chapter Twenty Three, Jim returns from Stein's the next day with a letter for the man who he is to replace. Stein has also given him a silver ring to help with his introductions as Doramin gave it to Stein when they parted. Jim is excited about his departure and sees the ring as 'a sort of credential' and 'like something you read of in books'. Stein has told him he had saved Doramin's life accidentally, but Jim has his own opinions . . . Jim is excited at the promise of this new life and Marlow confesses to being sick of him at this point and thinks Jim is hurling defiance at the universe. As 20 years his senior, he also notes an element of youthful insolence. When Jim becomes annoyed with him and says no wonder he is excited, Marlow shouts, 'It is not I or the world who remember', 'it is you - you who remember'. . . They talk calmly again after a period of time and Marlow warns him not to be foolhardy: if he lives long enough he will want to return home. Jim replies he will never come back. Before setting off, Jim visits Marlow on his ship and Marlow offers him an old tin trunk. Jim tips the content of his valise into it and Marlow notices he is taking a copy of 'complete' Shakespeare. Marlow then gives him a revolver and cartridges and says the gun may help him remain there. He corrects himself and says it may help him 'get in'. When Jim has gone, Marlow notices he has forgotten to take the cartridges and visits Jim's ship. . . The master of this ship tells Marlow he will take Jim to the mouth of the river , but no further. He also describes Jim as already 'in the similitude of a corpse'. When Marlow questions him on this, the man imitates the act of stabbing somebody from behind. . . Jim promises Marlow that he will take care of himself and informs him that he feels as though nothing can touch him. As they part, Marlow is not sure if Jim shouts 'you will hear of me' or 'you will hear from me'. Marlow's eyes are also dazzled by the sea and thinks he is 'fated to never see him clearly'. .

Two and Twenty Three . It is possible to see Marlow counter Jim's idealized romantic views in Chapter Twenty Three. This may be based on a difference in age, as Marlow suggests, but Marlow's annoyance may also be seen as a pragmatic counterbalance to the inherent dangers of idealism. . . Their parting is made poignant as Marlow does not quite hear what Jim says and is unable to see him clearly. This is also a narrative device to expand on the point that it is impossible to know a person fully . Marlow and the readers only see Jim partially, just as the readers only see aspects of Marlow.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/chapters_37_to_41.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_8_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapters 37-41

chapters 37-41

{"name": "Chapters 37-41", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210123003206/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/sensibility/section9/", "summary": "Mrs. Jennings returns home from a visit to Mrs. Palmer with the shocking news that Lucy Steele and Edward Ferrars have been engaged to one another for over a year. Elinor, upon hearing that their engagement has at last become public, shares the news with her sister. Marianne cannot believe that Elinor has known of Edward's secret engagement for four months, for her sister has remained calm and composed throughout the entire period. John Dashwood visits his sisters at Mrs. Jennings's home and informs them that Fanny is in hysterics on account of the news. He also relates that Mrs. Ferrars has insisted that Edward must extricate himself from the attachment, or she will disown and disinherit him. The following Sunday, during a visit with Mrs. Jennings to Kensington Gardens, Elinor learns from Miss Anne Steele that Edward has refused to break off his engagement with Lucy. His mother has therefore transferred her estate to Edward's younger brother, Robert. As Miss Steele relates, Edward has informed Lucy that without his mother's inheritance, he will have to obtain a curacy and live modestly, but Lucy has proclaimed her devotion to him regardless of his economic situation. This information is confirmed in a letter from Lucy expressing to Elinor her commitment to Edward. Elinor and Marianne, anxious to leave London and return home, arrange to depart with the Palmers and visit them in Cleveland before heading back to Barton. Before they leave, Colonel Brandon visits Elinor and tells her that he has decided to offer his living at the Delaford rectory to Edward as a means of supporting himself. The Colonel asks Elinor to inform Edward of his offer, and Elinor finds herself in the rather uncomfortable position of facilitating the marriage of the man she loves to another woman. She begins writing a letter to Edward when Mrs. Jennings suddenly welcomes him into her home and she is afforded the opportunity to speak with him directly. Edward is astonished and deeply moved by the Colonel's generosity. Elinor goes off to visit Fanny Dashwood, who has not been feeling well since the news of Edward and Lucy's engagement. She is greeted at the door by John Dashwood, who shares the news that Robert Ferrars will inherit his mother's estate in place of his brother. Just then, Robert Ferrars arrives and expresses his pity for his older brother. John leaves them to inform his wife of Elinor's presence, and Fanny Dashwood, upon receiving Elinor, expresses her regret that the Dashwood sisters will be leaving town so soon.", "analysis": "Commentary When Miss Steele accidentally lets slip the secret of her sister's engagement to Edward Ferrars, their relationship becomes no longer an \"attachment\" but a \"connection.\" An attachment is an emotional association between two people; to form an attachment is to fall in love. In contrast, a connection is the public bond involving a range of associations between individuals and their families. When Lucy and Edward were attached to one another, they were simply secretly in love with one another; once Miss Steele makes their engagement public, their families become heavily involved in an ever-widening circle of legal and economic implications. For example, Mrs. Ferrars announces that she will disinherit her son if he marries Lucy instead of the wealthy heiress Miss Morton, and Colonel Brandon offers Edward a living to support his wife. Thus, when the attachment becomes a connection, the number of individuals involved in the relationship increases considerably. Connections link family members to one another in concern for their mutual welfare. These bonds are so strong that it is unusual to find people behaving warmly and generously toward those they are not related to. Thus, John Dashwood cannot understand why Colonel Brandon offers Edward a living Brandon, we know, is acting solely on the basis of voluntary fellow-feeling. He empathizes with Edward because he, too, has known the pain of love accompanied by tremendous emotional distress. Furthermore, he respects Edward because he knows that Edward has Elinor's admiration. Therefore, he offers Edward a means of supporting a wife in spite of his disinheritance. But for John Dashwood, only family ties could provide the grounds for such a kind and generous gesture."}

Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share. About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying, "Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?" "No, ma'am. What is it?" "Something so strange! But you shall hear it all.-- When I got to Mr. Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill--it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is nothing in the world, but the red gum--' and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever Mama, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well.'" "What! is Fanny ill?" "That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs. Dashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy!--There's for you, my dear!--And not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except Nancy!--Could you have believed such a thing possible?-- There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it!--THAT is strange!--I never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter;--till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out. 'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;' and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had just been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter or other, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. Poor soul! I pity HER. And I must say, I think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon HIS knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. THEN she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!--and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister was sure SHE would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might live in such another cottage as yours--or a little bigger--with two maids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly." Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it. She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For HIM she felt much compassion;--for Lucy very little--and it cost her some pains to procure that little;--for the rest of the party none at all. As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against Edward. Elinor's office was a painful one.--She was going to remove what she really believed to be her sister's chief consolation,--to give such particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to HER fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it. She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief.--THAT belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of imprudence, was readily offered. But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she HAD loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of Edward for her. She would not even admit it to have been natural; and Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind. Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.--Marianne's feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,-- "How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?" "I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton Park last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement." At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed-- "Four months!--Have you known of this four months?" Elinor confirmed it. "What!--while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your heart?--And I have reproached you for being happy!"-- "It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!" "Four months!"--cried Marianne again.--"So calm!--so cheerful!--how have you been supported?"-- "By feeling that I was doing my duty.--My promise to Lucy, obliged me to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy." Marianne seemed much struck. "I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother," added Elinor; "and once or twice I have attempted it;--but without betraying my trust, I never could have convinced you." "Four months!--and yet you loved him!"-- "Yes. But I did not love only him;--and while the comfort of others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built.--And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so.-- Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to HER."-- "If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at.--They are brought more within my comprehension." "I understand you.--You do not suppose that I have ever felt much.--For four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.-- It was told me,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought, with triumph.-- This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--I have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and again.-- I have known myself to be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection.--Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me.-- I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages.-- And all this has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness.-- If you can think me capable of ever feeling--surely you may suppose that I have suffered NOW. The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion;--they did not spring up of themselves;--they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.-- No, Marianne.--THEN, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely--not even what I owed to my dearest friends--from openly shewing that I was VERY unhappy."-- Marianne was quite subdued.-- "Oh! Elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever.--How barbarous have I been to you!--you, who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me!--Is this my gratitude?--Is this the only return I can make you?--Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it away." The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of bitterness;--to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her;--and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.-- These were great concessions;--but where Marianne felt that she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make. She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.--She attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, "Yes, ma'am."--She listened to her praise of Lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings talked of Edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.--Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to any thing herself. The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife. "You have heard, I suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof yesterday." They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech. "Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars too--in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress--but I will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!--meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded! 'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her affectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'" Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on. "What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!--such a suspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected ANY prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in THAT quarter. 'THERE, to be sure,' said she, 'I might have thought myself safe.' She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it." Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible!" "Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very natural." Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore. "All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it might." "Then," cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent, "he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband." John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment, "I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one." Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a woman who could not reward him. "Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?" "I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:-- Edward is dismissed for ever from his mother's notice. He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for WE of course can make no inquiry." "Poor young man!--and what is to become of him?" "What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds--how can a man live on it?--and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him." "Poor young man!" cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure he should be very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I could see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns." Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she could not forbear smiling at the form of it. "If he would only have done as well by himself," said John Dashwood, "as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him. And there is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all--his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle THAT estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's, on proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business." "Well!" said Mrs. Jennings, "that is HER revenge. Everybody has a way of their own. But I don't think mine would be, to make one son independent, because another had plagued me." Marianne got up and walked about the room. "Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued John, "than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely." A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the Dashwoods', and Edward's. Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party. Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. THEY only knew how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and Marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced between Elinor's conduct and her own. She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her more. Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them within that time. The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens, though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a place. An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was herself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last she found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's. Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor, "Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke." It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too, that she would tell any thing WITHOUT being asked; for nothing would otherwise have been learnt. "I am so glad to meet you;" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by the arm--"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world." And then lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Is she angry?" "Not at all, I believe, with you." "That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is SHE angry?" "I cannot suppose it possible that she should be." "I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night. There now, YOU are going to laugh at me too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it IS the Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never have known he DID like it better than any other colour, if he had not happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not know which way to look before them." She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the first. "Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what they chuse about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for it is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain." "I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you," said Elinor. "Oh, did not you? But it WAS said, I know, very well, and by more than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. However this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?--He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for HER sake, and upon HER account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that--Oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things you know)--she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?" "No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know better than that. (Laughing affectedly.)--No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in THAT. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. "Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at No. --, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan't say anything against them to YOU; and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after THAT, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get!--Good gracious! (giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world.-- 'La!' I shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of such a thing? I write to the Doctor, indeed!'" "Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst. You have got your answer ready." Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her own party made another more necessary. "Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton won't ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your spotted muslin on!--I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn." Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance. As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following natural remark. "Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how THAT will end:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt can give her.--Then they will have a child every year! and Lord help 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I talked of t'other day.--No, no, they must get a stout girl of all works.-- Betty's sister would never do for them NOW." The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from Lucy herself. It was as follows: "Bartlett's Building, March. "I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of writing to her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have went through lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always be in one another's love. We have had great trials, and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to recommend him to any body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.--Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her.--My paper reminds me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne, "I am, &c." As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise. "Very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy.--Poor soul! I wish I COULD get him a living, with all my heart.--She calls me dear Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived.--Very well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to think of every body!--Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great credit." The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with them. This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy of Miss Dashwood;--but it was inforced with so much real politeness by Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure. When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was not very auspicious. "Cleveland!"--she cried, with great agitation. "No, I cannot go to Cleveland."-- "You forget," said Elinor gently, "that its situation is not...that it is not in the neighbourhood of..." "But it is in Somersetshire.--I cannot go into Somersetshire.--There, where I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to go there." Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such feelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on others;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be at home in little more than three weeks' time. As Marianne's affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started. Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland. Elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;--and Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that were yet to divide her from Barton. "Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss Dashwoods;"--was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called on her, after their leaving her was settled--"for they are quite resolved upon going home from the Palmers;--and how forlorn we shall be, when I come back!--Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats." Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give himself an escape from it;--and if so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes. The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even changed her seat, on purpose that she might NOT hear, to one close by the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep herself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her employment.-- Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words of the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be apologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a doubt. She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but supposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in reply she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she did not think THAT any material objection;--and Mrs. Jennings commended her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the Colonel's calm voice,-- "I am afraid it cannot take place very soon." Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost ready to cry out, "Lord! what should hinder it?"--but checking her desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation. "This is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older." This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings very plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to feel what she said, "I shall always think myself very much obliged to you." Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away without making her any reply!--She had not thought her old friend could have made so indifferent a suitor. What had really passed between them was to this effect. "I have heard," said he, with great compassion, "of the injustice your friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering in his engagement with a very deserving young woman.-- Have I been rightly informed?--Is it so?--" Elinor told him that it was. "The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,"--he replied, with great feeling,--"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other, is terrible.-- Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may be doing--what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance--but THAT, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable.-- It is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than 200 L per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting it to him, will be very great. Pray assure him of it." Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand. The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and SHE, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--Her emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different cause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from HER, she would have been very glad to be spared herself;-- but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and THEN it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent;--an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size. "The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income." By which the Colonel was surprised to find that SHE was considering Mr. Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on--and he said so. "This little rectory CAN do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good;--at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.--" Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. "Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I TRIED to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma'am," said Elinor. "It is a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life." "Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an't the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings--"Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them." "You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a faint smile. "Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw." "He spoke of its being out of repair." "Well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it?--who should do it but himself?" They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said,-- "Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it." Marianne had left the room before the conversation began. "Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention it at present to any body else." "Oh! very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. "Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn to-day." "No, ma'am, not even Lucy if you please. One day's delay will not be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do THAT directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination." This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments' reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed;-- "Oh, ho!--I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself?--sure, he is the proper person." Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself." "And so YOU are forced to do it. Well THAT is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write.) You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed." And away she went; but returning again in a moment, "I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at your leisure." "Certainly, ma'am," replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject. How she should begin--how she should express herself in her note to Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself. He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business. Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment.--Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair. "Mrs. Jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with me, at least I understood her so--or I certainly should not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister; especially as it will most likely be some time--it is not probable that I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford tomorrow." "You would not have gone, however," said Elinor, recovering herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on the point of communicating by paper. I am charged with a most agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.) Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living--it is about two hundred a-year--were much more considerable, and such as might better enable you to--as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself--such, in short, as might establish all your views of happiness." What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him. He LOOKED all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words, "Colonel Brandon!" "Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, "Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed--for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you--a concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion." "Colonel Brandon give ME a living!--Can it be possible?" "The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship any where." "No," replied he, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in YOU; for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all.--I feel it--I would express it if I could--but, as you well know, I am no orator." "You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps--indeed I know he HAS, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation." Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak;--at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, "Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman." "Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he SHOULD be all this." Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Elinor told him the number of the house. "I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give YOU; to assure him that he has made me a very--an exceedingly happy man." Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on HER side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on HIS, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right?--And I suppose you had no great difficulty--You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma'am; THAT was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready?--For it seems all to depend upon that." "Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me!--I am sure it would put ME quite out of patience!--And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma'am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of?-- Why, Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear!--Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely MAY be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds!--and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage!-- It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it." "But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's being enough to allow them to marry." "The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan't go if Lucy an't there." Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more. Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life. Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edward WOULD give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry. It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit.--This was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her carriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike. Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in. They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.--Nobody was there. "Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said he:--"I will go to her presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the world to seeing YOU.-- Very far from it, indeed. NOW especially there cannot be--but however, you and Marianne were always great favourites.--Why would not Marianne come?"-- Elinor made what excuse she could for her. "I am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for I have a good deal to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's--can it be true?--has he really given it to Edward?--I heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it." "It is perfectly true.--Colonel Brandon has given the living of Delaford to Edward." "Really!--Well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no connection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a price!--what was the value of this?" "About two hundred a year." "Very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that value--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and likely to vacate it soon--he might have got I dare say--fourteen hundred pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before this person's death?--NOW indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a man of Colonel Brandon's sense!--I wonder he should be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!--Well, I am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human character. I suppose, however--on recollection--that the case may probably be THIS. Edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to take it.--Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it." Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority. "It is truly astonishing!"--he cried, after hearing what she said--"what could be the Colonel's motive?" "A very simple one--to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky man.--You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like to hear it much talked of." Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished. "Mrs. Ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and I believe it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be.-- When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all." "But why should such precaution be used?--Though it is not to be supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for THAT must be quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all?--She has done with her son, she cast him off for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him.-- She would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!" "Ah! Elinor," said John, "your reasoning is very good, but it is founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy match takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son." "You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory by THIS time." "You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most affectionate mothers in the world." Elinor was silent. "We think NOW,"--said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, "of ROBERT'S marrying Miss Morton." Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's tone, calmly replied, "The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair." "Choice!--how do you mean?" "I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert." "Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that one is superior to the other." Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.--His reflections ended thus. "Of ONE thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand, and speaking in an awful whisper,--"I may assure you;--and I WILL do it, because I know it must gratify you. I have good reason to think--indeed I have it from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very wrong to say any thing about it--but I have it from the very best authority--not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say it herself--but her daughter DID, and I have it from her--That in short, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a certain connection--you understand me--it would have been far preferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation that THIS does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that light--a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all. 'It would have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound NOW for nothing worse.' But however, all that is quite out of the question--not to be thought of or mentioned--as to any attachment you know--it never could be--all that is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason to regret, my dear Elinor. There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well--quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately?" Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her brother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments' chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart. They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very different, was not less striking than it had been on HIM. He laughed most immoderately. The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous. Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility. "We may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the moment--"but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. Poor Edward! he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it--for I know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge of him, Miss Dashwood, from YOUR slight acquaintance.--Poor Edward!--His manners are certainly not the happiest in nature.--But we are not all born, you know, with the same powers,--the same address.-- Poor fellow!--to see him in a circle of strangers!--to be sure it was pitiable enough!--but upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and I declare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. I could not believe it.-- My mother was the first person who told me of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her, 'My dear madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must say, that if Edward does marry this young woman, I never will see him again.' That was what I said immediately.-- I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed!--Poor Edward!--he has done for himself completely--shut himself out for ever from all decent society!--but, as I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least surprised at it; from his style of education, it was always to be expected. My poor mother was half frantic." "Have you ever seen the lady?" "Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty.-- I remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late THEN, I found, to do any thing, for unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier--I think it is most probable--that something might have been hit on. I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. 'My dear fellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you are doing. You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be starved, you know;--that is certain; absolutely starved." He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though SHE never spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of them;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.

Chapters 37-41

https://web.archive.org/web/20210123003206/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/sensibility/section9/

Mrs. Jennings returns home from a visit to Mrs. Palmer with the shocking news that Lucy Steele and Edward Ferrars have been engaged to one another for over a year. Elinor, upon hearing that their engagement has at last become public, shares the news with her sister. Marianne cannot believe that Elinor has known of Edward's secret engagement for four months, for her sister has remained calm and composed throughout the entire period. John Dashwood visits his sisters at Mrs. Jennings's home and informs them that Fanny is in hysterics on account of the news. He also relates that Mrs. Ferrars has insisted that Edward must extricate himself from the attachment, or she will disown and disinherit him. The following Sunday, during a visit with Mrs. Jennings to Kensington Gardens, Elinor learns from Miss Anne Steele that Edward has refused to break off his engagement with Lucy. His mother has therefore transferred her estate to Edward's younger brother, Robert. As Miss Steele relates, Edward has informed Lucy that without his mother's inheritance, he will have to obtain a curacy and live modestly, but Lucy has proclaimed her devotion to him regardless of his economic situation. This information is confirmed in a letter from Lucy expressing to Elinor her commitment to Edward. Elinor and Marianne, anxious to leave London and return home, arrange to depart with the Palmers and visit them in Cleveland before heading back to Barton. Before they leave, Colonel Brandon visits Elinor and tells her that he has decided to offer his living at the Delaford rectory to Edward as a means of supporting himself. The Colonel asks Elinor to inform Edward of his offer, and Elinor finds herself in the rather uncomfortable position of facilitating the marriage of the man she loves to another woman. She begins writing a letter to Edward when Mrs. Jennings suddenly welcomes him into her home and she is afforded the opportunity to speak with him directly. Edward is astonished and deeply moved by the Colonel's generosity. Elinor goes off to visit Fanny Dashwood, who has not been feeling well since the news of Edward and Lucy's engagement. She is greeted at the door by John Dashwood, who shares the news that Robert Ferrars will inherit his mother's estate in place of his brother. Just then, Robert Ferrars arrives and expresses his pity for his older brother. John leaves them to inform his wife of Elinor's presence, and Fanny Dashwood, upon receiving Elinor, expresses her regret that the Dashwood sisters will be leaving town so soon.

Commentary When Miss Steele accidentally lets slip the secret of her sister's engagement to Edward Ferrars, their relationship becomes no longer an "attachment" but a "connection." An attachment is an emotional association between two people; to form an attachment is to fall in love. In contrast, a connection is the public bond involving a range of associations between individuals and their families. When Lucy and Edward were attached to one another, they were simply secretly in love with one another; once Miss Steele makes their engagement public, their families become heavily involved in an ever-widening circle of legal and economic implications. For example, Mrs. Ferrars announces that she will disinherit her son if he marries Lucy instead of the wealthy heiress Miss Morton, and Colonel Brandon offers Edward a living to support his wife. Thus, when the attachment becomes a connection, the number of individuals involved in the relationship increases considerably. Connections link family members to one another in concern for their mutual welfare. These bonds are so strong that it is unusual to find people behaving warmly and generously toward those they are not related to. Thus, John Dashwood cannot understand why Colonel Brandon offers Edward a living Brandon, we know, is acting solely on the basis of voluntary fellow-feeling. He empathizes with Edward because he, too, has known the pain of love accompanied by tremendous emotional distress. Furthermore, he respects Edward because he knows that Edward has Elinor's admiration. Therefore, he offers Edward a means of supporting a wife in spite of his disinheritance. But for John Dashwood, only family ties could provide the grounds for such a kind and generous gesture.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_1_part_2.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 2.chapter 2

book 2, chapter 2

{"name": "book 2, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section2/", "summary": "The Old Buffoon The men enter Zosima's room just as Zosima himself arrives there, accompanied by Alyosha and a small group of monks. The monks kiss Zosima's hand in deference and ask for his blessing, but the other men decline to do so and merely bow to him somewhat stiffly. Alyosha is embarrassed by this awkward display of disrespect, but Zosima gives no sign of being troubled. Fyodor Pavlovich apologizes melodramatically for Dmitri's lateness and fills the awkward silence in the room with his chatter. Under the pretense of being apologetic for his uncontrollably -buffoonish behavior, Fyodor Pavlovich indulges in a series of increasingly sacrilegious witticisms and stories, well aware that in doing so, he is embarrassing and irritating the other men, especially Miusov, whom he relentlessly teases. Alyosha is mortified by his father's behavior, but Zosima does not seem to mind it. When Fyodor begins to play the supplicant and asks Zosima for spiritual advice, Alyosha is even more humiliated. But Zosima merely tells him that, if he wants to attain eternal life, he must stop telling lies, especially to himself. Surprisingly, Zosima attributes Fyodor Pavlovich's clownish behavior to the fact that Fyodor Pavlovich is embarrassed and ashamed of himself, and Zosima earnestly tries to make him more comfortable", "analysis": ""}

Chapter II. The Old Buffoon They entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder came in from his bedroom. There were already in the cell, awaiting the elder, two monks of the hermitage, one the Father Librarian, and the other Father Paissy, a very learned man, so they said, in delicate health, though not old. There was also a tall young man, who looked about two and twenty, standing in the corner throughout the interview. He had a broad, fresh face, and clever, observant, narrow brown eyes, and was wearing ordinary dress. He was a divinity student, living under the protection of the monastery. His expression was one of unquestioning, but self-respecting, reverence. Being in a subordinate and dependent position, and so not on an equality with the guests, he did not greet them with a bow. Father Zossima was accompanied by a novice, and by Alyosha. The two monks rose and greeted him with a very deep bow, touching the ground with their fingers; then kissed his hand. Blessing them, the elder replied with as deep a reverence to them, and asked their blessing. The whole ceremony was performed very seriously and with an appearance of feeling, not like an everyday rite. But Miuesov fancied that it was all done with intentional impressiveness. He stood in front of the other visitors. He ought--he had reflected upon it the evening before--from simple politeness, since it was the custom here, to have gone up to receive the elder's blessing, even if he did not kiss his hand. But when he saw all this bowing and kissing on the part of the monks he instantly changed his mind. With dignified gravity he made a rather deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a chair. Fyodor Pavlovitch did the same, mimicking Miuesov like an ape. Ivan bowed with great dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his hands at his sides, while Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow at all. The elder let fall the hand raised to bless them, and bowing to them again, asked them all to sit down. The blood rushed to Alyosha's cheeks. He was ashamed. His forebodings were coming true. Father Zossima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa, covered with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the opposite wall on four mahogany chairs, covered with shabby black leather. The monks sat, one at the door and the other at the window. The divinity student, the novice, and Alyosha remained standing. The cell was not very large and had a faded look. It contained nothing but the most necessary furniture, of coarse and poor quality. There were two pots of flowers in the window, and a number of holy pictures in the corner. Before one huge ancient ikon of the Virgin a lamp was burning. Near it were two other holy pictures in shining settings, and, next them, carved cherubims, china eggs, a Catholic cross of ivory, with a Mater Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign engravings from the great Italian artists of past centuries. Next to these costly and artistic engravings were several of the roughest Russian prints of saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few farthings at all the fairs. On the other walls were portraits of Russian bishops, past and present. Miuesov took a cursory glance at all these "conventional" surroundings and bent an intent look upon the elder. He had a high opinion of his own insight, a weakness excusable in him as he was fifty, an age at which a clever man of the world of established position can hardly help taking himself rather seriously. At the first moment he did not like Zossima. There was, indeed, something in the elder's face which many people besides Miuesov might not have liked. He was a short, bent, little man, with very weak legs, and though he was only sixty-five, he looked at least ten years older. His face was very thin and covered with a network of fine wrinkles, particularly numerous about his eyes, which were small, light-colored, quick, and shining like two bright points. He had a sprinkling of gray hair about his temples. His pointed beard was small and scanty, and his lips, which smiled frequently, were as thin as two threads. His nose was not long, but sharp, like a bird's beak. "To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride," thought Miuesov. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position. A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to begin the conversation. "Precisely to our time," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "but no sign of my son, Dmitri. I apologize for him, sacred elder!" (Alyosha shuddered all over at "sacred elder.") "I am always punctual myself, minute for minute, remembering that punctuality is the courtesy of kings...." "But you are not a king, anyway," Miuesov muttered, losing his self- restraint at once. "Yes; that's true. I'm not a king, and, would you believe it, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, I was aware of that myself. But, there! I always say the wrong thing. Your reverence," he cried, with sudden pathos, "you behold before you a buffoon in earnest! I introduce myself as such. It's an old habit, alas! And if I sometimes talk nonsense out of place it's with an object, with the object of amusing people and making myself agreeable. One must be agreeable, mustn't one? I was seven years ago in a little town where I had business, and I made friends with some merchants there. We went to the captain of police because we had to see him about something, and to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the most dangerous type in such cases. It's their liver. I went straight up to him, and with the ease of a man of the world, you know, 'Mr. Ispravnik,' said I, 'be our Napravnik.' 'What do you mean by Napravnik?' said he. I saw, at the first half-second, that it had missed fire. He stood there so glum. 'I wanted to make a joke,' said I, 'for the general diversion, as Mr. Napravnik is our well-known Russian orchestra conductor and what we need for the harmony of our undertaking is some one of that sort.' And I explained my comparison very reasonably, didn't I? 'Excuse me,' said he, 'I am an Ispravnik, and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling.' He turned and walked away. I followed him, shouting, 'Yes, yes, you are an Ispravnik, not a Napravnik.' 'No,' he said, 'since you called me a Napravnik I am one.' And would you believe it, it ruined our business! And I'm always like that, always like that. Always injuring myself with my politeness. Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person: 'Your wife is a ticklish lady,' in an honorable sense, of the moral qualities, so to speak. But he asked me, 'Why, have you tickled her?' I thought I'd be polite, so I couldn't help saying, 'Yes,' and he gave me a fine tickling on the spot. Only that happened long ago, so I'm not ashamed to tell the story. I'm always injuring myself like that." "You're doing it now," muttered Miuesov, with disgust. Father Zossima scrutinized them both in silence. "Am I? Would you believe it, I was aware of that, too, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, and let me tell you, indeed, I foresaw I should as soon as I began to speak. And do you know I foresaw, too, that you'd be the first to remark on it. The minute I see my joke isn't coming off, your reverence, both my cheeks feel as though they were drawn down to the lower jaw and there is almost a spasm in them. That's been so since I was young, when I had to make jokes for my living in noblemen's families. I am an inveterate buffoon, and have been from birth up, your reverence, it's as though it were a craze in me. I dare say it's a devil within me. But only a little one. A more serious one would have chosen another lodging. But not your soul, Pyotr Alexandrovitch; you're not a lodging worth having either. But I do believe--I believe in God, though I have had doubts of late. But now I sit and await words of wisdom. I'm like the philosopher, Diderot, your reverence. Did you ever hear, most Holy Father, how Diderot went to see the Metropolitan Platon, in the time of the Empress Catherine? He went in and said straight out, 'There is no God.' To which the great bishop lifted up his finger and answered, 'The fool hath said in his heart there is no God.' And he fell down at his feet on the spot. 'I believe,' he cried, 'and will be christened.' And so he was. Princess Dashkov was his godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather." "Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know you're telling lies and that that stupid anecdote isn't true. Why are you playing the fool?" cried Miuesov in a shaking voice. "I suspected all my life that it wasn't true," Fyodor Pavlovitch cried with conviction. "But I'll tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great elder! Forgive me, the last thing about Diderot's christening I made up just now. I never thought of it before. I made it up to add piquancy. I play the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to make myself agreeable. Though I really don't know myself, sometimes, what I do it for. And as for Diderot, I heard as far as 'the fool hath said in his heart' twenty times from the gentry about here when I was young. I heard your aunt, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, tell the story. They all believe to this day that the infidel Diderot came to dispute about God with the Metropolitan Platon...." Miuesov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. He was furious, and conscious of being ridiculous. What was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty or fifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors had entered that cell without feelings of the profoundest veneration. Almost every one admitted to the cell felt that a great favor was being shown him. Many remained kneeling during the whole visit. Of those visitors, many had been men of high rank and learning, some even freethinkers, attracted by curiosity, but all without exception had shown the profoundest reverence and delicacy, for here there was no question of money, but only, on the one side love and kindness, and on the other penitence and eager desire to decide some spiritual problem or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed and bewildered the spectators, or at least some of them. The monks, with unchanged countenances, waited, with earnest attention, to hear what the elder would say, but seemed on the point of standing up, like Miuesov. Alyosha stood, with hanging head, on the verge of tears. What seemed to him strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, on whom alone he had rested his hopes, and who alone had such influence on his father that he could have stopped him, sat now quite unmoved, with downcast eyes, apparently waiting with interest to see how it would end, as though he had nothing to do with it. Alyosha did not dare to look at Rakitin, the divinity student, whom he knew almost intimately. He alone in the monastery knew Rakitin's thoughts. "Forgive me," began Miuesov, addressing Father Zossima, "for perhaps I seem to be taking part in this shameful foolery. I made a mistake in believing that even a man like Fyodor Pavlovitch would understand what was due on a visit to so honored a personage. I did not suppose I should have to apologize simply for having come with him...." Pyotr Alexandrovitch could say no more, and was about to leave the room, overwhelmed with confusion. "Don't distress yourself, I beg." The elder got on to his feeble legs, and taking Pyotr Alexandrovitch by both hands, made him sit down again. "I beg you not to disturb yourself. I particularly beg you to be my guest." And with a bow he went back and sat down again on his little sofa. "Great elder, speak! Do I annoy you by my vivacity?" Fyodor Pavlovitch cried suddenly, clutching the arms of his chair in both hands, as though ready to leap up from it if the answer were unfavorable. "I earnestly beg you, too, not to disturb yourself, and not to be uneasy," the elder said impressively. "Do not trouble. Make yourself quite at home. And, above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all." "Quite at home? To be my natural self? Oh, that is much too much, but I accept it with grateful joy. Do you know, blessed Father, you'd better not invite me to be my natural self. Don't risk it.... I will not go so far as that myself. I warn you for your own sake. Well, the rest is still plunged in the mists of uncertainty, though there are people who'd be pleased to describe me for you. I mean that for you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. But as for you, holy being, let me tell you, I am brimming over with ecstasy." He got up, and throwing up his hands, declaimed, "Blessed be the womb that bare thee, and the paps that gave thee suck--the paps especially. When you said just now, 'Don't be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all,' you pierced right through me by that remark, and read me to the core. Indeed, I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon. So I say, 'Let me really play the buffoon. I am not afraid of your opinion, for you are every one of you worse than I am.' That is why I am a buffoon. It is from shame, great elder, from shame; it's simply over-sensitiveness that makes me rowdy. If I had only been sure that every one would accept me as the kindest and wisest of men, oh, Lord, what a good man I should have been then! Teacher!" he fell suddenly on his knees, "what must I do to gain eternal life?" It was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or really moved. Father Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile: "You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense enough: don't give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech; don't give way to sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of money. And close your taverns. If you can't close all, at least two or three. And, above all--don't lie." "You mean about Diderot?" "No, not about Diderot. Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than any one. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offense, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill--he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing...." "Blessed man! Give me your hand to kiss." Fyodor Pavlovitch skipped up, and imprinted a rapid kiss on the elder's thin hand. "It is, it is pleasant to take offense. You said that so well, as I never heard it before. Yes, I have been all my life taking offense, to please myself, taking offense on esthetic grounds, for it is not so much pleasant as distinguished sometimes to be insulted--that you had forgotten, great elder, it is distinguished! I shall make a note of that. But I have been lying, lying positively my whole life long, every day and hour of it. Of a truth, I am a lie, and the father of lies. Though I believe I am not the father of lies. I am getting mixed in my texts. Say, the son of lies, and that will be enough. Only ... my angel ... I may sometimes talk about Diderot! Diderot will do no harm, though sometimes a word will do harm. Great elder, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had been meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to find out something. Only do tell Pyotr Alexandrovitch not to interrupt me. Here is my question: Is it true, great Father, that the story is told somewhere in the _Lives of the Saints_ of a holy saint martyred for his faith who, when his head was cut off at last, stood up, picked up his head, and, 'courteously kissing it,' walked a long way, carrying it in his hands. Is that true or not, honored Father?" "No, it is untrue," said the elder. "There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints. What saint do you say the story is told of?" asked the Father Librarian. "I do not know what saint. I do not know, and can't tell. I was deceived. I was told the story. I had heard it, and do you know who told it? Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov here, who was so angry just now about Diderot. He it was who told the story." "I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all." "It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was present. It was three years ago. I mentioned it because by that ridiculous story you shook my faith, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You knew nothing of it, but I went home with my faith shaken, and I have been getting more and more shaken ever since. Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you were the cause of a great fall. That was not a Diderot!" Fyodor Pavlovitch got excited and pathetic, though it was perfectly clear to every one by now that he was playing a part again. Yet Miuesov was stung by his words. "What nonsense, and it is all nonsense," he muttered. "I may really have told it, some time or other ... but not to you. I was told it myself. I heard it in Paris from a Frenchman. He told me it was read at our mass from the _Lives of the Saints_ ... he was a very learned man who had made a special study of Russian statistics and had lived a long time in Russia.... I have not read the _Lives of the Saints_ myself, and I am not going to read them ... all sorts of things are said at dinner--we were dining then." "Yes, you were dining then, and so I lost my faith!" said Fyodor Pavlovitch, mimicking him. "What do I care for your faith?" Miuesov was on the point of shouting, but he suddenly checked himself, and said with contempt, "You defile everything you touch." The elder suddenly rose from his seat. "Excuse me, gentlemen, for leaving you a few minutes," he said, addressing all his guests. "I have visitors awaiting me who arrived before you. But don't you tell lies all the same," he added, turning to Fyodor Pavlovitch with a good-humored face. He went out of the cell. Alyosha and the novice flew to escort him down the steps. Alyosha was breathless: he was glad to get away, but he was glad, too, that the elder was good-humored and not offended. Father Zossima was going towards the portico to bless the people waiting for him there. But Fyodor Pavlovitch persisted in stopping him at the door of the cell. "Blessed man!" he cried, with feeling. "Allow me to kiss your hand once more. Yes, with you I could still talk, I could still get on. Do you think I always lie and play the fool like this? Believe me, I have been acting like this all the time on purpose to try you. I have been testing you all the time to see whether I could get on with you. Is there room for my humility beside your pride? I am ready to give you a testimonial that one can get on with you! But now, I'll be quiet; I will keep quiet all the time. I'll sit in a chair and hold my tongue. Now it is for you to speak, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You are the principal person left now--for ten minutes."

book 2, Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section2/

The Old Buffoon The men enter Zosima's room just as Zosima himself arrives there, accompanied by Alyosha and a small group of monks. The monks kiss Zosima's hand in deference and ask for his blessing, but the other men decline to do so and merely bow to him somewhat stiffly. Alyosha is embarrassed by this awkward display of disrespect, but Zosima gives no sign of being troubled. Fyodor Pavlovich apologizes melodramatically for Dmitri's lateness and fills the awkward silence in the room with his chatter. Under the pretense of being apologetic for his uncontrollably -buffoonish behavior, Fyodor Pavlovich indulges in a series of increasingly sacrilegious witticisms and stories, well aware that in doing so, he is embarrassing and irritating the other men, especially Miusov, whom he relentlessly teases. Alyosha is mortified by his father's behavior, but Zosima does not seem to mind it. When Fyodor begins to play the supplicant and asks Zosima for spiritual advice, Alyosha is even more humiliated. But Zosima merely tells him that, if he wants to attain eternal life, he must stop telling lies, especially to himself. Surprisingly, Zosima attributes Fyodor Pavlovich's clownish behavior to the fact that Fyodor Pavlovich is embarrassed and ashamed of himself, and Zosima earnestly tries to make him more comfortable

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_13_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 14

chapter 14

{"name": "Chapter 14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim22.asp", "summary": "This chapter returns to the court, which is half-empty. A tense Jim is waiting for his punishment. The plaintiff, a fat, chocolate- colored man with a shaved head and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose, sits with his eyes glittering and his nostrils dilated. Brierly also sits in his seat, looking excited. The pale magistrate begins to read aloud. There are many issues before the court. The first is to know whether the ship had been fit to take the voyage. The court does not think that it was. The next question is whether the ship had been navigated with proper care. The court felt that it had. The magistrate's voice then becomes loud and clear. He accuses the officers of abandoning the ship in time of danger, leaving people and property behind. Jim's seaman certificate is, therefore, canceled; he will never again be able to serve as a naval officer. Marlow looks at Jim, who soon gets up and starts to walk out. Marlow catches Jim's arm, but the young sailor does not stop. A West Australian by the name of Chester asks Marlow whether he feels bad for Jim. Marlow replies that he does. Chester says Marlow should not sympathize with a criminal. He tells Marlow about his friend Holy-Terror Robinson, who survived a shipwreck. Seven people got ashore. Robinson stayed on in the ship until it nearly reached the shore; then he ran. People chased him, flinging stones. He fell down senseless, but recovered. Chester thinks that Jim will also be fine and tells Marlow he will give the young sailor a chance - a job as the overseer of forty coolies who are to bag bird guano . Marlow declines for Jim, for he knows Jim deserves much better.", "analysis": "Notes The final day of the inquiry is vividly described. The half-empty courtroom is somber, and Jim's sense of shame is in the air. When the magistrate reads the verdict and cancels Jim's certificate, the miserable young sailor quickly and quietly leaves the courtroom. Jim feels totally defeated; his dream of becoming a hero at sea is now crushed; his plan to spend the rest of his life as a naval officer is now impossible. He cannot bear the thought of his unknown future and refuses to even stop and talk to his friend Marlow on his way out. The despicable Chester is introduced here. He stops Marlow and tells him not to sympathize with Jim. He tells the story of Robinson to make Marlow believe that Jim will recover from his shame on his own. When Chester offers a job for Jim, it is a ploy by which to take Jim into his dark powers and use him for his own evil purposes. Chester knows that the defeated Jim would take up any chance to atone for his sins, but Marlow will not permit it. He hates Chester for suggesting a degrading job for his friend in a time of weakness. The mean and detestable traits of Chester's character are in complete contrast to Jim and his good qualities. The contrast makes the reader sympathize more with Jim."}

'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight hesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really very wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all round, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get a letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted with rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all hands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper as all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always seemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a glimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned enough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I don't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting that view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for himself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt, false delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make an interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However, this is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who was unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the extravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars of his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course can't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go and see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't hope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even frightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly good fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I expect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was in its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in its being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from that point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a hole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth (did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no awe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to tears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what d'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree in the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a picturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book of Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the foreground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind overtopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had been beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one fat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling in the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he breathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though he had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious sailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as if restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort us earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate, delicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a hopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in bed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few pink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of bluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of the desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless voice. 'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling off--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy sense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest and safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the cold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of exile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to see an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common occurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time. Perhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit the finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take opinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual opinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance. His own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and definite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The head of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like alabaster. 'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether the ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The court found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up to the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and seamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then they declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of the accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a Norwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up as missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would capsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime ghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long sinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength and the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which, unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I was aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment it shaped itself into distinct words . . . "in utter disregard of their plain duty," it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and then . . . "abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property confided to their charge" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and fair and extremely attentive. "Therefore, . . ." began the voice emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him, caught only the fragments of official language. . . . "The Court . . . Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled." A silence fell. The magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move out; others were pushing in, and I also made for the door. Outside I stood still, and when Jim passed me on his way to the gate, I caught at his arm and detained him. The look he gave discomposed me, as though I had been responsible for his state he looked at me as if I had been the embodied evil of life. "It's all over," I stammered. "Yes," he said thickly. "And now let no man . . ." He jerked his arm out of my grasp. I watched his back as he went away. It was a long street, and he remained in sight for some time. He walked rather slow, and straddling his legs a little, as if he had found it difficult to keep a straight line. Just before I lost him I fancied he staggered a bit. '"Man overboard," said a deep voice behind me. Turning round, I saw a fellow I knew slightly, a West Australian; Chester was his name. He, too, had been looking after Jim. He was a man with an immense girth of chest, a rugged, clean-shaved face of mahogany colour, and two blunt tufts of iron-grey, thick, wiry hairs on his upper lip. He had been pearler, wrecker, trader, whaler too, I believe; in his own words--anything and everything a man may be at sea, but a pirate. The Pacific, north and south, was his proper hunting-ground; but he had wandered so far afield looking for a cheap steamer to buy. Lately he had discovered--so he said--a guano island somewhere, but its approaches were dangerous, and the anchorage, such as it was, could not be considered safe, to say the least of it. "As good as a gold-mine," he would exclaim. "Right bang in the middle of the Walpole Reefs, and if it's true enough that you can get no holding-ground anywhere in less than forty fathom, then what of that? There are the hurricanes, too. But it's a first-rate thing. As good as a gold-mine--better! Yet there's not a fool of them that will see it. I can't get a skipper or a shipowner to go near the place. So I made up my mind to cart the blessed stuff myself." . . . This was what he required a steamer for, and I knew he was just then negotiating enthusiastically with a Parsee firm for an old, brig-rigged, sea-anachronism of ninety horse-power. We had met and spoken together several times. He looked knowingly after Jim. "Takes it to heart?" he asked scornfully. "Very much," I said. "Then he's no good," he opined. "What's all the to-do about? A bit of ass's skin. That never yet made a man. You must see things exactly as they are--if you don't, you may just as well give in at once. You will never do anything in this world. Look at me. I made it a practice never to take anything to heart." "Yes," I said, "you see things as they are." "I wish I could see my partner coming along, that's what I wish to see," he said. "Know my partner? Old Robinson. Yes; _the_ Robinson. Don't _you_ know? The notorious Robinson. The man who smuggled more opium and bagged more seals in his time than any loose Johnny now alive. They say he used to board the sealing-schooners up Alaska way when the fog was so thick that the Lord God, He alone, could tell one man from another. Holy-Terror Robinson. That's the man. He is with me in that guano thing. The best chance he ever came across in his life." He put his lips to my ear. "Cannibal?--well, they used to give him the name years and years ago. You remember the story? A shipwreck on the west side of Stewart Island; that's right; seven of them got ashore, and it seems they did not get on very well together. Some men are too cantankerous for anything--don't know how to make the best of a bad job--don't see things as they are--as they _are_, my boy! And then what's the consequence? Obvious! Trouble, trouble; as likely as not a knock on the head; and serve 'em right too. That sort is the most useful when it's dead. The story goes that a boat of Her Majesty's ship Wolverine found him kneeling on the kelp, naked as the day he was born, and chanting some psalm-tune or other; light snow was falling at the time. He waited till the boat was an oar's length from the shore, and then up and away. They chased him for an hour up and down the boulders, till a marihe flung a stone that took him behind the ear providentially and knocked him senseless. Alone? Of course. But that's like that tale of sealing-schooners; the Lord God knows the right and the wrong of that story. The cutter did not investigate much. They wrapped him in a boat-cloak and took him off as quick as they could, with a dark night coming on, the weather threatening, and the ship firing recall guns every five minutes. Three weeks afterwards he was as well as ever. He didn't allow any fuss that was made on shore to upset him; he just shut his lips tight, and let people screech. It was bad enough to have lost his ship, and all he was worth besides, without paying attention to the hard names they called him. That's the man for me." He lifted his arm for a signal to some one down the street. "He's got a little money, so I had to let him into my thing. Had to! It would have been sinful to throw away such a find, and I was cleaned out myself. It cut me to the quick, but I could see the matter just as it was, and if I _must_ share--thinks I--with any man, then give me Robinson. I left him at breakfast in the hotel to come to court, because I've an idea. . . . Ah! Good morning, Captain Robinson. . . . Friend of mine, Captain Robinson." 'An emaciated patriarch in a suit of white drill, a solah topi with a green-lined rim on a head trembling with age, joined us after crossing the street in a trotting shuffle, and stood propped with both hands on the handle of an umbrella. A white beard with amber streaks hung lumpily down to his waist. He blinked his creased eyelids at me in a bewildered way. "How do you do? how do you do?" he piped amiably, and tottered. "A little deaf," said Chester aside. "Did you drag him over six thousand miles to get a cheap steamer?" I asked. "I would have taken him twice round the world as soon as look at him," said Chester with immense energy. "The steamer will be the making of us, my lad. Is it my fault that every skipper and shipowner in the whole of blessed Australasia turns out a blamed fool? Once I talked for three hours to a man in Auckland. 'Send a ship,' I said, 'send a ship. I'll give you half of the first cargo for yourself, free gratis for nothing--just to make a good start.' Says he, 'I wouldn't do it if there was no other place on earth to send a ship to.' Perfect ass, of course. Rocks, currents, no anchorage, sheer cliff to lay to, no insurance company would take the risk, didn't see how he could get loaded under three years. Ass! I nearly went on my knees to him. 'But look at the thing as it is,' says I. 'Damn rocks and hurricanes. Look at it as it is. There's guano there Queensland sugar-planters would fight for--fight for on the quay, I tell you.' . . . What can you do with a fool? . . . 'That's one of your little jokes, Chester,' he says. . . . Joke! I could have wept. Ask Captain Robinson here. . . . And there was another shipowning fellow--a fat chap in a white waistcoat in Wellington, who seemed to think I was up to some swindle or other. 'I don't know what sort of fool you're looking for,' he says, 'but I am busy just now. Good morning.' I longed to take him in my two hands and smash him through the window of his own office. But I didn't. I was as mild as a curate. 'Think of it,' says I. '_Do_ think it over. I'll call to-morrow.' He grunted something about being 'out all day.' On the stairs I felt ready to beat my head against the wall from vexation. Captain Robinson here can tell you. It was awful to think of all that lovely stuff lying waste under the sun--stuff that would send the sugar-cane shooting sky-high. The making of Queensland! The making of Queensland! And in Brisbane, where I went to have a last try, they gave me the name of a lunatic. Idiots! The only sensible man I came across was the cabman who drove me about. A broken-down swell he was, I fancy. Hey! Captain Robinson? You remember I told you about my cabby in Brisbane--don't you? The chap had a wonderful eye for things. He saw it all in a jiffy. It was a real pleasure to talk with him. One evening after a devil of a day amongst shipowners I felt so bad that, says I, 'I must get drunk. Come along; I must get drunk, or I'll go mad.' 'I am your man,' he says; 'go ahead.' I don't know what I would have done without him. Hey! Captain Robinson." 'He poked the ribs of his partner. "He! he! he!" laughed the Ancient, looked aimlessly down the street, then peered at me doubtfully with sad, dim pupils. . . . "He! he! he!" . . . He leaned heavier on the umbrella, and dropped his gaze on the ground. I needn't tell you I had tried to get away several times, but Chester had foiled every attempt by simply catching hold of my coat. "One minute. I've a notion." "What's your infernal notion?" I exploded at last. "If you think I am going in with you . . ." "No, no, my boy. Too late, if you wanted ever so much. We've got a steamer." "You've got the ghost of a steamer," I said. "Good enough for a start--there's no superior nonsense about us. Is there, Captain Robinson?" "No! no! no!" croaked the old man without lifting his eyes, and the senile tremble of his head became almost fierce with determination. "I understand you know that young chap," said Chester, with a nod at the street from which Jim had disappeared long ago. "He's been having grub with you in the Malabar last night--so I was told." 'I said that was true, and after remarking that he too liked to live well and in style, only that, for the present, he had to be saving of every penny--"none too many for the business! Isn't that so, Captain Robinson?"--he squared his shoulders and stroked his dumpy moustache, while the notorious Robinson, coughing at his side, clung more than ever to the handle of the umbrella, and seemed ready to subside passively into a heap of old bones. "You see, the old chap has all the money," whispered Chester confidentially. "I've been cleaned out trying to engineer the dratted thing. But wait a bit, wait a bit. The good time is coming." . . . He seemed suddenly astonished at the signs of impatience I gave. "Oh, crakee!" he cried; "I am telling you of the biggest thing that ever was, and you . . ." "I have an appointment," I pleaded mildly. "What of that?" he asked with genuine surprise; "let it wait." "That's exactly what I am doing now," I remarked; "hadn't you better tell me what it is you want?" "Buy twenty hotels like that," he growled to himself; "and every joker boarding in them too--twenty times over." He lifted his head smartly "I want that young chap." "I don't understand," I said. "He's no good, is he?" said Chester crisply. "I know nothing about it," I protested. "Why, you told me yourself he was taking it to heart," argued Chester. "Well, in my opinion a chap who . . . Anyhow, he can't be much good; but then you see I am on the look-out for somebody, and I've just got a thing that will suit him. I'll give him a job on my island." He nodded significantly. "I'm going to dump forty coolies there--if I've to steal 'em. Somebody must work the stuff. Oh! I mean to act square: wooden shed, corrugated-iron roof--I know a man in Hobart who will take my bill at six months for the materials. I do. Honour bright. Then there's the water-supply. I'll have to fly round and get somebody to trust me for half-a-dozen second-hand iron tanks. Catch rain-water, hey? Let him take charge. Make him supreme boss over the coolies. Good idea, isn't it? What do you say?" "There are whole years when not a drop of rain falls on Walpole," I said, too amazed to laugh. He bit his lip and seemed bothered. "Oh, well, I will fix up something for them--or land a supply. Hang it all! That's not the question." 'I said nothing. I had a rapid vision of Jim perched on a shadowless rock, up to his knees in guano, with the screams of sea-birds in his ears, the incandescent ball of the sun above his head; the empty sky and the empty ocean all a-quiver, simmering together in the heat as far as the eye could reach. "I wouldn't advise my worst enemy . . ." I began. "What's the matter with you?" cried Chester; "I mean to give him a good screw--that is, as soon as the thing is set going, of course. It's as easy as falling off a log. Simply nothing to do; two six-shooters in his belt . . . Surely he wouldn't be afraid of anything forty coolies could do--with two six-shooters and he the only armed man too! It's much better than it looks. I want you to help me to talk him over." "No!" I shouted. Old Robinson lifted his bleared eyes dismally for a moment, Chester looked at me with infinite contempt. "So you wouldn't advise him?" he uttered slowly. "Certainly not," I answered, as indignant as though he had requested me to help murder somebody; "moreover, I am sure he wouldn't. He is badly cut up, but he isn't mad as far as I know." "He is no earthly good for anything," Chester mused aloud. "He would just have done for me. If you only could see a thing as it is, you would see it's the very thing for him. And besides . . . Why! it's the most splendid, sure chance . . ." He got angry suddenly. "I must have a man. There! . . ." He stamped his foot and smiled unpleasantly. "Anyhow, I could guarantee the island wouldn't sink under him--and I believe he is a bit particular on that point." "Good morning," I said curtly. He looked at me as though I had been an incomprehensible fool. . . . "Must be moving, Captain Robinson," he yelled suddenly into the old man's ear. "These Parsee Johnnies are waiting for us to clinch the bargain." He took his partner under the arm with a firm grip, swung him round, and, unexpectedly, leered at me over his shoulder. "I was trying to do him a kindness," he asserted, with an air and tone that made my blood boil. "Thank you for nothing--in his name," I rejoined. "Oh! you are devilish smart," he sneered; "but you are like the rest of them. Too much in the clouds. See what you will do with him." "I don't know that I want to do anything with him." "Don't you?" he spluttered; his grey moustache bristled with anger, and by his side the notorious Robinson, propped on the umbrella, stood with his back to me, as patient and still as a worn-out cab-horse. "I haven't found a guano island," I said. "It's my belief you wouldn't know one if you were led right up to it by the hand," he riposted quickly; "and in this world you've got to see a thing first, before you can make use of it. Got to see it through and through at that, neither more nor less." "And get others to see it, too," I insinuated, with a glance at the bowed back by his side. Chester snorted at me. "His eyes are right enough--don't you worry. He ain't a puppy." "Oh, dear, no!" I said. "Come along, Captain Robinson," he shouted, with a sort of bullying deference under the rim of the old man's hat; the Holy Terror gave a submissive little jump. The ghost of a steamer was waiting for them, Fortune on that fair isle! They made a curious pair of Argonauts. Chester strode on leisurely, well set up, portly, and of conquering mien; the other, long, wasted, drooping, and hooked to his arm, shuffled his withered shanks with desperate haste.'

Chapter 14

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim22.asp

This chapter returns to the court, which is half-empty. A tense Jim is waiting for his punishment. The plaintiff, a fat, chocolate- colored man with a shaved head and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his nose, sits with his eyes glittering and his nostrils dilated. Brierly also sits in his seat, looking excited. The pale magistrate begins to read aloud. There are many issues before the court. The first is to know whether the ship had been fit to take the voyage. The court does not think that it was. The next question is whether the ship had been navigated with proper care. The court felt that it had. The magistrate's voice then becomes loud and clear. He accuses the officers of abandoning the ship in time of danger, leaving people and property behind. Jim's seaman certificate is, therefore, canceled; he will never again be able to serve as a naval officer. Marlow looks at Jim, who soon gets up and starts to walk out. Marlow catches Jim's arm, but the young sailor does not stop. A West Australian by the name of Chester asks Marlow whether he feels bad for Jim. Marlow replies that he does. Chester says Marlow should not sympathize with a criminal. He tells Marlow about his friend Holy-Terror Robinson, who survived a shipwreck. Seven people got ashore. Robinson stayed on in the ship until it nearly reached the shore; then he ran. People chased him, flinging stones. He fell down senseless, but recovered. Chester thinks that Jim will also be fine and tells Marlow he will give the young sailor a chance - a job as the overseer of forty coolies who are to bag bird guano . Marlow declines for Jim, for he knows Jim deserves much better.

Notes The final day of the inquiry is vividly described. The half-empty courtroom is somber, and Jim's sense of shame is in the air. When the magistrate reads the verdict and cancels Jim's certificate, the miserable young sailor quickly and quietly leaves the courtroom. Jim feels totally defeated; his dream of becoming a hero at sea is now crushed; his plan to spend the rest of his life as a naval officer is now impossible. He cannot bear the thought of his unknown future and refuses to even stop and talk to his friend Marlow on his way out. The despicable Chester is introduced here. He stops Marlow and tells him not to sympathize with Jim. He tells the story of Robinson to make Marlow believe that Jim will recover from his shame on his own. When Chester offers a job for Jim, it is a ploy by which to take Jim into his dark powers and use him for his own evil purposes. Chester knows that the defeated Jim would take up any chance to atone for his sins, but Marlow will not permit it. He hates Chester for suggesting a degrading job for his friend in a time of weakness. The mean and detestable traits of Chester's character are in complete contrast to Jim and his good qualities. The contrast makes the reader sympathize more with Jim.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_15_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 16

chapter 16

{"name": "Chapter 16", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-16", "summary": "Things start improving for Jim in the future, Marlow tells us: \"He captured much honour and Arcadian happiness in the bush \" . Arcadian refers to a region in ancient Greece , and the word has come to mean a simple, peaceful, country region. And when he says \"the bush,\" he's referring to the wilderness or countryside. It appears Jim made a life for himself somewhere quiet and unpopulated. But before we get too far into Jim's current situation, Marlow wants to give us some more details about this Chester guy. He tells us Chester was at sea in a hurricane not too long after his meeting with Marlow. Back at Marlow's hotel, he wraps up his letters on behalf of Jim, and the two of them start to chat. But the ever-awkward Jim tries to rush off. Marlow calls him back.", "analysis": ""}

'The time was coming when I should see him loved, trusted, admired, with a legend of strength and prowess forming round his name as though he had been the stuff of a hero. It's true--I assure you; as true as I'm sitting here talking about him in vain. He, on his side, had that faculty of beholding at a hint the face of his desire and the shape of his dream, without which the earth would know no lover and no adventurer. He captured much honour and an Arcadian happiness (I won't say anything about innocence) in the bush, and it was as good to him as the honour and the Arcadian happiness of the streets to another man. Felicity, felicity--how shall I say it?--is quaffed out of a golden cup in every latitude: the flavour is with you--with you alone, and you can make it as intoxicating as you please. He was of the sort that would drink deep, as you may guess from what went before. I found him, if not exactly intoxicated, then at least flushed with the elixir at his lips. He had not obtained it at once. There had been, as you know, a period of probation amongst infernal ship-chandlers, during which he had suffered and I had worried about--about--my trust--you may call it. I don't know that I am completely reassured now, after beholding him in all his brilliance. That was my last view of him--in a strong light, dominating, and yet in complete accord with his surroundings--with the life of the forests and with the life of men. I own that I was impressed, but I must admit to myself that after all this is not the lasting impression. He was protected by his isolation, alone of his own superior kind, in close touch with Nature, that keeps faith on such easy terms with her lovers. But I cannot fix before my eye the image of his safety. I shall always remember him as seen through the open door of my room, taking, perhaps, too much to heart the mere consequences of his failure. I am pleased, of course, that some good--and even some splendour--came out of my endeavours; but at times it seems to me it would have been better for my peace of mind if I had not stood between him and Chester's confoundedly generous offer. I wonder what his exuberant imagination would have made of Walpole islet--that most hopelessly forsaken crumb of dry land on the face of the waters. It is not likely I would ever have heard, for I must tell you that Chester, after calling at some Australian port to patch up his brig-rigged sea-anachronism, steamed out into the Pacific with a crew of twenty-two hands all told, and the only news having a possible bearing upon the mystery of his fate was the news of a hurricane which is supposed to have swept in its course over the Walpole shoals, a month or so afterwards. Not a vestige of the Argonauts ever turned up; not a sound came out of the waste. Finis! The Pacific is the most discreet of live, hot-tempered oceans: the chilly Antarctic can keep a secret too, but more in the manner of a grave. 'And there is a sense of blessed finality in such discretion, which is what we all more or less sincerely are ready to admit--for what else is it that makes the idea of death supportable? End! Finis! the potent word that exorcises from the house of life the haunting shadow of fate. This is what--notwithstanding the testimony of my eyes and his own earnest assurances--I miss when I look back upon Jim's success. While there's life there is hope, truly; but there is fear too. I don't mean to say that I regret my action, nor will I pretend that I can't sleep o' nights in consequence; still, the idea obtrudes itself that he made so much of his disgrace while it is the guilt alone that matters. He was not--if I may say so--clear to me. He was not clear. And there is a suspicion he was not clear to himself either. There were his fine sensibilities, his fine feelings, his fine longings--a sort of sublimated, idealised selfishness. He was--if you allow me to say so--very fine; very fine--and very unfortunate. A little coarser nature would not have borne the strain; it would have had to come to terms with itself--with a sigh, with a grunt, or even with a guffaw; a still coarser one would have remained invulnerably ignorant and completely uninteresting. 'But he was too interesting or too unfortunate to be thrown to the dogs, or even to Chester. I felt this while I sat with my face over the paper and he fought and gasped, struggling for his breath in that terribly stealthy way, in my room; I felt it when he rushed out on the verandah as if to fling himself over--and didn't; I felt it more and more all the time he remained outside, faintly lighted on the background of night, as if standing on the shore of a sombre and hopeless sea. 'An abrupt heavy rumble made me lift my head. The noise seemed to roll away, and suddenly a searching and violent glare fell on the blind face of the night. The sustained and dazzling flickers seemed to last for an unconscionable time. The growl of the thunder increased steadily while I looked at him, distinct and black, planted solidly upon the shores of a sea of light. At the moment of greatest brilliance the darkness leaped back with a culminating crash, and he vanished before my dazzled eyes as utterly as though he had been blown to atoms. A blustering sigh passed; furious hands seemed to tear at the shrubs, shake the tops of the trees below, slam doors, break window-panes, all along the front of the building. He stepped in, closing the door behind him, and found me bending over the table: my sudden anxiety as to what he would say was very great, and akin to a fright. "May I have a cigarette?" he asked. I gave a push to the box without raising my head. "I want--want--tobacco," he muttered. I became extremely buoyant. "Just a moment." I grunted pleasantly. He took a few steps here and there. "That's over," I heard him say. A single distant clap of thunder came from the sea like a gun of distress. "The monsoon breaks up early this year," he remarked conversationally, somewhere behind me. This encouraged me to turn round, which I did as soon as I had finished addressing the last envelope. He was smoking greedily in the middle of the room, and though he heard the stir I made, he remained with his back to me for a time. '"Come--I carried it off pretty well," he said, wheeling suddenly. "Something's paid off--not much. I wonder what's to come." His face did not show any emotion, only it appeared a little darkened and swollen, as though he had been holding his breath. He smiled reluctantly as it were, and went on while I gazed up at him mutely. . . . "Thank you, though--your room--jolly convenient--for a chap--badly hipped." . . . The rain pattered and swished in the garden; a water-pipe (it must have had a hole in it) performed just outside the window a parody of blubbering woe with funny sobs and gurgling lamentations, interrupted by jerky spasms of silence. . . . "A bit of shelter," he mumbled and ceased. 'A flash of faded lightning darted in through the black framework of the windows and ebbed out without any noise. I was thinking how I had best approach him (I did not want to be flung off again) when he gave a little laugh. "No better than a vagabond now" . . . the end of the cigarette smouldered between his fingers . . . "without a single--single," he pronounced slowly; "and yet . . ." He paused; the rain fell with redoubled violence. "Some day one's bound to come upon some sort of chance to get it all back again. Must!" he whispered distinctly, glaring at my boots. 'I did not even know what it was he wished so much to regain, what it was he had so terribly missed. It might have been so much that it was impossible to say. A piece of ass's skin, according to Chester. . . . He looked up at me inquisitively. "Perhaps. If life's long enough," I muttered through my teeth with unreasonable animosity. "Don't reckon too much on it." '"Jove! I feel as if nothing could ever touch me," he said in a tone of sombre conviction. "If this business couldn't knock me over, then there's no fear of there being not enough time to--climb out, and . . ." He looked upwards. 'It struck me that it is from such as he that the great army of waifs and strays is recruited, the army that marches down, down into all the gutters of the earth. As soon as he left my room, that "bit of shelter," he would take his place in the ranks, and begin the journey towards the bottomless pit. I at least had no illusions; but it was I, too, who a moment ago had been so sure of the power of words, and now was afraid to speak, in the same way one dares not move for fear of losing a slippery hold. It is when we try to grapple with another man's intimate need that we perceive how incomprehensible, wavering, and misty are the beings that share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the sun. It is as if loneliness were a hard and absolute condition of existence; the envelope of flesh and blood on which our eyes are fixed melts before the outstretched hand, and there remains only the capricious, unconsolable, and elusive spirit that no eye can follow, no hand can grasp. It was the fear of losing him that kept me silent, for it was borne upon me suddenly and with unaccountable force that should I let him slip away into the darkness I would never forgive myself. '"Well. Thanks--once more. You've been--er--uncommonly--really there's no word to . . . Uncommonly! I don't know why, I am sure. I am afraid I don't feel as grateful as I would if the whole thing hadn't been so brutally sprung on me. Because at bottom . . . you, yourself . . ." He stuttered. '"Possibly," I struck in. He frowned. '"All the same, one is responsible." He watched me like a hawk. '"And that's true, too," I said. '"Well. I've gone with it to the end, and I don't intend to let any man cast it in my teeth without--without--resenting it." He clenched his fist. '"There's yourself," I said with a smile--mirthless enough, God knows--but he looked at me menacingly. "That's my business," he said. An air of indomitable resolution came and went upon his face like a vain and passing shadow. Next moment he looked a dear good boy in trouble, as before. He flung away the cigarette. "Good-bye," he said, with the sudden haste of a man who had lingered too long in view of a pressing bit of work waiting for him; and then for a second or so he made not the slightest movement. The downpour fell with the heavy uninterrupted rush of a sweeping flood, with a sound of unchecked overwhelming fury that called to one's mind the images of collapsing bridges, of uprooted trees, of undermined mountains. No man could breast the colossal and headlong stream that seemed to break and swirl against the dim stillness in which we were precariously sheltered as if on an island. The perforated pipe gurgled, choked, spat, and splashed in odious ridicule of a swimmer fighting for his life. "It is raining," I remonstrated, "and I . . ." "Rain or shine," he began brusquely, checked himself, and walked to the window. "Perfect deluge," he muttered after a while: he leaned his forehead on the glass. "It's dark, too." '"Yes, it is very dark," I said. 'He pivoted on his heels, crossed the room, and had actually opened the door leading into the corridor before I leaped up from my chair. "Wait," I cried, "I want you to . . ." "I can't dine with you again to-night," he flung at me, with one leg out of the room already. "I haven't the slightest intention to ask you," I shouted. At this he drew back his foot, but remained mistrustfully in the very doorway. I lost no time in entreating him earnestly not to be absurd; to come in and shut the door.'

Chapter 16

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-16

Things start improving for Jim in the future, Marlow tells us: "He captured much honour and Arcadian happiness in the bush " . Arcadian refers to a region in ancient Greece , and the word has come to mean a simple, peaceful, country region. And when he says "the bush," he's referring to the wilderness or countryside. It appears Jim made a life for himself somewhere quiet and unpopulated. But before we get too far into Jim's current situation, Marlow wants to give us some more details about this Chester guy. He tells us Chester was at sea in a hurricane not too long after his meeting with Marlow. Back at Marlow's hotel, he wraps up his letters on behalf of Jim, and the two of them start to chat. But the ever-awkward Jim tries to rush off. Marlow calls him back.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/41.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_40_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 41

chapter 41

{"name": "Chapter 41", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-41", "summary": "Mrs. Jennings goes to see Lucy the next day with congratulations, and is reassured that both she and Edward are very happy. She's confident that they'll all be together soon at Delaford Parsonage. She gives credit in the matter to Elinor and Colonel Brandon for their assistance. It's been about a week since anyone heard anything from John and Fanny, and Elinor feels obliged to visit, despite Marianne's desire not to. She goes by herself to check on Fanny. When she gets to the Dashwood home, she runs into her brother, who invites her in to see Fanny. John, as usual, is happy to see his sister, and wants to investigate the matter of Colonel Brandon's gift to Edward - can it be true? Can Colonel Brandon really be offering Edward a job? John is totally shocked by all of this considering that Colonel Brandon barely knows Edward at all. He begs Elinor not to mention Edward to Fanny. He doesn't want his mother-in-law to find out about this yet. Elinor wants to know why any of this should matter to Mrs. Ferrars - after all, she cast out her son completely. Why should she care what happens to him, either good or bad? John corrects his sister, saying that Mrs. Ferrars still loves Edward, and won't be able to hear of his horrible marriage without being distressed. The topic shifts to the other Ferrars brother - the clan plans to marry the unfortunate Miss Morton off to Robert now. Elinor asks if Miss Morton has any choice in the matter, and is informed pragmatically that it's the same difference. Robert's the one with the money now, so why should she care which one he is? Before she sees Fanny, John wants to tell Elinor one more thing - Mrs. Ferrars has actually admitted that she would have infinitely preferred it if Edward had just married Elinor, instead of Lucy, despite the fact that she had originally looked down on that connection. At this point, Robert enters the room and starts chatting with Elinor, while John goes to tell Fanny that his sister is there to see her. Robert continues to be obnoxious, and again trash talks Edward. He laughs at the idea of Edward as a clergyman, and is totally insensitive to the fact that his family has basically screwed over his only brother. He claims to be sorry for Edward, even though he's laughing at him. Robert dismisses his brother as ruined forever. Elinor asks if Robert has met his future sister-in-law, and he replies that he only saw her once, and was thoroughly unimpressed. He even went so far as to tell Edward that he was making a terrible mistake in marrying her. Finally, Fanny emerges to greet Elinor - surprisingly, with a moderate degree of friendliness. She even says that she wishes that Elinor and Marianne were staying in town longer.", "analysis": ""}

Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life. Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edward WOULD give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry. It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit.--This was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her carriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike. Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in. They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.--Nobody was there. "Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said he:--"I will go to her presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the world to seeing YOU.-- Very far from it, indeed. NOW especially there cannot be--but however, you and Marianne were always great favourites.--Why would not Marianne come?"-- Elinor made what excuse she could for her. "I am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for I have a good deal to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's--can it be true?--has he really given it to Edward?--I heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it." "It is perfectly true.--Colonel Brandon has given the living of Delaford to Edward." "Really!--Well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no connection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a price!--what was the value of this?" "About two hundred a year." "Very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that value--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and likely to vacate it soon--he might have got I dare say--fourteen hundred pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before this person's death?--NOW indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a man of Colonel Brandon's sense!--I wonder he should be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!--Well, I am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human character. I suppose, however--on recollection--that the case may probably be THIS. Edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to take it.--Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it." Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority. "It is truly astonishing!"--he cried, after hearing what she said--"what could be the Colonel's motive?" "A very simple one--to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky man.--You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like to hear it much talked of." Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished. "Mrs. Ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and I believe it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be.-- When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all." "But why should such precaution be used?--Though it is not to be supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for THAT must be quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all?--She has done with her son, she cast him off for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him.-- She would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!" "Ah! Elinor," said John, "your reasoning is very good, but it is founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy match takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son." "You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory by THIS time." "You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most affectionate mothers in the world." Elinor was silent. "We think NOW,"--said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, "of ROBERT'S marrying Miss Morton." Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's tone, calmly replied, "The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair." "Choice!--how do you mean?" "I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert." "Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that one is superior to the other." Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.--His reflections ended thus. "Of ONE thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand, and speaking in an awful whisper,--"I may assure you;--and I WILL do it, because I know it must gratify you. I have good reason to think--indeed I have it from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very wrong to say any thing about it--but I have it from the very best authority--not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say it herself--but her daughter DID, and I have it from her--That in short, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a certain connection--you understand me--it would have been far preferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation that THIS does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that light--a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all. 'It would have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound NOW for nothing worse.' But however, all that is quite out of the question--not to be thought of or mentioned--as to any attachment you know--it never could be--all that is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason to regret, my dear Elinor. There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well--quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately?" Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her brother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments' chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart. They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very different, was not less striking than it had been on HIM. He laughed most immoderately. The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous. Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility. "We may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the moment--"but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. Poor Edward! he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it--for I know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge of him, Miss Dashwood, from YOUR slight acquaintance.--Poor Edward!--His manners are certainly not the happiest in nature.--But we are not all born, you know, with the same powers,--the same address.-- Poor fellow!--to see him in a circle of strangers!--to be sure it was pitiable enough!--but upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and I declare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. I could not believe it.-- My mother was the first person who told me of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her, 'My dear madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must say, that if Edward does marry this young woman, I never will see him again.' That was what I said immediately.-- I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed!--Poor Edward!--he has done for himself completely--shut himself out for ever from all decent society!--but, as I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least surprised at it; from his style of education, it was always to be expected. My poor mother was half frantic." "Have you ever seen the lady?" "Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty.-- I remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late THEN, I found, to do any thing, for unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier--I think it is most probable--that something might have been hit on. I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. 'My dear fellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you are doing. You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be starved, you know;--that is certain; absolutely starved." He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though SHE never spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of them;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.

Chapter 41

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-41

Mrs. Jennings goes to see Lucy the next day with congratulations, and is reassured that both she and Edward are very happy. She's confident that they'll all be together soon at Delaford Parsonage. She gives credit in the matter to Elinor and Colonel Brandon for their assistance. It's been about a week since anyone heard anything from John and Fanny, and Elinor feels obliged to visit, despite Marianne's desire not to. She goes by herself to check on Fanny. When she gets to the Dashwood home, she runs into her brother, who invites her in to see Fanny. John, as usual, is happy to see his sister, and wants to investigate the matter of Colonel Brandon's gift to Edward - can it be true? Can Colonel Brandon really be offering Edward a job? John is totally shocked by all of this considering that Colonel Brandon barely knows Edward at all. He begs Elinor not to mention Edward to Fanny. He doesn't want his mother-in-law to find out about this yet. Elinor wants to know why any of this should matter to Mrs. Ferrars - after all, she cast out her son completely. Why should she care what happens to him, either good or bad? John corrects his sister, saying that Mrs. Ferrars still loves Edward, and won't be able to hear of his horrible marriage without being distressed. The topic shifts to the other Ferrars brother - the clan plans to marry the unfortunate Miss Morton off to Robert now. Elinor asks if Miss Morton has any choice in the matter, and is informed pragmatically that it's the same difference. Robert's the one with the money now, so why should she care which one he is? Before she sees Fanny, John wants to tell Elinor one more thing - Mrs. Ferrars has actually admitted that she would have infinitely preferred it if Edward had just married Elinor, instead of Lucy, despite the fact that she had originally looked down on that connection. At this point, Robert enters the room and starts chatting with Elinor, while John goes to tell Fanny that his sister is there to see her. Robert continues to be obnoxious, and again trash talks Edward. He laughs at the idea of Edward as a clergyman, and is totally insensitive to the fact that his family has basically screwed over his only brother. He claims to be sorry for Edward, even though he's laughing at him. Robert dismisses his brother as ruined forever. Elinor asks if Robert has met his future sister-in-law, and he replies that he only saw her once, and was thoroughly unimpressed. He even went so far as to tell Edward that he was making a terrible mistake in marrying her. Finally, Fanny emerges to greet Elinor - surprisingly, with a moderate degree of friendliness. She even says that she wishes that Elinor and Marianne were staying in town longer.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/02.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Sense and Sensibility/section_1_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 2

chapter 2

{"name": "Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility16.asp", "summary": "Mr. Henry Dashwood is leading a comfortable and happy life with his family at Norland Estate, which belongs to his uncle. He is the rightful heir to the property. However, after his uncle's death, it is revealed that his son, John Dashwood, and his grandson, Harry, are to inherit the estate. Mr. Henry Dashwood is obviously disappointed. He is concerned about the welfare of his wife and three daughters, who might have to lead a simple life with a very modest income. Before he dies, he calls his son, John, to his side and asks him to support Mrs. Dashwood and the girls. John decides to give his sisters three thousand pounds. In the meantime, Fanny Dashwood, John's wife, arrives at Norland Estate and soon takes charge of the house. She adopts an air of condescension towards her in-laws. Mrs. Dashwood feels slighted. Her daughters, especially Elinor, understand her plight but are helpless to improve their situation.", "analysis": "Notes In this chapter Jane Austen presents the circumstances which place the main characters of the novel, Mrs. Dashwood and her children, in a difficult situation. The novel opens with the death of the elder Mr. Dashwood, who was a bachelor and the owner of the Norland Estate. His nephew, Henry, and his family have been living with him and looking after his needs. Naturally, they expect to be named the inheritors of the estate. However, they are shocked when the will is read after the old man's death. Mr. John Dashwood, the old man's grand nephew, and his son, Harry, are declared the inheritors of the property. The turn in the fortunes of Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters thus becomes the starting point for the novel. The chapter also gives a family portrait of the Dashwoods. The reader is presented with sketches of all the characters, from the elder Mr. Dashwood to little Harry. Old Mr. Dashwood is a kind but eccentric man who leaves the best part of his property not to his nephew, who looked after him, but to his grand nephew, who was only a visitor in his house. The nephew, Henry Dashwood, is a good man with a 'cheerful and sanguine' temperament. Mrs. Dashwood is a sensitive woman with \"a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic\" that she finds it difficult to tolerate the arrogant behavior of her daughter-in-law. Fanny Dashwood is an avaricious, 'narrow-minded and selfish' woman who does not mind hurting her in-laws' feelings. John Dashwood is \"not an ill- disposed young man,\" but he is overpowered by his domineering wife. Elinor is good sense personified, while Marianne is idealistic and romantic. Margaret is a good-natured girl who resembles Marianne in her fanciful ideas. Harry is the spoiled child of Fanny and John Dashwood. His cunning tricks have won over the heart of old Mr. Dashwood and induced him to make the little boy the actual inheritor of Norland Estate. This chapter also introduces the main theme of the novel: sense versus sensibility. Elinor is presented as a girl who possesses not only good looks but good sense, too, which makes her the decision-maker in the family. Marianne is the opposite of her in temperament. She is impulsive and is guided only by her sensibility CHAPTER 2 Summary This chapter is a continuation of the previous chapter. The presence of Fanny Dashwood at Norland changes the atmosphere of the house. She acts as the mistress of the house and treats her in-laws as mere visitors. Mrs. Dashwood tolerates her daughter- in-law's imposing manner only because of John, who is civil to everyone. However, Fanny succeeds in changing her husband's decision to assist his sisters financially. Therefore, John, who had made up his mind to give his sisters three thousand pounds, now decides against giving them anything. He is obviously under the influence of his wife. Notes This short chapter exposes the true nature of Fanny. She is rude, selfish and greedy. She arrives at Norland and immediately takes control of the house, without being asked to do so. She is in a hurry to establish herself as the mistress of the house. Through her imposing manner, she hurts the feelings of her mother-in-law and places her in an awkward position. She is cunning and crafty as well. When John reveals to her his plans to give his sisters money, she is shocked. However, instead of expressing her anger to him, she slowly but surely manages to convince him against providing any aid to Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters. John is dim-witted and does not see through Fanny's scheming nature. In fact, he is thankful to her for her advice and is quite satisfied with her reasoning. The scene between John and Fanny Dashwood is one of the most humorous scenes in the novel. John Dashwood, like a devoted husband, tells his wife about his plans to give three thousand pounds to his sisters. Fanny is aghast at his generosity, but she does not throw a fit or chastise him. She overpowers her husband with sweet talk, sly reasoning and mild assertion. She appears to agree with him but ends up disagreeing. When John mentions his promise to his father, Fanny argues, \"Well, then, let something be done for them; but that something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider. . . that when the money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could ever be restored to our poor little boy-- \" She tries to sound reasonable and plays on his sentiments. John is too weak to resist her logic and sees sense in her reasoning. He finds her argument \"irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before: and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighborly acts as his own wife pointed out.\" It is evident how malleable John is in his wife's hands."}

Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors. As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted. A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy. Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount. It was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters? "It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I should assist his widow and daughters." "He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child." "He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise, I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home." "Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when the money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored to our poor little boy--" "Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a very convenient addition." "To be sure it would." "Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were diminished one half.--Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!" "Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if REALLY his sisters! And as it is--only half blood!--But you have such a generous spirit!" "I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "One had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect more." "There is no knowing what THEY may expect," said the lady, "but we are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can afford to do." "Certainly--and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable fortune for any young woman." "To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds." "That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I mean.--My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable." His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan. "To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in." "Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that purchase." "Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world." "It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your mother justly says, is NOT one's own. To be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one's independence." "Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses." "I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father." "To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than that?--They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give YOU something." "Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right. My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described. When my mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little present of furniture too may be acceptable then." "Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, ONE thing must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it." "That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here." "Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place THEY can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your father thought only of THEM. And I must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the world to THEM." This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife pointed out.

Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility16.asp

Mr. Henry Dashwood is leading a comfortable and happy life with his family at Norland Estate, which belongs to his uncle. He is the rightful heir to the property. However, after his uncle's death, it is revealed that his son, John Dashwood, and his grandson, Harry, are to inherit the estate. Mr. Henry Dashwood is obviously disappointed. He is concerned about the welfare of his wife and three daughters, who might have to lead a simple life with a very modest income. Before he dies, he calls his son, John, to his side and asks him to support Mrs. Dashwood and the girls. John decides to give his sisters three thousand pounds. In the meantime, Fanny Dashwood, John's wife, arrives at Norland Estate and soon takes charge of the house. She adopts an air of condescension towards her in-laws. Mrs. Dashwood feels slighted. Her daughters, especially Elinor, understand her plight but are helpless to improve their situation.

Notes In this chapter Jane Austen presents the circumstances which place the main characters of the novel, Mrs. Dashwood and her children, in a difficult situation. The novel opens with the death of the elder Mr. Dashwood, who was a bachelor and the owner of the Norland Estate. His nephew, Henry, and his family have been living with him and looking after his needs. Naturally, they expect to be named the inheritors of the estate. However, they are shocked when the will is read after the old man's death. Mr. John Dashwood, the old man's grand nephew, and his son, Harry, are declared the inheritors of the property. The turn in the fortunes of Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters thus becomes the starting point for the novel. The chapter also gives a family portrait of the Dashwoods. The reader is presented with sketches of all the characters, from the elder Mr. Dashwood to little Harry. Old Mr. Dashwood is a kind but eccentric man who leaves the best part of his property not to his nephew, who looked after him, but to his grand nephew, who was only a visitor in his house. The nephew, Henry Dashwood, is a good man with a 'cheerful and sanguine' temperament. Mrs. Dashwood is a sensitive woman with "a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic" that she finds it difficult to tolerate the arrogant behavior of her daughter-in-law. Fanny Dashwood is an avaricious, 'narrow-minded and selfish' woman who does not mind hurting her in-laws' feelings. John Dashwood is "not an ill- disposed young man," but he is overpowered by his domineering wife. Elinor is good sense personified, while Marianne is idealistic and romantic. Margaret is a good-natured girl who resembles Marianne in her fanciful ideas. Harry is the spoiled child of Fanny and John Dashwood. His cunning tricks have won over the heart of old Mr. Dashwood and induced him to make the little boy the actual inheritor of Norland Estate. This chapter also introduces the main theme of the novel: sense versus sensibility. Elinor is presented as a girl who possesses not only good looks but good sense, too, which makes her the decision-maker in the family. Marianne is the opposite of her in temperament. She is impulsive and is guided only by her sensibility CHAPTER 2 Summary This chapter is a continuation of the previous chapter. The presence of Fanny Dashwood at Norland changes the atmosphere of the house. She acts as the mistress of the house and treats her in-laws as mere visitors. Mrs. Dashwood tolerates her daughter- in-law's imposing manner only because of John, who is civil to everyone. However, Fanny succeeds in changing her husband's decision to assist his sisters financially. Therefore, John, who had made up his mind to give his sisters three thousand pounds, now decides against giving them anything. He is obviously under the influence of his wife. Notes This short chapter exposes the true nature of Fanny. She is rude, selfish and greedy. She arrives at Norland and immediately takes control of the house, without being asked to do so. She is in a hurry to establish herself as the mistress of the house. Through her imposing manner, she hurts the feelings of her mother-in-law and places her in an awkward position. She is cunning and crafty as well. When John reveals to her his plans to give his sisters money, she is shocked. However, instead of expressing her anger to him, she slowly but surely manages to convince him against providing any aid to Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters. John is dim-witted and does not see through Fanny's scheming nature. In fact, he is thankful to her for her advice and is quite satisfied with her reasoning. The scene between John and Fanny Dashwood is one of the most humorous scenes in the novel. John Dashwood, like a devoted husband, tells his wife about his plans to give three thousand pounds to his sisters. Fanny is aghast at his generosity, but she does not throw a fit or chastise him. She overpowers her husband with sweet talk, sly reasoning and mild assertion. She appears to agree with him but ends up disagreeing. When John mentions his promise to his father, Fanny argues, "Well, then, let something be done for them; but that something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider. . . that when the money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could ever be restored to our poor little boy-- " She tries to sound reasonable and plays on his sentiments. John is too weak to resist her logic and sees sense in her reasoning. He finds her argument "irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before: and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighborly acts as his own wife pointed out." It is evident how malleable John is in his wife's hands.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/06.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_0_part_6.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 6

chapter 6

{"name": "Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-10", "summary": "The Dashwoods are melancholy on setting off, but as they get closer to Barton Cottage they become more interested in this new area and the new home they are to inhabit. They find Barton Cottage a bit small and comfortable, though not as romantic as a cottage is thought to be. The valley and countryside around it is very pleasant, and helps them to think well of their new place. They make do as well as they can, though Mrs. Dashwood wishes to make improvements to the place in the future. Sir John Middleton, their landlord and Mrs. Dashwood's cousin, soon comes to visit; he is very kind, and glad to see that they are there, and somewhat settled. He invites them up to dine at Barton Park until they are more at home, and insists that they visit him often there. Lady Middleton comes to visit them the next day; she is Sir John's wife, very elegant, though far more cold and reserved than her very friendly husband. After her visit, they are invited to Barton Park the next day, and accept the invitation.", "analysis": "This chapter highlights the theme of expectations vs. reality, for although Marianne expected to miss Norland terribly for a long time, and her mother expected their diminished circumstances to be very trying, both are able to cope admirably with their new circumstances. Adapting does not seem so hard as they had expected, especially with as kind a landlord and host as Sir John Middleton is. Still, this is a transition phase for the family, as they must accept a reduced income along with a reduced social standing. However, their tone remains relatively upbeat, as does Austen's when describing their new home and situation at Barton Cottage"}

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

Chapter 6

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

The Dashwoods are melancholy on setting off, but as they get closer to Barton Cottage they become more interested in this new area and the new home they are to inhabit. They find Barton Cottage a bit small and comfortable, though not as romantic as a cottage is thought to be. The valley and countryside around it is very pleasant, and helps them to think well of their new place. They make do as well as they can, though Mrs. Dashwood wishes to make improvements to the place in the future. Sir John Middleton, their landlord and Mrs. Dashwood's cousin, soon comes to visit; he is very kind, and glad to see that they are there, and somewhat settled. He invites them up to dine at Barton Park until they are more at home, and insists that they visit him often there. Lady Middleton comes to visit them the next day; she is Sir John's wife, very elegant, though far more cold and reserved than her very friendly husband. After her visit, they are invited to Barton Park the next day, and accept the invitation.

This chapter highlights the theme of expectations vs. reality, for although Marianne expected to miss Norland terribly for a long time, and her mother expected their diminished circumstances to be very trying, both are able to cope admirably with their new circumstances. Adapting does not seem so hard as they had expected, especially with as kind a landlord and host as Sir John Middleton is. Still, this is a transition phase for the family, as they must accept a reduced income along with a reduced social standing. However, their tone remains relatively upbeat, as does Austen's when describing their new home and situation at Barton Cottage

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_4_part_2.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 10

chapter 10

{"name": "Chapter 10", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210228142327/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/doriangray/section5/", "summary": "Once Basil is gone, Dorian orders his servant, Victor, to go to a nearby frame-maker and bring back two men. He then calls his housekeeper, Mrs. Leaf, whom he asks for the key to the schoolroom, which sits at the top of the house and has been unused for nearly five years. Dorian covers the portrait with an ornate satin coverlet, reflecting that the sins he commits will mar its beauty just as worms mar the body of a corpse. The men from the frame-maker's arrive, and Dorian employs them to carry the painting to the schoolroom. Here, Dorian muses, the painting will be safe from prying eyes, and if no one can actually see his deterioration, then it bears no importance. After locking the room, he returns to his study and settles down to read a book that Lord Henry has sent him. This yellow book is accompanied by a newspaper account of Sibyl's death. Horrified by the ugliness of the report, Dorian turns to the book, which traces the life of a young Parisian who devotes his life to \"all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own. After reading a few pages, Dorian becomes entranced. He finds the work to be \"a poisonous book,\" one that confuses the boundaries between vice and virtue. When Dorian meets Lord Henry for dinner later that evening, he pronounces the work fascinating. Is insincerity such a terrible thing. I think not. It is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities", "analysis": "Sibyl's death compels Dorian to make the conscious decision to embrace Lord Henry's philosophy of selfishness and hedonism wholeheartedly. The contrast between Dorian's and Basil's reactions to Sibyl's death demonstrates the degree to which Lord Henry has changed Dorian. Dorian dismisses the need for grief in words that echo Lord Henry's: Sibyl need not be mourned, he proclaims, for she has \"passed . . . into the sphere of art.\" In other words, Dorian thinks of Sibyl's death as he would the death of a character in a novel or painting, and chooses not to be affected emotionally by her passing. This attitude reveals one way in which the novel blurs the distinction between life and art. Dorian himself passes \"into the sphere of art\" when his portrait reflects the physical manifestations of age and sin. While it is usually paintings that never age and people who do, it is the other way around with Dorian, as he has become more like a work of art than a human. Basil's declaration of his obsession with Dorian is in many ways a defense and justification of homosexual love. In 1895, five years after Dorian Gray was published, Wilde was famously convicted of sodomy for his romantic relationship with Lord Alfred Douglas. Wilde defended homosexual love as an emotion experienced by some of the world's greatest men. He insisted that it had its roots in ancient Greece and was, therefore, fundamental to the development of Western thought and culture. In his trial, when asked to describe the \"love that dare not speak its name,\" Wilde explained it as such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. . . . It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. This testimony is strikingly similar to Dorian's reflection upon the kind of affection that Basil shows him: t was really love-- had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses, and that dies when the senses tire. It was such love as Michael Angelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Basil translates these highly emotional and physical feelings into his art; his act of painting is an expression of his love for Dorian. This romantic devotion to Dorian becomes clear when he admits his reason for not wanting to exhibit the painting: he fears that people will see his \"idolatry.\" Dorian reflects, for a moment, that with this love Basil might have saved him from Lord Henry's influence, but he soon resigns himself to living a life dictated by the pursuit of passion. He devours the mysterious \"yellow book\" that Lord Henry gives him, which acts almost as a guide for the journey on which he is to travel. Like the protagonist of that novel, Dorian spirals into a world of self-gratification and exotic sensations. Although Wilde, in letters, identified the novel as imaginary, it is based in part on the nineteenth-century French novel A Rebours , by Joris-Karl Huysmans, in which a decadent and wealthy Frenchman indulges himself in a host of bizarre sensory experiences. The yellow book has profound influence on Dorian; one might argue that it leads to his downfall. This downfall occurs not because the book itself is immoral here is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book\") but because Dorian allows the book to dominate and determine his actions so completely. It becomes, for Dorian, a doctrine as limiting and stultifying as the common Victorian morals from which he seeks escape. After all, Lord Henry is a great fan of the yellow book, but, to his mind, it is no greater or more important than any other work of notable art. He does not let it dominate his life or determine his actions, which, in turn, allows him to retain the respectability that Dorian soon loses."}

When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor's face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his guard. Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was that merely his own fancy? After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He asked her for the key of the schoolroom. "The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?" she exclaimed. "Why, it is full of dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed." "I don't want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key." "Well, sir, you'll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it hasn't been opened for nearly five years--not since his lordship died." He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of him. "That does not matter," he answered. "I simply want to see the place--that is all. Give me the key." "And here is the key, sir," said the old lady, going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "Here is the key. I'll have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don't think of living up there, sir, and you so comfortable here?" "No, no," he cried petulantly. "Thank you, Leaf. That will do." She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of the household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles. As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round the room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on the canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They would defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still live on. It would be always alive. He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil would have helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and the still more poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love that he bore him--for it was really love--had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire. It was such love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was too late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable. There were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real. He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips--they all were there. It was simply the expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil's reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!--how shallow, and of what little account! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door. He passed out as his servant entered. "The persons are here, Monsieur." He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed to know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the writing-table he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him round something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening. "Wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men in here." In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was considerably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in favour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed everybody. It was a pleasure even to see him. "What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled hands. "I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited for a religious subject, Mr. Gray." "I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr. Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame--though I don't go in much at present for religious art--but to-day I only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men." "No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to you. Which is the work of art, sir?" "This," replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it, covering and all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratched going upstairs." "There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the long brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, where shall we carry it to, Mr. Gray?" "I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider." He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it so as to help them. "Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man when they reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead. "I am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured Dorian as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men. He had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large, well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but little changed. There was the huge Italian _cassone_, with its fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he remembered it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him! But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He kept his youth--that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full of shame. Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh--those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallward's masterpiece. No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow's feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed. There was no help for it. "Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else." "Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?" "Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don't want to have it hung up. Just lean it against the wall. Thanks." "Might one look at the work of art, sir?" Dorian started. "It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard," he said, keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed the secret of his life. "I shan't trouble you any more now. I am much obliged for your kindness in coming round." "Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you, sir." And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous. When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame. On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o'clock and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley, his guardian's wife, a pretty professional invalid who had spent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of _The St. James's Gazette_ had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had returned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. He would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set back, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the room. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. He had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a shred of crumpled lace. He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry's note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opened _The St. James's_ languidly, and looked through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew attention to the following paragraph: INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased. He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for having sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more than enough English for that. Perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet, what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane's death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her. His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was it, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed. It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows. Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his bedside and began to dress for dinner. It was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. "I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the time was going." "Yes, I thought you would like it," replied his host, rising from his chair. "I didn't say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference." "Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into the dining-room.

Chapter 10

https://web.archive.org/web/20210228142327/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/doriangray/section5/

Once Basil is gone, Dorian orders his servant, Victor, to go to a nearby frame-maker and bring back two men. He then calls his housekeeper, Mrs. Leaf, whom he asks for the key to the schoolroom, which sits at the top of the house and has been unused for nearly five years. Dorian covers the portrait with an ornate satin coverlet, reflecting that the sins he commits will mar its beauty just as worms mar the body of a corpse. The men from the frame-maker's arrive, and Dorian employs them to carry the painting to the schoolroom. Here, Dorian muses, the painting will be safe from prying eyes, and if no one can actually see his deterioration, then it bears no importance. After locking the room, he returns to his study and settles down to read a book that Lord Henry has sent him. This yellow book is accompanied by a newspaper account of Sibyl's death. Horrified by the ugliness of the report, Dorian turns to the book, which traces the life of a young Parisian who devotes his life to "all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own. After reading a few pages, Dorian becomes entranced. He finds the work to be "a poisonous book," one that confuses the boundaries between vice and virtue. When Dorian meets Lord Henry for dinner later that evening, he pronounces the work fascinating. Is insincerity such a terrible thing. I think not. It is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities

Sibyl's death compels Dorian to make the conscious decision to embrace Lord Henry's philosophy of selfishness and hedonism wholeheartedly. The contrast between Dorian's and Basil's reactions to Sibyl's death demonstrates the degree to which Lord Henry has changed Dorian. Dorian dismisses the need for grief in words that echo Lord Henry's: Sibyl need not be mourned, he proclaims, for she has "passed . . . into the sphere of art." In other words, Dorian thinks of Sibyl's death as he would the death of a character in a novel or painting, and chooses not to be affected emotionally by her passing. This attitude reveals one way in which the novel blurs the distinction between life and art. Dorian himself passes "into the sphere of art" when his portrait reflects the physical manifestations of age and sin. While it is usually paintings that never age and people who do, it is the other way around with Dorian, as he has become more like a work of art than a human. Basil's declaration of his obsession with Dorian is in many ways a defense and justification of homosexual love. In 1895, five years after Dorian Gray was published, Wilde was famously convicted of sodomy for his romantic relationship with Lord Alfred Douglas. Wilde defended homosexual love as an emotion experienced by some of the world's greatest men. He insisted that it had its roots in ancient Greece and was, therefore, fundamental to the development of Western thought and culture. In his trial, when asked to describe the "love that dare not speak its name," Wilde explained it as such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. . . . It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. This testimony is strikingly similar to Dorian's reflection upon the kind of affection that Basil shows him: t was really love-- had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses, and that dies when the senses tire. It was such love as Michael Angelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Basil translates these highly emotional and physical feelings into his art; his act of painting is an expression of his love for Dorian. This romantic devotion to Dorian becomes clear when he admits his reason for not wanting to exhibit the painting: he fears that people will see his "idolatry." Dorian reflects, for a moment, that with this love Basil might have saved him from Lord Henry's influence, but he soon resigns himself to living a life dictated by the pursuit of passion. He devours the mysterious "yellow book" that Lord Henry gives him, which acts almost as a guide for the journey on which he is to travel. Like the protagonist of that novel, Dorian spirals into a world of self-gratification and exotic sensations. Although Wilde, in letters, identified the novel as imaginary, it is based in part on the nineteenth-century French novel A Rebours , by Joris-Karl Huysmans, in which a decadent and wealthy Frenchman indulges himself in a host of bizarre sensory experiences. The yellow book has profound influence on Dorian; one might argue that it leads to his downfall. This downfall occurs not because the book itself is immoral here is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book") but because Dorian allows the book to dominate and determine his actions so completely. It becomes, for Dorian, a doctrine as limiting and stultifying as the common Victorian morals from which he seeks escape. After all, Lord Henry is a great fan of the yellow book, but, to his mind, it is no greater or more important than any other work of notable art. He does not let it dominate his life or determine his actions, which, in turn, allows him to retain the respectability that Dorian soon loses.

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finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_2_part_1.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 2.chapter 5

book 2, chapter 5

{"name": "book 2, Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section3/", "summary": "So Be It. So Be It. Alyosha follows Zosima back to his cell, where Ivan and the monks are debating Ivan's article about ecclesiastical courts. Miusov, who considers himself a political intellectual, continually tries to join the argument, but the other men, caught up in their own discussion, generally ignore him. Miusov, already aggravated by Fyodor Pavlovich's taunting, becomes almost unbearably irritated. Ivan explains that he does not believe in the separation of the church and state. He believes that the church should subsume the state, so that religious authorities administer laws, and ecclesiastical courts handle the judicial process. Miusov tries to interject that this situation would be \"sheer Ultramontanism,\" meaning that Ivan's proposal would create a situation in which the pope would have absolute power. The word Ultramontanism refers to the fact that Rome, the seat of the papacy of the Catholic Church, is literally \"beyond the mountains\" from Russia and the Orthodox Church. The other men ignore Miusov. Ivan insists that if the only courts were ecclesiastical courts, the very notion of crime would slowly change. People would be much less likely to commit crimes in the first place, he argues, because they would know that in doing so, they would be acting not merely against a government or a state, but against God. Zosima, to the surprise of some of the others in the room, agrees with Ivan's analysis. He argues, however, that the only real power capable of punishing crime is conscience. He says that because the church knows that each individual's moral sense is the real authority, the church chooses not to become involved in the state's administration of justice. The men become so embroiled in their debate that they forget about Dmitri's lateness, and when he suddenly bursts in through the door, they are slightly surprised to see him", "analysis": ""}

Chapter V. So Be It! So Be It! The elder's absence from his cell had lasted for about twenty-five minutes. It was more than half-past twelve, but Dmitri, on whose account they had all met there, had still not appeared. But he seemed almost to be forgotten, and when the elder entered the cell again, he found his guests engaged in eager conversation. Ivan and the two monks took the leading share in it. Miuesov, too, was trying to take a part, and apparently very eagerly, in the conversation. But he was unsuccessful in this also. He was evidently in the background, and his remarks were treated with neglect, which increased his irritability. He had had intellectual encounters with Ivan before and he could not endure a certain carelessness Ivan showed him. "Hitherto at least I have stood in the front ranks of all that is progressive in Europe, and here the new generation positively ignores us," he thought. Fyodor Pavlovitch, who had given his word to sit still and be quiet, had actually been quiet for some time, but he watched his neighbor Miuesov with an ironical little smile, obviously enjoying his discomfiture. He had been waiting for some time to pay off old scores, and now he could not let the opportunity slip. Bending over his shoulder he began teasing him again in a whisper. "Why didn't you go away just now, after the 'courteously kissing'? Why did you consent to remain in such unseemly company? It was because you felt insulted and aggrieved, and you remained to vindicate yourself by showing off your intelligence. Now you won't go till you've displayed your intellect to them." "You again?... On the contrary, I'm just going." "You'll be the last, the last of all to go!" Fyodor Pavlovitch delivered him another thrust, almost at the moment of Father Zossima's return. The discussion died down for a moment, but the elder, seating himself in his former place, looked at them all as though cordially inviting them to go on. Alyosha, who knew every expression of his face, saw that he was fearfully exhausted and making a great effort. Of late he had been liable to fainting fits from exhaustion. His face had the pallor that was common before such attacks, and his lips were white. But he evidently did not want to break up the party. He seemed to have some special object of his own in keeping them. What object? Alyosha watched him intently. "We are discussing this gentleman's most interesting article," said Father Iosif, the librarian, addressing the elder, and indicating Ivan. "He brings forward much that is new, but I think the argument cuts both ways. It is an article written in answer to a book by an ecclesiastical authority on the question of the ecclesiastical court, and the scope of its jurisdiction." "I'm sorry I have not read your article, but I've heard of it," said the elder, looking keenly and intently at Ivan. "He takes up a most interesting position," continued the Father Librarian. "As far as Church jurisdiction is concerned he is apparently quite opposed to the separation of Church from State." "That's interesting. But in what sense?" Father Zossima asked Ivan. The latter, at last, answered him, not condescendingly, as Alyosha had feared, but with modesty and reserve, with evident goodwill and apparently without the slightest _arriere-pensee_. "I start from the position that this confusion of elements, that is, of the essential principles of Church and State, will, of course, go on for ever, in spite of the fact that it is impossible for them to mingle, and that the confusion of these elements cannot lead to any consistent or even normal results, for there is falsity at the very foundation of it. Compromise between the Church and State in such questions as, for instance, jurisdiction, is, to my thinking, impossible in any real sense. My clerical opponent maintains that the Church holds a precise and defined position in the State. I maintain, on the contrary, that the Church ought to include the whole State, and not simply to occupy a corner in it, and, if this is, for some reason, impossible at present, then it ought, in reality, to be set up as the direct and chief aim of the future development of Christian society!" "Perfectly true," Father Paissy, the silent and learned monk, assented with fervor and decision. "The purest Ultramontanism!" cried Miuesov impatiently, crossing and recrossing his legs. "Oh, well, we have no mountains," cried Father Iosif, and turning to the elder he continued: "Observe the answer he makes to the following 'fundamental and essential' propositions of his opponent, who is, you must note, an ecclesiastic. First, that 'no social organization can or ought to arrogate to itself power to dispose of the civic and political rights of its members.' Secondly, that 'criminal and civil jurisdiction ought not to belong to the Church, and is inconsistent with its nature, both as a divine institution and as an organization of men for religious objects,' and, finally, in the third place, 'the Church is a kingdom not of this world.' " "A most unworthy play upon words for an ecclesiastic!" Father Paissy could not refrain from breaking in again. "I have read the book which you have answered," he added, addressing Ivan, "and was astounded at the words 'the Church is a kingdom not of this world.' If it is not of this world, then it cannot exist on earth at all. In the Gospel, the words 'not of this world' are not used in that sense. To play with such words is indefensible. Our Lord Jesus Christ came to set up the Church upon earth. The Kingdom of Heaven, of course, is not of this world, but in Heaven; but it is only entered through the Church which has been founded and established upon earth. And so a frivolous play upon words in such a connection is unpardonable and improper. The Church is, in truth, a kingdom and ordained to rule, and in the end must undoubtedly become the kingdom ruling over all the earth. For that we have the divine promise." He ceased speaking suddenly, as though checking himself. After listening attentively and respectfully Ivan went on, addressing the elder with perfect composure and as before with ready cordiality: "The whole point of my article lies in the fact that during the first three centuries Christianity only existed on earth in the Church and was nothing but the Church. When the pagan Roman Empire desired to become Christian, it inevitably happened that, by becoming Christian, it included the Church but remained a pagan State in very many of its departments. In reality this was bound to happen. But Rome as a State retained too much of the pagan civilization and culture, as, for example, in the very objects and fundamental principles of the State. The Christian Church entering into the State could, of course, surrender no part of its fundamental principles--the rock on which it stands--and could pursue no other aims than those which have been ordained and revealed by God Himself, and among them that of drawing the whole world, and therefore the ancient pagan State itself, into the Church. In that way (that is, with a view to the future) it is not the Church that should seek a definite position in the State, like 'every social organization,' or as 'an organization of men for religious purposes' (as my opponent calls the Church), but, on the contrary, every earthly State should be, in the end, completely transformed into the Church and should become nothing else but a Church, rejecting every purpose incongruous with the aims of the Church. All this will not degrade it in any way or take from its honor and glory as a great State, nor from the glory of its rulers, but only turns it from a false, still pagan, and mistaken path to the true and rightful path, which alone leads to the eternal goal. This is why the author of the book _On the Foundations of Church Jurisdiction_ would have judged correctly if, in seeking and laying down those foundations, he had looked upon them as a temporary compromise inevitable in our sinful and imperfect days. But as soon as the author ventures to declare that the foundations which he predicates now, part of which Father Iosif just enumerated, are the permanent, essential, and eternal foundations, he is going directly against the Church and its sacred and eternal vocation. That is the gist of my article." "That is, in brief," Father Paissy began again, laying stress on each word, "according to certain theories only too clearly formulated in the nineteenth century, the Church ought to be transformed into the State, as though this would be an advance from a lower to a higher form, so as to disappear into it, making way for science, for the spirit of the age, and civilization. And if the Church resists and is unwilling, some corner will be set apart for her in the State, and even that under control--and this will be so everywhere in all modern European countries. But Russian hopes and conceptions demand not that the Church should pass as from a lower into a higher type into the State, but, on the contrary, that the State should end by being worthy to become only the Church and nothing else. So be it! So be it!" "Well, I confess you've reassured me somewhat," Miuesov said smiling, again crossing his legs. "So far as I understand, then, the realization of such an ideal is infinitely remote, at the second coming of Christ. That's as you please. It's a beautiful Utopian dream of the abolition of war, diplomacy, banks, and so on--something after the fashion of socialism, indeed. But I imagined that it was all meant seriously, and that the Church might be _now_ going to try criminals, and sentence them to beating, prison, and even death." "But if there were none but the ecclesiastical court, the Church would not even now sentence a criminal to prison or to death. Crime and the way of regarding it would inevitably change, not all at once of course, but fairly soon," Ivan replied calmly, without flinching. "Are you serious?" Miuesov glanced keenly at him. "If everything became the Church, the Church would exclude all the criminal and disobedient, and would not cut off their heads," Ivan went on. "I ask you, what would become of the excluded? He would be cut off then not only from men, as now, but from Christ. By his crime he would have transgressed not only against men but against the Church of Christ. This is so even now, of course, strictly speaking, but it is not clearly enunciated, and very, very often the criminal of to-day compromises with his conscience: 'I steal,' he says, 'but I don't go against the Church. I'm not an enemy of Christ.' That's what the criminal of to-day is continually saying to himself, but when the Church takes the place of the State it will be difficult for him, in opposition to the Church all over the world, to say: 'All men are mistaken, all in error, all mankind are the false Church. I, a thief and murderer, am the only true Christian Church.' It will be very difficult to say this to himself; it requires a rare combination of unusual circumstances. Now, on the other side, take the Church's own view of crime: is it not bound to renounce the present almost pagan attitude, and to change from a mechanical cutting off of its tainted member for the preservation of society, as at present, into completely and honestly adopting the idea of the regeneration of the man, of his reformation and salvation?" "What do you mean? I fail to understand again," Miuesov interrupted. "Some sort of dream again. Something shapeless and even incomprehensible. What is excommunication? What sort of exclusion? I suspect you are simply amusing yourself, Ivan Fyodorovitch." "Yes, but you know, in reality it is so now," said the elder suddenly, and all turned to him at once. "If it were not for the Church of Christ there would be nothing to restrain the criminal from evil-doing, no real chastisement for it afterwards; none, that is, but the mechanical punishment spoken of just now, which in the majority of cases only embitters the heart; and not the real punishment, the only effectual one, the only deterrent and softening one, which lies in the recognition of sin by conscience." "How is that, may one inquire?" asked Miuesov, with lively curiosity. "Why," began the elder, "all these sentences to exile with hard labor, and formerly with flogging also, reform no one, and what's more, deter hardly a single criminal, and the number of crimes does not diminish but is continually on the increase. You must admit that. Consequently the security of society is not preserved, for, although the obnoxious member is mechanically cut off and sent far away out of sight, another criminal always comes to take his place at once, and often two of them. If anything does preserve society, even in our time, and does regenerate and transform the criminal, it is only the law of Christ speaking in his conscience. It is only by recognizing his wrong-doing as a son of a Christian society--that is, of the Church--that he recognizes his sin against society--that is, against the Church. So that it is only against the Church, and not against the State, that the criminal of to-day can recognize that he has sinned. If society, as a Church, had jurisdiction, then it would know when to bring back from exclusion and to reunite to itself. Now the Church having no real jurisdiction, but only the power of moral condemnation, withdraws of her own accord from punishing the criminal actively. She does not excommunicate him but simply persists in motherly exhortation of him. What is more, the Church even tries to preserve all Christian communion with the criminal. She admits him to church services, to the holy sacrament, gives him alms, and treats him more as a captive than as a convict. And what would become of the criminal, O Lord, if even the Christian society--that is, the Church--were to reject him even as the civil law rejects him and cuts him off? What would become of him if the Church punished him with her excommunication as the direct consequence of the secular law? There could be no more terrible despair, at least for a Russian criminal, for Russian criminals still have faith. Though, who knows, perhaps then a fearful thing would happen, perhaps the despairing heart of the criminal would lose its faith and then what would become of him? But the Church, like a tender, loving mother, holds aloof from active punishment herself, as the sinner is too severely punished already by the civil law, and there must be at least some one to have pity on him. The Church holds aloof, above all, because its judgment is the only one that contains the truth, and therefore cannot practically and morally be united to any other judgment even as a temporary compromise. She can enter into no compact about that. The foreign criminal, they say, rarely repents, for the very doctrines of to-day confirm him in the idea that his crime is not a crime, but only a reaction against an unjustly oppressive force. Society cuts him off completely by a force that triumphs over him mechanically and (so at least they say of themselves in Europe) accompanies this exclusion with hatred, forgetfulness, and the most profound indifference as to the ultimate fate of the erring brother. In this way, it all takes place without the compassionate intervention of the Church, for in many cases there are no churches there at all, for though ecclesiastics and splendid church buildings remain, the churches themselves have long ago striven to pass from Church into State and to disappear in it completely. So it seems at least in Lutheran countries. As for Rome, it was proclaimed a State instead of a Church a thousand years ago. And so the criminal is no longer conscious of being a member of the Church and sinks into despair. If he returns to society, often it is with such hatred that society itself instinctively cuts him off. You can judge for yourself how it must end. In many cases it would seem to be the same with us, but the difference is that besides the established law courts we have the Church too, which always keeps up relations with the criminal as a dear and still precious son. And besides that, there is still preserved, though only in thought, the judgment of the Church, which though no longer existing in practice is still living as a dream for the future, and is, no doubt, instinctively recognized by the criminal in his soul. What was said here just now is true too, that is, that if the jurisdiction of the Church were introduced in practice in its full force, that is, if the whole of the society were changed into the Church, not only the judgment of the Church would have influence on the reformation of the criminal such as it never has now, but possibly also the crimes themselves would be incredibly diminished. And there can be no doubt that the Church would look upon the criminal and the crime of the future in many cases quite differently and would succeed in restoring the excluded, in restraining those who plan evil, and in regenerating the fallen. It is true," said Father Zossima, with a smile, "the Christian society now is not ready and is only resting on some seven righteous men, but as they are never lacking, it will continue still unshaken in expectation of its complete transformation from a society almost heathen in character into a single universal and all-powerful Church. So be it, so be it! Even though at the end of the ages, for it is ordained to come to pass! And there is no need to be troubled about times and seasons, for the secret of the times and seasons is in the wisdom of God, in His foresight, and His love. And what in human reckoning seems still afar off, may by the Divine ordinance be close at hand, on the eve of its appearance. And so be it, so be it!" "So be it, so be it!" Father Paissy repeated austerely and reverently. "Strange, extremely strange!" Miuesov pronounced, not so much with heat as with latent indignation. "What strikes you as so strange?" Father Iosif inquired cautiously. "Why, it's beyond anything!" cried Miuesov, suddenly breaking out; "the State is eliminated and the Church is raised to the position of the State. It's not simply Ultramontanism, it's arch-Ultramontanism! It's beyond the dreams of Pope Gregory the Seventh!" "You are completely misunderstanding it," said Father Paissy sternly. "Understand, the Church is not to be transformed into the State. That is Rome and its dream. That is the third temptation of the devil. On the contrary, the State is transformed into the Church, will ascend and become a Church over the whole world--which is the complete opposite of Ultramontanism and Rome, and your interpretation, and is only the glorious destiny ordained for the Orthodox Church. This star will arise in the east!" Miuesov was significantly silent. His whole figure expressed extraordinary personal dignity. A supercilious and condescending smile played on his lips. Alyosha watched it all with a throbbing heart. The whole conversation stirred him profoundly. He glanced casually at Rakitin, who was standing immovable in his place by the door listening and watching intently though with downcast eyes. But from the color in his cheeks Alyosha guessed that Rakitin was probably no less excited, and he knew what caused his excitement. "Allow me to tell you one little anecdote, gentlemen," Miuesov said impressively, with a peculiarly majestic air. "Some years ago, soon after the _coup d'etat_ of December, I happened to be calling in Paris on an extremely influential personage in the Government, and I met a very interesting man in his house. This individual was not precisely a detective but was a sort of superintendent of a whole regiment of political detectives--a rather powerful position in its own way. I was prompted by curiosity to seize the opportunity of conversation with him. And as he had not come as a visitor but as a subordinate official bringing a special report, and as he saw the reception given me by his chief, he deigned to speak with some openness, to a certain extent only, of course. He was rather courteous than open, as Frenchmen know how to be courteous, especially to a foreigner. But I thoroughly understood him. The subject was the socialist revolutionaries who were at that time persecuted. I will quote only one most curious remark dropped by this person. 'We are not particularly afraid,' said he, 'of all these socialists, anarchists, infidels, and revolutionists; we keep watch on them and know all their goings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who believe in God and are Christians, but at the same time are socialists. These are the people we are most afraid of. They are dreadful people! The socialist who is a Christian is more to be dreaded than a socialist who is an atheist.' The words struck me at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to me here, gentlemen." "You apply them to us, and look upon us as socialists?" Father Paissy asked directly, without beating about the bush. But before Pyotr Alexandrovitch could think what to answer, the door opened, and the guest so long expected, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, came in. They had, in fact, given up expecting him, and his sudden appearance caused some surprise for a moment.

book 2, Chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section3/

So Be It. So Be It. Alyosha follows Zosima back to his cell, where Ivan and the monks are debating Ivan's article about ecclesiastical courts. Miusov, who considers himself a political intellectual, continually tries to join the argument, but the other men, caught up in their own discussion, generally ignore him. Miusov, already aggravated by Fyodor Pavlovich's taunting, becomes almost unbearably irritated. Ivan explains that he does not believe in the separation of the church and state. He believes that the church should subsume the state, so that religious authorities administer laws, and ecclesiastical courts handle the judicial process. Miusov tries to interject that this situation would be "sheer Ultramontanism," meaning that Ivan's proposal would create a situation in which the pope would have absolute power. The word Ultramontanism refers to the fact that Rome, the seat of the papacy of the Catholic Church, is literally "beyond the mountains" from Russia and the Orthodox Church. The other men ignore Miusov. Ivan insists that if the only courts were ecclesiastical courts, the very notion of crime would slowly change. People would be much less likely to commit crimes in the first place, he argues, because they would know that in doing so, they would be acting not merely against a government or a state, but against God. Zosima, to the surprise of some of the others in the room, agrees with Ivan's analysis. He argues, however, that the only real power capable of punishing crime is conscience. He says that because the church knows that each individual's moral sense is the real authority, the church chooses not to become involved in the state's administration of justice. The men become so embroiled in their debate that they forget about Dmitri's lateness, and when he suddenly bursts in through the door, they are slightly surprised to see him

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/part_2_chapters_17_to_20.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Red and the Black/section_14_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapters 17-20

chapters 17-20

{"name": "Chapters 17-20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-2-chapters-1720", "summary": "In the days following the rendezvous, Mathilde is distant and cold toward Julien. He is perplexed and discovers that he is hopelessly in love with her. Confronting her one day in the library, Julien asks directly if she does not love him anymore. Mathilde answers that she is horrified at having given herself to the first one to come along. Julien's reaction is spontaneous: He rushes upon a medieval sword hanging in the room and, after unsheathing it, stops, checks his impulse to kill Mathilde, examines the blade curiously, and puts it back. Mathilde sees in the act a truly heroic gesture worthy of her ancestors. In desperation, Julien announces to the marquis that he is going on a business trip to Languedoc. The marquis has other plans for Julien, who is confined to his quarters to be available at any time for an important mission. Mathilde now considers Julien worthy of being her master and for a week permits him to walk with her in the garden while she passionately talks of the love she felt in the past for his rivals. This is torture for Julien, who is suffering all the pangs of jealousy and unhappiness, thinking himself not loved. Blurting out his love for her, Julien finds himself hated again. The course of events increasingly depends upon Julien's imminent departure on the marquis' mission. By a happy accident, Julien and Mathilde come quite independently to a state of mind propitious to a second midnight rendezvous. Mathilde begins to reproach herself for having been so unkind, then is carried away by the mood and sentiment that an opera inspires in her. Julien, for his part, is in the depths of despair and contemplates suicide as he daringly puts up the ladder and presents himself uninvited at Mathilde's window. Their second rendezvous is less studied and more successful than the previous one. Soon thereafter, however, Mathilde regrets having succumbed and having shorn her locks and presented them to Julien in a submissive gesture. Julien has again known, but lost, happiness. At dinner, Julien finds that he has lost favor at court. He rides all day in an effort to numb his mind through physical exhaustion. As she confronts him one morning in the library, Mathilde tells him pitilessly that she does not love him. She overwhelms him with her vehemence. Julien accidentally breaks an antique Japanese vase, and his apology to Mme. de la Mole, made in the presence of Mathilde, intimates that his love, like the vase, has been irreparably shattered.", "analysis": "This four-chapter episode might well have been subtitled their war in love. Viewed as a whole, it consists of the ups and downs of the stormy relationship between Julien and Mathilde. Their love undergoes a reversal from the previous stage. Here, Julien falls madly in love with Mathilde because of her continued coldness and unavailability. He undergoes all the anguish, uncertainty, and torment that Mme. de Renal felt in his affair with her. Julien has lost his advantage; his triumph has turned to ashes. Several explanations are possible. Both egotists, the two are so similar in nature that they are bound to experience love unsuccessfully. Then, too, this is how love develops, according to Stendhal: It is an autonomous emotion that reserves unexpected developments for us. It dies, is revived, overpowers the victim. It is true that in this couple Stendhal has chosen extreme examples for the demonstration of love. Mathilde, previously so ardent and the initiator of the rendezvous, flees Julien, insults and humiliates him. She denies even that she loves him. Paradoxical in nature, their love resembles that between Rodrique and Chimnene in Corneille's Cid: At moments when they are farthest apart and when their love seems impossible, they love each other most since it is during these moments that they are the most worthy of each other. Again, Stendhal reminds us that happiness is the energy expended in the pursuit of happiness. Unwittingly, Julien has magically dispelled the idealization that constituted Mathilde's love for him. Since Mathilde has ceased to feel boredom for the last few months, Stendhal explains, she forgets what it was like and is now bored by Julien. Mathilde exists only for \"magic moments\" when she is placing her entire existence at stake. Once happiness is realized, it ceases to be interesting. In such a proud soul as Mathilde, the idea that another would be her master is unbearable. This fear of domination is another reason for Mathilde's rejection of Julien. The sword incident demonstrates the paradoxical nature of their relationship: Mathilde scorns Julien and insults his honor. Julien reaches blindly for the sword to do her harm, so great is his anger. From this act of malicious intent results a temporary advantage in Mathilde's estimation of Julien, thus in her love for him. She is able to relegate this scene to the medieval past that is the basis of her idealization of their love. She is overjoyed at being on the verge of being killed by her lover. Hurriedly, however, she flees after having recaptured her vision lest Julien destroy it. Note that the entire dramatic effect of the scene depends upon the image of the sword, chosen with care by Stendhal to jolt the reader. No novelist succeeds as well as Stendhal in forcing the reader's complicity. In effect, appreciation of Stendhal depends upon the active participation of the reader, who must supply the motivation for the acts that Stendhal has his characters commit. The resulting complicity between Stendhal and the reader is particularly operative in episodes such as the love duel between Julien and Mathilde. Her ideal partially salvaged, Mathilde now readmits Julien to her presence for walks in the garden, where she sadistically forces Julien to listen to her passionate narration of feelings she has felt for his rivals. Mathilde must keep the upper hand, with herself as master and Julien as victim. Only by seeing herself as the master is she able to permit herself to love him. Julien's admission of love to her is a blunder on his part. Sure that he loves her, Mathilde utterly despises him. Mathilde resorts instinctively to these stratagems to keep her love alive in its ideal state. She half hopes that Julien doesn't love her any more since that would furnish her with a new adventure, permitting her to experience new emotions. The two characters seem to be looking for a safe way to love themselves through the eyes of the other. Julien has never known such unhappiness. The jealousy that he feels is reminiscent of that felt by Mme. de Renal. And just as the latter felt pleasure pleading the cause of her rival's, the servant girl's, love for Julien, the hero now praises his rivals in order to \"share\" the love he thinks Mathilde feels for them. Stendhal is preparing for Julien's departure, which will occur at the end of Chapter 20, the lowest point and end of Julien's subordinate role in their hateful love. Mathilde projects the future of their relationship, trying to see it as a glorious one, worthy of the ancestry she reveres. Chapter 19 portrays another partially gratuitous victory for Julien. The thought of suicide inspires him with a courageous act. He will visit Mathilde's room again, then kill himself after she has rebuffed him. Mathilde might well have rebuffed him had she not been once again at the \"high point\" of the idealization cycle. Mathilde arrives at this point of intoxication in three ways. She continues to project a glorious future for Julien in which she will play a part, then reproaches herself for having acted so cruelly toward him. Second, her idle daydreaming prompts her unconsciously to draw a sketch of Julien. Such an imaginative and romantic nature as Mathilde's could only see this as an almost supernatural sign and proof of her love. The third event congenial to the creation of a receptive frame of mind is the opera that she attends, where again she is able to participate safely, at a distance, idealizing her own love by seeing it in the opera. Stendhal himself sees Mathilde's love as intellectual and contrasts it unfavorably with that felt by Mme. de Renal. The latter's love comes from the heart and does not need to see itself, to examine itself. Stendhal's intervention to justify Mathilde's character represents an ironic way of condemning those who would condemn his portrait of the times. Mathilde's adventurous and fanciful flights are certainly not to be found in the conduct of the young ladies of his age, he continues, since nineteenth-century France is incapable of great passion. Then, in an apparent contradiction, he introduces his definition of the novel as a mirror carried along a highway. Should it reflect the mire it encounters, the novelist is not to blame, but the mire. Balzac, Stendhal's great contemporary, defends his realism on similar grounds, as had the eighteenth-century French realistic novelists. The point is that even though Mathilde cerebrates her passion, she is capable of one. She, like Stendhal, scorns the apathy and sterility of society. Discreetly, Stendhal hardly alludes to the rendezvous. By chance, the lovers' exalted moments coincide, and Julien knows happiness reminiscent of that with Mme. de Renal. The unsolicited avowal of servitude made by Mathilde, betraying her chief concern, Julien will find almost immediately afterward disavowed by her. After having almost half shorn her head and thrown him the locks in a romantic gesture symbolic of her submission, Mathilde, by the next evening, regrets her conduct. She is again at another low ebb in her love, having found only banal reality, much to the bewilderment of Julien. Chapter 20 confirms the view that Mathilde is playing a game with herself, and Julien is but an instrument. She congratulates herself on the power of her will, which has dominated her love and which has finally permitted her to announce to Julien that she was only deluded into believing that she loved him. Although a conflict is waged in Mathilde's mind between her love and her pride and modesty, she does not appear to be a real victim of love at this stage in their relationship. Julien's symbolic remark about the vase represents another accidental, clever move. He regrets later having claimed that he no longer loves her, but the avowal, no matter how feigned and insincere, is actually the type of strategy needed to revive Mathilde's love for him."}

CHAPTER XLVII AN OLD SWORD I now mean to be serious; it is time Since laughter now-a-days is deemed too serious. A jest at vice by virtues called a crime. _Don Juan, c. xiii._ She did not appear at dinner. She came for a minute into the salon in the evening, but did not look at Julien. He considered this behaviour strange, "but," he thought, "I do not know their usages. She will give me some good reason for all this." None the less he was a prey to the most extreme curiosity; he studied the expression of Mathilde's features; he was bound to own to himself that she looked cold and malicious. It was evidently not the same woman who on the proceeding night had had, or pretended to have, transports of happiness which were too extravagant to be genuine. The day after, and the subsequent day she showed the same coldness; she did not look at him, she did not notice his existence. Julien was devoured by the keenest anxiety and was a thousand leagues removed from that feeling of triumph which had been his only emotion on the first day. "Can it be by chance," he said to himself, "a return to virtue?" But this was a very bourgeois word to apply to the haughty Mathilde. "Placed in an ordinary position in life she would disbelieve in religion," thought Julien, "she only likes it in so far as it is very useful to the interests of her class." But perhaps she may as a mere matter of delicacy be keenly reproaching herself for the mistake which she has committed. Julien believed that he was her first lover. "But," he said to himself at other moments, "I must admit that there is no trace of naivety, simplicity, or tenderness in her own demeanour; I have never seen her more haughty, can she despise me? It would be worthy of her to reproach herself simply because of my low birth, for what she has done for me." While Julien, full of those preconceived ideas which he had found in books and in his memories of Verrieres, was chasing the phantom of a tender mistress, who from the minute when she has made her lover happy no longer thinks of her own existence, Mathilde's vanity was infuriated against him. As for the last two months she had no longer been bored, she was not frightened of boredom; consequently, without being able to have the slightest suspicion of it, Julien had lost his greatest advantage. "I have given myself a master," said mademoiselle de la Mole to herself, a prey to the blackest sorrow. "Luckily he is honour itself, but if I offend his vanity, he will revenge himself by making known the nature of our relations." Mathilde had never had a lover, and though passing through a stage of life which affords some tender illusions even to the coldest souls, she fell a prey to the most bitter reflections. "He has an immense dominion over me since his reign is one of terror, and he is capable, if I provoke him, of punishing me with an awful penalty." This idea alone was enough to induce mademoiselle de la Mole to insult him. Courage was the primary quality in her character. The only thing which could give her any thrill and cure her from a fundamental and chronically recurring ennui was the idea that she was staking her entire existence on a single throw. As mademoiselle de la Mole obstinately refused to look at him, Julien on the third day in spite of her evident objection, followed her into the billiard-room after dinner. "Well, sir, you think you have acquired some very strong rights over me?" she said to him with scarcely controlled anger, "since you venture to speak to me, in spite of my very clearly manifested wish? Do you know that no one in the world has had such effrontery?" The dialogue of these two lovers was incomparably humourous. Without suspecting it, they were animated by mutual sentiments of the most vivid hate. As neither the one nor the other had a meekly patient character, while they were both disciples of good form, they soon came to informing each other quite clearly that they would break for ever. "I swear eternal secrecy to you," said Julien. "I should like to add that I would never address a single word to you, were it not that a marked change might perhaps jeopardise your reputation." He saluted respectfully and left. He accomplished easily enough what he believed to be a duty; he was very far from thinking himself much in love with mademoiselle de la Mole. He had certainly not loved her three days before, when he had been hidden in the big mahogany cupboard. But the moment that he found himself estranged from her for ever his mood underwent a complete and rapid change. His memory tortured him by going over the least details in that night, which had as a matter of fact left him so cold. In the very night that followed this announcement of a final rupture, Julien almost went mad at being obliged to own to himself that he loved mademoiselle de la Mole. This discovery was followed by awful struggles: all his emotions were overwhelmed. Two days later, instead of being haughty towards M. de Croisenois, he could have almost burst out into tears and embraced him. His habituation to unhappiness gave him a gleam of commonsense, he decided to leave for Languedoc, packed his trunk and went to the post. He felt he would faint, when on arriving at the office of the mails, he was told that by a singular chance there was a place in the Toulouse mail. He booked it and returned to the Hotel de la Mole to announce his departure to the marquis. M. de la Mole had gone out. More dead than alive Julien went into the library to wait for him. What was his emotion when he found mademoiselle de la Mole there. As she saw him come, she assumed a malicious expression which it was impossible to mistake. In his unhappiness and surprise Julien lost his head and was weak enough to say to her in a tone of the most heartfelt tenderness. "So you love me no more." "I am horrified at having given myself to the first man who came along," said Mathilde crying with rage against herself. "The first man who came along," cried Julien, and he made for an old mediaeval sword which was kept in the library as a curiosity. His grief--which he thought was at its maximum at the moment when he had spoken to mademoiselle de la Mole--had been rendered a hundred times more intense by the tears of shame which he saw her shedding. He would have been the happiest of men if he had been able to kill her. When he was on the point of drawing the sword with some difficulty from its ancient scabbard, Mathilde, rendered happy by so novel a sensation, advanced proudly towards him, her tears were dry. The thought of his benefactor--the marquis de la Mole--presented itself vividly to Julien. "Shall I kill his daughter?" he said to himself, "how horrible." He made a movement to throw down the sword. "She will certainly," he thought, "burst out laughing at the sight of such a melodramatic pose:" that idea was responsible for his regaining all his self-possession. He looked curiously at the blade of the old sword as though he had been looking for some spot of rust, then put it back in the scabbard and replaced it with the utmost tranquillity on the gilt bronze nail from which it hung. The whole manoeuvre, which towards the end was very slow, lasted quite a minute; mademoiselle de la Mole looked at him in astonishment. "So I have been on the verge of being killed by my lover," she said to herself. This idea transported her into the palmiest days of the age of Charles IX. and of Henri III. She stood motionless before Julien, who had just replaced the sword; she looked at him with eyes whose hatred had disappeared. It must be owned that she was very fascinating at this moment, certainly no woman looked less like a Parisian doll (this expression symbolised Julien's great objection to the women of this city). "I shall relapse into some weakness for him," thought Mathilde; "it is quite likely that he will think himself my lord and master after a relapse like that at the very moment that I have been talking to him so firmly." She ran away. "By heaven, she is pretty said Julien as he watched her run and that's the creature who threw herself into my arms with so much passion scarcely a week ago ... and to think that those moments will never come back? And that it's my fault, to think of my being lacking in appreciation at the very moment when I was doing something so extraordinarily interesting! I must own that I was born with a very dull and unfortunate character." The marquis appeared; Julien hastened to announce his departure. "Where to?" said M. de la Mole. "For Languedoc." "No, if you please, you are reserved for higher destinies. If you leave it will be for the North.... In military phraseology I actually confine you in the hotel. You will compel me to be never more than two or three hours away. I may have need of you at any moment." Julien bowed and retired without a word, leaving the marquis in a state of great astonishment. He was incapable of speaking. He shut himself up in his room. He was there free to exaggerate to himself all the awfulness of his fate. "So," he thought, "I cannot even get away. God knows how many days the marquis will keep me in Paris. Great God, what will become of me, and not a friend whom I can consult? The abbe Pirard will never let me finish my first sentence, while the comte Altamira will propose enlisting me in some conspiracy. And yet I am mad; I feel it, I am mad. Who will be able to guide me, what will become of me?" CHAPTER XLVIII CRUEL MOMENTS And she confesses it to me! She goes into even the smallest details! Her beautiful eyes fixed on mine, and describes the love which she felt for another.--_Schiller_. The delighted mademoiselle de la Mole thought of nothing but the happiness of having been nearly killed. She went so far as to say to herself, "he is worthy of being my master since he was on the point of killing me. How many handsome young society men would have to be melted together before they were capable of so passionate a transport." "I must admit that he was very handsome at the time when he climbed up on the chair to replace the sword in the same picturesque position in which the decorator hung it! After all it was not so foolish of me to love him." If at that moment some honourable means of reconciliation had presented itself, she would have embraced it with pleasure. Julien locked in his room was a prey to the most violent despair. He thought in his madness of throwing himself at her feet. If instead of hiding himself in an out of the way place, he had wandered about the garden of the hotel so as to keep within reach of any opportunity, he would perhaps have changed in a single moment his awful unhappiness into the keenest happiness. But the tact for whose lack we are now reproaching him would have been incompatible with that sublime seizure of the sword, which at the present time rendered him so handsome in the eyes of mademoiselle de la Mole. This whim in Julien's favour lasted the whole day; Mathilde conjured up a charming image of the short moments during which she had loved him: she regretted them. "As a matter of fact," she said to herself, "my passion for this poor boy can from his point of view only have lasted from one hour after midnight when I saw him arrive by his ladder with all his pistols in his coat pocket, till eight o'clock in the morning. It was a quarter of an hour after that as I listened to mass at Sainte-Valere that I began to think that he might very well try to terrify me into obedience." After dinner mademoiselle de la Mole, so far from avoiding Julien, spoke to him and made him promise to follow her into the garden. He obeyed. It was a new experience. Without suspecting it Mathilde was yielding to the love which she was now feeling for him again. She found an extreme pleasure in walking by his side, and she looked curiously at those hands which had seized the sword to kill her that very morning. After such an action, after all that had taken place, some of the former conversation was out of the question. Mathilde gradually began to talk confidentially to him about the state of her heart. She found a singular pleasure in this kind of conversation, she even went so far as to describe to him the fleeting moments of enthusiasm which she had experienced for M. de Croisenois, for M. de Caylus---- "What! M. de Caylus as well!" exclaimed Julien, and all the jealousy of a discarded lover burst out in those words, Mathilde thought as much, but did not feel at all insulted. She continued torturing Julien by describing her former sentiments with the most picturesque detail and the accent of the most intimate truth. He saw that she was portraying what she had in her mind's eye. He had the pain of noticing that as she spoke she made new discoveries in her own heart. The unhappiness of jealousy could not be carried further. It is cruel enough to suspect that a rival is loved, but there is no doubt that to hear the woman one adores confess in detail the love which rivals inspires, is the utmost limit of anguish. Oh, how great a punishment was there now for those impulses of pride which had induced Julien to place himself as superior to the Caylus and the Croisenois! How deeply did he feel his own unhappiness as he exaggerated to himself their most petty advantages. With what hearty good faith he despised himself. Mathilde struck him as adorable. All words are weak to express his excessive admiration. As he walked beside her he looked surreptitiously at her hands, her arms, her queenly bearing. He was so completely overcome by love and unhappiness as to be on the point of falling at her feet and crying "pity." "Yes, and that person who is so beautiful, who is so superior to everything and who loved me once, will doubtless soon love M. de Caylus." Julien could have no doubts of mademoiselle de la Mole's sincerity, the accent of truth was only too palpable in everything she said. In order that nothing might be wanting to complete his unhappiness there were moments when, as a result of thinking about the sentiments which she had once experienced for M. de Caylus, Mathilde came to talk of him, as though she loved him at the present time. She certainly put an inflection of love into her voice. Julien distinguished it clearly. He would have suffered less if his bosom had been filled inside with molten lead. Plunged as he was in this abyss of unhappiness how could the poor boy have guessed that it was simply because she was talking to him, that mademoiselle de la Mole found so much pleasure in recalling those weaknesses of love which she had formerly experienced for M. de Caylus or M. de Luz. Words fail to express Julien's anguish. He listened to these detailed confidences of the love she had experienced for others in that very avenue of pines where he had waited so few days ago for one o'clock to strike that he might invade her room. No human being can undergo a greater degree of unhappiness. This kind of familiar cruelty lasted for eight long days. Mathilde sometimes seemed to seek opportunities of speaking to him and sometimes not to avoid them; and the one topic of conversation to which they both seemed to revert with a kind of cruel pleasure, was the description of the sentiments she had felt for others. She told him about the letters which she had written, she remembered their very words, she recited whole sentences by heart. She seemed during these last days to be envisaging Julien with a kind of malicious joy. She found a keen enjoyment in his pangs. One sees that Julien had no experience of life; he had not even read any novels. If he had been a little less awkward and he had coolly said to the young girl, whom he adored so much and who had been giving him such strange confidences: "admit that though I am not worth as much as all these gentlemen, I am none the less the man whom you loved," she would perhaps have been happy at being at thus guessed; at any rate success would have entirely depended on the grace with which Julien had expressed the idea, and on the moment which he had chosen to do so. In any case he would have extricated himself well and advantageously from a situation which Mathilde was beginning to find monotonous. "And you love me no longer, me, who adores you!" said Julien to her one day, overcome by love and unhappiness. This piece of folly was perhaps the greatest which he could have committed. These words immediately destroyed all the pleasure which mademoiselle de la Mole found in talking to him about the state of her heart. She was beginning to be surprised that he did not, after what had happened, take offence at what she told him. She had even gone so far as to imagine at the very moment when he made that foolish remark that perhaps he did not love her any more. "His pride has doubtless extinguished his love," she was saying to herself. "He is not the man to sit still and see people like Caylus, de Luz, Croisenois whom he admits are so superior, preferred to him. No, I shall never see him at my feet again." Julien had often in the naivety of his unhappiness, during the previous days praised sincerely the brilliant qualities of these gentlemen; he would even go so far as to exaggerate them. This nuance had not escaped mademoiselle de la Mole, she was astonished by it, but did not guess its reason. Julien's frenzied soul, in praising a rival whom he thought was loved, was sympathising with his happiness. These frank but stupid words changed everything in a single moment; confident that she was loved, Mathilde despised him utterly. She was walking with him when he made his ill-timed remark; she left him, and her parting look expressed the most awful contempt. She returned to the salon and did not look at him again during the whole evening. This contempt monopolised her mind the following day. The impulse which during the last week had made her find so much pleasure in treating Julien as her most intimate friend was out of the question; the very sight of him was disagreeable. The sensation Mathilde felt reached the point of disgust; nothing can express the extreme contempt which she experienced when her eyes fell upon him. Julien had understood nothing of the history of Mathilde's heart during the last week, but he distinguished the contempt. He had the good sense only to appear before her on the rarest possible occasions, and never looked at her. But it was not without a mortal anguish that he, as it were, deprived himself of her presence. He thought he felt his unhappiness increasing still further. "The courage of a man's heart cannot be carried further," he said to himself. He passed his life seated at a little window at the top of the hotel; the blind was carefully closed, and from here at any rate he could see mademoiselle de la Mole when she appeared in the garden. What were his emotions when he saw her walking after dinner with M. de Caylus, M. de Luz, or some other for whom she had confessed to him some former amorous weakness! Julien had no idea that unhappiness could be so intense; he was on the point of shouting out. This firm soul was at last completely overwhelmed. Thinking about anything else except mademoiselle de la Mole had become odious to him; he became incapable of writing the simplest letters. "You are mad," the marquis said to him. Julien was frightened that his secret might be guessed, talked about illness and succeeded in being believed. Fortunately for him the marquis rallied him at dinner about his next journey; Mathilde understood that it might be a very long one. It was now several days that Julien had avoided her, and the brilliant young men who had all that this pale sombre being she had once loved was lacking, had no longer the power of drawing her out of her reverie. "An ordinary girl," she said to herself, "would have sought out the man she preferred among those young people who are the cynosure of a salon; but one of the characteristics of genius is not to drive its thoughts over the rut traced by the vulgar. "Why, if I were the companion of a man like Julien, who only lacks the fortune that I possess, I should be continually exciting attention, I should not pass through life unnoticed. Far from incessantly fearing a revolution like my cousins who are so frightened of the people that they have not the pluck to scold a postillion who drives them badly, I should be certain of playing a role and a great role, for the man whom I have chosen has a character and a boundless ambition. What does he lack? Friends, money? I will give them him." But she treated Julien in her thought as an inferior being whose love one could win whenever one wanted. CHAPTER XLIX THE OPERA BOUFFE How the spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away.--_Shakespeare_. Engrossed by thoughts of her future and the singular role which she hoped to play, Mathilde soon came to miss the dry metaphysical conversations which she had often had with Julien. Fatigued by these lofty thoughts she would sometimes also miss those moments of happiness which she had found by his side; these last memories were not unattended by remorse which at certain times even overwhelmed her. "But one may have a weakness," she said to herself, "a girl like I am should only forget herself for a man of real merit; they will not say that it is his pretty moustache or his skill in horsemanship which have fascinated me, but rather his deep discussions on the future of France and his ideas on the analogy between the events which are going to burst upon us and the English revolution of 1688." "I have been seduced," she answered in her remorse. "I am a weak woman, but at least I have not been led astray like a doll by exterior advantages." "If there is a revolution why should not Julien Sorel play the role of Roland and I the role of Madame Roland? I prefer that part to Madame de Stael's; the immorality of my conduct will constitute an obstacle in this age of ours. I will certainly not let them reproach me with an act of weakness; I should die of shame." Mathilde's reveries were not all as grave, one must admit, as the thoughts which we have just transcribed. She would look at Julien and find a charming grace in his slightest action. "I have doubtless," she would say, "succeeded in destroying in him the very faintest idea he had of any one else's rights." "The air of unhappiness and deep passion with which the poor boy declared his love to me eight days ago proves it; I must own it was very extraordinary of me to manifest anger at words in which there shone so much respect and so much of passion. Am I not his real wife? Those words of his were quite natural, and I must admit, were really very nice. Julien still continued to love me, even after those eternal conversations in which I had only spoken to him (cruelly enough I admit), about those weaknesses of love which the boredom of the life I lead had inspired me for those young society men of whom he is so jealous. Ah, if he only knew what little danger I have to fear from them; how withered and stereotyped they seem to me in comparison with him." While indulging in these reflections Mathilde made a random pencil sketch of a profile on a page of her album. One of the profiles she had just finished surprised and delighted her. It had a striking resemblance to Julien. "It is the voice of heaven. That's one of the miracles of love," she cried ecstatically; "Without suspecting it, I have drawn his portrait." She fled to her room, shut herself up in it, and with much application made strenuous endeavours to draw Julien's portrait, but she was unable to succeed; the profile she had traced at random still remained the most like him. Mathilde was delighted with it. She saw in it a palpable proof of the grand passion. She only left her album very late when the marquise had her called to go to the Italian Opera. Her one idea was to catch sight of Julien, so that she might get her mother to request him to keep them company. He did not appear, and the ladies had only ordinary vulgar creatures in their box. During the first act of the opera, Mathilde dreamt of the man she loved with all the ecstasies of the most vivid passion; but a love-maxim in the second act sung it must be owned to a melody worthy of Cimarosa pierced her heart. The heroine of the opera said "You must punish me for the excessive adoration which I feel for him. I love him too much." From the moment that Mathilde heard this sublime song everything in the world ceased to exist. She was spoken to, she did not answer; her mother reprimanded her, she could scarcely bring herself to look at her. Her ecstasy reached a state of exultation and passion analogous to the most violent transports which Julien had felt for her for some days. The divinely graceful melody to which the maxim, which seemed to have such a striking application to her own position, was sung, engrossed all the minutes when she was not actually thinking of Julien. Thanks to her love for music she was on this particular evening like madame de Renal always was, when she thought of Julien. Love of the head has doubtless more intelligence than true love, but it only has moments of enthusiasm. It knows itself too well, it sits in judgment on itself incessantly; far from distracting thought it is made by sheer force of thought. On returning home Mathilde, in spite of madame de la Mole's remonstrances, pretended to have a fever and spent a part of the night in going over this melody on her piano. She sang the words of the celebrated air which had so fascinated her:-- Devo punirmi, devo punirmi. Se troppo amai, etc. As the result of this night of madness, she imagined that she had succeeded in triumphing over her love. This page will be prejudicial in more than one way to the unfortunate author. Frigid souls will accuse him of indecency. But the young ladies who shine in the Paris salons have no right to feel insulted at the supposition that one of their number might be liable to those transports of madness which have been degrading the character of Mathilde. That character is purely imaginary, and is even drawn quite differently from that social code which will guarantee so distinguished a place in the world's history to nineteenth century civilization. The young girls who have adorned this winter's balls are certainly not lacking in prudence. I do not think either that they can be accused of being unduly scornful of a brilliant fortune, horses, fine estates and all the guarantees of a pleasant position in society. Far from finding these advantages simply equivalent to boredom, they usually concentrate on them their most constant desires and and devote to them such passion as their hearts possess. Nor again is it love which is the dominant principle in the career of young men who, like Julien, are gifted with some talent; they attach themselves with an irresistible grip to some coterie, and when the coterie succeeds all the good things of society are rained upon them. Woe to the studious man who belongs to no coterie, even his smallest and most doubtful successes will constitute a grievance, and lofty virtue will rob him and triumph. Yes, monsieur, a novel is a mirror which goes out on a highway. Sometimes it reflects the azure of the heavens, sometimes the mire of the pools of mud on the way, and the man who carries this mirror in his knapsack is forsooth to be accused by you of being immoral! His mirror shows the mire, and you accuse the mirror! Rather accuse the main road where the mud is, or rather the inspector of roads who allows the water to accumulate and the mud to form. Now that it is quite understood that Mathilde's character is impossible in our own age, which is as discreet as it is virtuous, I am less frightened of offence by continuing the history of the follies of this charming girl. During the whole of the following day she looked out for opportunities of convincing herself of her triumph over her mad passion. Her great aim was to displease Julien in everything; but not one of his movements escaped her. Julien was too unhappy, and above all too agitated to appreciate so complicated a stratagem of passion. Still less was he capable of seeing how favourable it really was to him. He was duped by it. His unhappiness had perhaps never been so extreme. His actions were so little controlled by his intellect that if some mournful philosopher had said to him, "Think how to exploit as quickly as you can those symptoms which promise to be favourable to you. In this kind of head-love which is seen at Paris, the same mood cannot last more than two days," he would not have understood him. But however ecstatic he might feel, Julien was a man of honour. Discretion was his first duty. He appreciated it. Asking advice, describing his agony to the first man who came along would have constituted a happiness analogous to that of the unhappy man who, when traversing a burning desert receives from heaven a drop of icy water. He realised the danger, was frightened of answering an indiscreet question by a torrent of tears, and shut himself up in his own room. He saw Mathilde walking in the garden for a long time. When she at last left it, he went down there and approached the rose bush from which she had taken a flower. The night was dark and he could abandon himself to his unhappiness without fear of being seen. It was obvious to him that mademoiselle de la Mole loved one of those young officers with whom she had chatted so gaily. She had loved him, but she had realised his little merit, "and as a matter of fact I had very little," Julien said to himself with full conviction. "Taking me all round I am a very dull, vulgar person, very boring to others and quite unbearable to myself." He was mortally disgusted with all his good qualities, and with all the things which he had once loved so enthusiastically; and it was when his imagination was in this distorted condition that he undertook to judge life by means of its aid. This mistake is typical of a superior man. The idea of suicide presented itself to him several times; the idea was full of charm, and like a delicious rest; because it was the glass of iced water offered to the wretch dying of thirst and heat in the desert. "My death will increase the contempt she has for me," he exclaimed. "What a memory I should leave her." Courage is the only resource of a human being who has fallen into this last abyss of unhappiness. Julien did not have sufficient genius to say to himself, "I must dare," but as he looked at the window of Mathilde's room he saw through the blinds that she was putting out her light. He conjured up that charming room which he had seen, alas! once in his whole life. His imagination did not go any further. One o'clock struck. Hearing the stroke of the clock and saying to himself, "I will climb up the ladder," scarcely took a moment. It was the flash of genius, good reasons crowded on his mind. "May I be more fortunate than before," he said to himself. He ran to the ladder. The gardener had chained it up. With the help of the cock of one of his little pistols which he broke, Julien, who for the time being was animated by a superhuman force, twisted one of the links of the chain which held the ladder. He was master of it in a few minutes, and placed it against Mathilde's window. "She will be angry and riddle me with scornful words! What does it matter? I will give her a kiss, one last kiss. I will go up to my room and kill myself ... my lips will touch her cheek before I die." He flew up the ladder and knocked at the blind; Mathilde heard him after some minutes and tried to open the blind but the ladder was in the way. Julien hung to the iron hook intending to keep the blind open, and at the imminent risk of falling down, gave the ladder a violent shake which moved it a little. Mathilde was able to open the blind. He threw himself into the window more dead than alive. "So it is you, dear," she said as she rushed into his arms. * * * * * The excess of Julien's happiness was indescribable. Mathilde's almost equalled his own. She talked against herself to him and denounced herself. "Punish me for my awful pride," she said to him, clasping him in her arms so tightly as almost to choke him. "You are my master, dear, I am your slave. I must ask your pardon on my knees for having tried to rebel." She left his arms to fall at his feet. "Yes," she said to him, still intoxicated with happiness and with love, "you are my master, reign over me for ever. When your slave tries to revolt, punish her severely." In another moment she tore herself from his arms, and lit a candle, and it was only by a supreme effort that Julien could prevent her from cutting off a whole tress of her hair. "I want to remind myself," she said to him, "that I am your handmaid. If I am ever led astray again by my abominable pride, show me this hair and say, 'It is not a question of the emotion which your soul may be feeling at present, you have sworn to obey, obey on your honour.'" But it is wiser to suppress the description of so intense a transport of delirious happiness. Julien's unselfishness was equal to his happiness. "I must go down by the ladder," he said to Mathilde, when he saw the dawn of day appear from the quarter of the east over the distant chimneys beyond the garden. "The sacrifice that I impose on myself is worthy of you. I deprive myself of some hours of the most astonishing happiness that a human soul can savour, but it is a sacrifice I make for the sake of your reputation. If you know my heart you will appreciate how violent is the strain to which I am putting myself. Will you always be to me what you are now? But honour speaks, it suffices. Let me tell you that since our last interview, thieves have not been the only object of suspicion. M. de la Mole has set a guard in the garden. M. Croisenois is surrounded by spies: they know what he does every night." Mathilde burst out laughing at this idea. Her mother and a chamber-maid were woken up, they suddenly began to speak to her through the door. Julien looked at her, she grew pale as she scolded the chamber-maid, and she did not deign to speak to her mother. "But suppose they think of opening the window, they will see the ladder," Julien said to her. He clasped her again in his arms, rushed on to the ladder, and slid, rather than climbed down; he was on the ground in a moment. Three seconds after the ladder was in the avenue of pines, and Mathilde's honour was saved. Julien returned to his room and found that he was bleeding and almost naked. He had wounded himself in sliding down in that dare-devil way. Extreme happiness had made him regain all the energy of his character. If twenty men had presented themselves it would have proved at this moment only an additional pleasure to have attacked them unaided. Happily his military prowess was not put to the proof. He laid the ladder in its usual place and replaced the chain which held it. He did not forget to efface the mark which the ladder had left on the bed of exotic flowers under Mathilde's window. As he was moving his hand over the soft ground in the darkness and satisfying himself that the mark had entirely disappeared, he felt something fall down on his hands. It was a whole tress of Mathilde's hair which she had cut off and thrown down to him. She was at the window. "That's what your servant sends you," she said to him in a fairly loud voice, "It is the sign of eternal gratitude. I renounce the exercise of my reason, be my master." Julien was quite overcome and was on the point of going to fetch the ladder again and climbing back into her room. Finally reason prevailed. Getting back into the hotel from the garden was not easy. He succeeded in forcing the door of a cellar. Once in the house he was obliged to break through the door of his room as silently as possible. In his agitation he had left in the little room which he had just abandoned so rapidly, the key which was in the pocket of his coat. "I only hope she thinks of hiding that fatal trophy," he thought. Finally fatigue prevailed over happiness, and as the sun was rising he fell into a deep sleep. The breakfast bell only just managed to wake him up. He appeared in the dining-room. Shortly afterwards Mathilde came in. Julien's pride felt deliciously flattered as he saw the love which shone in the eyes of this beautiful creature who was surrounded by so much homage; but soon his discretion had occasion to be alarmed. Making an excuse of the little time that she had had to do her hair, Mathilde had arranged it in such a way that Julien could see at the first glance the full extent of the sacrifice that she had made for his sake, by cutting off her hair on the previous night. If it had been possible to spoil so beautiful a face by anything whatsoever, Mathilde would have succeeded in doing it. A whole tress of her beautiful blonde hair was cut off to within half an inch of the scalp. Mathilde's whole manner during breakfast was in keeping with this initial imprudence. One might have said that she had made a specific point of trying to inform the whole world of her mad passion for Julien. Happily on this particular day M. de la Mole and the marquis were very much concerned about an approaching bestowal of "blue ribbons" which was going to take place, and in which M. de Chaulnes was not comprised. Towards the end of the meal, Mathilde, who was talking to Julien, happened to call him "My Master." He blushed up to the whites of his eyes. Mathilde was not left alone for an instant that day, whether by chance or the deliberate policy of madame de la Mole. In the evening when she passed from the dining-room into the salon, however, she managed to say to Julien: "You may be thinking I am making an excuse, but mamma has just decided that one of her women is to spend the night in my room." This day passed with lightning rapidity. Julien was at the zenith of happiness. At seven o'clock in the morning of the following day he installed himself in the library. He hoped the mademoiselle de la Mole would deign to appear there; he had written her an interminable letter. He only saw her several hours afterwards at breakfast. Her hair was done to-day with the very greatest care; a marvellous art had managed to hide the place where the hair had been cut. She looked at Julien once or twice, but her eyes were polite and calm, and there was no question of calling him "My Master." Julien's astonishment prevented him from breathing--Mathilde was reproaching herself for all she had done for him. After mature reflection, she had come to the conclusion that he was a person who, though not absolutely commonplace, was yet not sufficiently different from the common ruck to deserve all the strange follies that she had ventured for his sake. To sum up she did not give love a single thought; on this particular day she was tired of loving. As for Julien, his emotions were those of a child of sixteen. He was a successive prey to awful doubt, astonishment and despair during this breakfast which he thought would never end. As soon as he could decently get up from the table, he flew rather than ran to the stable, saddled his horse himself, and galloped off. "I must kill my heart through sheer force of physical fatigue," he said to himself as he galloped through the Meudon woods. "What have I done, what have I said to deserve a disgrace like this?" "I must do nothing and say nothing to-day," he thought as he re-entered the hotel. "I must be as dead physically as I am morally." Julien saw nothing any more, it was only his corpse which kept moving. CHAPTER L THE JAPANESE VASE His heart does not first realise the full extremity of his unhappiness: he is more troubled than moved. But as reason returns he feels the depth of his misfortune. All the pleasures of life seem to have been destroyed, he can only feel the sharp barbs of a lacerating despair. But what is the use of talking of physical pain? What pain which is only felt by the body can be compared to this pain?--_Jean Paul_. The dinner bell rang, Julien had barely time to dress: he found Mathilde in the salon. She was pressing her brother and M. de Croisenois to promise her that they would not go and spend the evening at Suresnes with madame the marechale de Fervaques. It would have been difficult to have shown herself more amiable or fascinating to them. M. de Luz, de Caylus and several of their friends came in after dinner. One would have said that mademoiselle de la Mole had commenced again to cultivate the most scrupulous conventionality at the same time as her sisterly affection. Although the weather was delightful this evening, she refused to go out into the garden, and insisted on their all staying near the arm-chair where madame de la Mole was sitting. The blue sofa was the centre of the group as it had been in the winter. Mathilde was out of temper with the garden, or at any rate she found it absolutely boring: it was bound up with the memory of Julien. Unhappiness blunts the edge of the intellect. Our hero had the bad taste to stop by that little straw chair which had formerly witnessed his most brilliant triumphs. To-day none spoke to him, his presence seemed to be unnoticed, and worse than that. Those of mademoiselle de la Mole's friends who were sitting near him at the end of the sofa, made a point of somehow or other turning their back on him, at any rate he thought so. "It is a court disgrace," he thought. He tried to study for a moment the people who were endeavouring to overwhelm him with their contempt. M. de Luz had an important post in the King's suite, the result of which was that the handsome officer began every conversation with every listener who came along by telling him this special piece of information. His uncle had started at seven o'clock for St. Cloud and reckoned on spending the night there. This detail was introduced with all the appearance of good nature but it never failed to be worked in. As Julien scrutinized M. de Croisenois with a stern gaze of unhappiness, he observed that this good amiable young man attributed a great influence to occult causes. He even went so far as to become melancholy and out of temper if he saw an event of the slightest importance ascribed to a simple and perfectly natural cause. "There is an element of madness in this," Julien said to himself. This man's character has a striking analogy with that of the Emperor Alexander, such as the Prince Korasoff described it to me. During the first year of his stay in Paris poor Julien, fresh from the seminary and dazzled by the graces of all these amiable young people, whom he found so novel, had felt bound to admire them. Their true character was only beginning to become outlined in his eyes. "I am playing an undignified role here," he suddenly thought. The question was, how he could leave the little straw chair without undue awkwardness. He wanted to invent something, and tried to extract some novel excuse from an imagination which was otherwise engrossed. He was compelled to fall back on his memory, which was, it must be owned, somewhat poor in resources of this kind. The poor boy was still very much out of his element, and could not have exhibited a more complete and noticeable awkwardness when he got up to leave the salon. His misery was only too palpable in his whole manner. He had been playing, for the last three quarters of an hour, the role of an officious inferior from whom one does not take the trouble to hide what one really thinks. The critical observations he had just made on his rivals prevented him, however, from taking his own unhappiness too tragically. His pride could take support in what had taken place the previous day. "Whatever may be their advantages over me," he thought, as he went into the garden alone, "Mathilde has never been to a single one of them what, twice in my life, she has deigned to be to me!" His penetration did not go further. He absolutely failed to appreciate the character of the extraordinary person whom chance had just made the supreme mistress of all his happiness. He tried, on the following day, to make himself and his horse dead tired with fatigue. He made no attempt in the evening to go near the blue sofa to which Mathilde remained constant. He noticed that comte Norbert did not even deign to look at him when he met him about the house. "He must be doing something very much against the grain," he thought; "he is naturally so polite." Sleep would have been a happiness to Julien. In spite of his physical fatigue, memories which were only too seductive commenced to invade his imagination. He had not the genius to see that, inasmuch as his long rides on horseback over forests on the outskirts of Paris only affected him, and had no affect at all on Mathilde's heart or mind, he was consequently leaving his eventual destiny to the caprice of chance. He thought that one thing would give his pain an infinite relief: it would be to speak to Mathilde. Yet what would he venture to say to her? He was dreaming deeply about this at seven o'clock one morning when he suddenly saw her enter the library. "I know, monsieur, that you are anxious to speak to me." "Great heavens! who told you?" "I know, anyway; that is enough. If you are dishonourable, you can ruin me, or at least try to. But this danger, which I do not believe to be real, will certainly not prevent me from being sincere. I do not love you any more, monsieur, I have been led astray by my foolish imagination." Distracted by love and unhappiness, as a result of this terrible blow, Julien tried to justify himself. Nothing could have been more absurd. Does one make any excuses for failure to please? But reason had no longer any control over his actions. A blind instinct urged him to get the determination of his fate postponed. He thought that, so long as he kept on speaking, all could not be over. Mathilde had not listened to his words; their sound irritated her. She could not conceive how he could have the audacity to interrupt her. She was rendered equally unhappy this morning by remorseful virtue and remorseful pride. She felt to some extent pulverised by the idea of having given a little abbe, who was the son of a peasant, rights over her. "It is almost," she said to herself, in those moments when she exaggerated her own misfortune, "as though I had a weakness for one of my footmen to reproach myself with." In bold, proud natures there is only one step from anger against themselves to wrath against others. In these cases the very transports of fury constitute a vivid pleasure. In a single minute mademoiselle de la Mole reached the point of loading Julien with the signs of the most extreme contempt. She had infinite wit, and this wit was always triumphant in the art of torturing vanity and wounding it cruelly. For the first time in his life Julien found himself subjected to the energy of a superior intellect, which was animated against him by the most violent hate. Far from having at present the slightest thought of defending himself, he came to despise himself. Hearing himself overwhelmed with such marks of contempt which were so cleverly calculated to destroy any good opinion that he might have of himself, he thought that Mathilde was right, and that she did not say enough. As for her, she found it deliciously gratifying to her pride to punish in this way both herself and him for the adoration that she had felt some days previously. She did not have to invent and improvise the cruel remarks which she addressed to him with so much gusto. All she had to do was to repeat what the advocate of the other side had been saying against her love in her own heart for the last eight days. Each word intensified a hundredfold Julien's awful unhappiness. He wanted to run away, but mademoiselle de la Mole took hold of his arm authoritatively. "Be good enough to remark," he said to her, "that you are talking very loud. You will be heard in the next room." "What does it matter?" mademoiselle de la Mole answered haughtily. "Who will dare to say they have heard me? I want to cure your miserable vanity once and for all of any ideas you may have indulged in on my account." When Julien was allowed to leave the library he was so astonished that he was less sensitive to his unhappiness. "She does not love me any more," he repeated to himself, speaking aloud as though to teach himself how he stood. "It seems that she has loved me eight or ten days, but I shall love her all my life." "Is it really possible she was nothing to me, nothing to my heart so few days back?" Mathilde's heart was inundated by the joy of satisfied pride. So she had been able to break with him for ever! So complete a triumph over so strong an inclination rendered her completely happy. "So this little gentleman will understand, once and for all, that he has not, and will never have, any dominion over me." She was so happy that in reality she ceased to love at this particular moment. In a less passionate being than Julien love would have become impossible after a scene of such awful humiliation. Without deviating for a single minute from the requirements of her own self-respect, mademoiselle de la Mole had addressed to him some of those unpleasant remarks which are so well thought out that they may seem true, even when remembered in cold blood. The conclusion which Julien drew in the first moment of so surprising a scene, was that Mathilde was infinitely proud. He firmly believed that all was over between them for ever, and none the less, he was awkward and nervous towards her at breakfast on the following day. This was a fault from which up to now he had been exempt. Both in small things as in big it was his habit to know what he ought and wanted to do, and he used to act accordingly. The same day after breakfast madame de la Mole asked him for a fairly rare, seditious pamphlet which her cure had surreptitiously brought her in the morning, and Julien, as he took it from a bracket, knocked over a blue porcelain vase which was as ugly as it could possibly be. Madame de la Mole got up, uttering a cry of distress, and proceeded to contemplate at close quarters the ruins of her beloved vase. "It was old Japanese," she said. "It came to me from my great aunt, the abbess of Chelles. It was a present from the Dutch to the Regent, the Duke of Orleans, who had given it to his daughter...." Mathilde had followed her mother's movements, and felt delighted at seeing that the blue vase, that she had thought horribly ugly, was broken. Julien was taciturn, and not unduly upset. He saw mademoiselle de la Mole quite near him. "This vase," he said to her, "has been destroyed for ever. The same is the case with the sentiment which was once master of my heart. I would ask you to accept my apologies for all the pieces of madness which it has made me commit." And he went out. "One would really say," said madame de la Mole, as he went out of the room, "that this M. Sorel is quite proud of what he has just done." These words went right home to Mathilde's heart. "It is true," she said to herself; "my mother has guessed right. That is the sentiment which animates him." It was only then that she ceased rejoicing over yesterday's scene. "Well, it is all over," she said to herself, with an apparent calm. "It is a great lesson, anyway. It is an awful and humiliating mistake! It is enough to make me prudent all the rest of my life." "Why didn't I speak the truth?" thought Julien. "Why am I still tortured by the love which I once had for that mad woman?" Far, however, from being extinguished as he had hoped it would be, his love grew more and more rapidly. "She is mad, it is true," he said to himself. "Is she any the less adorable for that? Is it possible for anyone to be prettier? Is not mademoiselle de la Mole the ideal quintessence of all the most vivid pleasures of the most elegant civilisation?" These memories of a bygone happiness seized hold of Julien's mind, and quickly proceeded to destroy all the work of his reason. It is in vain that reason wrestles with memories of this character. Its stern struggles only increase the fascination. Twenty-four hours after the breaking of the Japanese vase, Julien was unquestionably one of the most unhappy men in the world.

Chapters 17-20

https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-2-chapters-1720

In the days following the rendezvous, Mathilde is distant and cold toward Julien. He is perplexed and discovers that he is hopelessly in love with her. Confronting her one day in the library, Julien asks directly if she does not love him anymore. Mathilde answers that she is horrified at having given herself to the first one to come along. Julien's reaction is spontaneous: He rushes upon a medieval sword hanging in the room and, after unsheathing it, stops, checks his impulse to kill Mathilde, examines the blade curiously, and puts it back. Mathilde sees in the act a truly heroic gesture worthy of her ancestors. In desperation, Julien announces to the marquis that he is going on a business trip to Languedoc. The marquis has other plans for Julien, who is confined to his quarters to be available at any time for an important mission. Mathilde now considers Julien worthy of being her master and for a week permits him to walk with her in the garden while she passionately talks of the love she felt in the past for his rivals. This is torture for Julien, who is suffering all the pangs of jealousy and unhappiness, thinking himself not loved. Blurting out his love for her, Julien finds himself hated again. The course of events increasingly depends upon Julien's imminent departure on the marquis' mission. By a happy accident, Julien and Mathilde come quite independently to a state of mind propitious to a second midnight rendezvous. Mathilde begins to reproach herself for having been so unkind, then is carried away by the mood and sentiment that an opera inspires in her. Julien, for his part, is in the depths of despair and contemplates suicide as he daringly puts up the ladder and presents himself uninvited at Mathilde's window. Their second rendezvous is less studied and more successful than the previous one. Soon thereafter, however, Mathilde regrets having succumbed and having shorn her locks and presented them to Julien in a submissive gesture. Julien has again known, but lost, happiness. At dinner, Julien finds that he has lost favor at court. He rides all day in an effort to numb his mind through physical exhaustion. As she confronts him one morning in the library, Mathilde tells him pitilessly that she does not love him. She overwhelms him with her vehemence. Julien accidentally breaks an antique Japanese vase, and his apology to Mme. de la Mole, made in the presence of Mathilde, intimates that his love, like the vase, has been irreparably shattered.

This four-chapter episode might well have been subtitled their war in love. Viewed as a whole, it consists of the ups and downs of the stormy relationship between Julien and Mathilde. Their love undergoes a reversal from the previous stage. Here, Julien falls madly in love with Mathilde because of her continued coldness and unavailability. He undergoes all the anguish, uncertainty, and torment that Mme. de Renal felt in his affair with her. Julien has lost his advantage; his triumph has turned to ashes. Several explanations are possible. Both egotists, the two are so similar in nature that they are bound to experience love unsuccessfully. Then, too, this is how love develops, according to Stendhal: It is an autonomous emotion that reserves unexpected developments for us. It dies, is revived, overpowers the victim. It is true that in this couple Stendhal has chosen extreme examples for the demonstration of love. Mathilde, previously so ardent and the initiator of the rendezvous, flees Julien, insults and humiliates him. She denies even that she loves him. Paradoxical in nature, their love resembles that between Rodrique and Chimnene in Corneille's Cid: At moments when they are farthest apart and when their love seems impossible, they love each other most since it is during these moments that they are the most worthy of each other. Again, Stendhal reminds us that happiness is the energy expended in the pursuit of happiness. Unwittingly, Julien has magically dispelled the idealization that constituted Mathilde's love for him. Since Mathilde has ceased to feel boredom for the last few months, Stendhal explains, she forgets what it was like and is now bored by Julien. Mathilde exists only for "magic moments" when she is placing her entire existence at stake. Once happiness is realized, it ceases to be interesting. In such a proud soul as Mathilde, the idea that another would be her master is unbearable. This fear of domination is another reason for Mathilde's rejection of Julien. The sword incident demonstrates the paradoxical nature of their relationship: Mathilde scorns Julien and insults his honor. Julien reaches blindly for the sword to do her harm, so great is his anger. From this act of malicious intent results a temporary advantage in Mathilde's estimation of Julien, thus in her love for him. She is able to relegate this scene to the medieval past that is the basis of her idealization of their love. She is overjoyed at being on the verge of being killed by her lover. Hurriedly, however, she flees after having recaptured her vision lest Julien destroy it. Note that the entire dramatic effect of the scene depends upon the image of the sword, chosen with care by Stendhal to jolt the reader. No novelist succeeds as well as Stendhal in forcing the reader's complicity. In effect, appreciation of Stendhal depends upon the active participation of the reader, who must supply the motivation for the acts that Stendhal has his characters commit. The resulting complicity between Stendhal and the reader is particularly operative in episodes such as the love duel between Julien and Mathilde. Her ideal partially salvaged, Mathilde now readmits Julien to her presence for walks in the garden, where she sadistically forces Julien to listen to her passionate narration of feelings she has felt for his rivals. Mathilde must keep the upper hand, with herself as master and Julien as victim. Only by seeing herself as the master is she able to permit herself to love him. Julien's admission of love to her is a blunder on his part. Sure that he loves her, Mathilde utterly despises him. Mathilde resorts instinctively to these stratagems to keep her love alive in its ideal state. She half hopes that Julien doesn't love her any more since that would furnish her with a new adventure, permitting her to experience new emotions. The two characters seem to be looking for a safe way to love themselves through the eyes of the other. Julien has never known such unhappiness. The jealousy that he feels is reminiscent of that felt by Mme. de Renal. And just as the latter felt pleasure pleading the cause of her rival's, the servant girl's, love for Julien, the hero now praises his rivals in order to "share" the love he thinks Mathilde feels for them. Stendhal is preparing for Julien's departure, which will occur at the end of Chapter 20, the lowest point and end of Julien's subordinate role in their hateful love. Mathilde projects the future of their relationship, trying to see it as a glorious one, worthy of the ancestry she reveres. Chapter 19 portrays another partially gratuitous victory for Julien. The thought of suicide inspires him with a courageous act. He will visit Mathilde's room again, then kill himself after she has rebuffed him. Mathilde might well have rebuffed him had she not been once again at the "high point" of the idealization cycle. Mathilde arrives at this point of intoxication in three ways. She continues to project a glorious future for Julien in which she will play a part, then reproaches herself for having acted so cruelly toward him. Second, her idle daydreaming prompts her unconsciously to draw a sketch of Julien. Such an imaginative and romantic nature as Mathilde's could only see this as an almost supernatural sign and proof of her love. The third event congenial to the creation of a receptive frame of mind is the opera that she attends, where again she is able to participate safely, at a distance, idealizing her own love by seeing it in the opera. Stendhal himself sees Mathilde's love as intellectual and contrasts it unfavorably with that felt by Mme. de Renal. The latter's love comes from the heart and does not need to see itself, to examine itself. Stendhal's intervention to justify Mathilde's character represents an ironic way of condemning those who would condemn his portrait of the times. Mathilde's adventurous and fanciful flights are certainly not to be found in the conduct of the young ladies of his age, he continues, since nineteenth-century France is incapable of great passion. Then, in an apparent contradiction, he introduces his definition of the novel as a mirror carried along a highway. Should it reflect the mire it encounters, the novelist is not to blame, but the mire. Balzac, Stendhal's great contemporary, defends his realism on similar grounds, as had the eighteenth-century French realistic novelists. The point is that even though Mathilde cerebrates her passion, she is capable of one. She, like Stendhal, scorns the apathy and sterility of society. Discreetly, Stendhal hardly alludes to the rendezvous. By chance, the lovers' exalted moments coincide, and Julien knows happiness reminiscent of that with Mme. de Renal. The unsolicited avowal of servitude made by Mathilde, betraying her chief concern, Julien will find almost immediately afterward disavowed by her. After having almost half shorn her head and thrown him the locks in a romantic gesture symbolic of her submission, Mathilde, by the next evening, regrets her conduct. She is again at another low ebb in her love, having found only banal reality, much to the bewilderment of Julien. Chapter 20 confirms the view that Mathilde is playing a game with herself, and Julien is but an instrument. She congratulates herself on the power of her will, which has dominated her love and which has finally permitted her to announce to Julien that she was only deluded into believing that she loved him. Although a conflict is waged in Mathilde's mind between her love and her pride and modesty, she does not appear to be a real victim of love at this stage in their relationship. Julien's symbolic remark about the vase represents another accidental, clever move. He regrets later having claimed that he no longer loves her, but the avowal, no matter how feigned and insincere, is actually the type of strategy needed to revive Mathilde's love for him.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_15_part_1.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 38

chapter 38

{"name": "CHAPTER 38", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD48.asp", "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.", "analysis": "Notes Tess dreads going home and facing her parents. They do not make it easy on her, and clearly indicate that they think she is a fool and that they feel disgraced. As a result, she does not tell them the depth of the separation between Angel and herself. Therefore, when the letter arrives from Angel, her parents accept the fact that Tess is returning to him. In truth, Tess is just running away from the bad situation she finds in Marlott"}

As she drove on through Blackmoor Vale, and the landscape of her youth began to open around her, Tess aroused herself from her stupor. Her first thought was how would she be able to face her parents? She reached a turnpike-gate which stood upon the highway to the village. It was thrown open by a stranger, not by the old man who had kept it for many years, and to whom she had been known; he had probably left on New Year's Day, the date when such changes were made. Having received no intelligence lately from her home, she asked the turnpike-keeper for news. "Oh--nothing, miss," he answered. "Marlott is Marlott still. Folks have died and that. John Durbeyfield, too, hev had a daughter married this week to a gentleman-farmer; not from John's own house, you know; they was married elsewhere; the gentleman being of that high standing that John's own folk was not considered well-be-doing enough to have any part in it, the bridegroom seeming not to know how't have been discovered that John is a old and ancient nobleman himself by blood, with family skillentons in their own vaults to this day, but done out of his property in the time o' the Romans. However, Sir John, as we call 'n now, kept up the wedding-day as well as he could, and stood treat to everybody in the parish; and John's wife sung songs at The Pure Drop till past eleven o'clock." Hearing this, Tess felt so sick at heart that she could not decide to go home publicly in the fly with her luggage and belongings. She asked the turnpike-keeper if she might deposit her things at his house for a while, and, on his offering no objection, she dismissed her carriage, and went on to the village alone by a back lane. At sight of her father's chimney she asked herself how she could possibly enter the house? Inside that cottage her relations were calmly supposing her far away on a wedding-tour with a comparatively rich man, who was to conduct her to bouncing prosperity; while here she was, friendless, creeping up to the old door quite by herself, with no better place to go to in the world. She did not reach the house unobserved. Just by the garden-hedge she was met by a girl who knew her--one of the two or three with whom she had been intimate at school. After making a few inquiries as to how Tess came there, her friend, unheeding her tragic look, interrupted with-- "But where's thy gentleman, Tess?" Tess hastily explained that he had been called away on business, and, leaving her interlocutor, clambered over the garden-hedge, and thus made her way to the house. As she went up the garden-path she heard her mother singing by the back door, coming in sight of which she perceived Mrs Durbeyfield on the doorstep in the act of wringing a sheet. Having performed this without observing Tess, she went indoors, and her daughter followed her. The washing-tub stood in the same old place on the same old quarter-hogshead, and her mother, having thrown the sheet aside, was about to plunge her arms in anew. "Why--Tess!--my chil'--I thought you was married!--married really and truly this time--we sent the cider--" "Yes, mother; so I am." "Going to be?" "No--I am married." "Married! Then where's thy husband?" "Oh, he's gone away for a time." "Gone away! When was you married, then? The day you said?" "Yes, Tuesday, mother." "And now 'tis on'y Saturday, and he gone away?" "Yes, he's gone." "What's the meaning o' that? 'Nation seize such husbands as you seem to get, say I!" "Mother!" Tess went across to Joan Durbeyfield, laid her face upon the matron's bosom, and burst into sobs. "I don't know how to tell 'ee, mother! You said to me, and wrote to me, that I was not to tell him. But I did tell him--I couldn't help it--and he went away!" "O you little fool--you little fool!" burst out Mrs Durbeyfield, splashing Tess and herself in her agitation. "My good God! that ever I should ha' lived to say it, but I say it again, you little fool!" Tess was convulsed with weeping, the tension of so many days having relaxed at last. "I know it--I know--I know!" she gasped through her sobs. "But, O my mother, I could not help it! He was so good--and I felt the wickedness of trying to blind him as to what had happened! If--if--it were to be done again--I should do the same. I could not--I dared not--so sin--against him!" "But you sinned enough to marry him first!" "Yes, yes; that's where my misery do lie! But I thought he could get rid o' me by law if he were determined not to overlook it. And O, if you knew--if you could only half know how I loved him--how anxious I was to have him--and how wrung I was between caring so much for him and my wish to be fair to him!" Tess was so shaken that she could get no further, and sank, a helpless thing, into a chair. "Well, well; what's done can't be undone! I'm sure I don't know why children o' my bringing forth should all be bigger simpletons than other people's--not to know better than to blab such a thing as that, when he couldn't ha' found it out till too late!" Here Mrs Durbeyfield began shedding tears on her own account as a mother to be pitied. "What your father will say I don't know," she continued; "for he's been talking about the wedding up at Rolliver's and The Pure Drop every day since, and about his family getting back to their rightful position through you--poor silly man!--and now you've made this mess of it! The Lord-a-Lord!" As if to bring matters to a focus, Tess's father was heard approaching at that moment. He did not, however, enter immediately, and Mrs Durbeyfield said that she would break the bad news to him herself, Tess keeping out of sight for the present. After her first burst of disappointment Joan began to take the mishap as she had taken Tess's original trouble, as she would have taken a wet holiday or failure in the potato-crop; as a thing which had come upon them irrespective of desert or folly; a chance external impingement to be borne with; not a lesson. Tess retreated upstairs and beheld casually that the beds had been shifted, and new arrangements made. Her old bed had been adapted for two younger children. There was no place here for her now. The room below being unceiled she could hear most of what went on there. Presently her father entered, apparently carrying in a live hen. He was a foot-haggler now, having been obliged to sell his second horse, and he travelled with his basket on his arm. The hen had been carried about this morning as it was often carried, to show people that he was in his work, though it had lain, with its legs tied, under the table at Rolliver's for more than an hour. "We've just had up a story about--" Durbeyfield began, and thereupon related in detail to his wife a discussion which had arisen at the inn about the clergy, originated by the fact of his daughter having married into a clerical family. "They was formerly styled 'sir', like my own ancestry," he said, "though nowadays their true style, strictly speaking, is 'clerk' only." As Tess had wished that no great publicity should be given to the event, he had mentioned no particulars. He hoped she would remove that prohibition soon. He proposed that the couple should take Tess's own name, d'Urberville, as uncorrupted. It was better than her husbands's. He asked if any letter had come from her that day. Then Mrs Durbeyfield informed him that no letter had come, but Tess unfortunately had come herself. When at length the collapse was explained to him, a sullen mortification, not usual with Durbeyfield, overpowered the influence of the cheering glass. Yet the intrinsic quality of the event moved his touchy sensitiveness less than its conjectured effect upon the minds of others. "To think, now, that this was to be the end o't!" said Sir John. "And I with a family vault under that there church of Kingsbere as big as Squire Jollard's ale-cellar, and my folk lying there in sixes and sevens, as genuine county bones and marrow as any recorded in history. And now to be sure what they fellers at Rolliver's and The Pure Drop will say to me! How they'll squint and glane, and say, 'This is yer mighty match is it; this is yer getting back to the true level of yer forefathers in King Norman's time!' I feel this is too much, Joan; I shall put an end to myself, title and all--I can bear it no longer! ... But she can make him keep her if he's married her?" "Why, yes. But she won't think o' doing that." "D'ye think he really have married her?--or is it like the first--" Poor Tess, who had heard as far as this, could not bear to hear more. The perception that her word could be doubted even here, in her own parental house, set her mind against the spot as nothing else could have done. How unexpected were the attacks of destiny! And if her father doubted her a little, would not neighbours and acquaintance doubt her much? O, she could not live long at home! A few days, accordingly, were all that she allowed herself here, at the end of which time she received a short note from Clare, informing her that he had gone to the North of England to look at a farm. In her craving for the lustre of her true position as his wife, and to hide from her parents the vast extent of the division between them, she made use of this letter as her reason for again departing, leaving them under the impression that she was setting out to join him. Still further to screen her husband from any imputation of unkindness to her, she took twenty-five of the fifty pounds Clare had given her, and handed the sum over to her mother, as if the wife of a man like Angel Clare could well afford it, saying that it was a slight return for the trouble and humiliation she had brought upon them in years past. With this assertion of her dignity she bade them farewell; and after that there were lively doings in the Durbeyfield household for some time on the strength of Tess's bounty, her mother saying, and, indeed, believing, that the rupture which had arisen between the young husband and wife had adjusted itself under their strong feeling that they could not live apart from each other.

CHAPTER 38

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD48.asp

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.

Notes Tess dreads going home and facing her parents. They do not make it easy on her, and clearly indicate that they think she is a fool and that they feel disgraced. As a result, she does not tell them the depth of the separation between Angel and herself. Therefore, when the letter arrives from Angel, her parents accept the fact that Tess is returning to him. In truth, Tess is just running away from the bad situation she finds in Marlott

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/28.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_27_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 1.chapter 28

part 1, chapter 28

{"name": "Part 1, Chapter 28", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-28", "summary": "Julien tries to stays out of his classmates' way, but it's difficult because he can't hide how smart he is. There's really only one guy on his side, and that's one of his teachers named Father Chas-Bernard. One day, Chas-Bernard asks for Julien's help with decorating a church. Julien is such a good climber that he hangs decorations from places in the church everyone else is afraid to go. Chas-Bernard takes this as a sign of Julien's strong faith. When he sits down to talk with Chas-Bernard that night, Julien realizes that there's lots to admire in the man. He has always followed his core values without worrying about what the people around him think. Chas-Bernard tells Julien that he needs his help to guard some of the church decorations during the next ceremony. It seems that thieves have lots of dirty tricks for stealing some of the more expensive ones. During the ceremony, Julien takes his post to guard the decorations. But he gets distracted by a pair of women who go into the confessional booths along one side of the church. When one of them turns their head, he realizes that she is none other than his former lover, Madame de Renal. When she sees Julien, Madame cries out and faints. The other woman is Madame Derville, who recognizes Julien and tells him to go away. She says that Madame de Renal has been doing well ever since Julien left Verrieres. When Father Chas pulls him back to work, Julien is so startled that he seems ill.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER XXVIII A PROCESSION All hearts were moved. The presence of God seemed to have descended into these narrow Gothic streets that stretched in every direction, and were sanded by the care of the faithful.--_Young_. It was in vain that Julien pretended to be petty and stupid. He could not please; he was too different. Yet all these professors, he said to himself, are very clever people, men in a thousand. Why do they not like my humility? Only one seemed to take advantage of his readiness to believe everything, and apparently to swallow everything. This was the abbe Chas-Bernard, the director of the ceremonies of the cathedral, where, for the last fifteen years, he had been given occasion to hope for a canonry. While waiting, he taught homiletics at the seminary. During the period of Julien's blindness, this class was one of those in which he most frequently came out top. The abbe Chas had used this as an opportunity to manifest some friendship to him, and when the class broke up, he would be glad to take him by the arm for some turns in the garden. "What is he getting at," Julien would say to himself. He noticed with astonishment that, for hours on end, the abbe would talk to him about the ornaments possessed by the cathedral. It had seventeen lace chasubles, besides the mourning vestments. A lot was hoped from the old wife of the judge de Rubempre. This lady, who was ninety years of age, had kept for at least seventy years her wedding dress of superb Lyons material, embroidered with gold. "Imagine, my friend," the abbe Chas would say, stopping abruptly, and staring with amazement, "that this material keeps quite stiff. There is so much gold in it. It is generally thought in Besancon that the will of the judge's wife will result in the cathedral treasure being increased by more than ten chasubles, without counting four or five capes for the great feast. I will go further," said the abbe Chas, lowering his voice, "I have reasons for thinking the judge's wife will leave us her magnificent silver gilt candlesticks, supposed to have been bought in Italy by Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, whose favourite minister was one of the good lady's ancestors." "But what is the fellow getting at with all this old clothes business," thought Julien. "These adroit preliminaries have been going on for centuries, and nothing comes of them. He must be very suspicious of me. He is cleverer than all the others, whose secret aim can be guessed so easily in a fortnight. I understand. He must have been suffering for fifteen years from mortified ambition." Julien was summoned one evening in the middle of the fencing lesson to the abbe Pirard, who said to him. "To-morrow is the feast of Corpus Domini (the Fete Dieu) the abbe Chas-Bernard needs you to help him to decorate the cathedral. Go and obey." The abbe Pirard called him back and added sympathetically. "It depends on you whether you will utilise the occasion to go into the town." "Incedo per ignes," answered Julien. (I have secret enemies). Julien went to the cathedral next morning with downcast eyes. The sight of the streets and the activity which was beginning to prevail in the town did him good. In all quarters they were extending the fronts of the houses for the procession. All the time that he had passed in the seminary seemed to him no more than a moment. His thoughts were of Vergy, and of the pretty Amanda whom he might perhaps meet, for her cafe was not very far off. He saw in the distance the abbe Chas-Bernard on the threshold of his beloved cathedral. He was a big man with a jovial face and a frank air. To-day he looked triumphant. "I was expecting you, my dear son," he cried as soon as he saw Julien in the distance. "Be welcome. This day's duty will be protracted and arduous. Let us fortify ourselves by a first breakfast. We will have the second at ten o'clock during high mass." "I do not wish, sir," said Julien to him gravely, "to be alone for a single instant. Deign to observe," he added, showing him the clock over their heads, "that I have arrived at one minute to five." "So those little rascals at the seminary frightened you. It is very good of you to think of them," said the abbe. "But is the road less beautiful because there are thorns in the hedges which border it. Travellers go on their way, and leave the wicked thorns to wait in vain where they are. And now to work my dear friend, to work." The abbe Chas was right in saying that the task would be arduous. There had been a great funeral ceremony at the cathedral the previous day. They had not been able to make any preparations. They had consequently only one morning for dressing all the Gothic pillars which constitute the three naves with a kind of red damask cloth ascending to a height of thirty feet. The Bishop had fetched by mail four decorators from Paris, but these gentry were not able to do everything, and far from giving any encouragement to the clumsiness of the Besancon colleagues, they made it twice as great by making fun of them. Julien saw that he would have to climb the ladder himself. His agility served him in good stead. He undertook the direction of the decorators from town. The Abbe Chas was delighted as he watched him flit from ladder to ladder. When all the pillars were dressed in damask, five enormous bouquets of feathers had to be placed on the great baldachin above the grand altar. A rich coping of gilded wood was supported by eight big straight columns of Italian marble, but to reach the centre of the baldachin above the tabernacle involved walking over an old wooden cornice which was forty feet high and possibly worm-eaten. The sight of this difficult crossing had extinguished the gaiety of the Parisian decorators, which up till then had been so brilliant. They looked at it from down below, argued a great deal, but did not go up. Julien seized hold of the bouquets of feathers and climbed the ladder at a run. He placed it neatly on the crown-shaped ornament in the centre of the baldachin. When he came down the ladder again, the abbe Chas-Bernard embraced him in his arms. "Optime" exclaimed the good priest, "I will tell this to Monseigneur." Breakfast at ten o'clock was very gay. The abbe Chas had never seen his church look so beautiful. "Dear disciple," he said to Julien. "My mother used to let out chairs in this venerable building, so I have been brought up in this great edifice. The Terror of Robespierre ruined us, but when I was eight years old, that was my age then, I used to serve masses in private houses, so you see I got my meals on mass-days. Nobody could fold a chasuble better than I could, and I never cut the fringes. After the re-establishment of public worship by Napoleon, I had the good fortune to direct everything in this venerable metropolis. Five times a year do my eyes see it adorned with these fine ornaments. But it has never been so resplendent, and the damask breadths have never been so well tied or so close to the pillars as they are to-day." "So he is going to tell me his secret at last," said Julien. "Now he is going to talk about himself. He is expanding." But nothing imprudent was said by the man in spite of his evident exaltation. "All the same he has worked a great deal," said Julien to himself. "He is happy. What a man! What an example for me! He really takes the cake." (This was a vulgar phrase which he had learned from the old surgeon). As the sanctus of high mass sounded, Julien wanted to take a surplice to follow the bishop in the superb procession. "And the thieves, my friend! And the thieves," exclaimed the abbe Chas. "Have you forgotten them? The procession will go out, but we will watch, will you and I. We shall be very lucky if we get off with the loss of a couple of ells of this fine lace which surrounds the base of the pillars. It is a gift of Madame de Rubempre. It comes from her great-grandfather the famous Count. It is made of real gold, my friend," added the abbe in a whisper, and with evident exaltation. "And all genuine. I entrust you with the watching of the north wing. Do not leave it. I will keep the south wing and the great nave for myself. Keep an eye on the confessional. It is there that the women accomplices of the thieves always spy. Look out for the moment when we turn our backs." As he finished speaking, a quarter to twelve struck. Immediately afterwards the sound of the great clock was heard. It rang a full peal. These full solemn sounds affected Julien. His imagination was no longer turned to things earthly. The perfume of the incense and of the rose leaves thrown before the holy sacrament by little children disguised as St. John increased his exaltation. Logically the grave sounds of the bell should only have recalled to Julien's mind the thought of the labour of twenty men paid fifty-four centimes each, and possibly helped by fifteen or twenty faithful souls. Logically, he ought to have thought of the wear and tear of the cords and of the framework and of the danger of the clock itself, which falls down every two centuries, and to have considered the means of diminishing the salary of the bell-ringers, or of paying them by some indulgence or other grace dispensed from the treasures of the Church without diminishing its purse. Julien's soul exalted by these sounds with all their virile fulness, instead of making these wise reflections, wandered in the realm of imagination. He will never turn out a good priest or a good administrator. Souls which get thrilled so easily are at the best only capable of producing an artist. At this moment the presumption of Julien bursts out into full view. Perhaps fifty of his comrades in the seminary made attentive to the realities of life by their own unpopularity and the Jacobinism which they are taught to see hiding behind every hedge, would have had no other thought suggested by the great bell of the cathedral except the wages of the ringers. They would have analysed with the genius of Bareme whether the intensity of the emotion produced among the public was worth the money which was given to the ringers. If Julien had only tried to think of the material interests of the cathedral, his imagination would have transcended its actual object and thought of economizing forty francs on the fabric and have lost the opportunity of avoiding an expense of twenty-five centimes. While the procession slowly traversed Besancon on the finest day imaginable, and stopped at the brilliant altar-stations put up by the authorities, the church remained in profound silence. There prevailed a semi-obscurity, an agreeable freshness. It was still perfumed with the fragrance of flowers and incense. The silence, the deep solitude, the freshness of the long naves sweetened Julien's reverie. He did not fear being troubled by the abbe Chas, who was engaged in another part of the building. His soul had almost abandoned its mortal tenement, which was pacing slowly the north wing which had been trusted to his surveillance. He was all the more tranquil when he had assured himself that there was no one in the confessional except some devout women. His eyes looked in front of him seeing nothing. His reverie was almost broken by the sight of two well-dressed women, one in the Confessional, and the other on a chair quite near her. He looked without seeing, but noticed, however, either by reason of some vague appreciation of his duties or admiration for the aristocratic but simple dress of the ladies, that there was no priest in the Confessional. "It is singular," he thought, "that if these fair ladies are devout, they are not kneeling before some altar, or that if they are in society they have not an advantageous position in the first row of some balcony. How well cut that dress is! How graceful!" He slackened his pace to try and look at them. The lady who was kneeling in the Confessional turned her head a little hearing the noise of Julien's step in this solemn place. Suddenly she gave a loud cry, and felt ill. As the lady collapsed and fell backwards on her knees, her friend who was near her hastened to help her. At the same time Julien saw the shoulders of the lady who was falling backwards. His eyes were struck by a twisted necklace of fine, big pearls, which he knew well. What were his emotions when he recognised the hair of Madame de Renal? It was she! The lady who was trying to prevent her from falling was Madame Derville. Julien was beside himself and hastened to their side. Madame de Renal's fall would perhaps have carried her friend along with her, if Julien had not supported them. He saw the head of Madame de Renal, pale and entirely devoid of consciousness floating on his shoulder. He helped Madame Derville to lean that charming head up against a straw chair. He knelt down. Madame Derville turned round and recognised him. "Away, monsieur, away!" she said to him, in a tone of the most lively anger. "Above all, do not let her see you again. The sight of you would be sure to horrify her. She was so happy before you came. Your conduct is atrocious. Flee! Take yourself off if you have any shame left." These words were spoken with so much authority, and Julien felt so weak, that he did take himself off. "She always hated me," he said to himself, thinking of Madame Derville. At the same moment the nasal chanting of the first priests in the procession which was now coming back resounded in the church. The abbe Chas-Bernard called Julien, who at first did not hear him, several times. He came at last and took his arm behind a pillar where Julien had taken refuge more dead than alive. He wanted to present him to the Bishop. "Are you feeling well, my child?" said the abbe to him, seeing him so pale, and almost incapable of walking. "You have worked too much." The abbe gave him his arm. "Come, sit down behind me here, on the little seat of the dispenser of holy water; I will hide you." They were now beside the main door. "Calm yourself. We have still a good twenty minutes before Monseigneur appears. Try and pull yourself together. I will lift you up when he passes, for in spite of my age, I am strong and vigorous." Julien was trembling so violently when the Bishop passed, that the abbe Chas gave up the idea of presenting him. "Do not take it too much to heart," he said. "I will find another opportunity." The same evening he had six pounds of candles which had been saved, he said, by Julien's carefulness, and by the promptness with which he had extinguished them, carried to the seminary chapel. Nothing could have been nearer the truth. The poor boy was extinguished himself. He had not had a single thought after meeting Madame de Renal.

Part 1, Chapter 28

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-28

Julien tries to stays out of his classmates' way, but it's difficult because he can't hide how smart he is. There's really only one guy on his side, and that's one of his teachers named Father Chas-Bernard. One day, Chas-Bernard asks for Julien's help with decorating a church. Julien is such a good climber that he hangs decorations from places in the church everyone else is afraid to go. Chas-Bernard takes this as a sign of Julien's strong faith. When he sits down to talk with Chas-Bernard that night, Julien realizes that there's lots to admire in the man. He has always followed his core values without worrying about what the people around him think. Chas-Bernard tells Julien that he needs his help to guard some of the church decorations during the next ceremony. It seems that thieves have lots of dirty tricks for stealing some of the more expensive ones. During the ceremony, Julien takes his post to guard the decorations. But he gets distracted by a pair of women who go into the confessional booths along one side of the church. When one of them turns their head, he realizes that she is none other than his former lover, Madame de Renal. When she sees Julien, Madame cries out and faints. The other woman is Madame Derville, who recognizes Julien and tells him to go away. She says that Madame de Renal has been doing well ever since Julien left Verrieres. When Father Chas pulls him back to work, Julien is so startled that he seems ill.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/49.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_48_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 49

chapter 49

{"name": "Chapter 49", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-49", "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.", "analysis": ""}

OAK'S ADVANCEMENT--A GREAT HOPE The later autumn and the winter drew on apace, and the leaves lay thick upon the turf of the glades and the mosses of the woods. Bathsheba, having previously been living in a state of suspended feeling which was not suspense, now lived in a mood of quietude which was not precisely peacefulness. While she had known him to be alive she could have thought of his death with equanimity; but now that it might be she had lost him, she regretted that he was not hers still. She kept the farm going, raked in her profits without caring keenly about them, and expended money on ventures because she had done so in bygone days, which, though not long gone by, seemed infinitely removed from her present. She looked back upon that past over a great gulf, as if she were now a dead person, having the faculty of meditation still left in her, by means of which, like the mouldering gentlefolk of the poet's story, she could sit and ponder what a gift life used to be. However, one excellent result of her general apathy was the long-delayed installation of Oak as bailiff; but he having virtually exercised that function for a long time already, the change, beyond the substantial increase of wages it brought, was little more than a nominal one addressed to the outside world. Boldwood lived secluded and inactive. Much of his wheat and all his barley of that season had been spoilt by the rain. It sprouted, grew into intricate mats, and was ultimately thrown to the pigs in armfuls. The strange neglect which had produced this ruin and waste became the subject of whispered talk among all the people round; and it was elicited from one of Boldwood's men that forgetfulness had nothing to do with it, for he had been reminded of the danger to his corn as many times and as persistently as inferiors dared to do. The sight of the pigs turning in disgust from the rotten ears seemed to arouse Boldwood, and he one evening sent for Oak. Whether it was suggested by Bathsheba's recent act of promotion or not, the farmer proposed at the interview that Gabriel should undertake the superintendence of the Lower Farm as well as of Bathsheba's, because of the necessity Boldwood felt for such aid, and the impossibility of discovering a more trustworthy man. Gabriel's malignant star was assuredly setting fast. Bathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal--for Oak was obliged to consult her--at first languidly objected. She considered that the two farms together were too extensive for the observation of one man. Boldwood, who was apparently determined by personal rather than commercial reasons, suggested that Oak should be furnished with a horse for his sole use, when the plan would present no difficulty, the two farms lying side by side. Boldwood did not directly communicate with her during these negotiations, only speaking to Oak, who was the go-between throughout. All was harmoniously arranged at last, and we now see Oak mounted on a strong cob, and daily trotting the length and breadth of about two thousand acres in a cheerful spirit of surveillance, as if the crops all belonged to him--the actual mistress of the one-half and the master of the other, sitting in their respective homes in gloomy and sad seclusion. Out of this there arose, during the spring succeeding, a talk in the parish that Gabriel Oak was feathering his nest fast. "Whatever d'ye think," said Susan Tall, "Gable Oak is coming it quite the dand. He now wears shining boots with hardly a hob in 'em, two or three times a-week, and a tall hat a-Sundays, and 'a hardly knows the name of smockfrock. When I see people strut enough to be cut up into bantam cocks, I stand dormant with wonder, and says no more!" It was eventually known that Gabriel, though paid a fixed wage by Bathsheba independent of the fluctuations of agricultural profits, had made an engagement with Boldwood by which Oak was to receive a share of the receipts--a small share certainly, yet it was money of a higher quality than mere wages, and capable of expansion in a way that wages were not. Some were beginning to consider Oak a "near" man, for though his condition had thus far improved, he lived in no better style than before, occupying the same cottage, paring his own potatoes, mending his stockings, and sometimes even making his bed with his own hands. But as Oak was not only provokingly indifferent to public opinion, but a man who clung persistently to old habits and usages, simply because they were old, there was room for doubt as to his motives. A great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwood, whose unreasoning devotion to Bathsheba could only be characterized as a fond madness which neither time nor circumstance, evil nor good report, could weaken or destroy. This fevered hope had grown up again like a grain of mustard-seed during the quiet which followed the hasty conjecture that Troy was drowned. He nourished it fearfully, and almost shunned the contemplation of it in earnest, lest facts should reveal the wildness of the dream. Bathsheba having at last been persuaded to wear mourning, her appearance as she entered the church in that guise was in itself a weekly addition to his faith that a time was coming--very far off perhaps, yet surely nearing--when his waiting on events should have its reward. How long he might have to wait he had not yet closely considered. What he would try to recognize was that the severe schooling she had been subjected to had made Bathsheba much more considerate than she had formerly been of the feelings of others, and he trusted that, should she be willing at any time in the future to marry any man at all, that man would be himself. There was a substratum of good feeling in her: her self-reproach for the injury she had thoughtlessly done him might be depended upon now to a much greater extent than before her infatuation and disappointment. It would be possible to approach her by the channel of her good nature, and to suggest a friendly businesslike compact between them for fulfilment at some future day, keeping the passionate side of his desire entirely out of her sight. Such was Boldwood's hope. To the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba was perhaps additionally charming just now. Her exuberance of spirit was pruned down; the original phantom of delight had shown herself to be not too bright for human nature's daily food, and she had been able to enter this second poetical phase without losing much of the first in the process. Bathsheba's return from a two months' visit to her old aunt at Norcombe afforded the impassioned and yearning farmer a pretext for inquiring directly after her--now possibly in the ninth month of her widowhood--and endeavouring to get a notion of her state of mind regarding him. This occurred in the middle of the haymaking, and Boldwood contrived to be near Liddy, who was assisting in the fields. "I am glad to see you out of doors, Lydia," he said pleasantly. She simpered, and wondered in her heart why he should speak so frankly to her. "I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her long absence," he continued, in a manner expressing that the coldest-hearted neighbour could scarcely say less about her. "She is quite well, sir." "And cheerful, I suppose." "Yes, cheerful." "Fearful, did you say?" "Oh no. I merely said she was cheerful." "Tells you all her affairs?" "No, sir." "Some of them?" "Yes, sir." "Mrs. Troy puts much confidence in you, Lydia, and very wisely, perhaps." "She do, sir. I've been with her all through her troubles, and was with her at the time of Mr. Troy's going and all. And if she were to marry again I expect I should bide with her." "She promises that you shall--quite natural," said the strategic lover, throbbing throughout him at the presumption which Liddy's words appeared to warrant--that his darling had thought of re-marriage. "No--she doesn't promise it exactly. I merely judge on my own account." "Yes, yes, I understand. When she alludes to the possibility of marrying again, you conclude--" "She never do allude to it, sir," said Liddy, thinking how very stupid Mr. Boldwood was getting. "Of course not," he returned hastily, his hope falling again. "You needn't take quite such long reaches with your rake, Lydia--short and quick ones are best. Well, perhaps, as she is absolute mistress again now, it is wise of her to resolve never to give up her freedom." "My mistress did certainly once say, though not seriously, that she supposed she might marry again at the end of seven years from last year, if she cared to risk Mr. Troy's coming back and claiming her." "Ah, six years from the present time. Said that she might. She might marry at once in every reasonable person's opinion, whatever the lawyers may say to the contrary." "Have you been to ask them?" said Liddy, innocently. "Not I," said Boldwood, growing red. "Liddy, you needn't stay here a minute later than you wish, so Mr. Oak says. I am now going on a little farther. Good-afternoon." He went away vexed with himself, and ashamed of having for this one time in his life done anything which could be called underhand. Poor Boldwood had no more skill in finesse than a battering-ram, and he was uneasy with a sense of having made himself to appear stupid and, what was worse, mean. But he had, after all, lighted upon one fact by way of repayment. It was a singularly fresh and fascinating fact, and though not without its sadness it was pertinent and real. In little more than six years from this time Bathsheba might certainly marry him. There was something definite in that hope, for admitting that there might have been no deep thought in her words to Liddy about marriage, they showed at least her creed on the matter. This pleasant notion was now continually in his mind. Six years were a long time, but how much shorter than never, the idea he had for so long been obliged to endure! Jacob had served twice seven years for Rachel: what were six for such a woman as this? He tried to like the notion of waiting for her better than that of winning her at once. Boldwood felt his love to be so deep and strong and eternal, that it was possible she had never yet known its full volume, and this patience in delay would afford him an opportunity of giving sweet proof on the point. He would annihilate the six years of his life as if they were minutes--so little did he value his time on earth beside her love. He would let her see, all those six years of intangible ethereal courtship, how little care he had for anything but as it bore upon the consummation. Meanwhile the early and the late summer brought round the week in which Greenhill Fair was held. This fair was frequently attended by the folk of Weatherbury.

Chapter 49

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-49

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.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_1_part_2.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 12

chapter 12

{"name": "Chapter 12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-11-20", "summary": "Marianne informs Elinor that Willoughby has given her a horse that he bred himself; Elinor is taken aback that Marianne does not consider that they have no stables, and not enough money to keep horses besides. Marianne refuses to admit that this might be impractical, and that this is too great a gift from someone she has known for so little time. However, Elinor persuades her mother to tell Marianne to refuse the offer, as she soon does. Elinor soon starts to believe that Marianne and Willoughby must be engaged, because of their increasingly familiar behavior toward each other. Her view is strengthened when Margaret tells her that she saw Willoughby cut off a lock of Marianne's hair in private. Elinor becomes annoyed when Margaret threatens to disclose her attachment to Edward to Mrs. Jennings and company at Barton Park, for although she conjectures on Marianne's behalf, she cannot bear any such conjecture made publicly of her. Margaret shares the information that he is a gentleman and his name begins with an F, which is enough to assure that Elinor will be quizzed on the identity of this secret beloved by Mrs. Jennings for days to come.", "analysis": "Again, Marianne demonstrates a lack of discretion and sense in wanting to accept the horse, and in her behavior with Willoughby. That the careful Elinor is persuaded of their engagement through learning of their growing intimacy shows that the couple are perhaps behaving with a lack of propriety. And, Elinor's perception of their behavior as being that of an engaged couple indicates that if they do not have such an agreement, then they are acting with too much affection. Although the situation between Edward and Elinor is unresolved at this moment, that Elinor considers the thought of his name being mentioned painful indicates that all is not right between them. There seems to be something unresolved between them, which is frequently hinted at by Austen, and further foreshadowed by Elinor's reaction"}

As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her, with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and told her sister of it in raptures. "He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it," she added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a gallop on some of these downs." Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant, the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to it; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much. "You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;--it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed." Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her sister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw him next, that it must be declined. She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible. His concern however was very apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,--"But, Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you." This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident. Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations, which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves. "Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon." "You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle." "But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair." "Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of HIS." "But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book." For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself. Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman's name?" "I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say." "No, THAT he is not. He is of no profession at all." "Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure. To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight;--and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.

Chapter 12

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

Marianne informs Elinor that Willoughby has given her a horse that he bred himself; Elinor is taken aback that Marianne does not consider that they have no stables, and not enough money to keep horses besides. Marianne refuses to admit that this might be impractical, and that this is too great a gift from someone she has known for so little time. However, Elinor persuades her mother to tell Marianne to refuse the offer, as she soon does. Elinor soon starts to believe that Marianne and Willoughby must be engaged, because of their increasingly familiar behavior toward each other. Her view is strengthened when Margaret tells her that she saw Willoughby cut off a lock of Marianne's hair in private. Elinor becomes annoyed when Margaret threatens to disclose her attachment to Edward to Mrs. Jennings and company at Barton Park, for although she conjectures on Marianne's behalf, she cannot bear any such conjecture made publicly of her. Margaret shares the information that he is a gentleman and his name begins with an F, which is enough to assure that Elinor will be quizzed on the identity of this secret beloved by Mrs. Jennings for days to come.

Again, Marianne demonstrates a lack of discretion and sense in wanting to accept the horse, and in her behavior with Willoughby. That the careful Elinor is persuaded of their engagement through learning of their growing intimacy shows that the couple are perhaps behaving with a lack of propriety. And, Elinor's perception of their behavior as being that of an engaged couple indicates that if they do not have such an agreement, then they are acting with too much affection. Although the situation between Edward and Elinor is unresolved at this moment, that Elinor considers the thought of his name being mentioned painful indicates that all is not right between them. There seems to be something unresolved between them, which is frequently hinted at by Austen, and further foreshadowed by Elinor's reaction

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/35.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_5_part_5.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 5.chapter 4

book 5, chapter 4

{"name": "book 5, Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section6/", "summary": "Rebellion The two brothers begin to discuss questions of God's existence and the immortality of the soul. Ivan says that, in his heart, he has not rejected God, but that at the same time he feels himself unable to accept God or the world that God has created. Ivan says that he can love humanity in the abstract, but that, when he meets individual men and women, he finds it impossible to love them. Moreover, he is deeply troubled by the injustice of suffering on Earth. He asks Alyosha how a just God could permit the suffering of children, creatures too young even to have sinned. He says that to love such a God would be the equivalent of a tortured man choosing to love his torturer. When Alyosha is troubled by Ivan's position, Ivan asks him if he could accept even a perfect world in which the perfection depended on the suffering of an innocent creature. Alyosha reminds Ivan of the sacrifice of Christ, and Ivan, insisting that he has not forgotten Christ, recites a prose poem, called The Grand Inquisitor, that he wrote some time ago.", "analysis": "Book V: Pro and Contra, Chapters 1-4 Lise is portrayed as a character poised between the two philosophical poles of the novel: the love represented by Alyosha and the despair represented by Ivan. Lise's gleefully mischievous behavior in the early part of the novel is actually the early onset of what finally becomes a wild, temperamental capriciousness. She struggles to be happy, but, as is clear from her increasingly antagonistic behavior toward her mother, she is beginning to distrust the authority figures in her life and to feel frustrated with the shortcomings of the world around her. She reacts to her inner turmoil with wild mood swings and displays of extreme affection and extreme hatred. In this way, Lise is linked to the \"shriekers\" described in Books I and II, women who are so unable to cope with the horrors of the world that they collapse into hysteria, and thus serve as symbols of the despair that besets those who share the anguished doubt embodied by Ivan. In this part of the novel, Lise seizes on Alyosha as a possible source of salvation. But while she admires his blithe faith, she is unable to share it, and she eventually succumbs to a petulant, spiteful despair. Though this scene seems happy, the seeds of Lise's downfall are already apparent in the way that she rebels against her mother, in the extremity of her emotional displays, and in the way she oscillates between admitting and hiding her love for Alyosha. Ivan's dinner conversation with Alyosha adds a new level of complexity to the novel's exploration of religion and spirituality. The novel does not simplistically suggest that belief in God brings unmitigated happiness while doubt brings unmitigated suffering, and the brothers' dinner conversation provides the rationale behind the idea that not believing in God is more reasonable and compassionate than believing in him. Through his description of the unjust suffering of children and of the general misery of mankind's situation on Earth, Ivan presents the strongest case against religion in the novel. Ivan's dilemma mirrors the biblical dilemma of Job, who asked how a loving God could allow mankind to endure injustice and misery for no apparent reason. Ivan cannot understand why young children would be made to suffer under a loving God. In rejecting outright the explanation that God's ways are too mysterious for mankind to comprehend, Ivan illustrates the depth of his commitment to rational coherence. He can only believe in a God who is rational like the human beings he created, and he thinks that a truly loving God would have made the universe comprehensible to mankind. As such, Ivan's religious doubt is slightly different from atheism, because Ivan says that if God does indeed exist, he is not good or just. The problem is not resolvable. Either no God exists, or a God exists who is the equivalent of a torturer. This problem is the ultimate source of Ivan's despair. Ivan's understanding of the world means that mankind is alone in the universe and that Fyodor Pavlovich's revolting attitude toward life is acceptable and even logical. If this is not the case, then God himself must be a heartless tyrant"}

Chapter IV. Rebellion "I must make you one confession," Ivan began. "I could never understand how one can love one's neighbors. It's just one's neighbors, to my mind, that one can't love, though one might love those at a distance. I once read somewhere of John the Merciful, a saint, that when a hungry, frozen beggar came to him, he took him into his bed, held him in his arms, and began breathing into his mouth, which was putrid and loathsome from some awful disease. I am convinced that he did that from 'self-laceration,' from the self-laceration of falsity, for the sake of the charity imposed by duty, as a penance laid on him. For any one to love a man, he must be hidden, for as soon as he shows his face, love is gone." "Father Zossima has talked of that more than once," observed Alyosha; "he, too, said that the face of a man often hinders many people not practiced in love, from loving him. But yet there's a great deal of love in mankind, and almost Christ-like love. I know that myself, Ivan." "Well, I know nothing of it so far, and can't understand it, and the innumerable mass of mankind are with me there. The question is, whether that's due to men's bad qualities or whether it's inherent in their nature. To my thinking, Christ-like love for men is a miracle impossible on earth. He was God. But we are not gods. Suppose I, for instance, suffer intensely. Another can never know how much I suffer, because he is another and not I. And what's more, a man is rarely ready to admit another's suffering (as though it were a distinction). Why won't he admit it, do you think? Because I smell unpleasant, because I have a stupid face, because I once trod on his foot. Besides, there is suffering and suffering; degrading, humiliating suffering such as humbles me--hunger, for instance--my benefactor will perhaps allow me; but when you come to higher suffering--for an idea, for instance--he will very rarely admit that, perhaps because my face strikes him as not at all what he fancies a man should have who suffers for an idea. And so he deprives me instantly of his favor, and not at all from badness of heart. Beggars, especially genteel beggars, ought never to show themselves, but to ask for charity through the newspapers. One can love one's neighbors in the abstract, or even at a distance, but at close quarters it's almost impossible. If it were as on the stage, in the ballet, where if beggars come in, they wear silken rags and tattered lace and beg for alms dancing gracefully, then one might like looking at them. But even then we should not love them. But enough of that. I simply wanted to show you my point of view. I meant to speak of the suffering of mankind generally, but we had better confine ourselves to the sufferings of the children. That reduces the scope of my argument to a tenth of what it would be. Still we'd better keep to the children, though it does weaken my case. But, in the first place, children can be loved even at close quarters, even when they are dirty, even when they are ugly (I fancy, though, children never are ugly). The second reason why I won't speak of grown-up people is that, besides being disgusting and unworthy of love, they have a compensation--they've eaten the apple and know good and evil, and they have become 'like gods.' They go on eating it still. But the children haven't eaten anything, and are so far innocent. Are you fond of children, Alyosha? I know you are, and you will understand why I prefer to speak of them. If they, too, suffer horribly on earth, they must suffer for their fathers' sins, they must be punished for their fathers, who have eaten the apple; but that reasoning is of the other world and is incomprehensible for the heart of man here on earth. The innocent must not suffer for another's sins, and especially such innocents! You may be surprised at me, Alyosha, but I am awfully fond of children, too. And observe, cruel people, the violent, the rapacious, the Karamazovs are sometimes very fond of children. Children while they are quite little--up to seven, for instance--are so remote from grown-up people; they are different creatures, as it were, of a different species. I knew a criminal in prison who had, in the course of his career as a burglar, murdered whole families, including several children. But when he was in prison, he had a strange affection for them. He spent all his time at his window, watching the children playing in the prison yard. He trained one little boy to come up to his window and made great friends with him.... You don't know why I am telling you all this, Alyosha? My head aches and I am sad." "You speak with a strange air," observed Alyosha uneasily, "as though you were not quite yourself." "By the way, a Bulgarian I met lately in Moscow," Ivan went on, seeming not to hear his brother's words, "told me about the crimes committed by Turks and Circassians in all parts of Bulgaria through fear of a general rising of the Slavs. They burn villages, murder, outrage women and children, they nail their prisoners by the ears to the fences, leave them so till morning, and in the morning they hang them--all sorts of things you can't imagine. People talk sometimes of bestial cruelty, but that's a great injustice and insult to the beasts; a beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws, that's all he can do. He would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he were able to do it. These Turks took a pleasure in torturing children, too; cutting the unborn child from the mother's womb, and tossing babies up in the air and catching them on the points of their bayonets before their mothers' eyes. Doing it before the mothers' eyes was what gave zest to the amusement. Here is another scene that I thought very interesting. Imagine a trembling mother with her baby in her arms, a circle of invading Turks around her. They've planned a diversion: they pet the baby, laugh to make it laugh. They succeed, the baby laughs. At that moment a Turk points a pistol four inches from the baby's face. The baby laughs with glee, holds out its little hands to the pistol, and he pulls the trigger in the baby's face and blows out its brains. Artistic, wasn't it? By the way, Turks are particularly fond of sweet things, they say." "Brother, what are you driving at?" asked Alyosha. "I think if the devil doesn't exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness." "Just as he did God, then?" observed Alyosha. " 'It's wonderful how you can turn words,' as Polonius says in _Hamlet_," laughed Ivan. "You turn my words against me. Well, I am glad. Yours must be a fine God, if man created Him in his image and likeness. You asked just now what I was driving at. You see, I am fond of collecting certain facts, and, would you believe, I even copy anecdotes of a certain sort from newspapers and books, and I've already got a fine collection. The Turks, of course, have gone into it, but they are foreigners. I have specimens from home that are even better than the Turks. You know we prefer beating--rods and scourges--that's our national institution. Nailing ears is unthinkable for us, for we are, after all, Europeans. But the rod and the scourge we have always with us and they cannot be taken from us. Abroad now they scarcely do any beating. Manners are more humane, or laws have been passed, so that they don't dare to flog men now. But they make up for it in another way just as national as ours. And so national that it would be practically impossible among us, though I believe we are being inoculated with it, since the religious movement began in our aristocracy. I have a charming pamphlet, translated from the French, describing how, quite recently, five years ago, a murderer, Richard, was executed--a young man, I believe, of three and twenty, who repented and was converted to the Christian faith at the very scaffold. This Richard was an illegitimate child who was given as a child of six by his parents to some shepherds on the Swiss mountains. They brought him up to work for them. He grew up like a little wild beast among them. The shepherds taught him nothing, and scarcely fed or clothed him, but sent him out at seven to herd the flock in cold and wet, and no one hesitated or scrupled to treat him so. Quite the contrary, they thought they had every right, for Richard had been given to them as a chattel, and they did not even see the necessity of feeding him. Richard himself describes how in those years, like the Prodigal Son in the Gospel, he longed to eat of the mash given to the pigs, which were fattened for sale. But they wouldn't even give him that, and beat him when he stole from the pigs. And that was how he spent all his childhood and his youth, till he grew up and was strong enough to go away and be a thief. The savage began to earn his living as a day laborer in Geneva. He drank what he earned, he lived like a brute, and finished by killing and robbing an old man. He was caught, tried, and condemned to death. They are not sentimentalists there. And in prison he was immediately surrounded by pastors, members of Christian brotherhoods, philanthropic ladies, and the like. They taught him to read and write in prison, and expounded the Gospel to him. They exhorted him, worked upon him, drummed at him incessantly, till at last he solemnly confessed his crime. He was converted. He wrote to the court himself that he was a monster, but that in the end God had vouchsafed him light and shown grace. All Geneva was in excitement about him--all philanthropic and religious Geneva. All the aristocratic and well-bred society of the town rushed to the prison, kissed Richard and embraced him; 'You are our brother, you have found grace.' And Richard does nothing but weep with emotion, 'Yes, I've found grace! All my youth and childhood I was glad of pigs' food, but now even I have found grace. I am dying in the Lord.' 'Yes, Richard, die in the Lord; you have shed blood and must die. Though it's not your fault that you knew not the Lord, when you coveted the pigs' food and were beaten for stealing it (which was very wrong of you, for stealing is forbidden); but you've shed blood and you must die.' And on the last day, Richard, perfectly limp, did nothing but cry and repeat every minute: 'This is my happiest day. I am going to the Lord.' 'Yes,' cry the pastors and the judges and philanthropic ladies. 'This is the happiest day of your life, for you are going to the Lord!' They all walk or drive to the scaffold in procession behind the prison van. At the scaffold they call to Richard: 'Die, brother, die in the Lord, for even thou hast found grace!' And so, covered with his brothers' kisses, Richard is dragged on to the scaffold, and led to the guillotine. And they chopped off his head in brotherly fashion, because he had found grace. Yes, that's characteristic. That pamphlet is translated into Russian by some Russian philanthropists of aristocratic rank and evangelical aspirations, and has been distributed gratis for the enlightenment of the people. The case of Richard is interesting because it's national. Though to us it's absurd to cut off a man's head, because he has become our brother and has found grace, yet we have our own speciality, which is all but worse. Our historical pastime is the direct satisfaction of inflicting pain. There are lines in Nekrassov describing how a peasant lashes a horse on the eyes, 'on its meek eyes,' every one must have seen it. It's peculiarly Russian. He describes how a feeble little nag has foundered under too heavy a load and cannot move. The peasant beats it, beats it savagely, beats it at last not knowing what he is doing in the intoxication of cruelty, thrashes it mercilessly over and over again. 'However weak you are, you must pull, if you die for it.' The nag strains, and then he begins lashing the poor defenseless creature on its weeping, on its 'meek eyes.' The frantic beast tugs and draws the load, trembling all over, gasping for breath, moving sideways, with a sort of unnatural spasmodic action--it's awful in Nekrassov. But that's only a horse, and God has given horses to be beaten. So the Tatars have taught us, and they left us the knout as a remembrance of it. But men, too, can be beaten. A well-educated, cultured gentleman and his wife beat their own child with a birch-rod, a girl of seven. I have an exact account of it. The papa was glad that the birch was covered with twigs. 'It stings more,' said he, and so he began stinging his daughter. I know for a fact there are people who at every blow are worked up to sensuality, to literal sensuality, which increases progressively at every blow they inflict. They beat for a minute, for five minutes, for ten minutes, more often and more savagely. The child screams. At last the child cannot scream, it gasps, 'Daddy! daddy!' By some diabolical unseemly chance the case was brought into court. A counsel is engaged. The Russian people have long called a barrister 'a conscience for hire.' The counsel protests in his client's defense. 'It's such a simple thing,' he says, 'an everyday domestic event. A father corrects his child. To our shame be it said, it is brought into court.' The jury, convinced by him, give a favorable verdict. The public roars with delight that the torturer is acquitted. Ah, pity I wasn't there! I would have proposed to raise a subscription in his honor! Charming pictures. "But I've still better things about children. I've collected a great, great deal about Russian children, Alyosha. There was a little girl of five who was hated by her father and mother, 'most worthy and respectable people, of good education and breeding.' You see, I must repeat again, it is a peculiar characteristic of many people, this love of torturing children, and children only. To all other types of humanity these torturers behave mildly and benevolently, like cultivated and humane Europeans; but they are very fond of tormenting children, even fond of children themselves in that sense. It's just their defenselessness that tempts the tormentor, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no refuge and no appeal, that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of course, a demon lies hidden--the demon of rage, the demon of lustful heat at the screams of the tortured victim, the demon of lawlessness let off the chain, the demon of diseases that follow on vice, gout, kidney disease, and so on. "This poor child of five was subjected to every possible torture by those cultivated parents. They beat her, thrashed her, kicked her for no reason till her body was one bruise. Then, they went to greater refinements of cruelty--shut her up all night in the cold and frost in a privy, and because she didn't ask to be taken up at night (as though a child of five sleeping its angelic, sound sleep could be trained to wake and ask), they smeared her face and filled her mouth with excrement, and it was her mother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep, hearing the poor child's groans! Can you understand why a little creature, who can't even understand what's done to her, should beat her little aching heart with her tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek unresentful tears to dear, kind God to protect her? Do you understand that, friend and brother, you pious and humble novice? Do you understand why this infamy must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child's prayer to 'dear, kind God'! I say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the apple, damn them, and the devil take them all! But these little ones! I am making you suffer, Alyosha, you are not yourself. I'll leave off if you like." "Never mind. I want to suffer too," muttered Alyosha. "One picture, only one more, because it's so curious, so characteristic, and I have only just read it in some collection of Russian antiquities. I've forgotten the name. I must look it up. It was in the darkest days of serfdom at the beginning of the century, and long live the Liberator of the People! There was in those days a general of aristocratic connections, the owner of great estates, one of those men--somewhat exceptional, I believe, even then--who, retiring from the service into a life of leisure, are convinced that they've earned absolute power over the lives of their subjects. There were such men then. So our general, settled on his property of two thousand souls, lives in pomp, and domineers over his poor neighbors as though they were dependents and buffoons. He has kennels of hundreds of hounds and nearly a hundred dog-boys--all mounted, and in uniform. One day a serf-boy, a little child of eight, threw a stone in play and hurt the paw of the general's favorite hound. 'Why is my favorite dog lame?' He is told that the boy threw a stone that hurt the dog's paw. 'So you did it.' The general looked the child up and down. 'Take him.' He was taken--taken from his mother and kept shut up all night. Early that morning the general comes out on horseback, with the hounds, his dependents, dog-boys, and huntsmen, all mounted around him in full hunting parade. The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the lock-up. It's a gloomy, cold, foggy autumn day, a capital day for hunting. The general orders the child to be undressed; the child is stripped naked. He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry.... 'Make him run,' commands the general. 'Run! run!' shout the dog-boys. The boy runs.... 'At him!' yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother's eyes!... I believe the general was afterwards declared incapable of administering his estates. Well--what did he deserve? To be shot? To be shot for the satisfaction of our moral feelings? Speak, Alyosha!" "To be shot," murmured Alyosha, lifting his eyes to Ivan with a pale, twisted smile. "Bravo!" cried Ivan, delighted. "If even you say so.... You're a pretty monk! So there is a little devil sitting in your heart, Alyosha Karamazov!" "What I said was absurd, but--" "That's just the point, that 'but'!" cried Ivan. "Let me tell you, novice, that the absurd is only too necessary on earth. The world stands on absurdities, and perhaps nothing would have come to pass in it without them. We know what we know!" "What do you know?" "I understand nothing," Ivan went on, as though in delirium. "I don't want to understand anything now. I want to stick to the fact. I made up my mind long ago not to understand. If I try to understand anything, I shall be false to the fact, and I have determined to stick to the fact." "Why are you trying me?" Alyosha cried, with sudden distress. "Will you say what you mean at last?" "Of course, I will; that's what I've been leading up to. You are dear to me, I don't want to let you go, and I won't give you up to your Zossima." Ivan for a minute was silent, his face became all at once very sad. "Listen! I took the case of children only to make my case clearer. Of the other tears of humanity with which the earth is soaked from its crust to its center, I will say nothing. I have narrowed my subject on purpose. I am a bug, and I recognize in all humility that I cannot understand why the world is arranged as it is. Men are themselves to blame, I suppose; they were given paradise, they wanted freedom, and stole fire from heaven, though they knew they would become unhappy, so there is no need to pity them. With my pitiful, earthly, Euclidian understanding, all I know is that there is suffering and that there are none guilty; that cause follows effect, simply and directly; that everything flows and finds its level--but that's only Euclidian nonsense, I know that, and I can't consent to live by it! What comfort is it to me that there are none guilty and that cause follows effect simply and directly, and that I know it?--I must have justice, or I will destroy myself. And not justice in some remote infinite time and space, but here on earth, and that I could see myself. I have believed in it. I want to see it, and if I am dead by then, let me rise again, for if it all happens without me, it will be too unfair. Surely I haven't suffered, simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure the soil of the future harmony for somebody else. I want to see with my own eyes the hind lie down with the lion and the victim rise up and embrace his murderer. I want to be there when every one suddenly understands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are built on this longing, and I am a believer. But then there are the children, and what am I to do about them? That's a question I can't answer. For the hundredth time I repeat, there are numbers of questions, but I've only taken the children, because in their case what I mean is so unanswerably clear. Listen! If all must suffer to pay for the eternal harmony, what have children to do with it, tell me, please? It's beyond all comprehension why they should suffer, and why they should pay for the harmony. Why should they, too, furnish material to enrich the soil for the harmony of the future? I understand solidarity in sin among men. I understand solidarity in retribution, too; but there can be no such solidarity with children. And if it is really true that they must share responsibility for all their fathers' crimes, such a truth is not of this world and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester will say, perhaps, that the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn't grow up, he was torn to pieces by the dogs, at eight years old. Oh, Alyosha, I am not blaspheming! I understand, of course, what an upheaval of the universe it will be, when everything in heaven and earth blends in one hymn of praise and everything that lives and has lived cries aloud: 'Thou art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed.' When the mother embraces the fiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears, 'Thou art just, O Lord!' then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be reached and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I can't accept that harmony. And while I am on earth, I make haste to take my own measures. You see, Alyosha, perhaps it really may happen that if I live to that moment, or rise again to see it, I, too, perhaps, may cry aloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing the child's torturer, 'Thou art just, O Lord!' but I don't want to cry aloud then. While there is still time, I hasten to protect myself, and so I renounce the higher harmony altogether. It's not worth the tears of that one tortured child who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed in its stinking outhouse, with its unexpiated tears to 'dear, kind God'! It's not worth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They must be atoned for, or there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone for them? Is it possible? By their being avenged? But what do I care for avenging them? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do, since those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of harmony, if there is hell? I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don't want more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price. I don't want the mother to embrace the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! She dare not forgive him! Let her forgive him for herself, if she will, let her forgive the torturer for the immeasurable suffering of her mother's heart. But the sufferings of her tortured child she has no right to forgive; she dare not forgive the torturer, even if the child were to forgive him! And if that is so, if they dare not forgive, what becomes of harmony? Is there in the whole world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I don't want harmony. From love for humanity I don't want it. I would rather be left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, _even if I were wrong_. Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it's beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as possible. And that I am doing. It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return Him the ticket." "That's rebellion," murmured Alyosha, looking down. "Rebellion? I am sorry you call it that," said Ivan earnestly. "One can hardly live in rebellion, and I want to live. Tell me yourself, I challenge you--answer. Imagine that you are creating a fabric of human destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to death only one tiny creature--that baby beating its breast with its fist, for instance--and to found that edifice on its unavenged tears, would you consent to be the architect on those conditions? Tell me, and tell the truth." "No, I wouldn't consent," said Alyosha softly. "And can you admit the idea that men for whom you are building it would agree to accept their happiness on the foundation of the unexpiated blood of a little victim? And accepting it would remain happy for ever?" "No, I can't admit it. Brother," said Alyosha suddenly, with flashing eyes, "you said just now, is there a being in the whole world who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? But there is a Being and He can forgive everything, all and for all, because He gave His innocent blood for all and everything. You have forgotten Him, and on Him is built the edifice, and it is to Him they cry aloud, 'Thou art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed!' " "Ah! the One without sin and His blood! No, I have not forgotten Him; on the contrary I've been wondering all the time how it was you did not bring Him in before, for usually all arguments on your side put Him in the foreground. Do you know, Alyosha--don't laugh! I made a poem about a year ago. If you can waste another ten minutes on me, I'll tell it to you." "You wrote a poem?" "Oh, no, I didn't write it," laughed Ivan, "and I've never written two lines of poetry in my life. But I made up this poem in prose and I remembered it. I was carried away when I made it up. You will be my first reader--that is listener. Why should an author forego even one listener?" smiled Ivan. "Shall I tell it to you?" "I am all attention," said Alyosha. "My poem is called 'The Grand Inquisitor'; it's a ridiculous thing, but I want to tell it to you."

book 5, Chapter 4

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

Rebellion The two brothers begin to discuss questions of God's existence and the immortality of the soul. Ivan says that, in his heart, he has not rejected God, but that at the same time he feels himself unable to accept God or the world that God has created. Ivan says that he can love humanity in the abstract, but that, when he meets individual men and women, he finds it impossible to love them. Moreover, he is deeply troubled by the injustice of suffering on Earth. He asks Alyosha how a just God could permit the suffering of children, creatures too young even to have sinned. He says that to love such a God would be the equivalent of a tortured man choosing to love his torturer. When Alyosha is troubled by Ivan's position, Ivan asks him if he could accept even a perfect world in which the perfection depended on the suffering of an innocent creature. Alyosha reminds Ivan of the sacrifice of Christ, and Ivan, insisting that he has not forgotten Christ, recites a prose poem, called The Grand Inquisitor, that he wrote some time ago.

Book V: Pro and Contra, Chapters 1-4 Lise is portrayed as a character poised between the two philosophical poles of the novel: the love represented by Alyosha and the despair represented by Ivan. Lise's gleefully mischievous behavior in the early part of the novel is actually the early onset of what finally becomes a wild, temperamental capriciousness. She struggles to be happy, but, as is clear from her increasingly antagonistic behavior toward her mother, she is beginning to distrust the authority figures in her life and to feel frustrated with the shortcomings of the world around her. She reacts to her inner turmoil with wild mood swings and displays of extreme affection and extreme hatred. In this way, Lise is linked to the "shriekers" described in Books I and II, women who are so unable to cope with the horrors of the world that they collapse into hysteria, and thus serve as symbols of the despair that besets those who share the anguished doubt embodied by Ivan. In this part of the novel, Lise seizes on Alyosha as a possible source of salvation. But while she admires his blithe faith, she is unable to share it, and she eventually succumbs to a petulant, spiteful despair. Though this scene seems happy, the seeds of Lise's downfall are already apparent in the way that she rebels against her mother, in the extremity of her emotional displays, and in the way she oscillates between admitting and hiding her love for Alyosha. Ivan's dinner conversation with Alyosha adds a new level of complexity to the novel's exploration of religion and spirituality. The novel does not simplistically suggest that belief in God brings unmitigated happiness while doubt brings unmitigated suffering, and the brothers' dinner conversation provides the rationale behind the idea that not believing in God is more reasonable and compassionate than believing in him. Through his description of the unjust suffering of children and of the general misery of mankind's situation on Earth, Ivan presents the strongest case against religion in the novel. Ivan's dilemma mirrors the biblical dilemma of Job, who asked how a loving God could allow mankind to endure injustice and misery for no apparent reason. Ivan cannot understand why young children would be made to suffer under a loving God. In rejecting outright the explanation that God's ways are too mysterious for mankind to comprehend, Ivan illustrates the depth of his commitment to rational coherence. He can only believe in a God who is rational like the human beings he created, and he thinks that a truly loving God would have made the universe comprehensible to mankind. As such, Ivan's religious doubt is slightly different from atheism, because Ivan says that if God does indeed exist, he is not good or just. The problem is not resolvable. Either no God exists, or a God exists who is the equivalent of a torturer. This problem is the ultimate source of Ivan's despair. Ivan's understanding of the world means that mankind is alone in the universe and that Fyodor Pavlovich's revolting attitude toward life is acceptable and even logical. If this is not the case, then God himself must be a heartless tyrant

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1130-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra/section_5_part_0.txt

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

act ii, scene i

{"name": "Act II, Scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-ii-scene-i", "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.", "analysis": ""}

ACT II. SCENE I. Messina. POMPEY'S house Enter POMPEY, MENECRATES, and MENAS, in warlike manner POMPEY. If the great gods be just, they shall assist The deeds of justest men. MENECRATES. Know, worthy Pompey, That what they do delay they not deny. POMPEY. Whiles we are suitors to their throne, decays The thing we sue for. MENECRATES. We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise pow'rs Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers. POMPEY. I shall do well. The people love me, and the sea is mine; My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope Says it will come to th' full. Mark Antony In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make No wars without doors. Caesar gets money where He loses hearts. Lepidus flatters both, Of both is flatter'd; but he neither loves, Nor either cares for him. MENAS. Caesar and Lepidus Are in the field. A mighty strength they carry. POMPEY. Where have you this? 'Tis false. MENAS. From Silvius, sir. POMPEY. He dreams. I know they are in Rome together, Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love, Salt Cleopatra, soften thy wan'd lip! Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both; Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts, Keep his brain fuming. Epicurean cooks Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite, That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour Even till a Lethe'd dullness- Enter VARRIUS How now, Varrius! VARRIUS. This is most certain that I shall deliver: Mark Antony is every hour in Rome Expected. Since he went from Egypt 'tis A space for farther travel. POMPEY. I could have given less matter A better ear. Menas, I did not think This amorous surfeiter would have donn'd his helm For such a petty war; his soldiership Is twice the other twain. But let us rear The higher our opinion, that our stirring Can from the lap of Egypt's widow pluck The ne'er-lust-wearied Antony. MENAS. I cannot hope Caesar and Antony shall well greet together. His wife that's dead did trespasses to Caesar; His brother warr'd upon him; although, I think, Not mov'd by Antony. POMPEY. I know not, Menas, How lesser enmities may give way to greater. Were't not that we stand up against them all, 'Twere pregnant they should square between themselves; For they have entertained cause enough To draw their swords. But how the fear of us May cement their divisions, and bind up The petty difference we yet not know. Be't as our gods will have't! It only stands Our lives upon to use our strongest hands. Come, Menas. Exeunt

Act II, Scene i

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

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.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_17_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 18

chapter 18

{"name": "Chapter 18", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-18", "summary": "The next day, Dorian doesn't leave the house; he's terrified that his assassin will find him. He wonders if this is all a product of his imagination--could he just have hallucinated his vision of his would-be killer? Surely he's safe. However, he can't get the vision out of his head; Henry comes in that evening and finds Dorian crying. After a couple of days of sulking, Dorian feels well enough to go outside. He feels infinitely better, and looks back on his former fear with contempt. Dorian goes on a walk in the garden with the Duchess, then joins some other friends to go hunting. Dorian and the Duchess's brother, Geoffrey, stroll through the woods, looking for animals to shoot. They come upon a beautiful hare. Dorian is charmed by the creature, and tells Geoffrey not to shoot it, but he scoffs and takes aim. Geoffrey hits the hare--but also hits something else. He accidentally shoots a man hidden behind the trees. Geoffrey angrily yells at the gamekeeper; he thinks it's one of the \"beaters,\" men employed to flush birds out of the trees to be shot at. The body of the shot man is dragged out, and Dorian is distraught--he finds the whole thing to be dreadful. Henry gently walks him back to the house, and informs him on the way that the man has died. Dorian is profoundly disturbed. Henry, however, is not. He thinks it's the man's own fault for being in the line of fire, though he admits that this situation is rather awkward for Geoffrey. Dorian thinks this is a bad omen, and is certain that something bad is going to happen to someone--maybe him. Henry blows off this presentiment, and they change topics to Dorian's affair with the Duchess. However, Dorian's distress is still palpable, but he won't tell Henry what's the matter. The Duchess comes out to join them, and the three of them discuss the murdered man in the most alarming way--as though he's just an animal. Their snobbery is unbelievable. Dorian leaves his two friends and goes into the house. Henry and the Duchess continue their banter; they're pretty much equally matched in wit. Inside, Dorian is totally freaking out. He feels like death is coming for him. Thornton, the gamekeeper, comes in to see Dorian about the dead man. It turns out he wasn't a beater, after all. In fact, Thornton says, he looks more like a sailor. This really wakes Dorian up--he desperately wants to know the man's identity. He rushes out on horseback to see the body where it's being kept in a stable. The dead man is James Vane. Dorian rides back to the house, crying tears of joy--he's safe.", "analysis": ""}

The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor's face peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart. But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane's brother had not come back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had saved him. And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them visible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear as he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep! As the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a wild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere memory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came back to him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terrible and swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry came in at six o'clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break. It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But it was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused the change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. With subtle and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Their strong passions must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. Besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity and not a little of contempt. After breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden and then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp frost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of blue metal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake. At the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey Clouston, the duchess's brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of his gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take the mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered bracken and rough undergrowth. "Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?" he asked. "Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the open. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new ground." Dorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown and red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the beaters ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns that followed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful freedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the high indifference of joy. Suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front of them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it forward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir Geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the animal's grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he cried out at once, "Don't shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live." "What nonsense, Dorian!" laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded into the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is worse. "Good heavens! I have hit a beater!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. "What an ass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!" he called out at the top of his voice. "A man is hurt." The head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand. "Where, sir? Where is he?" he shouted. At the same time, the firing ceased along the line. "Here," answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket. "Why on earth don't you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for the day." Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the lithe swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging a body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir Geoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of the keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with faces. There was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz of voices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the boughs overhead. After a few moments--that were to him, in his perturbed state, like endless hours of pain--he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started and looked round. "Dorian," said Lord Henry, "I had better tell them that the shooting is stopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on." "I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry," he answered bitterly. "The whole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man ...?" He could not finish the sentence. "I am afraid so," rejoined Lord Henry. "He got the whole charge of shot in his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come; let us go home." They walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly fifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and said, with a heavy sigh, "It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen." "What is?" asked Lord Henry. "Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear fellow, it can't be helped. It was the man's own fault. Why did he get in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather awkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It makes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he shoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter." Dorian shook his head. "It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, perhaps," he added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain. The elder man laughed. "The only horrible thing in the world is _ennui_, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. But we are not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep chattering about this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the subject is to be tabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have everything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would not be delighted to change places with you." "There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don't laugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who has just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. It is the coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to wheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don't you see a man moving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?" Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand was pointing. "Yes," he said, smiling, "I see the gardener waiting for you. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the table to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You must come and see my doctor, when we get back to town." Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. "Her Grace told me to wait for an answer," he murmured. Dorian put the letter into his pocket. "Tell her Grace that I am coming in," he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in the direction of the house. "How fond women are of doing dangerous things!" laughed Lord Henry. "It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on." "How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present instance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I don't love her." "And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you are excellently matched." "You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for scandal." "The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty," said Lord Henry, lighting a cigarette. "You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram." "The world goes to the altar of its own accord," was the answer. "I wish I could love," cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in his voice. "But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe." "Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what it is? You know I would help you." "I can't tell you, Harry," he answered sadly. "And I dare say it is only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me." "What nonsense!" "I hope it is, but I can't help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess, looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back, Duchess." "I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered. "Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!" "Yes, it was very curious. I don't know what made me say it. Some whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject." "It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry. "It has no psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one who had committed a real murder." "How horrid of you, Harry!" cried the duchess. "Isn't it, Mr. Gray? Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint." Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. "It is nothing, Duchess," he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn't hear what Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won't you?" They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes. "Are you very much in love with him?" he asked. She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. "I wish I knew," she said at last. He shook his head. "Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful." "One may lose one's way." "All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys." "What is that?" "Disillusion." "It was my _debut_ in life," she sighed. "It came to you crowned." "I am tired of strawberry leaves." "They become you." "Only in public." "You would miss them," said Lord Henry. "I will not part with a petal." "Monmouth has ears." "Old age is dull of hearing." "Has he never been jealous?" "I wish he had been." He glanced about as if in search of something. "What are you looking for?" she inquired. "The button from your foil," he answered. "You have dropped it." She laughed. "I have still the mask." "It makes your eyes lovelier," was his reply. She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet fruit. Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror in every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too hideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to pre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting. At five o'clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham at the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another night at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there in the sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood. Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to town to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in his absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to the door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see him. He frowned and bit his lip. "Send him in," he muttered, after some moments' hesitation. As soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a drawer and spread it out before him. "I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this morning, Thornton?" he said, taking up a pen. "Yes, sir," answered the gamekeeper. "Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?" asked Dorian, looking bored. "If so, I should not like them to be left in want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary." "We don't know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of coming to you about." "Don't know who he is?" said Dorian, listlessly. "What do you mean? Wasn't he one of your men?" "No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir." The pen dropped from Dorian Gray's hand, and he felt as if his heart had suddenly stopped beating. "A sailor?" he cried out. "Did you say a sailor?" "Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on both arms, and that kind of thing." "Was there anything found on him?" said Dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell his name?" "Some money, sir--not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we think." Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He clutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I must see it at once." "It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don't like to have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad luck." "The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I'll go to the stables myself. It will save time." In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him. He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs. At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard. He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand upon the latch. There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the door open and entered. On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a bottle, sputtered beside it. Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to come to him. "Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it," he said, clutching at the door-post for support. When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy broke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James Vane. He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.

Chapter 18

https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-18

The next day, Dorian doesn't leave the house; he's terrified that his assassin will find him. He wonders if this is all a product of his imagination--could he just have hallucinated his vision of his would-be killer? Surely he's safe. However, he can't get the vision out of his head; Henry comes in that evening and finds Dorian crying. After a couple of days of sulking, Dorian feels well enough to go outside. He feels infinitely better, and looks back on his former fear with contempt. Dorian goes on a walk in the garden with the Duchess, then joins some other friends to go hunting. Dorian and the Duchess's brother, Geoffrey, stroll through the woods, looking for animals to shoot. They come upon a beautiful hare. Dorian is charmed by the creature, and tells Geoffrey not to shoot it, but he scoffs and takes aim. Geoffrey hits the hare--but also hits something else. He accidentally shoots a man hidden behind the trees. Geoffrey angrily yells at the gamekeeper; he thinks it's one of the "beaters," men employed to flush birds out of the trees to be shot at. The body of the shot man is dragged out, and Dorian is distraught--he finds the whole thing to be dreadful. Henry gently walks him back to the house, and informs him on the way that the man has died. Dorian is profoundly disturbed. Henry, however, is not. He thinks it's the man's own fault for being in the line of fire, though he admits that this situation is rather awkward for Geoffrey. Dorian thinks this is a bad omen, and is certain that something bad is going to happen to someone--maybe him. Henry blows off this presentiment, and they change topics to Dorian's affair with the Duchess. However, Dorian's distress is still palpable, but he won't tell Henry what's the matter. The Duchess comes out to join them, and the three of them discuss the murdered man in the most alarming way--as though he's just an animal. Their snobbery is unbelievable. Dorian leaves his two friends and goes into the house. Henry and the Duchess continue their banter; they're pretty much equally matched in wit. Inside, Dorian is totally freaking out. He feels like death is coming for him. Thornton, the gamekeeper, comes in to see Dorian about the dead man. It turns out he wasn't a beater, after all. In fact, Thornton says, he looks more like a sailor. This really wakes Dorian up--he desperately wants to know the man's identity. He rushes out on horseback to see the body where it's being kept in a stable. The dead man is James Vane. Dorian rides back to the house, crying tears of joy--he's safe.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/69.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_12_part_7.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 10.chapter 7

book 10, chapter 7

{"name": "book 10, Chapter 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section13/", "summary": "Ilyusha The doctor leaves, and Alyosha and Kolya both realize that Ilyusha will soon die. Ilyusha speaks softly to his father about his death, and Kolya, who has been choking back tears at the sight of his sick friend, at last begins to weep openly. He tells Alyosha that he will come to visit Ilyusha as often as he can, and Alyosha admonishes him to keep his word.", "analysis": "The stories of Alyosha's influence on Kolya, Ilyusha, and the other boys develop a motif of the novel: the idea that faith and virtue can be taught and handed down as a legacy from one faithful man to the next. This legacy begins with Zosima's brother, who teaches Zosima about loving God's creation and forgiving mankind. Zosima passes the lessons on to Alyosha, and Alyosha now actively passes them on to the young boys he has befriended since his initial encounter with Ilyusha, keeping the chain of faith alive. Dostoevsky dramatizes the receptivity of children to moral teachings throughout this section of the novel. If Alyosha's example is only partly successful in improving the lives of the adults to whom he is close, it is more successful among the children here in Book X. The boys look at Alyosha with unmitigated respect and adoration because he treats them with respect--as equals--as we see in his extended conversations with the wayward Kolya. The Brothers Karamazov ends on a note of optimism and encouragement, and a great deal of its positive tone seems to stem from the idea that Alyosha's role as a teacher of the young will improve the faith of the next generation. This part of the novel shows Alyosha's reaction to Ivan's indictment of God. In these chapters, Alyosha encounters the very injustice that makes Ivan reject God--the suffering of children--and shows his response to it. Rather than recoiling in intellectual horror, as Ivan does, Alyosha devotes himself to doing what he can to make the suffering child happier, bringing Ilyusha's schoolmates to see him every day, helping to heal the rift between Ilyusha and Kolya, and generally providing Ilyusha and his family with friendship and support. Just as Zosima's argument with Ivan in Book I stems from their opposite perspectives, with Zosima treating other people on an individual basis and Ivan looking at mankind as a whole, the contrast between Alyosha and Ivan in this situation stems from the same opposition. Ivan looks at the abstract idea of suffering children and is unable to reconcile the idea with his rational precepts about how God ought to be. His solution is to reject God. Alyosha, on the other hand, sees an actual suffering child and believes that it is God's will for him to try to alleviate the child's suffering to whatever degree he can. His solution is to help Ilyusha. Again, Dostoevsky shows how the psychology of skepticism walls itself off, in elaborate proofs and theorems, from having a positive effect on the world, while the psychology of faith, simplistic though it may be, concerns itself with doing good for others. This very subtle response to the indictment of God presented by Ivan in Book V brings the philosophical debate of the novel onto a plane of real human action, and shows the inadequacy of Ivan's philosophy--which Ivan himself would readily acknowledge--to do good in the real world"}

Chapter VII. Ilusha The doctor came out of the room again, muffled in his fur coat and with his cap on his head. His face looked almost angry and disgusted, as though he were afraid of getting dirty. He cast a cursory glance round the passage, looking sternly at Alyosha and Kolya as he did so. Alyosha waved from the door to the coachman, and the carriage that had brought the doctor drove up. The captain darted out after the doctor, and, bowing apologetically, stopped him to get the last word. The poor fellow looked utterly crushed; there was a scared look in his eyes. "Your Excellency, your Excellency ... is it possible?" he began, but could not go on and clasped his hands in despair. Yet he still gazed imploringly at the doctor, as though a word from him might still change the poor boy's fate. "I can't help it, I am not God!" the doctor answered offhand, though with the customary impressiveness. "Doctor ... your Excellency ... and will it be soon, soon?" "You must be prepared for anything," said the doctor in emphatic and incisive tones, and dropping his eyes, he was about to step out to the coach. "Your Excellency, for Christ's sake!" the terror-stricken captain stopped him again. "Your Excellency! but can nothing, absolutely nothing save him now?" "It's not in my hands now," said the doctor impatiently, "but h'm!..." he stopped suddenly. "If you could, for instance ... send ... your patient ... at once, without delay" (the words "at once, without delay," the doctor uttered with an almost wrathful sternness that made the captain start) "to Syracuse, the change to the new be-ne-ficial climatic conditions might possibly effect--" "To Syracuse!" cried the captain, unable to grasp what was said. "Syracuse is in Sicily," Kolya jerked out suddenly in explanation. The doctor looked at him. "Sicily! your Excellency," faltered the captain, "but you've seen"--he spread out his hands, indicating his surroundings--"mamma and my family?" "N--no, Sicily is not the place for the family, the family should go to Caucasus in the early spring ... your daughter must go to the Caucasus, and your wife ... after a course of the waters in the Caucasus for her rheumatism ... must be sent straight to Paris to the mental specialist Lepelletier; I could give you a note to him, and then ... there might be a change--" "Doctor, doctor! But you see!" The captain flung wide his hands again despairingly, indicating the bare wooden walls of the passage. "Well, that's not my business," grinned the doctor. "I have only told you the answer of medical science to your question as to possible treatment. As for the rest, to my regret--" "Don't be afraid, apothecary, my dog won't bite you," Kolya rapped out loudly, noticing the doctor's rather uneasy glance at Perezvon, who was standing in the doorway. There was a wrathful note in Kolya's voice. He used the word apothecary instead of doctor on purpose, and, as he explained afterwards, used it "to insult him." "What's that?" The doctor flung up his head, staring with surprise at Kolya. "Who's this?" he addressed Alyosha, as though asking him to explain. "It's Perezvon's master, don't worry about me," Kolya said incisively again. "Perezvon?"(7) repeated the doctor, perplexed. "He hears the bell, but where it is he cannot tell. Good-by, we shall meet in Syracuse." "Who's this? Who's this?" The doctor flew into a terrible rage. "He is a schoolboy, doctor, he is a mischievous boy; take no notice of him," said Alyosha, frowning and speaking quickly. "Kolya, hold your tongue!" he cried to Krassotkin. "Take no notice of him, doctor," he repeated, rather impatiently. "He wants a thrashing, a good thrashing!" The doctor stamped in a perfect fury. "And you know, apothecary, my Perezvon might bite!" said Kolya, turning pale, with quivering voice and flashing eyes. "_Ici_, Perezvon!" "Kolya, if you say another word, I'll have nothing more to do with you," Alyosha cried peremptorily. "There is only one man in the world who can command Nikolay Krassotkin--this is the man"; Kolya pointed to Alyosha. "I obey him, good- by!" He stepped forward, opened the door, and quickly went into the inner room. Perezvon flew after him. The doctor stood still for five seconds in amazement, looking at Alyosha; then, with a curse, he went out quickly to the carriage, repeating aloud, "This is ... this is ... I don't know what it is!" The captain darted forward to help him into the carriage. Alyosha followed Kolya into the room. He was already by Ilusha's bedside. The sick boy was holding his hand and calling for his father. A minute later the captain, too, came back. "Father, father, come ... we ..." Ilusha faltered in violent excitement, but apparently unable to go on, he flung his wasted arms round his father and Kolya, uniting them in one embrace, and hugging them as tightly as he could. The captain suddenly began to shake with dumb sobs, and Kolya's lips and chin twitched. "Father, father! How sorry I am for you!" Ilusha moaned bitterly. "Ilusha ... darling ... the doctor said ... you would be all right ... we shall be happy ... the doctor ..." the captain began. "Ah, father! I know what the new doctor said to you about me.... I saw!" cried Ilusha, and again he hugged them both with all his strength, hiding his face on his father's shoulder. "Father, don't cry, and when I die get a good boy, another one ... choose one of them all, a good one, call him Ilusha and love him instead of me...." "Hush, old man, you'll get well," Krassotkin cried suddenly, in a voice that sounded angry. "But don't ever forget me, father," Ilusha went on, "come to my grave ... and, father, bury me by our big stone, where we used to go for our walk, and come to me there with Krassotkin in the evening ... and Perezvon ... I shall expect you.... Father, father!" His voice broke. They were all three silent, still embracing. Nina was crying quietly in her chair, and at last seeing them all crying, "mamma," too, burst into tears. "Ilusha! Ilusha!" she exclaimed. Krassotkin suddenly released himself from Ilusha's embrace. "Good-by, old man, mother expects me back to dinner," he said quickly. "What a pity I did not tell her! She will be dreadfully anxious.... But after dinner I'll come back to you for the whole day, for the whole evening, and I'll tell you all sorts of things, all sorts of things. And I'll bring Perezvon, but now I will take him with me, because he will begin to howl when I am away and bother you. Good-by!" And he ran out into the passage. He didn't want to cry, but in the passage he burst into tears. Alyosha found him crying. "Kolya, you must be sure to keep your word and come, or he will be terribly disappointed," Alyosha said emphatically. "I will! Oh, how I curse myself for not having come before!" muttered Kolya, crying, and no longer ashamed of it. At that moment the captain flew out of the room, and at once closed the door behind him. His face looked frenzied, his lips were trembling. He stood before the two and flung up his arms. "I don't want a good boy! I don't want another boy!" he muttered in a wild whisper, clenching his teeth. "If I forget thee, Jerusalem, may my tongue--" He broke off with a sob and sank on his knees before the wooden bench. Pressing his fists against his head, he began sobbing with absurd whimpering cries, doing his utmost that his cries should not be heard in the room. Kolya ran out into the street. "Good-by, Karamazov? Will you come yourself?" he cried sharply and angrily to Alyosha. "I will certainly come in the evening." "What was that he said about Jerusalem?... What did he mean by that?" "It's from the Bible. 'If I forget thee, Jerusalem,' that is, if I forget all that is most precious to me, if I let anything take its place, then may--" "I understand, that's enough! Mind you come! _Ici_, Perezvon!" he cried with positive ferocity to the dog, and with rapid strides he went home.

book 10, Chapter 7

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

Ilyusha The doctor leaves, and Alyosha and Kolya both realize that Ilyusha will soon die. Ilyusha speaks softly to his father about his death, and Kolya, who has been choking back tears at the sight of his sick friend, at last begins to weep openly. He tells Alyosha that he will come to visit Ilyusha as often as he can, and Alyosha admonishes him to keep his word.

The stories of Alyosha's influence on Kolya, Ilyusha, and the other boys develop a motif of the novel: the idea that faith and virtue can be taught and handed down as a legacy from one faithful man to the next. This legacy begins with Zosima's brother, who teaches Zosima about loving God's creation and forgiving mankind. Zosima passes the lessons on to Alyosha, and Alyosha now actively passes them on to the young boys he has befriended since his initial encounter with Ilyusha, keeping the chain of faith alive. Dostoevsky dramatizes the receptivity of children to moral teachings throughout this section of the novel. If Alyosha's example is only partly successful in improving the lives of the adults to whom he is close, it is more successful among the children here in Book X. The boys look at Alyosha with unmitigated respect and adoration because he treats them with respect--as equals--as we see in his extended conversations with the wayward Kolya. The Brothers Karamazov ends on a note of optimism and encouragement, and a great deal of its positive tone seems to stem from the idea that Alyosha's role as a teacher of the young will improve the faith of the next generation. This part of the novel shows Alyosha's reaction to Ivan's indictment of God. In these chapters, Alyosha encounters the very injustice that makes Ivan reject God--the suffering of children--and shows his response to it. Rather than recoiling in intellectual horror, as Ivan does, Alyosha devotes himself to doing what he can to make the suffering child happier, bringing Ilyusha's schoolmates to see him every day, helping to heal the rift between Ilyusha and Kolya, and generally providing Ilyusha and his family with friendship and support. Just as Zosima's argument with Ivan in Book I stems from their opposite perspectives, with Zosima treating other people on an individual basis and Ivan looking at mankind as a whole, the contrast between Alyosha and Ivan in this situation stems from the same opposition. Ivan looks at the abstract idea of suffering children and is unable to reconcile the idea with his rational precepts about how God ought to be. His solution is to reject God. Alyosha, on the other hand, sees an actual suffering child and believes that it is God's will for him to try to alleviate the child's suffering to whatever degree he can. His solution is to help Ilyusha. Again, Dostoevsky shows how the psychology of skepticism walls itself off, in elaborate proofs and theorems, from having a positive effect on the world, while the psychology of faith, simplistic though it may be, concerns itself with doing good for others. This very subtle response to the indictment of God presented by Ivan in Book V brings the philosophical debate of the novel onto a plane of real human action, and shows the inadequacy of Ivan's philosophy--which Ivan himself would readily acknowledge--to do good in the real world

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/44.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_43_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 44

chapter 44

{"name": "Chapter 44", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-44", "summary": "We find Bathsheba running along the dark road leading away from her house. Eventually, she gets tired and falls asleep among some trees. She wakes up the next morning with birds singing all around her. Soon enough, the servant Liddy comes walking by while searching for Bathsheba. She is happy when she realizes she's found her. Liddy even hitches up her skirts and walks through a swamp to be with Bathsheba. Liddy tells her that Sergeant Troy has left the house, but that Fanny's coffin is still in the sitting room. Liddy and Bathsheba walk together and eat some of the food Liddy brought along. Bathsheba seems determined not to return to the house until she's certain that Fanny's coffin is gone. Bathsheba also decides that there's no way she'll ever leave Troy, since she thinks it's only women with no pride who leave their husbands. To kill time and get her mind off things, Bathsheba asks Liddy to bring a bunch of books to her bedroom so the two of them can read without being disturbed. They have nothing to fear, though, since Troy never returns home that day. Outside, a group of children suddenly stop playing one of their games to check out a huge tombstone that's being put up in the cemetery. Bathsheba would like to know whose it is, but Liddy admits she doesn't know.", "analysis": ""}

UNDER A TREE--REACTION Bathsheba went along the dark road, neither knowing nor caring about the direction or issue of her flight. The first time that she definitely noticed her position was when she reached a gate leading into a thicket overhung by some large oak and beech trees. On looking into the place, it occurred to her that she had seen it by daylight on some previous occasion, and that what appeared like an impassable thicket was in reality a brake of fern now withering fast. She could think of nothing better to do with her palpitating self than to go in here and hide; and entering, she lighted on a spot sheltered from the damp fog by a reclining trunk, where she sank down upon a tangled couch of fronds and stems. She mechanically pulled some armfuls round her to keep off the breezes, and closed her eyes. Whether she slept or not that night Bathsheba was not clearly aware. But it was with a freshened existence and a cooler brain that, a long time afterwards, she became conscious of some interesting proceedings which were going on in the trees above her head and around. A coarse-throated chatter was the first sound. It was a sparrow just waking. Next: "Chee-weeze-weeze-weeze!" from another retreat. It was a finch. Third: "Tink-tink-tink-tink-a-chink!" from the hedge. It was a robin. "Chuck-chuck-chuck!" overhead. A squirrel. Then, from the road, "With my ra-ta-ta, and my rum-tum-tum!" It was a ploughboy. Presently he came opposite, and she believed from his voice that he was one of the boys on her own farm. He was followed by a shambling tramp of heavy feet, and looking through the ferns Bathsheba could just discern in the wan light of daybreak a team of her own horses. They stopped to drink at a pond on the other side of the way. She watched them flouncing into the pool, drinking, tossing up their heads, drinking again, the water dribbling from their lips in silver threads. There was another flounce, and they came out of the pond, and turned back again towards the farm. She looked further around. Day was just dawning, and beside its cool air and colours her heated actions and resolves of the night stood out in lurid contrast. She perceived that in her lap, and clinging to her hair, were red and yellow leaves which had come down from the tree and settled silently upon her during her partial sleep. Bathsheba shook her dress to get rid of them, when multitudes of the same family lying round about her rose and fluttered away in the breeze thus created, "like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing." There was an opening towards the east, and the glow from the as yet unrisen sun attracted her eyes thither. From her feet, and between the beautiful yellowing ferns with their feathery arms, the ground sloped downwards to a hollow, in which was a species of swamp, dotted with fungi. A morning mist hung over it now--a fulsome yet magnificent silvery veil, full of light from the sun, yet semi-opaque--the hedge behind it being in some measure hidden by its hazy luminousness. Up the sides of this depression grew sheaves of the common rush, and here and there a peculiar species of flag, the blades of which glistened in the emerging sun, like scythes. But the general aspect of the swamp was malignant. From its moist and poisonous coat seemed to be exhaled the essences of evil things in the earth, and in the waters under the earth. The fungi grew in all manner of positions from rotting leaves and tree stumps, some exhibiting to her listless gaze their clammy tops, others their oozing gills. Some were marked with great splotches, red as arterial blood, others were saffron yellow, and others tall and attenuated, with stems like macaroni. Some were leathery and of richest browns. The hollow seemed a nursery of pestilences small and great, in the immediate neighbourhood of comfort and health, and Bathsheba arose with a tremor at the thought of having passed the night on the brink of so dismal a place. There were now other footsteps to be heard along the road. Bathsheba's nerves were still unstrung: she crouched down out of sight again, and the pedestrian came into view. He was a schoolboy, with a bag slung over his shoulder containing his dinner, and a book in his hand. He paused by the gate, and, without looking up, continued murmuring words in tones quite loud enough to reach her ears. "'O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord':--that I know out o' book. 'Give us, give us, give us, give us, give us':--that I know. 'Grace that, grace that, grace that, grace that':--that I know." Other words followed to the same effect. The boy was of the dunce class apparently; the book was a psalter, and this was his way of learning the collect. In the worst attacks of trouble there appears to be always a superficial film of consciousness which is left disengaged and open to the notice of trifles, and Bathsheba was faintly amused at the boy's method, till he too passed on. By this time stupor had given place to anxiety, and anxiety began to make room for hunger and thirst. A form now appeared upon the rise on the other side of the swamp, half-hidden by the mist, and came towards Bathsheba. The woman--for it was a woman--approached with her face askance, as if looking earnestly on all sides of her. When she got a little further round to the left, and drew nearer, Bathsheba could see the newcomer's profile against the sunny sky, and knew the wavy sweep from forehead to chin, with neither angle nor decisive line anywhere about it, to be the familiar contour of Liddy Smallbury. Bathsheba's heart bounded with gratitude in the thought that she was not altogether deserted, and she jumped up. "Oh, Liddy!" she said, or attempted to say; but the words had only been framed by her lips; there came no sound. She had lost her voice by exposure to the clogged atmosphere all these hours of night. "Oh, ma'am! I am so glad I have found you," said the girl, as soon as she saw Bathsheba. "You can't come across," Bathsheba said in a whisper, which she vainly endeavoured to make loud enough to reach Liddy's ears. Liddy, not knowing this, stepped down upon the swamp, saying, as she did so, "It will bear me up, I think." Bathsheba never forgot that transient little picture of Liddy crossing the swamp to her there in the morning light. Iridescent bubbles of dank subterranean breath rose from the sweating sod beside the waiting-maid's feet as she trod, hissing as they burst and expanded away to join the vapoury firmament above. Liddy did not sink, as Bathsheba had anticipated. She landed safely on the other side, and looked up at the beautiful though pale and weary face of her young mistress. "Poor thing!" said Liddy, with tears in her eyes, "Do hearten yourself up a little, ma'am. However did--" "I can't speak above a whisper--my voice is gone for the present," said Bathsheba, hurriedly. "I suppose the damp air from that hollow has taken it away. Liddy, don't question me, mind. Who sent you--anybody?" "Nobody. I thought, when I found you were not at home, that something cruel had happened. I fancy I heard his voice late last night; and so, knowing something was wrong--" "Is he at home?" "No; he left just before I came out." "Is Fanny taken away?" "Not yet. She will soon be--at nine o'clock." "We won't go home at present, then. Suppose we walk about in this wood?" Liddy, without exactly understanding everything, or anything, in this episode, assented, and they walked together further among the trees. "But you had better come in, ma'am, and have something to eat. You will die of a chill!" "I shall not come indoors yet--perhaps never." "Shall I get you something to eat, and something else to put over your head besides that little shawl?" "If you will, Liddy." Liddy vanished, and at the end of twenty minutes returned with a cloak, hat, some slices of bread and butter, a tea-cup, and some hot tea in a little china jug. "Is Fanny gone?" said Bathsheba. "No," said her companion, pouring out the tea. Bathsheba wrapped herself up and ate and drank sparingly. Her voice was then a little clearer, and trifling colour returned to her face. "Now we'll walk about again," she said. They wandered about the wood for nearly two hours, Bathsheba replying in monosyllables to Liddy's prattle, for her mind ran on one subject, and one only. She interrupted with-- "I wonder if Fanny is gone by this time?" "I will go and see." She came back with the information that the men were just taking away the corpse; that Bathsheba had been inquired for; that she had replied to the effect that her mistress was unwell and could not be seen. "Then they think I am in my bedroom?" "Yes." Liddy then ventured to add: "You said when I first found you that you might never go home again--you didn't mean it, ma'am?" "No; I've altered my mind. It is only women with no pride in them who run away from their husbands. There is one position worse than that of being found dead in your husband's house from his ill usage, and that is, to be found alive through having gone away to the house of somebody else. I've thought of it all this morning, and I've chosen my course. A runaway wife is an encumbrance to everybody, a burden to herself and a byword--all of which make up a heap of misery greater than any that comes by staying at home--though this may include the trifling items of insult, beating, and starvation. Liddy, if ever you marry--God forbid that you ever should!--you'll find yourself in a fearful situation; but mind this, don't you flinch. Stand your ground, and be cut to pieces. That's what I'm going to do." "Oh, mistress, don't talk so!" said Liddy, taking her hand; "but I knew you had too much sense to bide away. May I ask what dreadful thing it is that has happened between you and him?" "You may ask; but I may not tell." In about ten minutes they returned to the house by a circuitous route, entering at the rear. Bathsheba glided up the back stairs to a disused attic, and her companion followed. "Liddy," she said, with a lighter heart, for youth and hope had begun to reassert themselves; "you are to be my confidante for the present--somebody must be--and I choose you. Well, I shall take up my abode here for a while. Will you get a fire lighted, put down a piece of carpet, and help me to make the place comfortable. Afterwards, I want you and Maryann to bring up that little stump bedstead in the small room, and the bed belonging to it, and a table, and some other things.... What shall I do to pass the heavy time away?" "Hemming handkerchiefs is a very good thing," said Liddy. "Oh no, no! I hate needlework--I always did." "Knitting?" "And that, too." "You might finish your sampler. Only the carnations and peacocks want filling in; and then it could be framed and glazed, and hung beside your aunt's ma'am." "Samplers are out of date--horribly countrified. No Liddy, I'll read. Bring up some books--not new ones. I haven't heart to read anything new." "Some of your uncle's old ones, ma'am?" "Yes. Some of those we stowed away in boxes." A faint gleam of humour passed over her face as she said: "Bring Beaumont and Fletcher's _Maid's Tragedy_, and the _Mourning Bride_, and--let me see--_Night Thoughts_, and the _Vanity of Human Wishes_." "And that story of the black man, who murdered his wife Desdemona? It is a nice dismal one that would suit you excellent just now." "Now, Liddy, you've been looking into my books without telling me; and I said you were not to! How do you know it would suit me? It wouldn't suit me at all." "But if the others do--" "No, they don't; and I won't read dismal books. Why should I read dismal books, indeed? Bring me _Love in a Village_, and _Maid of the Mill_, and _Doctor Syntax_, and some volumes of the _Spectator-_." All that day Bathsheba and Liddy lived in the attic in a state of barricade; a precaution which proved to be needless as against Troy, for he did not appear in the neighbourhood or trouble them at all. Bathsheba sat at the window till sunset, sometimes attempting to read, at other times watching every movement outside without much purpose, and listening without much interest to every sound. The sun went down almost blood-red that night, and a livid cloud received its rays in the east. Up against this dark background the west front of the church tower--the only part of the edifice visible from the farm-house windows--rose distinct and lustrous, the vane upon the summit bristling with rays. Hereabouts, at six o'clock, the young men of the village gathered, as was their custom, for a game of Prisoners' base. The spot had been consecrated to this ancient diversion from time immemorial, the old stocks conveniently forming a base facing the boundary of the churchyard, in front of which the ground was trodden hard and bare as a pavement by the players. She could see the brown and black heads of the young lads darting about right and left, their white shirt-sleeves gleaming in the sun; whilst occasionally a shout and a peal of hearty laughter varied the stillness of the evening air. They continued playing for a quarter of an hour or so, when the game concluded abruptly, and the players leapt over the wall and vanished round to the other side behind a yew-tree, which was also half behind a beech, now spreading in one mass of golden foliage, on which the branches traced black lines. "Why did the base-players finish their game so suddenly?" Bathsheba inquired, the next time that Liddy entered the room. "I think 'twas because two men came just then from Casterbridge and began putting up a grand carved tombstone," said Liddy. "The lads went to see whose it was." "Do you know?" Bathsheba asked. "I don't," said Liddy.

Chapter 44

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-44

We find Bathsheba running along the dark road leading away from her house. Eventually, she gets tired and falls asleep among some trees. She wakes up the next morning with birds singing all around her. Soon enough, the servant Liddy comes walking by while searching for Bathsheba. She is happy when she realizes she's found her. Liddy even hitches up her skirts and walks through a swamp to be with Bathsheba. Liddy tells her that Sergeant Troy has left the house, but that Fanny's coffin is still in the sitting room. Liddy and Bathsheba walk together and eat some of the food Liddy brought along. Bathsheba seems determined not to return to the house until she's certain that Fanny's coffin is gone. Bathsheba also decides that there's no way she'll ever leave Troy, since she thinks it's only women with no pride who leave their husbands. To kill time and get her mind off things, Bathsheba asks Liddy to bring a bunch of books to her bedroom so the two of them can read without being disturbed. They have nothing to fear, though, since Troy never returns home that day. Outside, a group of children suddenly stop playing one of their games to check out a huge tombstone that's being put up in the cemetery. Bathsheba would like to know whose it is, but Liddy admits she doesn't know.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/35.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_34_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 35

chapter 35

{"name": "Phase V: \"The Woman Pays,\" Chapter Thirty-Five", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-35", "summary": "Tess finishes her story without raising her voice or shedding a single tear. Angel is beyond shocked. He can't believe it. He asks why she didn't tell him before, and then remembers that she had tried, repeatedly. She begins to cry now, and begs to be forgiven. He says that forgiveness has nothing to do with it--she isn't the same person he was in love with. She continues to cry, and promises to do anything he asks her to do. Angel still loves her, but is trying to suppress his feelings. He goes outside and, after a few moments, she follows him. He ignores her. She tells him she was a child when it happened, and didn't understand her danger until it was too late. He admits that she was \"more sinned against than sinning,\" but even as he admits that it wasn't her fault, he can't bring himself to say that he still loves her. As they walk along the river, Tess offers to drown herself so that she'll be out of his way. Of course he tells her not to be a fool, and asks her to go inside and go to bed. She obeys. He wanders around more before coming upstairs, and he finds her asleep. He's inclined to relent, and forgive her, but then he catches another glimpse of one of the D'Urberville ladies in one of the portraits. He sees the resemblance again, and it seems to him that her relationship to that old family is part of her guilt. He leaves the room, and lies on a couch in the living room, totally miserable.", "analysis": ""}

Her narrative ended; even its re-assertions and secondary explanations were done. Tess's voice throughout had hardly risen higher than its opening tone; there had been no exculpatory phrase of any kind, and she had not wept. But the complexion even of external things seemed to suffer transmutation as her announcement progressed. The fire in the grate looked impish--demoniacally funny, as if it did not care in the least about her strait. The fender grinned idly, as if it too did not care. The light from the water-bottle was merely engaged in a chromatic problem. All material objects around announced their irresponsibility with terrible iteration. And yet nothing had changed since the moments when he had been kissing her; or rather, nothing in the substance of things. But the essence of things had changed. When she ceased, the auricular impressions from their previous endearments seemed to hustle away into the corner of their brains, repeating themselves as echoes from a time of supremely purblind foolishness. Clare performed the irrelevant act of stirring the fire; the intelligence had not even yet got to the bottom of him. After stirring the embers he rose to his feet; all the force of her disclosure had imparted itself now. His face had withered. In the strenuousness of his concentration he treadled fitfully on the floor. He could not, by any contrivance, think closely enough; that was the meaning of his vague movement. When he spoke it was in the most inadequate, commonplace voice of the many varied tones she had heard from him. "Tess!" "Yes, dearest." "Am I to believe this? From your manner I am to take it as true. O you cannot be out of your mind! You ought to be! Yet you are not... My wife, my Tess--nothing in you warrants such a supposition as that?" "I am not out of my mind," she said. "And yet--" He looked vacantly at her, to resume with dazed senses: "Why didn't you tell me before? Ah, yes, you would have told me, in a way--but I hindered you, I remember!" These and other of his words were nothing but the perfunctory babble of the surface while the depths remained paralyzed. He turned away, and bent over a chair. Tess followed him to the middle of the room, where he was, and stood there staring at him with eyes that did not weep. Presently she slid down upon her knees beside his foot, and from this position she crouched in a heap. "In the name of our love, forgive me!" she whispered with a dry mouth. "I have forgiven you for the same!" And, as he did not answer, she said again-- "Forgive me as you are forgiven! _I_ forgive YOU, Angel." "You--yes, you do." "But you do not forgive me?" "O Tess, forgiveness does not apply to the case! You were one person; now you are another. My God--how can forgiveness meet such a grotesque--prestidigitation as that!" He paused, contemplating this definition; then suddenly broke into horrible laughter--as unnatural and ghastly as a laugh in hell. "Don't--don't! It kills me quite, that!" she shrieked. "O have mercy upon me--have mercy!" He did not answer; and, sickly white, she jumped up. "Angel, Angel! what do you mean by that laugh?" she cried out. "Do you know what this is to me?" He shook his head. "I have been hoping, longing, praying, to make you happy! I have thought what joy it will be to do it, what an unworthy wife I shall be if I do not! That's what I have felt, Angel!" "I know that." "I thought, Angel, that you loved me--me, my very self! If it is I you do love, O how can it be that you look and speak so? It frightens me! Having begun to love you, I love you for ever--in all changes, in all disgraces, because you are yourself. I ask no more. Then how can you, O my own husband, stop loving me?" "I repeat, the woman I have been loving is not you." "But who?" "Another woman in your shape." She perceived in his words the realization of her own apprehensive foreboding in former times. He looked upon her as a species of imposter; a guilty woman in the guise of an innocent one. Terror was upon her white face as she saw it; her cheek was flaccid, and her mouth had almost the aspect of a round little hole. The horrible sense of his view of her so deadened her that she staggered, and he stepped forward, thinking she was going to fall. "Sit down, sit down," he said gently. "You are ill; and it is natural that you should be." She did sit down, without knowing where she was, that strained look still upon her face, and her eyes such as to make his flesh creep. "I don't belong to you any more, then; do I, Angel?" she asked helplessly. "It is not me, but another woman like me that he loved, he says." The image raised caused her to take pity upon herself as one who was ill-used. Her eyes filled as she regarded her position further; she turned round and burst into a flood of self-sympathetic tears. Clare was relieved at this change, for the effect on her of what had happened was beginning to be a trouble to him only less than the woe of the disclosure itself. He waited patiently, apathetically, till the violence of her grief had worn itself out, and her rush of weeping had lessened to a catching gasp at intervals. "Angel," she said suddenly, in her natural tones, the insane, dry voice of terror having left her now. "Angel, am I too wicked for you and me to live together?" "I have not been able to think what we can do." "I shan't ask you to let me live with you, Angel, because I have no right to! I shall not write to mother and sisters to say we be married, as I said I would do; and I shan't finish the good-hussif' I cut out and meant to make while we were in lodgings." "Shan't you?" "No, I shan't do anything, unless you order me to; and if you go away from me I shall not follow 'ee; and if you never speak to me any more I shall not ask why, unless you tell me I may." "And if I order you to do anything?" "I will obey you like your wretched slave, even if it is to lie down and die." "You are very good. But it strikes me that there is a want of harmony between your present mood of self-sacrifice and your past mood of self-preservation." These were the first words of antagonism. To fling elaborate sarcasms at Tess, however, was much like flinging them at a dog or cat. The charms of their subtlety passed by her unappreciated, and she only received them as inimical sounds which meant that anger ruled. She remained mute, not knowing that he was smothering his affection for her. She hardly observed that a tear descended slowly upon his cheek, a tear so large that it magnified the pores of the skin over which it rolled, like the object lens of a microscope. Meanwhile reillumination as to the terrible and total change that her confession had wrought in his life, in his universe, returned to him, and he tried desperately to advance among the new conditions in which he stood. Some consequent action was necessary; yet what? "Tess," he said, as gently as he could speak, "I cannot stay--in this room--just now. I will walk out a little way." He quietly left the room, and the two glasses of wine that he had poured out for their supper--one for her, one for him--remained on the table untasted. This was what their _agape_ had come to. At tea, two or three hours earlier, they had, in the freakishness of affection, drunk from one cup. The closing of the door behind him, gently as it had been pulled to, roused Tess from her stupor. He was gone; she could not stay. Hastily flinging her cloak around her she opened the door and followed, putting out the candles as if she were never coming back. The rain was over and the night was now clear. She was soon close at his heels, for Clare walked slowly and without purpose. His form beside her light gray figure looked black, sinister, and forbidding, and she felt as sarcasm the touch of the jewels of which she had been momentarily so proud. Clare turned at hearing her footsteps, but his recognition of her presence seemed to make no difference to him, and he went on over the five yawning arches of the great bridge in front of the house. The cow and horse tracks in the road were full of water, the rain having been enough to charge them, but not enough to wash them away. Across these minute pools the reflected stars flitted in a quick transit as she passed; she would not have known they were shining overhead if she had not seen them there--the vastest things of the universe imaged in objects so mean. The place to which they had travelled to-day was in the same valley as Talbothays, but some miles lower down the river; and the surroundings being open, she kept easily in sight of him. Away from the house the road wound through the meads, and along these she followed Clare without any attempt to come up with him or to attract him, but with dumb and vacant fidelity. At last, however, her listless walk brought her up alongside him, and still he said nothing. The cruelty of fooled honesty is often great after enlightenment, and it was mighty in Clare now. The outdoor air had apparently taken away from him all tendency to act on impulse; she knew that he saw her without irradiation--in all her bareness; that Time was chanting his satiric psalm at her then-- Behold, when thy face is made bare, he that loved thee shall hate; Thy face shall be no more fair at the fall of thy fate. For thy life shall fall as a leaf and be shed as the rain; And the veil of thine head shall be grief, and the crown shall be pain. He was still intently thinking, and her companionship had now insufficient power to break or divert the strain of thought. What a weak thing her presence must have become to him! She could not help addressing Clare. "What have I done--what HAVE I done! I have not told of anything that interferes with or belies my love for you. You don't think I planned it, do you? It is in your own mind what you are angry at, Angel; it is not in me. O, it is not in me, and I am not that deceitful woman you think me!" "H'm--well. Not deceitful, my wife; but not the same. No, not the same. But do not make me reproach you. I have sworn that I will not; and I will do everything to avoid it." But she went on pleading in her distraction; and perhaps said things that would have been better left to silence. "Angel!--Angel! I was a child--a child when it happened! I knew nothing of men." "You were more sinned against than sinning, that I admit." "Then will you not forgive me?" "I do forgive you, but forgiveness is not all." "And love me?" To this question he did not answer. "O Angel--my mother says that it sometimes happens so!--she knows several cases where they were worse than I, and the husband has not minded it much--has got over it at least. And yet the woman had not loved him as I do you!" "Don't, Tess; don't argue. Different societies, different manners. You almost make me say you are an unapprehending peasant woman, who have never been initiated into the proportions of social things. You don't know what you say." "I am only a peasant by position, not by nature!" She spoke with an impulse to anger, but it went as it came. "So much the worse for you. I think that parson who unearthed your pedigree would have done better if he had held his tongue. I cannot help associating your decline as a family with this other fact--of your want of firmness. Decrepit families imply decrepit wills, decrepit conduct. Heaven, why did you give me a handle for despising you more by informing me of your descent! Here was I thinking you a new-sprung child of nature; there were you, the belated seedling of an effete aristocracy!" "Lots of families are as bad as mine in that! Retty's family were once large landowners, and so were Dairyman Billett's. And the Debbyhouses, who now are carters, were once the De Bayeux family. You find such as I everywhere; 'tis a feature of our county, and I can't help it." "So much the worse for the county." She took these reproaches in their bulk simply, not in their particulars; he did not love her as he had loved her hitherto, and to all else she was indifferent. They wandered on again in silence. It was said afterwards that a cottager of Wellbridge, who went out late that night for a doctor, met two lovers in the pastures, walking very slowly, without converse, one behind the other, as in a funeral procession, and the glimpse that he obtained of their faces seemed to denote that they were anxious and sad. Returning later, he passed them again in the same field, progressing just as slowly, and as regardless of the hour and of the cheerless night as before. It was only on account of his preoccupation with his own affairs, and the illness in his house, that he did not bear in mind the curious incident, which, however, he recalled a long while after. During the interval of the cottager's going and coming, she had said to her husband-- "I don't see how I can help being the cause of much misery to you all your life. The river is down there. I can put an end to myself in it. I am not afraid." "I don't wish to add murder to my other follies," he said. "I will leave something to show that I did it myself--on account of my shame. They will not blame you then." "Don't speak so absurdly--I wish not to hear it. It is nonsense to have such thoughts in this kind of case, which is rather one for satirical laughter than for tragedy. You don't in the least understand the quality of the mishap. It would be viewed in the light of a joke by nine-tenths of the world if it were known. Please oblige me by returning to the house, and going to bed." "I will," said she dutifully. They had rambled round by a road which led to the well-known ruins of the Cistercian abbey behind the mill, the latter having, in centuries past, been attached to the monastic establishment. The mill still worked on, food being a perennial necessity; the abbey had perished, creeds being transient. One continually sees the ministration of the temporary outlasting the ministration of the eternal. Their walk having been circuitous, they were still not far from the house, and in obeying his direction she only had to reach the large stone bridge across the main river and follow the road for a few yards. When she got back, everything remained as she had left it, the fire being still burning. She did not stay downstairs for more than a minute, but proceeded to her chamber, whither the luggage had been taken. Here she sat down on the edge of the bed, looking blankly around, and presently began to undress. In removing the light towards the bedstead its rays fell upon the tester of white dimity; something was hanging beneath it, and she lifted the candle to see what it was. A bough of mistletoe. Angel had put it there; she knew that in an instant. This was the explanation of that mysterious parcel which it had been so difficult to pack and bring; whose contents he would not explain to her, saying that time would soon show her the purpose thereof. In his zest and his gaiety he had hung it there. How foolish and inopportune that mistletoe looked now. Having nothing more to fear, having scarce anything to hope, for that he would relent there seemed no promise whatever, she lay down dully. When sorrow ceases to be speculative, sleep sees her opportunity. Among so many happier moods which forbid repose this was a mood which welcomed it, and in a few minutes the lonely Tess forgot existence, surrounded by the aromatic stillness of the chamber that had once, possibly, been the bride-chamber of her own ancestry. Later on that night Clare also retraced his steps to the house. Entering softly to the sitting-room he obtained a light, and with the manner of one who had considered his course he spread his rugs upon the old horse-hair sofa which stood there, and roughly shaped it to a sleeping-couch. Before lying down he crept shoeless upstairs, and listened at the door of her apartment. Her measured breathing told that she was sleeping profoundly. "Thank God!" murmured Clare; and yet he was conscious of a pang of bitterness at the thought--approximately true, though not wholly so--that having shifted the burden of her life to his shoulders, she was now reposing without care. He turned away to descend; then, irresolute, faced round to her door again. In the act he caught sight of one of the d'Urberville dames, whose portrait was immediately over the entrance to Tess's bedchamber. In the candlelight the painting was more than unpleasant. Sinister design lurked in the woman's features, a concentrated purpose of revenge on the other sex--so it seemed to him then. The Caroline bodice of the portrait was low--precisely as Tess's had been when he tucked it in to show the necklace; and again he experienced the distressing sensation of a resemblance between them. The check was sufficient. He resumed his retreat and descended. His air remained calm and cold, his small compressed mouth indexing his powers of self-control; his face wearing still that terrible sterile expression which had spread thereon since her disclosure. It was the face of a man who was no longer passion's slave, yet who found no advantage in his enfranchisement. He was simply regarding the harrowing contingencies of human experience, the unexpectedness of things. Nothing so pure, so sweet, so virginal as Tess had seemed possible all the long while that he had adored her, up to an hour ago; but The little less, and what worlds away! He argued erroneously when he said to himself that her heart was not indexed in the honest freshness of her face; but Tess had no advocate to set him right. Could it be possible, he continued, that eyes which as they gazed never expressed any divergence from what the tongue was telling, were yet ever seeing another world behind her ostensible one, discordant and contrasting? He reclined on his couch in the sitting-room, and extinguished the light. The night came in, and took up its place there, unconcerned and indifferent; the night which had already swallowed up his happiness, and was now digesting it listlessly; and was ready to swallow up the happiness of a thousand other people with as little disturbance or change of mien.

Phase V: "The Woman Pays," Chapter Thirty-Five

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-35

Tess finishes her story without raising her voice or shedding a single tear. Angel is beyond shocked. He can't believe it. He asks why she didn't tell him before, and then remembers that she had tried, repeatedly. She begins to cry now, and begs to be forgiven. He says that forgiveness has nothing to do with it--she isn't the same person he was in love with. She continues to cry, and promises to do anything he asks her to do. Angel still loves her, but is trying to suppress his feelings. He goes outside and, after a few moments, she follows him. He ignores her. She tells him she was a child when it happened, and didn't understand her danger until it was too late. He admits that she was "more sinned against than sinning," but even as he admits that it wasn't her fault, he can't bring himself to say that he still loves her. As they walk along the river, Tess offers to drown herself so that she'll be out of his way. Of course he tells her not to be a fool, and asks her to go inside and go to bed. She obeys. He wanders around more before coming upstairs, and he finds her asleep. He's inclined to relent, and forgive her, but then he catches another glimpse of one of the D'Urberville ladies in one of the portraits. He sees the resemblance again, and it seems to him that her relationship to that old family is part of her guilt. He leaves the room, and lies on a couch in the living room, totally miserable.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/01.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_0_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 1

chapter 1

{"name": "Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-1", "summary": "Twenty-eight-year-old Gabriel Oak was surveying his fields one mild December morning. From behind a hedge, he watched a yellow wagon come down the highway, the wagoner walking beside it. When the wagoner retraced his path to retrieve a lost tailboard, the horses halted. This delay permitted Oak to view the wagon's motley array of household goods, complete with plants and pots. Enthroned atop everything sat a pretty, dark-haired young woman in a crimson jacket. Looking to make sure the wagoner was out of sight, she took out a mirror. Her smile, tentative at first, widened at her satisfying reflection. She flushed as \"she simply observed herself as a fair product of Nature in the feminine kind.\" Hearing the wagoner return, she replaced the glass. After the two resumed their journey, Gabriel left his \"point of espial\" and followed them down the road. At the tollgate, the wagon was stopped. Unimpressed by the wagoner's protest that the girl refused to pay an additional two pence, the gatekeeper would not let the wagon pass. Stepping forward, Gabriel handed two pence to the keeper, saying, \"Let the young woman pass.\" The girl glanced carelessly at him. \"She might have looked her thanks to Gabriel on a minute scale, but she did not speak them; more probably, she felt none.\" Gabriel did not disagree with the gamekeeper's comment on the attractiveness of the retreating girl. But, perhaps irked by her snub, he maintained that she had her faults, the greatest of them being \"what it is always . . . Vanity.\"", "analysis": "\"Far from the madding crowd\" was how Thomas Hardy wished us to view his beloved native country and the types who inhabited it. Thus isolation furnished both the theme and the title of the novel. Far from the Madding Crowd might well entitle his whole series of Wessex novels. In the first paragraph, the friendly face of Gabriel Oak smiles at us. His features are average, his clothes ordinary, and his \"moral color was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture.\" Even his idiosyncrasy is a mild one: He wears a large watch with a faulty hour hand. Undismayed, he checks the time by peering into neighbors' windows or by referring to the position of the stars. Unconcerned with time's passing, he leisurely continues to do what he thinks is right. He cares for his fellow beings and is capable of judging them. Hardy, with the eye of the artist, loved the color and line of the landscape. Thus he personalized nature. His horses were \"sensible,\" his cat \"with half-closed eyes\" viewed birds \"affectionately.\" His delineation of people was part caricature, as with Gabriel, and part portraiture, as with the young woman whom Hardy shows through Gabriel's eyes. Hardy's first picture of these two young people will be counterbalanced by a well-illuminated, mellowed portrait in the final chapter, when both have matured. Critics credit Hardy's first profession, that of architecture, with responsibility for his sense of form, both literary and aesthetic. This, his first successful novel, was designed to appear serially; one result of this is the inclusion of a bit of suspense at the close of each installment to keep the reader eager for the next one."}

DESCRIPTION OF FARMER OAK--AN INCIDENT When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun. His Christian name was Gabriel, and on working days he was a young man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good character. On Sundays he was a man of misty views, rather given to postponing, and hampered by his best clothes and umbrella: upon the whole, one who felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle space of Laodicean neutrality which lay between the Communion people of the parish and the drunken section,--that is, he went to church, but yawned privately by the time the congregation reached the Nicene creed, and thought of what there would be for dinner when he meant to be listening to the sermon. Or, to state his character as it stood in the scale of public opinion, when his friends and critics were in tantrums, he was considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased, he was rather a good man; when they were neither, he was a man whose moral colour was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture. Since he lived six times as many working-days as Sundays, Oak's appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own--the mental picture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always dressed in that way. He wore a low-crowned felt hat, spread out at the base by tight jamming upon the head for security in high winds, and a coat like Dr. Johnson's; his lower extremities being encased in ordinary leather leggings and boots emphatically large, affording to each foot a roomy apartment so constructed that any wearer might stand in a river all day long and know nothing of damp--their maker being a conscientious man who endeavoured to compensate for any weakness in his cut by unstinted dimension and solidity. Mr. Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be called a small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to shape and intention, and a small clock as to size. This instrument being several years older than Oak's grandfather, had the peculiarity of going either too fast or not at all. The smaller of its hands, too, occasionally slipped round on the pivot, and thus, though the minutes were told with precision, nobody could be quite certain of the hour they belonged to. The stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied by thumps and shakes, and he escaped any evil consequences from the other two defects by constant comparisons with and observations of the sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the glass of his neighbours' windows, till he could discern the hour marked by the green-faced timekeepers within. It may be mentioned that Oak's fob being difficult of access, by reason of its somewhat high situation in the waistband of his trousers (which also lay at a remote height under his waistcoat), the watch was as a necessity pulled out by throwing the body to one side, compressing the mouth and face to a mere mass of ruddy flesh on account of the exertion required, and drawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket from a well. But some thoughtful persons, who had seen him walking across one of his fields on a certain December morning--sunny and exceedingly mild--might have regarded Gabriel Oak in other aspects than these. In his face one might notice that many of the hues and curves of youth had tarried on to manhood: there even remained in his remoter crannies some relics of the boy. His height and breadth would have been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due consideration. But there is a way some men have, rural and urban alike, for which the mind is more responsible than flesh and sinew: it is a way of curtailing their dimensions by their manner of showing them. And from a quiet modesty that would have become a vestal, which seemed continually to impress upon him that he had no great claim on the world's room, Oak walked unassumingly and with a faintly perceptible bend, yet distinct from a bowing of the shoulders. This may be said to be a defect in an individual if he depends for his valuation more upon his appearance than upon his capacity to wear well, which Oak did not. He had just reached the time of life at which "young" is ceasing to be the prefix of "man" in speaking of one. He was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separated: he had passed the time during which the influence of youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse, and he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united again, in the character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and family. In short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor. The field he was in this morning sloped to a ridge called Norcombe Hill. Through a spur of this hill ran the highway between Emminster and Chalk-Newton. Casually glancing over the hedge, Oak saw coming down the incline before him an ornamental spring waggon, painted yellow and gaily marked, drawn by two horses, a waggoner walking alongside bearing a whip perpendicularly. The waggon was laden with household goods and window plants, and on the apex of the whole sat a woman, young and attractive. Gabriel had not beheld the sight for more than half a minute, when the vehicle was brought to a standstill just beneath his eyes. "The tailboard of the waggon is gone, Miss," said the waggoner. "Then I heard it fall," said the girl, in a soft, though not particularly low voice. "I heard a noise I could not account for when we were coming up the hill." "I'll run back." "Do," she answered. The sensible horses stood--perfectly still, and the waggoner's steps sank fainter and fainter in the distance. The girl on the summit of the load sat motionless, surrounded by tables and chairs with their legs upwards, backed by an oak settle, and ornamented in front by pots of geraniums, myrtles, and cactuses, together with a caged canary--all probably from the windows of the house just vacated. There was also a cat in a willow basket, from the partly-opened lid of which she gazed with half-closed eyes, and affectionately surveyed the small birds around. The handsome girl waited for some time idly in her place, and the only sound heard in the stillness was the hopping of the canary up and down the perches of its prison. Then she looked attentively downwards. It was not at the bird, nor at the cat; it was at an oblong package tied in paper, and lying between them. She turned her head to learn if the waggoner were coming. He was not yet in sight; and her eyes crept back to the package, her thoughts seeming to run upon what was inside it. At length she drew the article into her lap, and untied the paper covering; a small swing looking-glass was disclosed, in which she proceeded to survey herself attentively. She parted her lips and smiled. It was a fine morning, and the sun lighted up to a scarlet glow the crimson jacket she wore, and painted a soft lustre upon her bright face and dark hair. The myrtles, geraniums, and cactuses packed around her were fresh and green, and at such a leafless season they invested the whole concern of horses, waggon, furniture, and girl with a peculiar vernal charm. What possessed her to indulge in such a performance in the sight of the sparrows, blackbirds, and unperceived farmer who were alone its spectators,--whether the smile began as a factitious one, to test her capacity in that art,--nobody knows; it ended certainly in a real smile. She blushed at herself, and seeing her reflection blush, blushed the more. The change from the customary spot and necessary occasion of such an act--from the dressing hour in a bedroom to a time of travelling out of doors--lent to the idle deed a novelty it did not intrinsically possess. The picture was a delicate one. Woman's prescriptive infirmity had stalked into the sunlight, which had clothed it in the freshness of an originality. A cynical inference was irresistible by Gabriel Oak as he regarded the scene, generous though he fain would have been. There was no necessity whatever for her looking in the glass. She did not adjust her hat, or pat her hair, or press a dimple into shape, or do one thing to signify that any such intention had been her motive in taking up the glass. She simply observed herself as a fair product of Nature in the feminine kind, her thoughts seeming to glide into far-off though likely dramas in which men would play a part--vistas of probable triumphs--the smiles being of a phase suggesting that hearts were imagined as lost and won. Still, this was but conjecture, and the whole series of actions was so idly put forth as to make it rash to assert that intention had any part in them at all. The waggoner's steps were heard returning. She put the glass in the paper, and the whole again into its place. When the waggon had passed on, Gabriel withdrew from his point of espial, and descending into the road, followed the vehicle to the turnpike-gate some way beyond the bottom of the hill, where the object of his contemplation now halted for the payment of toll. About twenty steps still remained between him and the gate, when he heard a dispute. It was a difference concerning twopence between the persons with the waggon and the man at the toll-bar. "Mis'ess's niece is upon the top of the things, and she says that's enough that I've offered ye, you great miser, and she won't pay any more." These were the waggoner's words. "Very well; then mis'ess's niece can't pass," said the turnpike-keeper, closing the gate. Oak looked from one to the other of the disputants, and fell into a reverie. There was something in the tone of twopence remarkably insignificant. Threepence had a definite value as money--it was an appreciable infringement on a day's wages, and, as such, a higgling matter; but twopence--"Here," he said, stepping forward and handing twopence to the gatekeeper; "let the young woman pass." He looked up at her then; she heard his words, and looked down. Gabriel's features adhered throughout their form so exactly to the middle line between the beauty of St. John and the ugliness of Judas Iscariot, as represented in a window of the church he attended, that not a single lineament could be selected and called worthy either of distinction or notoriety. The red-jacketed and dark-haired maiden seemed to think so too, for she carelessly glanced over him, and told her man to drive on. She might have looked her thanks to Gabriel on a minute scale, but she did not speak them; more probably she felt none, for in gaining her a passage he had lost her her point, and we know how women take a favour of that kind. The gatekeeper surveyed the retreating vehicle. "That's a handsome maid," he said to Oak. "But she has her faults," said Gabriel. "True, farmer." "And the greatest of them is--well, what it is always." "Beating people down? ay, 'tis so." "O no." "What, then?" Gabriel, perhaps a little piqued by the comely traveller's indifference, glanced back to where he had witnessed her performance over the hedge, and said, "Vanity."

Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-1

Twenty-eight-year-old Gabriel Oak was surveying his fields one mild December morning. From behind a hedge, he watched a yellow wagon come down the highway, the wagoner walking beside it. When the wagoner retraced his path to retrieve a lost tailboard, the horses halted. This delay permitted Oak to view the wagon's motley array of household goods, complete with plants and pots. Enthroned atop everything sat a pretty, dark-haired young woman in a crimson jacket. Looking to make sure the wagoner was out of sight, she took out a mirror. Her smile, tentative at first, widened at her satisfying reflection. She flushed as "she simply observed herself as a fair product of Nature in the feminine kind." Hearing the wagoner return, she replaced the glass. After the two resumed their journey, Gabriel left his "point of espial" and followed them down the road. At the tollgate, the wagon was stopped. Unimpressed by the wagoner's protest that the girl refused to pay an additional two pence, the gatekeeper would not let the wagon pass. Stepping forward, Gabriel handed two pence to the keeper, saying, "Let the young woman pass." The girl glanced carelessly at him. "She might have looked her thanks to Gabriel on a minute scale, but she did not speak them; more probably, she felt none." Gabriel did not disagree with the gamekeeper's comment on the attractiveness of the retreating girl. But, perhaps irked by her snub, he maintained that she had her faults, the greatest of them being "what it is always . . . Vanity."

"Far from the madding crowd" was how Thomas Hardy wished us to view his beloved native country and the types who inhabited it. Thus isolation furnished both the theme and the title of the novel. Far from the Madding Crowd might well entitle his whole series of Wessex novels. In the first paragraph, the friendly face of Gabriel Oak smiles at us. His features are average, his clothes ordinary, and his "moral color was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture." Even his idiosyncrasy is a mild one: He wears a large watch with a faulty hour hand. Undismayed, he checks the time by peering into neighbors' windows or by referring to the position of the stars. Unconcerned with time's passing, he leisurely continues to do what he thinks is right. He cares for his fellow beings and is capable of judging them. Hardy, with the eye of the artist, loved the color and line of the landscape. Thus he personalized nature. His horses were "sensible," his cat "with half-closed eyes" viewed birds "affectionately." His delineation of people was part caricature, as with Gabriel, and part portraiture, as with the young woman whom Hardy shows through Gabriel's eyes. Hardy's first picture of these two young people will be counterbalanced by a well-illuminated, mellowed portrait in the final chapter, when both have matured. Critics credit Hardy's first profession, that of architecture, with responsibility for his sense of form, both literary and aesthetic. This, his first successful novel, was designed to appear serially; one result of this is the inclusion of a bit of suspense at the close of each installment to keep the reader eager for the next one.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/61.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_60_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 9.chapter 8

book 9, chapter 8

{"name": "Book 9, Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-9-chapter-8", "summary": "First up for interrogation is the innkeeper Trifon Borisich, who insists that although he never actually counted the money, he could see by sight that Dmitri was holding 3,000 roubles. He adds that Dmitri even stated that he was going to spend his \"6,000,\" which the interrogators find very interesting because it suggests that Dmitri spent the 3,000 he stole from Katerina and the 3,000 he stole from his father. In addition to the peasants, Kalganov and the Poles are interrogated as well. The interrogators find the Poles' story about how Dmitri tried to bribe them for 3,000 roubles further confirmation of his theft. After Maximov, the interrogators call in Grushenka, who behaves with solemnity and grace. Dmitri declares to her that he did not murder his father, and Grushenka declares her belief in Dmitri's honesty and innocence. By this point, Dmitri is utterly exhausted and falls asleep. He has a dream that he's being driven by a peasant in a cart across the steppes. As they pass through a village, he asks the peasant why everyone is so poor, and why a baby held by one of the impoverished peasant women is crying. He thinks he hears Grushenka telling him that she will stay with him for the rest of her life, then he wakes up. Parfenovich holds a transcript before him and asks Dmitri to sign it, which Dmitri does, without reading it.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VIII. The Evidence Of The Witnesses. The Babe The examination of the witnesses began. But we will not continue our story in such detail as before. And so we will not dwell on how Nikolay Parfenovitch impressed on every witness called that he must give his evidence in accordance with truth and conscience, and that he would afterwards have to repeat his evidence on oath, how every witness was called upon to sign the protocol of his evidence, and so on. We will only note that the point principally insisted upon in the examination was the question of the three thousand roubles, that is, was the sum spent here, at Mokroe, by Mitya on the first occasion, a month before, three thousand or fifteen hundred? And again had he spent three thousand or fifteen hundred yesterday? Alas, all the evidence given by every one turned out to be against Mitya. There was not one in his favor, and some witnesses introduced new, almost crushing facts, in contradiction of his, Mitya's, story. The first witness examined was Trifon Borissovitch. He was not in the least abashed as he stood before the lawyers. He had, on the contrary, an air of stern and severe indignation with the accused, which gave him an appearance of truthfulness and personal dignity. He spoke little, and with reserve, waited to be questioned, answered precisely and deliberately. Firmly and unhesitatingly he bore witness that the sum spent a month before could not have been less than three thousand, that all the peasants about here would testify that they had heard the sum of three thousand mentioned by Dmitri Fyodorovitch himself. "What a lot of money he flung away on the gypsy girls alone! He wasted a thousand, I daresay, on them alone." "I don't believe I gave them five hundred," was Mitya's gloomy comment on this. "It's a pity I didn't count the money at the time, but I was drunk...." Mitya was sitting sideways with his back to the curtains. He listened gloomily, with a melancholy and exhausted air, as though he would say: "Oh, say what you like. It makes no difference now." "More than a thousand went on them, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," retorted Trifon Borissovitch firmly. "You flung it about at random and they picked it up. They were a rascally, thievish lot, horse-stealers, they've been driven away from here, or maybe they'd bear witness themselves how much they got from you. I saw the sum in your hands, myself--count it I didn't, you didn't let me, that's true enough--but by the look of it I should say it was far more than fifteen hundred ... fifteen hundred, indeed! We've seen money too. We can judge of amounts...." As for the sum spent yesterday he asserted that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had told him, as soon as he arrived, that he had brought three thousand with him. "Come now, is that so, Trifon Borissovitch?" replied Mitya. "Surely I didn't declare so positively that I'd brought three thousand?" "You did say so, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You said it before Andrey. Andrey himself is still here. Send for him. And in the hall, when you were treating the chorus, you shouted straight out that you would leave your sixth thousand here--that is with what you spent before, we must understand. Stepan and Semyon heard it, and Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov, too, was standing beside you at the time. Maybe he'd remember it...." The evidence as to the "sixth" thousand made an extraordinary impression on the two lawyers. They were delighted with this new mode of reckoning; three and three made six, three thousand then and three now made six, that was clear. They questioned all the peasants suggested by Trifon Borissovitch, Stepan and Semyon, the driver Andrey, and Kalganov. The peasants and the driver unhesitatingly confirmed Trifon Borissovitch's evidence. They noted down, with particular care, Andrey's account of the conversation he had had with Mitya on the road: " 'Where,' says he, 'am I, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, going, to heaven or to hell, and shall I be forgiven in the next world or not?' " The psychological Ippolit Kirillovitch heard this with a subtle smile, and ended by recommending that these remarks as to where Dmitri Fyodorovitch would go should be "included in the case." Kalganov, when called, came in reluctantly, frowning and ill-humored, and he spoke to the lawyers as though he had never met them before in his life, though they were acquaintances whom he had been meeting every day for a long time past. He began by saying that "he knew nothing about it and didn't want to." But it appeared that he had heard of the "sixth" thousand, and he admitted that he had been standing close by at the moment. As far as he could see he "didn't know" how much money Mitya had in his hands. He affirmed that the Poles had cheated at cards. In reply to reiterated questions he stated that, after the Poles had been turned out, Mitya's position with Agrafena Alexandrovna had certainly improved, and that she had said that she loved him. He spoke of Agrafena Alexandrovna with reserve and respect, as though she had been a lady of the best society, and did not once allow himself to call her Grushenka. In spite of the young man's obvious repugnance at giving evidence, Ippolit Kirillovitch examined him at great length, and only from him learnt all the details of what made up Mitya's "romance," so to say, on that night. Mitya did not once pull Kalganov up. At last they let the young man go, and he left the room with unconcealed indignation. The Poles, too, were examined. Though they had gone to bed in their room, they had not slept all night, and on the arrival of the police officers they hastily dressed and got ready, realizing that they would certainly be sent for. They gave their evidence with dignity, though not without some uneasiness. The little Pole turned out to be a retired official of the twelfth class, who had served in Siberia as a veterinary surgeon. His name was Mussyalovitch. Pan Vrublevsky turned out to be an uncertificated dentist. Although Nikolay Parfenovitch asked them questions on entering the room they both addressed their answers to Mihail Makarovitch, who was standing on one side, taking him in their ignorance for the most important person and in command, and addressed him at every word as "Pan Colonel." Only after several reproofs from Mihail Makarovitch himself, they grasped that they had to address their answers to Nikolay Parfenovitch only. It turned out that they could speak Russian quite correctly except for their accent in some words. Of his relations with Grushenka, past and present, Pan Mussyalovitch spoke proudly and warmly, so that Mitya was roused at once and declared that he would not allow the "scoundrel" to speak like that in his presence! Pan Mussyalovitch at once called attention to the word "scoundrel" and begged that it should be put down in the protocol. Mitya fumed with rage. "He's a scoundrel! A scoundrel! You can put that down. And put down, too, that, in spite of the protocol I still declare that he's a scoundrel!" he cried. Though Nikolay Parfenovitch did insert this in the protocol, he showed the most praiseworthy tact and management. After sternly reprimanding Mitya, he cut short all further inquiry into the romantic aspect of the case, and hastened to pass to what was essential. One piece of evidence given by the Poles roused special interest in the lawyers: that was how, in that very room, Mitya had tried to buy off Pan Mussyalovitch, and had offered him three thousand roubles to resign his claims, seven hundred roubles down, and the remaining two thousand three hundred "to be paid next day in the town." He had sworn at the time that he had not the whole sum with him at Mokroe, but that his money was in the town. Mitya observed hotly that he had not said that he would be sure to pay him the remainder next day in the town. But Pan Vrublevsky confirmed the statement, and Mitya, after thinking for a moment admitted, frowning, that it must have been as the Poles stated, that he had been excited at the time, and might indeed have said so. The prosecutor positively pounced on this piece of evidence. It seemed to establish for the prosecution (and they did, in fact, base this deduction on it) that half, or a part of, the three thousand that had come into Mitya's hands might really have been left somewhere hidden in the town, or even, perhaps, somewhere here, in Mokroe. This would explain the circumstance, so baffling for the prosecution, that only eight hundred roubles were to be found in Mitya's hands. This circumstance had been the one piece of evidence which, insignificant as it was, had hitherto told, to some extent, in Mitya's favor. Now this one piece of evidence in his favor had broken down. In answer to the prosecutor's inquiry, where he would have got the remaining two thousand three hundred roubles, since he himself had denied having more than fifteen hundred, Mitya confidently replied that he had meant to offer the "little chap," not money, but a formal deed of conveyance of his rights to the village of Tchermashnya, those rights which he had already offered to Samsonov and Madame Hohlakov. The prosecutor positively smiled at the "innocence of this subterfuge." "And you imagine he would have accepted such a deed as a substitute for two thousand three hundred roubles in cash?" "He certainly would have accepted it," Mitya declared warmly. "Why, look here, he might have grabbed not two thousand, but four or six, for it. He would have put his lawyers, Poles and Jews, on to the job, and might have got, not three thousand, but the whole property out of the old man." The evidence of Pan Mussyalovitch was, of course, entered in the protocol in the fullest detail. Then they let the Poles go. The incident of the cheating at cards was hardly touched upon. Nikolay Parfenovitch was too well pleased with them, as it was, and did not want to worry them with trifles, moreover, it was nothing but a foolish, drunken quarrel over cards. There had been drinking and disorder enough, that night.... So the two hundred roubles remained in the pockets of the Poles. Then old Maximov was summoned. He came in timidly, approached with little steps, looking very disheveled and depressed. He had, all this time, taken refuge below with Grushenka, sitting dumbly beside her, and "now and then he'd begin blubbering over her and wiping his eyes with a blue check handkerchief," as Mihail Makarovitch described afterwards. So that she herself began trying to pacify and comfort him. The old man at once confessed that he had done wrong, that he had borrowed "ten roubles in my poverty," from Dmitri Fyodorovitch, and that he was ready to pay it back. To Nikolay Parfenovitch's direct question, had he noticed how much money Dmitri Fyodorovitch held in his hand, as he must have been able to see the sum better than any one when he took the note from him, Maximov, in the most positive manner, declared that there was twenty thousand. "Have you ever seen so much as twenty thousand before, then?" inquired Nikolay Parfenovitch, with a smile. "To be sure I have, not twenty, but seven, when my wife mortgaged my little property. She'd only let me look at it from a distance, boasting of it to me. It was a very thick bundle, all rainbow-colored notes. And Dmitri Fyodorovitch's were all rainbow-colored...." He was not kept long. At last it was Grushenka's turn. Nikolay Parfenovitch was obviously apprehensive of the effect her appearance might have on Mitya, and he muttered a few words of admonition to him, but Mitya bowed his head in silence, giving him to understand "that he would not make a scene." Mihail Makarovitch himself led Grushenka in. She entered with a stern and gloomy face, that looked almost composed and sat down quietly on the chair offered her by Nikolay Parfenovitch. She was very pale, she seemed to be cold, and wrapped herself closely in her magnificent black shawl. She was suffering from a slight feverish chill--the first symptom of the long illness which followed that night. Her grave air, her direct earnest look and quiet manner made a very favorable impression on every one. Nikolay Parfenovitch was even a little bit "fascinated." He admitted himself, when talking about it afterwards, that only then had he seen "how handsome the woman was," for, though he had seen her several times before, he had always looked upon her as something of a "provincial hetaira." "She has the manners of the best society," he said enthusiastically, gossiping about her in a circle of ladies. But this was received with positive indignation by the ladies, who immediately called him a "naughty man," to his great satisfaction. As she entered the room, Grushenka only glanced for an instant at Mitya, who looked at her uneasily. But her face reassured him at once. After the first inevitable inquiries and warnings, Nikolay Parfenovitch asked her, hesitating a little, but preserving the most courteous manner, on what terms she was with the retired lieutenant, Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov. To this Grushenka firmly and quietly replied: "He was an acquaintance. He came to see me as an acquaintance during the last month." To further inquisitive questions she answered plainly and with complete frankness, that, though "at times" she had thought him attractive, she had not loved him, but had won his heart as well as his old father's "in my nasty spite," that she had seen that Mitya was very jealous of Fyodor Pavlovitch and every one else; but that had only amused her. She had never meant to go to Fyodor Pavlovitch, she had simply been laughing at him. "I had no thoughts for either of them all this last month. I was expecting another man who had wronged me. But I think," she said in conclusion, "that there's no need for you to inquire about that, nor for me to answer you, for that's my own affair." Nikolay Parfenovitch immediately acted upon this hint. He again dismissed the "romantic" aspect of the case and passed to the serious one, that is, to the question of most importance, concerning the three thousand roubles. Grushenka confirmed the statement that three thousand roubles had certainly been spent on the first carousal at Mokroe, and, though she had not counted the money herself, she had heard that it was three thousand from Dmitri Fyodorovitch's own lips. "Did he tell you that alone, or before some one else, or did you only hear him speak of it to others in your presence?" the prosecutor inquired immediately. To which Grushenka replied that she had heard him say so before other people, and had heard him say so when they were alone. "Did he say it to you alone once, or several times?" inquired the prosecutor, and learned that he had told Grushenka so several times. Ippolit Kirillovitch was very well satisfied with this piece of evidence. Further examination elicited that Grushenka knew, too, where that money had come from, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had got it from Katerina Ivanovna. "And did you never, once, hear that the money spent a month ago was not three thousand, but less, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had saved half that sum for his own use?" "No, I never heard that," answered Grushenka. It was explained further that Mitya had, on the contrary, often told her that he hadn't a farthing. "He was always expecting to get some from his father," said Grushenka in conclusion. "Did he never say before you ... casually, or in a moment of irritation," Nikolay Parfenovitch put in suddenly, "that he intended to make an attempt on his father's life?" "Ach, he did say so," sighed Grushenka. "Once or several times?" "He mentioned it several times, always in anger." "And did you believe he would do it?" "No, I never believed it," she answered firmly. "I had faith in his noble heart." "Gentlemen, allow me," cried Mitya suddenly, "allow me to say one word to Agrafena Alexandrovna, in your presence." "You can speak," Nikolay Parfenovitch assented. "Agrafena Alexandrovna!" Mitya got up from his chair, "have faith in God and in me. I am not guilty of my father's murder!" Having uttered these words Mitya sat down again on his chair. Grushenka stood up and crossed herself devoutly before the ikon. "Thanks be to Thee, O Lord," she said, in a voice thrilled with emotion, and still standing, she turned to Nikolay Parfenovitch and added: "As he has spoken now, believe it! I know him. He'll say anything as a joke or from obstinacy, but he'll never deceive you against his conscience. He's telling the whole truth, you may believe it." "Thanks, Agrafena Alexandrovna, you've given me fresh courage," Mitya responded in a quivering voice. As to the money spent the previous day, she declared that she did not know what sum it was, but had heard him tell several people that he had three thousand with him. And to the question where he got the money, she said that he had told her that he had "stolen" it from Katerina Ivanovna, and that she had replied to that that he hadn't stolen it, and that he must pay the money back next day. On the prosecutor's asking her emphatically whether the money he said he had stolen from Katerina Ivanovna was what he had spent yesterday, or what he had squandered here a month ago, she declared that he meant the money spent a month ago, and that that was how she understood him. Grushenka was at last released, and Nikolay Parfenovitch informed her impulsively that she might at once return to the town and that if he could be of any assistance to her, with horses for example, or if she would care for an escort, he ... would be-- "I thank you sincerely," said Grushenka, bowing to him, "I'm going with this old gentleman, I am driving him back to town with me, and meanwhile, if you'll allow me, I'll wait below to hear what you decide about Dmitri Fyodorovitch." She went out. Mitya was calm, and even looked more cheerful, but only for a moment. He felt more and more oppressed by a strange physical weakness. His eyes were closing with fatigue. The examination of the witnesses was, at last, over. They proceeded to a final revision of the protocol. Mitya got up, moved from his chair to the corner by the curtain, lay down on a large chest covered with a rug, and instantly fell asleep. He had a strange dream, utterly out of keeping with the place and the time. He was driving somewhere in the steppes, where he had been stationed long ago, and a peasant was driving him in a cart with a pair of horses, through snow and sleet. He was cold, it was early in November, and the snow was falling in big wet flakes, melting as soon as it touched the earth. And the peasant drove him smartly, he had a fair, long beard. He was not an old man, somewhere about fifty, and he had on a gray peasant's smock. Not far off was a village, he could see the black huts, and half the huts were burnt down, there were only the charred beams sticking up. And as they drove in, there were peasant women drawn up along the road, a lot of women, a whole row, all thin and wan, with their faces a sort of brownish color, especially one at the edge, a tall, bony woman, who looked forty, but might have been only twenty, with a long thin face. And in her arms was a little baby crying. And her breasts seemed so dried up that there was not a drop of milk in them. And the child cried and cried, and held out its little bare arms, with its little fists blue from cold. "Why are they crying? Why are they crying?" Mitya asked, as they dashed gayly by. "It's the babe," answered the driver, "the babe weeping." And Mitya was struck by his saying, in his peasant way, "the babe," and he liked the peasant's calling it a "babe." There seemed more pity in it. "But why is it weeping?" Mitya persisted stupidly, "why are its little arms bare? Why don't they wrap it up?" "The babe's cold, its little clothes are frozen and don't warm it." "But why is it? Why?" foolish Mitya still persisted. "Why, they're poor people, burnt out. They've no bread. They're begging because they've been burnt out." "No, no," Mitya, as it were, still did not understand. "Tell me why it is those poor mothers stand there? Why are people poor? Why is the babe poor? Why is the steppe barren? Why don't they hug each other and kiss? Why don't they sing songs of joy? Why are they so dark from black misery? Why don't they feed the babe?" And he felt that, though his questions were unreasonable and senseless, yet he wanted to ask just that, and he had to ask it just in that way. And he felt that a passion of pity, such as he had never known before, was rising in his heart, that he wanted to cry, that he wanted to do something for them all, so that the babe should weep no more, so that the dark- faced, dried-up mother should not weep, that no one should shed tears again from that moment, and he wanted to do it at once, at once, regardless of all obstacles, with all the recklessness of the Karamazovs. "And I'm coming with you. I won't leave you now for the rest of my life, I'm coming with you," he heard close beside him Grushenka's tender voice, thrilling with emotion. And his heart glowed, and he struggled forward towards the light, and he longed to live, to live, to go on and on, towards the new, beckoning light, and to hasten, hasten, now, at once! "What! Where?" he exclaimed opening his eyes, and sitting up on the chest, as though he had revived from a swoon, smiling brightly. Nikolay Parfenovitch was standing over him, suggesting that he should hear the protocol read aloud and sign it. Mitya guessed that he had been asleep an hour or more, but he did not hear Nikolay Parfenovitch. He was suddenly struck by the fact that there was a pillow under his head, which hadn't been there when he had leant back, exhausted, on the chest. "Who put that pillow under my head? Who was so kind?" he cried, with a sort of ecstatic gratitude, and tears in his voice, as though some great kindness had been shown him. He never found out who this kind man was; perhaps one of the peasant witnesses, or Nikolay Parfenovitch's little secretary, had compassionately thought to put a pillow under his head; but his whole soul was quivering with tears. He went to the table and said that he would sign whatever they liked. "I've had a good dream, gentlemen," he said in a strange voice, with a new light, as of joy, in his face.

Book 9, Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-9-chapter-8

First up for interrogation is the innkeeper Trifon Borisich, who insists that although he never actually counted the money, he could see by sight that Dmitri was holding 3,000 roubles. He adds that Dmitri even stated that he was going to spend his "6,000," which the interrogators find very interesting because it suggests that Dmitri spent the 3,000 he stole from Katerina and the 3,000 he stole from his father. In addition to the peasants, Kalganov and the Poles are interrogated as well. The interrogators find the Poles' story about how Dmitri tried to bribe them for 3,000 roubles further confirmation of his theft. After Maximov, the interrogators call in Grushenka, who behaves with solemnity and grace. Dmitri declares to her that he did not murder his father, and Grushenka declares her belief in Dmitri's honesty and innocence. By this point, Dmitri is utterly exhausted and falls asleep. He has a dream that he's being driven by a peasant in a cart across the steppes. As they pass through a village, he asks the peasant why everyone is so poor, and why a baby held by one of the impoverished peasant women is crying. He thinks he hears Grushenka telling him that she will stay with him for the rest of her life, then he wakes up. Parfenovich holds a transcript before him and asks Dmitri to sign it, which Dmitri does, without reading it.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/29.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_28_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 29

chapter 29

{"name": "Chapter 29", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-29", "summary": "The next morning, Marianne is up pre-dawn, writing a desperate letter and sobbing. Elinor tries gently to ask her what's going on, but she says nothing, claiming that her sister will find everything out soon enough. At breakfast, Elinor tries to distract their hostess - the last thing she wants is for Mrs. Jennings to start nagging Marianne. A letter arrives . Mrs. Jennings benignly says that Marianne must be very, very much in love, and asks Elinor when her sister is to be married. Elinor deflects this by saying that news of Marianne's engagement were just a joke. Mrs. Jennings will have none of this, and says that everyone knows about Marianne and Willoughby. Elinor warns her that she'll feel bad for spreading this rumor soon enough. Elinor flees the breakfast table to check on Marianne. The two sisters weep together for a while, and Marianne hands over Willoughby's letter to her sister. The letter is cold-hearted and brief. Basically, it just says that Marianne is crazy for thinking that Willoughby ever cared for her, and that he's in love with someone else. He's also returned all of Marianne's earlier letters. Elinor is shocked, disgusted at Willoughby, and uncertain of what to do. She excuses herself from Mrs. Jennings for the day, saying that Marianne is unwell, then goes back to tend to her sister. Marianne is so miserable she wants to die. Elinor begs her to be more reasonable, and Marianne says that she wishes she were as happy as Elinor, who she supposes to be content and beloved by Edward. Elinor holds her tongue, beyond saying that things aren't as perfect as Marianne makes them out to be. She rather feebly makes the excuse that she can't be happy when her sister is so miserable. Elinor tries to make Marianne see the bright side - after all, what would have happened if she hadn't discovered that Willoughby was such a bad dude, and they'd continued their engagement? Marianne reveals something truly shocking - they were never engaged in the first place. Apparently, Willoughby didn't ever actually come out and say that he loved Marianne - she just assumed it from his treatment of her. Elinor, trying to get to the bottom of this, turns to Marianne's returned letters to Willoughby. They show increasing desperation, asking Willoughby why he won't visit, and demanding that he explain his coldness. She can't believe that he didn't answer such heartfelt letters, but at the same time, she can't believe her ridiculous sister wrote them in the first place. Marianne reiterates the fact that she's certain that Willoughby loved her, even if he never declared it. She blames the world, not Willoughby, for this horrible development - she's sure that someone else changed his mind, and that he himself could never be so awful. After rereading the letter, Marianne quickly changes her tune and blames Willoughby all over again. She wonders who this vixen is who's stolen Willoughby's affections. Marianne, in a fit of agitation, demands that they go home the next day. Elinor forcefully puts her sister back to bed, making her relax there.", "analysis": ""}

Before the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, "Marianne, may I ask-?" "No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all." The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby. Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body. At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself. As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said, "Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life! MY girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?" Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married." "For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don't we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte." "Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now." Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as follows: "Bond Street, January. "MY DEAR MADAM, "I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your commands in returning the letters with which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed on me. "I am, dear Madam, "Your most obedient "humble servant, "JOHN WILLOUGHBY." With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever--a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy. She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound Marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important. In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the very different mind of a very different person, who had no other connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some sense of her kindness, by saying, "Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!" "I only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing I COULD do, which might be of comfort to you." This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I am miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs. Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence. "Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her misery while YOU suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself." "I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave me, if I distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so. Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, YOU cannot have an idea of what I suffer." "Do you call ME happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew!--And can you believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!" "Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck; "I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you are--you must be happy; Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away such happiness as that?" "Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly. "No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you. You CAN have no grief." "I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state." "And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing can do away." "You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later period--if your engagement had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful." "Engagement!" cried Marianne, "there has been no engagement." "No engagement!" "No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith with me." "But he told you that he loved you." "Yes--no--never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been--but it never was." "Yet you wrote to him?"-- "Yes--could that be wrong after all that had passed?-- But I cannot talk." Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in town, was to this effect. Berkeley Street, January. "How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this; and I think you will feel something more than surprise, when you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time to come here to-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu. "M.D." Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the Middletons', was in these words:-- "I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer to a note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected this in vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are generally out by one. We were last night at Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so? You must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your personal assurance of its being otherwise. "M.D." The contents of her last note to him were these:-- "What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession. "M.D." That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was silently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation. "I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other." "I can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel the same." "He DID feel the same, Elinor--for weeks and weeks he felt it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the blackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear to him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being together at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he told me that it might be many weeks before we met again--his distress--can I ever forget his distress?" For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone, "Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby." "Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been instigated?" "By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of whom he writes--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but your own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?" Elinor would not contend, and only replied, "Whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence." "No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. I care not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like--may resist insult, or return mortification--but I cannot. I must feel--I must be wretched--and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can." "But for my mother's sake and mine--" "I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so miserable--Oh! who can require it?" Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up Willoughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed-- "It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours! Cruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he might have heard against me--ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clearing myself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,) which you so obligingly bestowed on me'--That is unpardonable. Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh, barbarously insolent!--Elinor, can he be justified?" "No, Marianne, in no possible way." "And yet this woman--who knows what her art may have been?--how long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!--Who is she?--Who can she be?--Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and attractive among his female acquaintance?--Oh! no one, no one--he talked to me only of myself." Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus. "Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be gone to-morrow?" "To-morrow, Marianne!" "Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake--and now who cares for me? Who regards me?" "It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that." "Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and Palmers--how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would HE say to that!" Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.

Chapter 29

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-29

The next morning, Marianne is up pre-dawn, writing a desperate letter and sobbing. Elinor tries gently to ask her what's going on, but she says nothing, claiming that her sister will find everything out soon enough. At breakfast, Elinor tries to distract their hostess - the last thing she wants is for Mrs. Jennings to start nagging Marianne. A letter arrives . Mrs. Jennings benignly says that Marianne must be very, very much in love, and asks Elinor when her sister is to be married. Elinor deflects this by saying that news of Marianne's engagement were just a joke. Mrs. Jennings will have none of this, and says that everyone knows about Marianne and Willoughby. Elinor warns her that she'll feel bad for spreading this rumor soon enough. Elinor flees the breakfast table to check on Marianne. The two sisters weep together for a while, and Marianne hands over Willoughby's letter to her sister. The letter is cold-hearted and brief. Basically, it just says that Marianne is crazy for thinking that Willoughby ever cared for her, and that he's in love with someone else. He's also returned all of Marianne's earlier letters. Elinor is shocked, disgusted at Willoughby, and uncertain of what to do. She excuses herself from Mrs. Jennings for the day, saying that Marianne is unwell, then goes back to tend to her sister. Marianne is so miserable she wants to die. Elinor begs her to be more reasonable, and Marianne says that she wishes she were as happy as Elinor, who she supposes to be content and beloved by Edward. Elinor holds her tongue, beyond saying that things aren't as perfect as Marianne makes them out to be. She rather feebly makes the excuse that she can't be happy when her sister is so miserable. Elinor tries to make Marianne see the bright side - after all, what would have happened if she hadn't discovered that Willoughby was such a bad dude, and they'd continued their engagement? Marianne reveals something truly shocking - they were never engaged in the first place. Apparently, Willoughby didn't ever actually come out and say that he loved Marianne - she just assumed it from his treatment of her. Elinor, trying to get to the bottom of this, turns to Marianne's returned letters to Willoughby. They show increasing desperation, asking Willoughby why he won't visit, and demanding that he explain his coldness. She can't believe that he didn't answer such heartfelt letters, but at the same time, she can't believe her ridiculous sister wrote them in the first place. Marianne reiterates the fact that she's certain that Willoughby loved her, even if he never declared it. She blames the world, not Willoughby, for this horrible development - she's sure that someone else changed his mind, and that he himself could never be so awful. After rereading the letter, Marianne quickly changes her tune and blames Willoughby all over again. She wonders who this vixen is who's stolen Willoughby's affections. Marianne, in a fit of agitation, demands that they go home the next day. Elinor forcefully puts her sister back to bed, making her relax there.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/60.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_6_part_7.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 59

chapter 59

{"name": "Chapter 59", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-7-chapters-53-59", "summary": "Angel Clare walks with Liza-Lu, moving hand in hand without speaking. Tess is executed for her crime, as \"justice\" is done and fate has ended his sport with Tess. As the black flag is raised, Angel and Liza-Lu silently rise, join hands and move on.", "analysis": "Hardy ends the novel with a brief explanation of Tess's fate that laments the ironic justice that she received. For suffering through Alec d'Urberville and the consequences of his treatment toward her, Tess receives the justice' of execution for finally reasserting herself in the face of her seducer. Hardy also gives a brief indication of Angel's fate; he will presumably marry Liza-Lu in order to make amends to his wife for his treatment of her"}

The city of Wintoncester, that fine old city, aforetime capital of Wessex, lay amidst its convex and concave downlands in all the brightness and warmth of a July morning. The gabled brick, tile, and freestone houses had almost dried off for the season their integument of lichen, the streams in the meadows were low, and in the sloping High Street, from the West Gateway to the mediaeval cross, and from the mediaeval cross to the bridge, that leisurely dusting and sweeping was in progress which usually ushers in an old-fashioned market-day. From the western gate aforesaid the highway, as every Wintoncestrian knows, ascends a long and regular incline of the exact length of a measured mile, leaving the houses gradually behind. Up this road from the precincts of the city two persons were walking rapidly, as if unconscious of the trying ascent--unconscious through preoccupation and not through buoyancy. They had emerged upon this road through a narrow, barred wicket in a high wall a little lower down. They seemed anxious to get out of the sight of the houses and of their kind, and this road appeared to offer the quickest means of doing so. Though they were young, they walked with bowed heads, which gait of grief the sun's rays smiled on pitilessly. One of the pair was Angel Clare, the other a tall budding creature--half girl, half woman--a spiritualized image of Tess, slighter than she, but with the same beautiful eyes--Clare's sister-in-law, 'Liza-Lu. Their pale faces seemed to have shrunk to half their natural size. They moved on hand in hand, and never spoke a word, the drooping of their heads being that of Giotto's "Two Apostles". When they had nearly reached the top of the great West Hill the clocks in the town struck eight. Each gave a start at the notes, and, walking onward yet a few steps, they reached the first milestone, standing whitely on the green margin of the grass, and backed by the down, which here was open to the road. They entered upon the turf, and, impelled by a force that seemed to overrule their will, suddenly stood still, turned, and waited in paralyzed suspense beside the stone. The prospect from this summit was almost unlimited. In the valley beneath lay the city they had just left, its more prominent buildings showing as in an isometric drawing--among them the broad cathedral tower, with its Norman windows and immense length of aisle and nave, the spires of St Thomas's, the pinnacled tower of the College, and, more to the right, the tower and gables of the ancient hospice, where to this day the pilgrim may receive his dole of bread and ale. Behind the city swept the rotund upland of St Catherine's Hill; further off, landscape beyond landscape, till the horizon was lost in the radiance of the sun hanging above it. Against these far stretches of country rose, in front of the other city edifices, a large red-brick building, with level gray roofs, and rows of short barred windows bespeaking captivity, the whole contrasting greatly by its formalism with the quaint irregularities of the Gothic erections. It was somewhat disguised from the road in passing it by yews and evergreen oaks, but it was visible enough up here. The wicket from which the pair had lately emerged was in the wall of this structure. From the middle of the building an ugly flat-topped octagonal tower ascended against the east horizon, and viewed from this spot, on its shady side and against the light, it seemed the one blot on the city's beauty. Yet it was with this blot, and not with the beauty, that the two gazers were concerned. Upon the cornice of the tower a tall staff was fixed. Their eyes were riveted on it. A few minutes after the hour had struck something moved slowly up the staff, and extended itself upon the breeze. It was a black flag. "Justice" was done, and the President of the Immortals, in Aeschylean phrase, had ended his sport with Tess. And the d'Urberville knights and dames slept on in their tombs unknowing. The two speechless gazers bent themselves down to the earth, as if in prayer, and remained thus a long time, absolutely motionless: the flag continued to wave silently. As soon as they had strength, they arose, joined hands again, and went on.

Chapter 59

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

Angel Clare walks with Liza-Lu, moving hand in hand without speaking. Tess is executed for her crime, as "justice" is done and fate has ended his sport with Tess. As the black flag is raised, Angel and Liza-Lu silently rise, join hands and move on.

Hardy ends the novel with a brief explanation of Tess's fate that laments the ironic justice that she received. For suffering through Alec d'Urberville and the consequences of his treatment toward her, Tess receives the justice' of execution for finally reasserting herself in the face of her seducer. Hardy also gives a brief indication of Angel's fate; he will presumably marry Liza-Lu in order to make amends to his wife for his treatment of her

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/chapters_5_to_6.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_4_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapters 5-6

chapters 5-6

{"name": "Chapters 5-6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-56", "summary": "With much pleasure, Mrs. Dashwood broke the news of their departure to John and Fanny. She still expected her stepson to fulfill his promise to provide for them but \"began shortly to give over every hope of the kind.\" By continual references to his increasing expenses, John made it plain \"that his assistance extended no further than their maintenance for six months at Norland.\" Mrs. Dashwood coolly invited Fanny and John to visit them at Barton, but it was with great satisfaction and warmth that she extended this invitation to Edward, in complete defiance of the wishes of his wretched sister. After tearful farewells and a melancholy journey, the Dashwoods were cheered by the sight of Barton Valley. They soon reached Barton Cottage, their new abode, with which Mrs. Dashwood \"was upon the whole well satisfied.\" Though she talked of making many necessary additions and improvements, many far exceeding their limited means, \"they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was\" and settled down with their possessions. The next day, Sir John Middleton called on them: \"His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him.\" However, his eagerness often lacked subtlety and his perseverance, discrimination. Lady Middleton and her eldest son, aged six, called the following day. Her elegance impressed the Dashwoods favorably, but she had none of her husband's frankness and warmth; \"though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.\"", "analysis": "To the modern reader, the Dashwoods may seem to appear self-pitying when they describe themselves as \"poor.\" They can afford to keep three servants, and the three daughters do no work outside their home. But they were actually poor according to the standards of their social class at that time. The daughters of \"gentlemen,\" like Elinor and Marianne, did not go out to work unless they were actually impoverished. And then the only position acceptable to young women of their class was that of governess. The author's own love for the well-ordered beauty of the English countryside is shown in this chapter in the description of Barton Valley and the location of the Dashwoods' cottage: \". . . a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleasant, fertile spot, well wooded and rich in Pasture. . . . The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind it, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows.\" Characteristic of Austen's style is her habit of making asides, usually ironic or slyly humorous. \"On every formal visit,\" she observes, \"a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother.\" She thus gives us the impression that the conversation among the newly found relations didn't flow very quickly."}

No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire.--Edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated, "Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to what part of it?" She explained the situation. It was within four miles northward of Exeter. "It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will find none in accommodating them." She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater affection. Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which it principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match. Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture. He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.-- The furniture was all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome article of furniture. Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested her, was soon done.--The horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed. HER wisdom too limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland. The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own. Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving money away. In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their journey. Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved. "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when shall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home elsewhere!--Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!--And you, ye well-known trees!--but you will continue the same.--No leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can observe you no longer!--No; you will continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade!--But who will remain to enjoy you?" The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into it. As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation. The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them. With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "As for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about building. These parlors are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly." In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sitting room. In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day. Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next day. They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark. Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of the others. An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.

Chapters 5-6

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-56

With much pleasure, Mrs. Dashwood broke the news of their departure to John and Fanny. She still expected her stepson to fulfill his promise to provide for them but "began shortly to give over every hope of the kind." By continual references to his increasing expenses, John made it plain "that his assistance extended no further than their maintenance for six months at Norland." Mrs. Dashwood coolly invited Fanny and John to visit them at Barton, but it was with great satisfaction and warmth that she extended this invitation to Edward, in complete defiance of the wishes of his wretched sister. After tearful farewells and a melancholy journey, the Dashwoods were cheered by the sight of Barton Valley. They soon reached Barton Cottage, their new abode, with which Mrs. Dashwood "was upon the whole well satisfied." Though she talked of making many necessary additions and improvements, many far exceeding their limited means, "they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was" and settled down with their possessions. The next day, Sir John Middleton called on them: "His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him." However, his eagerness often lacked subtlety and his perseverance, discrimination. Lady Middleton and her eldest son, aged six, called the following day. Her elegance impressed the Dashwoods favorably, but she had none of her husband's frankness and warmth; "though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark."

To the modern reader, the Dashwoods may seem to appear self-pitying when they describe themselves as "poor." They can afford to keep three servants, and the three daughters do no work outside their home. But they were actually poor according to the standards of their social class at that time. The daughters of "gentlemen," like Elinor and Marianne, did not go out to work unless they were actually impoverished. And then the only position acceptable to young women of their class was that of governess. The author's own love for the well-ordered beauty of the English countryside is shown in this chapter in the description of Barton Valley and the location of the Dashwoods' cottage: ". . . a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleasant, fertile spot, well wooded and rich in Pasture. . . . The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind it, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows." Characteristic of Austen's style is her habit of making asides, usually ironic or slyly humorous. "On every formal visit," she observes, "a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother." She thus gives us the impression that the conversation among the newly found relations didn't flow very quickly.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/81.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_80_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 12.chapter 2

book 12, chapter 2

{"name": "Book 12, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-12-chapter-2", "summary": "At this point the witnesses for the prosecution give testimony. The prosecutor seems particularly interested in Dmitri's dispute with his father over his inheritance, while the defense lawyer seems particularly focused on whether anyone has ever actually seen the envelope or not. First to give witness is Grigory, who describes his version of the events of that night. Grigory claims to have forgiven Dmitri for attacking him and even calls his father's treatment of him unfair. When the defense lawyer asks Grigory if he's ever seen the envelope, Grigory admits he's never seen it. The defense lawyer then asks Grigory about the ingredients in the medicinal balm he had used the night of Fyodor's murder, and Grigory reveals that the main ingredient is - vodka. After establishing that Grigory must have been quite drunk and not quite a credible witness on the night of the murder, the defense lawyer rests. Dmitri loudly thanks Grigory for being such a great servant, and the judge reprimands him again for his outburst. Next is Rakitin, who is allowed to digress from his testimony into eloquent monologues on the evils of serfdom and a Russia in disorder. He even gets applause for his impressive speeches. But the defense lawyer brings up the fact of Rakitin's intimacy with Grushenka, and their bet over Alyosha . Rakitin cannot deny that he never returned the betting money to Grushenka, so he too is discredited. The next witness is Captain Snegiryov, who is an utter drunken mess bewailing the imminent death of his young son. He is quickly dismissed. After Snegiryov, the innkeeper Trifon Borisovich is called up. Trifon is quite smug on the stand, but the defense lawyer undercuts Trifon by getting him to confess that he stole money from Dmitri on his drunken spree. The Poles are next on the list, and they too act noble and superior under the prosecutor's questioning. But Fetyukovich challenges them on cheating at cards, and Kalganov is called up to confirm this. The Poles leave the stand amid general laughter.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter II. Dangerous Witnesses I do not know whether the witnesses for the defense and for the prosecution were separated into groups by the President, and whether it was arranged to call them in a certain order. But no doubt it was so. I only know that the witnesses for the prosecution were called first. I repeat I don't intend to describe all the questions step by step. Besides, my account would be to some extent superfluous, because in the speeches for the prosecution and for the defense the whole course of the evidence was brought together and set in a strong and significant light, and I took down parts of those two remarkable speeches in full, and will quote them in due course, together with one extraordinary and quite unexpected episode, which occurred before the final speeches, and undoubtedly influenced the sinister and fatal outcome of the trial. I will only observe that from the first moments of the trial one peculiar characteristic of the case was conspicuous and observed by all, that is, the overwhelming strength of the prosecution as compared with the arguments the defense had to rely upon. Every one realized it from the first moment that the facts began to group themselves round a single point, and the whole horrible and bloody crime was gradually revealed. Every one, perhaps, felt from the first that the case was beyond dispute, that there was no doubt about it, that there could be really no discussion, and that the defense was only a matter of form, and that the prisoner was guilty, obviously and conclusively guilty. I imagine that even the ladies, who were so impatiently longing for the acquittal of the interesting prisoner, were at the same time, without exception, convinced of his guilt. What's more, I believe they would have been mortified if his guilt had not been so firmly established, as that would have lessened the effect of the closing scene of the criminal's acquittal. That he would be acquitted, all the ladies, strange to say, were firmly persuaded up to the very last moment. "He is guilty, but he will be acquitted, from motives of humanity, in accordance with the new ideas, the new sentiments that had come into fashion," and so on, and so on. And that was why they had crowded into the court so impatiently. The men were more interested in the contest between the prosecutor and the famous Fetyukovitch. All were wondering and asking themselves what could even a talent like Fetyukovitch's make of such a desperate case; and so they followed his achievements, step by step, with concentrated attention. But Fetyukovitch remained an enigma to all up to the very end, up to his speech. Persons of experience suspected that he had some design, that he was working towards some object, but it was almost impossible to guess what it was. His confidence and self-reliance were unmistakable, however. Every one noticed with pleasure, moreover, that he, after so short a stay, not more than three days, perhaps, among us, had so wonderfully succeeded in mastering the case and "had studied it to a nicety." People described with relish, afterwards, how cleverly he had "taken down" all the witnesses for the prosecution, and as far as possible perplexed them and, what's more, had aspersed their reputation and so depreciated the value of their evidence. But it was supposed that he did this rather by way of sport, so to speak, for professional glory, to show nothing had been omitted of the accepted methods, for all were convinced that he could do no real good by such disparagement of the witnesses, and probably was more aware of this than any one, having some idea of his own in the background, some concealed weapon of defense, which he would suddenly reveal when the time came. But meanwhile, conscious of his strength, he seemed to be diverting himself. So, for instance, when Grigory, Fyodor Pavlovitch's old servant, who had given the most damning piece of evidence about the open door, was examined, the counsel for the defense positively fastened upon him when his turn came to question him. It must be noted that Grigory entered the hall with a composed and almost stately air, not the least disconcerted by the majesty of the court or the vast audience listening to him. He gave evidence with as much confidence as though he had been talking with his Marfa, only perhaps more respectfully. It was impossible to make him contradict himself. The prosecutor questioned him first in detail about the family life of the Karamazovs. The family picture stood out in lurid colors. It was plain to ear and eye that the witness was guileless and impartial. In spite of his profound reverence for the memory of his deceased master, he yet bore witness that he had been unjust to Mitya and "hadn't brought up his children as he should. He'd have been devoured by lice when he was little, if it hadn't been for me," he added, describing Mitya's early childhood. "It wasn't fair either of the father to wrong his son over his mother's property, which was by right his." In reply to the prosecutor's question what grounds he had for asserting that Fyodor Pavlovitch had wronged his son in their money relations, Grigory, to the surprise of every one, had no proof at all to bring forward, but he still persisted that the arrangement with the son was "unfair," and that he ought "to have paid him several thousand roubles more." I must note, by the way, that the prosecutor asked this question whether Fyodor Pavlovitch had really kept back part of Mitya's inheritance with marked persistence of all the witnesses who could be asked it, not excepting Alyosha and Ivan, but he obtained no exact information from any one; all alleged that it was so, but were unable to bring forward any distinct proof. Grigory's description of the scene at the dinner-table, when Dmitri had burst in and beaten his father, threatening to come back to kill him, made a sinister impression on the court, especially as the old servant's composure in telling it, his parsimony of words and peculiar phraseology, were as effective as eloquence. He observed that he was not angry with Mitya for having knocked him down and struck him on the face; he had forgiven him long ago, he said. Of the deceased Smerdyakov he observed, crossing himself, that he was a lad of ability, but stupid and afflicted, and, worse still, an infidel, and that it was Fyodor Pavlovitch and his elder son who had taught him to be so. But he defended Smerdyakov's honesty almost with warmth, and related how Smerdyakov had once found the master's money in the yard, and, instead of concealing it, had taken it to his master, who had rewarded him with a "gold piece" for it, and trusted him implicitly from that time forward. He maintained obstinately that the door into the garden had been open. But he was asked so many questions that I can't recall them all. At last the counsel for the defense began to cross-examine him, and the first question he asked was about the envelope in which Fyodor Pavlovitch was supposed to have put three thousand roubles for "a certain person." "Have you ever seen it, you, who were for so many years in close attendance on your master?" Grigory answered that he had not seen it and had never heard of the money from any one "till everybody was talking about it." This question about the envelope Fetyukovitch put to every one who could conceivably have known of it, as persistently as the prosecutor asked his question about Dmitri's inheritance, and got the same answer from all, that no one had seen the envelope, though many had heard of it. From the beginning every one noticed Fetyukovitch's persistence on this subject. "Now, with your permission I'll ask you a question," Fetyukovitch said, suddenly and unexpectedly. "Of what was that balsam, or, rather, decoction, made, which, as we learn from the preliminary inquiry, you used on that evening to rub your lumbago, in the hope of curing it?" Grigory looked blankly at the questioner, and after a brief silence muttered, "There was saffron in it." "Nothing but saffron? Don't you remember any other ingredient?" "There was milfoil in it, too." "And pepper perhaps?" Fetyukovitch queried. "Yes, there was pepper, too." "Etcetera. And all dissolved in vodka?" "In spirit." There was a faint sound of laughter in the court. "You see, in spirit. After rubbing your back, I believe, you drank what was left in the bottle with a certain pious prayer, only known to your wife?" "I did." "Did you drink much? Roughly speaking, a wine-glass or two?" "It might have been a tumbler-full." "A tumbler-full, even. Perhaps a tumbler and a half?" Grigory did not answer. He seemed to see what was meant. "A glass and a half of neat spirit--is not at all bad, don't you think? You might see the gates of heaven open, not only the door into the garden?" Grigory remained silent. There was another laugh in the court. The President made a movement. "Do you know for a fact," Fetyukovitch persisted, "whether you were awake or not when you saw the open door?" "I was on my legs." "That's not a proof that you were awake." (There was again laughter in the court.) "Could you have answered at that moment, if any one had asked you a question--for instance, what year it is?" "I don't know." "And what year is it, Anno Domini, do you know?" Grigory stood with a perplexed face, looking straight at his tormentor. Strange to say, it appeared he really did not know what year it was. "But perhaps you can tell me how many fingers you have on your hands?" "I am a servant," Grigory said suddenly, in a loud and distinct voice. "If my betters think fit to make game of me, it is my duty to suffer it." Fetyukovitch was a little taken aback, and the President intervened, reminding him that he must ask more relevant questions. Fetyukovitch bowed with dignity and said that he had no more questions to ask of the witness. The public and the jury, of course, were left with a grain of doubt in their minds as to the evidence of a man who might, while undergoing a certain cure, have seen "the gates of heaven," and who did not even know what year he was living in. But before Grigory left the box another episode occurred. The President, turning to the prisoner, asked him whether he had any comment to make on the evidence of the last witness. "Except about the door, all he has said is true," cried Mitya, in a loud voice. "For combing the lice off me, I thank him; for forgiving my blows, I thank him. The old man has been honest all his life and as faithful to my father as seven hundred poodles." "Prisoner, be careful in your language," the President admonished him. "I am not a poodle," Grigory muttered. "All right, it's I am a poodle myself," cried Mitya. "If it's an insult, I take it to myself and I beg his pardon. I was a beast and cruel to him. I was cruel to AEsop too." "What AEsop?" the President asked sternly again. "Oh, Pierrot ... my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch." The President again and again warned Mitya impressively and very sternly to be more careful in his language. "You are injuring yourself in the opinion of your judges." The counsel for the defense was equally clever in dealing with the evidence of Rakitin. I may remark that Rakitin was one of the leading witnesses and one to whom the prosecutor attached great significance. It appeared that he knew everything; his knowledge was amazing, he had been everywhere, seen everything, talked to everybody, knew every detail of the biography of Fyodor Pavlovitch and all the Karamazovs. Of the envelope, it is true, he had only heard from Mitya himself. But he described minutely Mitya's exploits in the "Metropolis," all his compromising doings and sayings, and told the story of Captain Snegiryov's "wisp of tow." But even Rakitin could say nothing positive about Mitya's inheritance, and confined himself to contemptuous generalities. "Who could tell which of them was to blame, and which was in debt to the other, with their crazy Karamazov way of muddling things so that no one could make head or tail of it?" He attributed the tragic crime to the habits that had become ingrained by ages of serfdom and the distressed condition of Russia, due to the lack of appropriate institutions. He was, in fact, allowed some latitude of speech. This was the first occasion on which Rakitin showed what he could do, and attracted notice. The prosecutor knew that the witness was preparing a magazine article on the case, and afterwards in his speech, as we shall see later, quoted some ideas from the article, showing that he had seen it already. The picture drawn by the witness was a gloomy and sinister one, and greatly strengthened the case for the prosecution. Altogether, Rakitin's discourse fascinated the public by its independence and the extraordinary nobility of its ideas. There were even two or three outbreaks of applause when he spoke of serfdom and the distressed condition of Russia. But Rakitin, in his youthful ardor, made a slight blunder, of which the counsel for the defense at once adroitly took advantage. Answering certain questions about Grushenka, and carried away by the loftiness of his own sentiments and his success, of which he was, of course, conscious, he went so far as to speak somewhat contemptuously of Agrafena Alexandrovna as "the kept mistress of Samsonov." He would have given a good deal to take back his words afterwards, for Fetyukovitch caught him out over it at once. And it was all because Rakitin had not reckoned on the lawyer having been able to become so intimately acquainted with every detail in so short a time. "Allow me to ask," began the counsel for the defense, with the most affable and even respectful smile, "you are, of course, the same Mr. Rakitin whose pamphlet, _The Life of the Deceased Elder, Father Zossima_, published by the diocesan authorities, full of profound and religious reflections and preceded by an excellent and devout dedication to the bishop, I have just read with such pleasure?" "I did not write it for publication ... it was published afterwards," muttered Rakitin, for some reason fearfully disconcerted and almost ashamed. "Oh, that's excellent! A thinker like you can, and indeed ought to, take the widest view of every social question. Your most instructive pamphlet has been widely circulated through the patronage of the bishop, and has been of appreciable service.... But this is the chief thing I should like to learn from you. You stated just now that you were very intimately acquainted with Madame Svyetlov." (It must be noted that Grushenka's surname was Svyetlov. I heard it for the first time that day, during the case.) "I cannot answer for all my acquaintances.... I am a young man ... and who can be responsible for every one he meets?" cried Rakitin, flushing all over. "I understand, I quite understand," cried Fetyukovitch, as though he, too, were embarrassed and in haste to excuse himself. "You, like any other, might well be interested in an acquaintance with a young and beautiful woman who would readily entertain the _elite_ of the youth of the neighborhood, but ... I only wanted to know ... It has come to my knowledge that Madame Svyetlov was particularly anxious a couple of months ago to make the acquaintance of the younger Karamazov, Alexey Fyodorovitch, and promised you twenty-five roubles, if you would bring him to her in his monastic dress. And that actually took place on the evening of the day on which the terrible crime, which is the subject of the present investigation, was committed. You brought Alexey Karamazov to Madame Svyetlov, and did you receive the twenty-five roubles from Madame Svyetlov as a reward, that's what I wanted to hear from you?" "It was a joke.... I don't see of what interest that can be to you.... I took it for a joke ... meaning to give it back later...." "Then you did take-- But you have not given it back yet ... or have you?" "That's of no consequence," muttered Rakitin, "I refuse to answer such questions.... Of course I shall give it back." The President intervened, but Fetyukovitch declared he had no more questions to ask of the witness. Mr. Rakitin left the witness-box not absolutely without a stain upon his character. The effect left by the lofty idealism of his speech was somewhat marred, and Fetyukovitch's expression, as he watched him walk away, seemed to suggest to the public "this is a specimen of the lofty-minded persons who accuse him." I remember that this incident, too, did not pass off without an outbreak from Mitya. Enraged by the tone in which Rakitin had referred to Grushenka, he suddenly shouted "Bernard!" When, after Rakitin's cross- examination, the President asked the prisoner if he had anything to say, Mitya cried loudly: "Since I've been arrested, he has borrowed money from me! He is a contemptible Bernard and opportunist, and he doesn't believe in God; he took the bishop in!" Mitya, of course, was pulled up again for the intemperance of his language, but Rakitin was done for. Captain Snegiryov's evidence was a failure, too, but from quite a different reason. He appeared in ragged and dirty clothes, muddy boots, and in spite of the vigilance and expert observation of the police officers, he turned out to be hopelessly drunk. On being asked about Mitya's attack upon him, he refused to answer. "God bless him. Ilusha told me not to. God will make it up to me yonder." "Who told you not to tell? Of whom are you talking?" "Ilusha, my little son. 'Father, father, how he insulted you!' He said that at the stone. Now he is dying...." The captain suddenly began sobbing, and plumped down on his knees before the President. He was hurriedly led away amidst the laughter of the public. The effect prepared by the prosecutor did not come off at all. Fetyukovitch went on making the most of every opportunity, and amazed people more and more by his minute knowledge of the case. Thus, for example, Trifon Borissovitch made a great impression, of course, very prejudicial to Mitya. He calculated almost on his fingers that on his first visit to Mokroe, Mitya must have spent three thousand roubles, "or very little less. Just think what he squandered on those gypsy girls alone! And as for our lousy peasants, it wasn't a case of flinging half a rouble in the street, he made them presents of twenty-five roubles each, at least, he didn't give them less. And what a lot of money was simply stolen from him! And if any one did steal, he did not leave a receipt. How could one catch the thief when he was flinging his money away all the time? Our peasants are robbers, you know; they have no care for their souls. And the way he went on with the girls, our village girls! They're completely set up since then, I tell you, they used to be poor." He recalled, in fact, every item of expense and added it all up. So the theory that only fifteen hundred had been spent and the rest had been put aside in a little bag seemed inconceivable. "I saw three thousand as clear as a penny in his hands, I saw it with my own eyes; I should think I ought to know how to reckon money," cried Trifon Borissovitch, doing his best to satisfy "his betters." When Fetyukovitch had to cross-examine him, he scarcely tried to refute his evidence, but began asking him about an incident at the first carousal at Mokroe, a month before the arrest, when Timofey and another peasant called Akim had picked up on the floor in the passage a hundred roubles dropped by Mitya when he was drunk, and had given them to Trifon Borissovitch and received a rouble each from him for doing so. "Well," asked the lawyer, "did you give that hundred roubles back to Mr. Karamazov?" Trifon Borissovitch shuffled in vain.... He was obliged, after the peasants had been examined, to admit the finding of the hundred roubles, only adding that he had religiously returned it all to Dmitri Fyodorovitch "in perfect honesty, and it's only because his honor was in liquor at the time, he wouldn't remember it." But, as he had denied the incident of the hundred roubles till the peasants had been called to prove it, his evidence as to returning the money to Mitya was naturally regarded with great suspicion. So one of the most dangerous witnesses brought forward by the prosecution was again discredited. The same thing happened with the Poles. They took up an attitude of pride and independence; they vociferated loudly that they had both been in the service of the Crown, and that "Pan Mitya" had offered them three thousand "to buy their honor," and that they had seen a large sum of money in his hands. Pan Mussyalovitch introduced a terrible number of Polish words into his sentences, and seeing that this only increased his consequence in the eyes of the President and the prosecutor, grew more and more pompous, and ended by talking in Polish altogether. But Fetyukovitch caught them, too, in his snares. Trifon Borissovitch, recalled, was forced, in spite of his evasions, to admit that Pan Vrublevsky had substituted another pack of cards for the one he had provided, and that Pan Mussyalovitch had cheated during the game. Kalganov confirmed this, and both the Poles left the witness-box with damaged reputations, amidst laughter from the public. Then exactly the same thing happened with almost all the most dangerous witnesses. Fetyukovitch succeeded in casting a slur on all of them, and dismissing them with a certain derision. The lawyers and experts were lost in admiration, and were only at a loss to understand what good purpose could be served by it, for all, I repeat, felt that the case for the prosecution could not be refuted, but was growing more and more tragically overwhelming. But from the confidence of the "great magician" they saw that he was serene, and they waited, feeling that "such a man" had not come from Petersburg for nothing, and that he was not a man to return unsuccessful.

Book 12, Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-12-chapter-2

At this point the witnesses for the prosecution give testimony. The prosecutor seems particularly interested in Dmitri's dispute with his father over his inheritance, while the defense lawyer seems particularly focused on whether anyone has ever actually seen the envelope or not. First to give witness is Grigory, who describes his version of the events of that night. Grigory claims to have forgiven Dmitri for attacking him and even calls his father's treatment of him unfair. When the defense lawyer asks Grigory if he's ever seen the envelope, Grigory admits he's never seen it. The defense lawyer then asks Grigory about the ingredients in the medicinal balm he had used the night of Fyodor's murder, and Grigory reveals that the main ingredient is - vodka. After establishing that Grigory must have been quite drunk and not quite a credible witness on the night of the murder, the defense lawyer rests. Dmitri loudly thanks Grigory for being such a great servant, and the judge reprimands him again for his outburst. Next is Rakitin, who is allowed to digress from his testimony into eloquent monologues on the evils of serfdom and a Russia in disorder. He even gets applause for his impressive speeches. But the defense lawyer brings up the fact of Rakitin's intimacy with Grushenka, and their bet over Alyosha . Rakitin cannot deny that he never returned the betting money to Grushenka, so he too is discredited. The next witness is Captain Snegiryov, who is an utter drunken mess bewailing the imminent death of his young son. He is quickly dismissed. After Snegiryov, the innkeeper Trifon Borisovich is called up. Trifon is quite smug on the stand, but the defense lawyer undercuts Trifon by getting him to confess that he stole money from Dmitri on his drunken spree. The Poles are next on the list, and they too act noble and superior under the prosecutor's questioning. But Fetyukovich challenges them on cheating at cards, and Kalganov is called up to confirm this. The Poles leave the stand amid general laughter.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/55.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_54_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 9.chapter 2

book 9, chapter 2

{"name": "Book 9, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-9-chapter-2", "summary": "Perkhotin rushes over to the house of Mikhail Makarovich Makarov, the district commissioner of police, where a party is taking place. When he arrives, he discovers that not only are all the important officials there, but they have also already been notified of Fyodor Karamazov's murder by the servant Marfa Ignatievna. What happened was this: Marfa is woken up by a terrible scream from Smerdyakov, the kind that always began his epileptic fits. She notices Grigory is missing, then hears groaning from the garden, where she discovers a bloodied Grigory much as Dmitri left him in. She rouses her neighbor, Maria Kondratievna, her daughter, and the visiting Foma, and they all go to Fyodor Karamazov's house, where they discover his dead body. Marfa then runs off to the deputy commissioner's. Perkhotin, Makarov, and the other officials head over to Fyodor Karamazov's house to investigate. After surveying the scene, they dispatch the deputy commissioner off to Mokroye to keep watch on Dmitri while they get the paperwork settled for his arrest. This is why, when Dmitri had previously met Trifon Borisivetch outside , the innkeeper looked concerned - he had already been notified by the deputy commissioner of Dmitri's impending arrest.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter II. The Alarm Our police captain, Mihail Makarovitch Makarov, a retired lieutenant- colonel, was a widower and an excellent man. He had only come to us three years previously, but had won general esteem, chiefly because he "knew how to keep society together." He was never without visitors, and could not have got on without them. Some one or other was always dining with him; he never sat down to table without guests. He gave regular dinners, too, on all sorts of occasions, sometimes most surprising ones. Though the fare was not _recherche_, it was abundant. The fish-pies were excellent, and the wine made up in quantity for what it lacked in quality. The first room his guests entered was a well-fitted billiard-room, with pictures of English race-horses, in black frames on the walls, an essential decoration, as we all know, for a bachelor's billiard-room. There was card-playing every evening at his house, if only at one table. But at frequent intervals, all the society of our town, with the mammas and young ladies, assembled at his house to dance. Though Mihail Makarovitch was a widower, he did not live alone. His widowed daughter lived with him, with her two unmarried daughters, grown-up girls, who had finished their education. They were of agreeable appearance and lively character, and though every one knew they would have no dowry, they attracted all the young men of fashion to their grandfather's house. Mihail Makarovitch was by no means very efficient in his work, though he performed his duties no worse than many others. To speak plainly, he was a man of rather narrow education. His understanding of the limits of his administrative power could not always be relied upon. It was not so much that he failed to grasp certain reforms enacted during the present reign, as that he made conspicuous blunders in his interpretation of them. This was not from any special lack of intelligence, but from carelessness, for he was always in too great a hurry to go into the subject. "I have the heart of a soldier rather than of a civilian," he used to say of himself. He had not even formed a definite idea of the fundamental principles of the reforms connected with the emancipation of the serfs, and only picked it up, so to speak, from year to year, involuntarily increasing his knowledge by practice. And yet he was himself a landowner. Pyotr Ilyitch knew for certain that he would meet some of Mihail Makarovitch's visitors there that evening, but he didn't know which. As it happened, at that moment the prosecutor, and Varvinsky, our district doctor, a young man, who had only just come to us from Petersburg after taking a brilliant degree at the Academy of Medicine, were playing whist at the police captain's. Ippolit Kirillovitch, the prosecutor (he was really the deputy prosecutor, but we always called him the prosecutor), was rather a peculiar man, of about five and thirty, inclined to be consumptive, and married to a fat and childless woman. He was vain and irritable, though he had a good intellect, and even a kind heart. It seemed that all that was wrong with him was that he had a better opinion of himself than his ability warranted. And that made him seem constantly uneasy. He had, moreover, certain higher, even artistic, leanings, towards psychology, for instance, a special study of the human heart, a special knowledge of the criminal and his crime. He cherished a grievance on this ground, considering that he had been passed over in the service, and being firmly persuaded that in higher spheres he had not been properly appreciated, and had enemies. In gloomy moments he even threatened to give up his post, and practice as a barrister in criminal cases. The unexpected Karamazov case agitated him profoundly: "It was a case that might well be talked about all over Russia." But I am anticipating. Nikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov, the young investigating lawyer, who had only come from Petersburg two months before, was sitting in the next room with the young ladies. People talked about it afterwards and wondered that all the gentlemen should, as though intentionally, on the evening of "the crime" have been gathered together at the house of the executive authority. Yet it was perfectly simple and happened quite naturally. Ippolit Kirillovitch's wife had had toothache for the last two days, and he was obliged to go out to escape from her groans. The doctor, from the very nature of his being, could not spend an evening except at cards. Nikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov had been intending for three days past to drop in that evening at Mihail Makarovitch's, so to speak casually, so as slyly to startle the eldest granddaughter, Olga Mihailovna, by showing that he knew her secret, that he knew it was her birthday, and that she was trying to conceal it on purpose, so as not to be obliged to give a dance. He anticipated a great deal of merriment, many playful jests about her age, and her being afraid to reveal it, about his knowing her secret and telling everybody, and so on. The charming young man was a great adept at such teasing; the ladies had christened him "the naughty man," and he seemed to be delighted at the name. He was extremely well-bred, however, of good family, education and feelings, and, though leading a life of pleasure, his sallies were always innocent and in good taste. He was short, and delicate-looking. On his white, slender, little fingers he always wore a number of big, glittering rings. When he was engaged in his official duties, he always became extraordinarily grave, as though realizing his position and the sanctity of the obligations laid upon him. He had a special gift for mystifying murderers and other criminals of the peasant class during interrogation, and if he did not win their respect, he certainly succeeded in arousing their wonder. Pyotr Ilyitch was simply dumbfounded when he went into the police captain's. He saw instantly that every one knew. They had positively thrown down their cards, all were standing up and talking. Even Nikolay Parfenovitch had left the young ladies and run in, looking strenuous and ready for action. Pyotr Ilyitch was met with the astounding news that old Fyodor Pavlovitch really had been murdered that evening in his own house, murdered and robbed. The news had only just reached them in the following manner. Marfa Ignatyevna, the wife of old Grigory, who had been knocked senseless near the fence, was sleeping soundly in her bed and might well have slept till morning after the draught she had taken. But, all of a sudden she waked up, no doubt roused by a fearful epileptic scream from Smerdyakov, who was lying in the next room unconscious. That scream always preceded his fits, and always terrified and upset Marfa Ignatyevna. She could never get accustomed to it. She jumped up and ran half-awake to Smerdyakov's room. But it was dark there, and she could only hear the invalid beginning to gasp and struggle. Then Marfa Ignatyevna herself screamed out and was going to call her husband, but suddenly realized that when she had got up, he was not beside her in bed. She ran back to the bedstead and began groping with her hands, but the bed was really empty. Then he must have gone out--where? She ran to the steps and timidly called him. She got no answer, of course, but she caught the sound of groans far away in the garden in the darkness. She listened. The groans were repeated, and it was evident they came from the garden. "Good Lord! Just as it was with Lizaveta Smerdyastchaya!" she thought distractedly. She went timidly down the steps and saw that the gate into the garden was open. "He must be out there, poor dear," she thought. She went up to the gate and all at once she distinctly heard Grigory calling her by name, "Marfa! Marfa!" in a weak, moaning, dreadful voice. "Lord, preserve us from harm!" Marfa Ignatyevna murmured, and ran towards the voice, and that was how she found Grigory. But she found him not by the fence where he had been knocked down, but about twenty paces off. It appeared later, that he had crawled away on coming to himself, and probably had been a long time getting so far, losing consciousness several times. She noticed at once that he was covered with blood, and screamed at the top of her voice. Grigory was muttering incoherently: "He has murdered ... his father murdered.... Why scream, silly ... run ... fetch some one...." But Marfa continued screaming, and seeing that her master's window was open and that there was a candle alight in the window, she ran there and began calling Fyodor Pavlovitch. But peeping in at the window, she saw a fearful sight. Her master was lying on his back, motionless, on the floor. His light-colored dressing-gown and white shirt were soaked with blood. The candle on the table brightly lighted up the blood and the motionless dead face of Fyodor Pavlovitch. Terror-stricken, Marfa rushed away from the window, ran out of the garden, drew the bolt of the big gate and ran headlong by the back way to the neighbor, Marya Kondratyevna. Both mother and daughter were asleep, but they waked up at Marfa's desperate and persistent screaming and knocking at the shutter. Marfa, shrieking and screaming incoherently, managed to tell them the main fact, and to beg for assistance. It happened that Foma had come back from his wanderings and was staying the night with them. They got him up immediately and all three ran to the scene of the crime. On the way, Marya Kondratyevna remembered that at about eight o'clock she heard a dreadful scream from their garden, and this was no doubt Grigory's scream, "Parricide!" uttered when he caught hold of Mitya's leg. "Some one person screamed out and then was silent," Marya Kondratyevna explained as she ran. Running to the place where Grigory lay, the two women with the help of Foma carried him to the lodge. They lighted a candle and saw that Smerdyakov was no better, that he was writhing in convulsions, his eyes fixed in a squint, and that foam was flowing from his lips. They moistened Grigory's forehead with water mixed with vinegar, and the water revived him at once. He asked immediately: "Is the master murdered?" Then Foma and both the women ran to the house and saw this time that not only the window, but also the door into the garden was wide open, though Fyodor Pavlovitch had for the last week locked himself in every night and did not allow even Grigory to come in on any pretext. Seeing that door open, they were afraid to go in to Fyodor Pavlovitch "for fear anything should happen afterwards." And when they returned to Grigory, the old man told them to go straight to the police captain. Marya Kondratyevna ran there and gave the alarm to the whole party at the police captain's. She arrived only five minutes before Pyotr Ilyitch, so that his story came, not as his own surmise and theory, but as the direct confirmation, by a witness, of the theory held by all, as to the identity of the criminal (a theory he had in the bottom of his heart refused to believe till that moment). It was resolved to act with energy. The deputy police inspector of the town was commissioned to take four witnesses, to enter Fyodor Pavlovitch's house and there to open an inquiry on the spot, according to the regular forms, which I will not go into here. The district doctor, a zealous man, new to his work, almost insisted on accompanying the police captain, the prosecutor, and the investigating lawyer. I will note briefly that Fyodor Pavlovitch was found to be quite dead, with his skull battered in. But with what? Most likely with the same weapon with which Grigory had been attacked. And immediately that weapon was found, Grigory, to whom all possible medical assistance was at once given, described in a weak and breaking voice how he had been knocked down. They began looking with a lantern by the fence and found the brass pestle dropped in a most conspicuous place on the garden path. There were no signs of disturbance in the room where Fyodor Pavlovitch was lying. But by the bed, behind the screen, they picked up from the floor a big and thick envelope with the inscription: "A present of three thousand roubles for my angel Grushenka, if she is willing to come." And below had been added by Fyodor Pavlovitch, "For my little chicken." There were three seals of red sealing-wax on the envelope, but it had been torn open and was empty: the money had been removed. They found also on the floor a piece of narrow pink ribbon, with which the envelope had been tied up. One piece of Pyotr Ilyitch's evidence made a great impression on the prosecutor and the investigating magistrate, namely, his idea that Dmitri Fyodorovitch would shoot himself before daybreak, that he had resolved to do so, had spoken of it to Ilyitch, had taken the pistols, loaded them before him, written a letter, put it in his pocket, etc. When Pyotr Ilyitch, though still unwilling to believe in it, threatened to tell some one so as to prevent the suicide, Mitya had answered grinning: "You'll be too late." So they must make haste to Mokroe to find the criminal, before he really did shoot himself. "That's clear, that's clear!" repeated the prosecutor in great excitement. "That's just the way with mad fellows like that: 'I shall kill myself to- morrow, so I'll make merry till I die!' " The story of how he had bought the wine and provisions excited the prosecutor more than ever. "Do you remember the fellow that murdered a merchant called Olsufyev, gentlemen? He stole fifteen hundred, went at once to have his hair curled, and then, without even hiding the money, carrying it almost in his hand in the same way, he went off to the girls." All were delayed, however, by the inquiry, the search, and the formalities, etc., in the house of Fyodor Pavlovitch. It all took time and so, two hours before starting, they sent on ahead to Mokroe the officer of the rural police, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch Schmertsov, who had arrived in the town the morning before to get his pay. He was instructed to avoid raising the alarm when he reached Mokroe, but to keep constant watch over the "criminal" till the arrival of the proper authorities, to procure also witnesses for the arrest, police constables, and so on. Mavriky Mavrikyevitch did as he was told, preserving his incognito, and giving no one but his old acquaintance, Trifon Borissovitch, the slightest hint of his secret business. He had spoken to him just before Mitya met the landlord in the balcony, looking for him in the dark, and noticed at once a change in Trifon Borissovitch's face and voice. So neither Mitya nor any one else knew that he was being watched. The box with the pistols had been carried off by Trifon Borissovitch and put in a suitable place. Only after four o'clock, almost at sunrise, all the officials, the police captain, the prosecutor, the investigating lawyer, drove up in two carriages, each drawn by three horses. The doctor remained at Fyodor Pavlovitch's to make a post-mortem next day on the body. But he was particularly interested in the condition of the servant, Smerdyakov. "Such violent and protracted epileptic fits, recurring continually for twenty-four hours, are rarely to be met with, and are of interest to science," he declared enthusiastically to his companions, and as they left they laughingly congratulated him on his find. The prosecutor and the investigating lawyer distinctly remembered the doctor's saying that Smerdyakov could not outlive the night. After these long, but I think necessary explanations, we will return to that moment of our tale at which we broke off.

Book 9, Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-9-chapter-2

Perkhotin rushes over to the house of Mikhail Makarovich Makarov, the district commissioner of police, where a party is taking place. When he arrives, he discovers that not only are all the important officials there, but they have also already been notified of Fyodor Karamazov's murder by the servant Marfa Ignatievna. What happened was this: Marfa is woken up by a terrible scream from Smerdyakov, the kind that always began his epileptic fits. She notices Grigory is missing, then hears groaning from the garden, where she discovers a bloodied Grigory much as Dmitri left him in. She rouses her neighbor, Maria Kondratievna, her daughter, and the visiting Foma, and they all go to Fyodor Karamazov's house, where they discover his dead body. Marfa then runs off to the deputy commissioner's. Perkhotin, Makarov, and the other officials head over to Fyodor Karamazov's house to investigate. After surveying the scene, they dispatch the deputy commissioner off to Mokroye to keep watch on Dmitri while they get the paperwork settled for his arrest. This is why, when Dmitri had previously met Trifon Borisivetch outside , the innkeeper looked concerned - he had already been notified by the deputy commissioner of Dmitri's impending arrest.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_24_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 25

chapter 25

{"name": "Chapter 25", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-25", "summary": "It turns out that Mrs. Jennings actually has a home of her own - and a rather stylish one, at that. When she's not visiting with various family and friends, she lives in London. She invites Marianne and Elinor to visit her at this house over the winter. Elinor turns down the invitation politely, saying that Mrs. Dashwood needs her older daughters over the winter. Mrs. Jennings refuses this refusal, saying that surely they can works everything out. Sir John slyly says that Marianne probably wouldn't mind going to London , with or without Elinor. Marianne warmly exclaims that she would love to accept, but she's afraid that Elinor's right - they need to stay home. Mrs. Jennings keeps insisting upon the visit, and Marianne doesn't put up a fight. Despite her dislike for Mrs. Jennings, she's desperate to go to London. When told of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood decides that it's fine - the girls can go to the city. She insists that they accept. Elinor reminds her mother that appearing in town with Mrs. Jennings won't do them any social favors, but Mrs. Dashwood reminds her that they'll always be with Lady Middleton, a perfectly respectable woman. Mrs. Dashwood reasserts the fact that they should both go and enjoy themselves. She hints that Elinor should enjoy herself - particularly with Edward's family. Elinor, knowing what she knows, says rather coldly that she likes Edward very much, but it doesn't matter to her if his family likes her or not. Mrs. Dashwood smiles, thinking that Elinor is just being evasive. Marianne is surprised by this statement. Everything is settled with Mrs. Jennings, and the travel plans are all made. Sir John, Lady Middleton, and Mrs. Jennings are all very happy, and the Steeles claim that they are, too. Everyone gets ready for the big trip to London - Elinor reluctantly, and Marianne with great excitement. The Dashwood girls and Mrs. Jennings leave at the beginning of January; the Middletons, Lucy, and Anne plan to follow a week later.", "analysis": ""}

Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately. "Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford THAT. We three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend upon it." "I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss Dashwood about it." "Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do you think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her mind by and bye, why so much the better." "I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with warmth: "your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of, to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle." Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness. On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon HER account; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all, from this separation. "I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves. When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret so improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you SHOULD go to town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other." "Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor, "you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed." Marianne's countenance sunk. "And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear prudent Elinor going to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let me hear a word about the expense of it." "My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us consequence." "That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society, separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton." "If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said Marianne, "at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation. I have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort." Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished. "I will have you BOTH go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family." Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward Ferrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am ever known to them or not." Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held her tongue. After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made them. Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence. Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal. Their departure took place in the first week in January. The Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.

Chapter 25

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-25

It turns out that Mrs. Jennings actually has a home of her own - and a rather stylish one, at that. When she's not visiting with various family and friends, she lives in London. She invites Marianne and Elinor to visit her at this house over the winter. Elinor turns down the invitation politely, saying that Mrs. Dashwood needs her older daughters over the winter. Mrs. Jennings refuses this refusal, saying that surely they can works everything out. Sir John slyly says that Marianne probably wouldn't mind going to London , with or without Elinor. Marianne warmly exclaims that she would love to accept, but she's afraid that Elinor's right - they need to stay home. Mrs. Jennings keeps insisting upon the visit, and Marianne doesn't put up a fight. Despite her dislike for Mrs. Jennings, she's desperate to go to London. When told of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood decides that it's fine - the girls can go to the city. She insists that they accept. Elinor reminds her mother that appearing in town with Mrs. Jennings won't do them any social favors, but Mrs. Dashwood reminds her that they'll always be with Lady Middleton, a perfectly respectable woman. Mrs. Dashwood reasserts the fact that they should both go and enjoy themselves. She hints that Elinor should enjoy herself - particularly with Edward's family. Elinor, knowing what she knows, says rather coldly that she likes Edward very much, but it doesn't matter to her if his family likes her or not. Mrs. Dashwood smiles, thinking that Elinor is just being evasive. Marianne is surprised by this statement. Everything is settled with Mrs. Jennings, and the travel plans are all made. Sir John, Lady Middleton, and Mrs. Jennings are all very happy, and the Steeles claim that they are, too. Everyone gets ready for the big trip to London - Elinor reluctantly, and Marianne with great excitement. The Dashwood girls and Mrs. Jennings leave at the beginning of January; the Middletons, Lucy, and Anne plan to follow a week later.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/chapters_4_to_5.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Prince/section_3_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapters 4-5

chapters 4-5

{"name": "Chapters 4-5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapters-45", "summary": "All principalities are governed either by a single ruler assisted by his appointed ministers or by a ruler and the hereditary nobles who hold power in their own right and have the loyalty of their subjects. The Turkish sultan divides his kingdom into districts that are managed by his administrators, but the king of France has to contend with many lords who have longstanding privileges. Because the sultan's administrators are dependent on him for their power, they are not likely to help a foreign invader. But if an invader had a strong enough army to win, it would be easy to keep their territory, because the people are not personally loyal to the administrators. In a kingdom like France, the nobles are always ambitious and ready to turn against the king. But if they assist you in conquering the country, they will also be ready to turn on you. Even if you kill all the royal family, the nobles remain, and you can neither satisfy them nor get rid of them. Whether one can control a territory depends less on personal ability than on the character of the territory. If the conquered territory was formerly a republic, in which the citizens were used to living under their own laws, you must destroy it, go live in it, or let the citizens live under their own laws with a government that is friendly to you. If you do not destroy the city, it will destroy you, so fiercely will the citizens remember and long for their freedom.", "analysis": "Machiavelli contrasts two types of government: a strongly centralized model, which he identifies with the East, and the looser confederated model that dominated in Western Europe. Machiavelli had ample opportunities to see the kinds of internal problems that afflicted decentralized collections of states. The example he cites, France, was actually remarkably stable and unified in comparison with his own region of Italy, where competing states invited foreign powers to invade, then turned on them, only to turn on each other as soon as the threat passed. Italy had indeed proved almost impossible to conquer, for exactly the reasons Machiavelli cites, but it had also proved impossible to unify. Machiavelli's comments about governing a conquered republic sound especially merciless: destroy it, he cautions, or it will certainly destroy you. However, if you read Machiavelli's advice as directed toward the new Medici rulers of Florence, it takes on a different tone. If you want to avoid being destroyed by it, you must come and live in it and rule it directly, he says. This is exactly what the Medici had failed to do in the period since their return to power, spending almost all their time away from Florence. Machiavelli's vivid portrayal of the republic's love of liberty can be read as a kind of warning to the Medici about how ready their new possession will be to return to its republican ways if they do not do more to govern it. In Chapter 4, Machiavelli begins elaborating on the theme of ability versus circumstances in determining a leader's success or failure. He implies that the leader's talents are less important than the situation he finds himself in. Machiavelli discusses this theme in detail throughout the book, culminating in his statements about fortune and free will in Chapter 25. The contrast between luck, specifically the favor of others, and ability is further explained in Chapters 6 and 7. Glossary Alexander Alexander the Great , King of Macedon and one of the great conquerors of the ancient world. Darius King of Persia, one of the territories that Alexander conquered. Pyrrhus King of Epirus who fought against the Romans. He won several victories, but at a very high price. Pisa In 1406, Florence bought the city of Pisa from the dukes of Milan; in 1494, when Charles VII invaded, the Pisans asserted their liberty from Florence. Florence won Pisa back in 1509."}

Considering the difficulties which men have had to hold to a newly acquired state, some might wonder how, seeing that Alexander the Great became the master of Asia in a few years, and died whilst it was scarcely settled (whence it might appear reasonable that the whole empire would have rebelled), nevertheless his successors maintained themselves, and had to meet no other difficulty than that which arose among themselves from their own ambitions. I answer that the principalities of which one has record are found to be governed in two different ways; either by a prince, with a body of servants, who assist him to govern the kingdom as ministers by his favour and permission; or by a prince and barons, who hold that dignity by antiquity of blood and not by the grace of the prince. Such barons have states and their own subjects, who recognize them as lords and hold them in natural affection. Those states that are governed by a prince and his servants hold their prince in more consideration, because in all the country there is no one who is recognized as superior to him, and if they yield obedience to another they do it as to a minister and official, and they do not bear him any particular affection. The examples of these two governments in our time are the Turk and the King of France. The entire monarchy of the Turk is governed by one lord, the others are his servants; and, dividing his kingdom into sanjaks, he sends there different administrators, and shifts and changes them as he chooses. But the King of France is placed in the midst of an ancient body of lords, acknowledged by their own subjects, and beloved by them; they have their own prerogatives, nor can the king take these away except at his peril. Therefore, he who considers both of these states will recognize great difficulties in seizing the state of the Turk, but, once it is conquered, great ease in holding it. The causes of the difficulties in seizing the kingdom of the Turk are that the usurper cannot be called in by the princes of the kingdom, nor can he hope to be assisted in his designs by the revolt of those whom the lord has around him. This arises from the reasons given above; for his ministers, being all slaves and bondmen, can only be corrupted with great difficulty, and one can expect little advantage from them when they have been corrupted, as they cannot carry the people with them, for the reasons assigned. Hence, he who attacks the Turk must bear in mind that he will find him united, and he will have to rely more on his own strength than on the revolt of others; but, if once the Turk has been conquered, and routed in the field in such a way that he cannot replace his armies, there is nothing to fear but the family of this prince, and, this being exterminated, there remains no one to fear, the others having no credit with the people; and as the conqueror did not rely on them before his victory, so he ought not to fear them after it. The contrary happens in kingdoms governed like that of France, because one can easily enter there by gaining over some baron of the kingdom, for one always finds malcontents and such as desire a change. Such men, for the reasons given, can open the way into the state and render the victory easy; but if you wish to hold it afterwards, you meet with infinite difficulties, both from those who have assisted you and from those you have crushed. Nor is it enough for you to have exterminated the family of the prince, because the lords that remain make themselves the heads of fresh movements against you, and as you are unable either to satisfy or exterminate them, that state is lost whenever time brings the opportunity. Now if you will consider what was the nature of the government of Darius, you will find it similar to the kingdom of the Turk, and therefore it was only necessary for Alexander, first to overthrow him in the field, and then to take the country from him. After which victory, Darius being killed, the state remained secure to Alexander, for the above reasons. And if his successors had been united they would have enjoyed it securely and at their ease, for there were no tumults raised in the kingdom except those they provoked themselves. But it is impossible to hold with such tranquillity states constituted like that of France. Hence arose those frequent rebellions against the Romans in Spain, France, and Greece, owing to the many principalities there were in these states, of which, as long as the memory of them endured, the Romans always held an insecure possession; but with the power and long continuance of the empire the memory of them passed away, and the Romans then became secure possessors. And when fighting afterwards amongst themselves, each one was able to attach to himself his own parts of the country, according to the authority he had assumed there; and the family of the former lord being exterminated, none other than the Romans were acknowledged. When these things are remembered no one will marvel at the ease with which Alexander held the Empire of Asia, or at the difficulties which others have had to keep an acquisition, such as Pyrrhus and many more; this is not occasioned by the little or abundance of ability in the conqueror, but by the want of uniformity in the subject state. Whenever those states which have been acquired as stated have been accustomed to live under their own laws and in freedom, there are three courses for those who wish to hold them: the first is to ruin them, the next is to reside there in person, the third is to permit them to live under their own laws, drawing a tribute, and establishing within it an oligarchy which will keep it friendly to you. Because such a government, being created by the prince, knows that it cannot stand without his friendship and interest, and does it utmost to support him; and therefore he who would keep a city accustomed to freedom will hold it more easily by the means of its own citizens than in any other way. There are, for example, the Spartans and the Romans. The Spartans held Athens and Thebes, establishing there an oligarchy; nevertheless they lost them. The Romans, in order to hold Capua, Carthage, and Numantia, dismantled them, and did not lose them. They wished to hold Greece as the Spartans held it, making it free and permitting its laws, and did not succeed. So to hold it they were compelled to dismantle many cities in the country, for in truth there is no safe way to retain them otherwise than by ruining them. And he who becomes master of a city accustomed to freedom and does not destroy it, may expect to be destroyed by it, for in rebellion it has always the watchword of liberty and its ancient privileges as a rallying point, which neither time nor benefits will ever cause it to forget. And whatever you may do or provide against, they never forget that name or their privileges unless they are disunited or dispersed, but at every chance they immediately rally to them, as Pisa after the hundred years she had been held in bondage by the Florentines. But when cities or countries are accustomed to live under a prince, and his family is exterminated, they, being on the one hand accustomed to obey and on the other hand not having the old prince, cannot agree in making one from amongst themselves, and they do not know how to govern themselves. For this reason they are very slow to take up arms, and a prince can gain them to himself and secure them much more easily. But in republics there is more vitality, greater hatred, and more desire for vengeance, which will never permit them to allow the memory of their former liberty to rest; so that the safest way is to destroy them or to reside there.

Chapters 4-5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapters-45

All principalities are governed either by a single ruler assisted by his appointed ministers or by a ruler and the hereditary nobles who hold power in their own right and have the loyalty of their subjects. The Turkish sultan divides his kingdom into districts that are managed by his administrators, but the king of France has to contend with many lords who have longstanding privileges. Because the sultan's administrators are dependent on him for their power, they are not likely to help a foreign invader. But if an invader had a strong enough army to win, it would be easy to keep their territory, because the people are not personally loyal to the administrators. In a kingdom like France, the nobles are always ambitious and ready to turn against the king. But if they assist you in conquering the country, they will also be ready to turn on you. Even if you kill all the royal family, the nobles remain, and you can neither satisfy them nor get rid of them. Whether one can control a territory depends less on personal ability than on the character of the territory. If the conquered territory was formerly a republic, in which the citizens were used to living under their own laws, you must destroy it, go live in it, or let the citizens live under their own laws with a government that is friendly to you. If you do not destroy the city, it will destroy you, so fiercely will the citizens remember and long for their freedom.

Machiavelli contrasts two types of government: a strongly centralized model, which he identifies with the East, and the looser confederated model that dominated in Western Europe. Machiavelli had ample opportunities to see the kinds of internal problems that afflicted decentralized collections of states. The example he cites, France, was actually remarkably stable and unified in comparison with his own region of Italy, where competing states invited foreign powers to invade, then turned on them, only to turn on each other as soon as the threat passed. Italy had indeed proved almost impossible to conquer, for exactly the reasons Machiavelli cites, but it had also proved impossible to unify. Machiavelli's comments about governing a conquered republic sound especially merciless: destroy it, he cautions, or it will certainly destroy you. However, if you read Machiavelli's advice as directed toward the new Medici rulers of Florence, it takes on a different tone. If you want to avoid being destroyed by it, you must come and live in it and rule it directly, he says. This is exactly what the Medici had failed to do in the period since their return to power, spending almost all their time away from Florence. Machiavelli's vivid portrayal of the republic's love of liberty can be read as a kind of warning to the Medici about how ready their new possession will be to return to its republican ways if they do not do more to govern it. In Chapter 4, Machiavelli begins elaborating on the theme of ability versus circumstances in determining a leader's success or failure. He implies that the leader's talents are less important than the situation he finds himself in. Machiavelli discusses this theme in detail throughout the book, culminating in his statements about fortune and free will in Chapter 25. The contrast between luck, specifically the favor of others, and ability is further explained in Chapters 6 and 7. Glossary Alexander Alexander the Great , King of Macedon and one of the great conquerors of the ancient world. Darius King of Persia, one of the territories that Alexander conquered. Pyrrhus King of Epirus who fought against the Romans. He won several victories, but at a very high price. Pisa In 1406, Florence bought the city of Pisa from the dukes of Milan; in 1494, when Charles VII invaded, the Pisans asserted their liberty from Florence. Florence won Pisa back in 1509.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/part_2_chapters_24_to_28.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Red and the Black/section_16_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapters 24-28

chapters 24-28

{"name": "Chapters 24-28", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-2-chapters-2428", "summary": "Smitten by love, Julien is unable to amuse himself in Strasbourg. He encounters his London friend, the Russian Prince Korasov, who befriends and undertakes to cheer him. The prince advises Julien how to proceed in his love affair with Mathilde. He must resort to inspiring jealousy in the woman he loves by courting another. The prince gives Julien a series of love letters with directions as to how and when they are to be delivered to the lady. Julien intends to court Mme. de Fervaques, a beautiful widow of a marshal of bourgeois lineage, a prude who is influential in the Congregation. Julien agrees to the stratagem. At the same time, he turns down an offer made by Korasov for the hand of the latter's cousin, a match that would facilitate a glorious military career for Julien in Russia. Upon returning to Paris, Julien asks advice of Altamira in his courting of Mme. de Fervaques. Altamira introduces him to Don Diego Bustos, who had unsuccessfully attempted to court this lady. From Bustos, Julien learns how to go about the conquest. At the Moles', Julien must exert much self-control to begin his campaign. Civil but not attentive to Mathilde, he seeks out Mme. de Fervaques and spends the evening in conversation with her. At the theater, his eyes remain fixed on Mme. de Fervaques. Upon seeing Julien again, Mathilde, who has sworn to forget him, to return to virtue, and to hasten her marriage to Croisenois, now reverses her position, seeing in Julien her real husband. Mathilde is consternated by Julien's indifference for her. Mme. de la Mole now looks upon Julien more favorably since he seems to be interested in Mme. de Fervaques. Julien copies the first letter and delivers it, following the directions of the prince. During his evening conversations, Julien places himself in such a way that he can observe Mathilde without being seen. Mme. de Fervaques is quite favorably impressed with Julien, in whose eloquence, metaphysical bent, and mystical preoccupation she thinks she sees the making of a great churchman. Two weeks and many letters later, Julien receives an invitation to dinner at the home of Mme. de Fervaques. Julien finds the dinner, the conversation, and the guests insipid. Tanbeau, his rival at the Hotel de la Mole, encourages him in his conquest of Mme. de Fervaques. One evening at the opera, Mme. de Fervaques intimates that whoever loves her must not love Napoleon. Julien interprets this as an avowal of a certain success in his campaign. Julien's carelessness in copying a letter almost causes Mme. de Fervaques to doubt his sincerity, but he succeeds in excusing the blunder. Mathilde is succumbing to his strategy. She admires his Machiavellianism in telling Mme. de Fervaques things he obviously does not believe. Mathilde's marriage with Croisenois is imminent, and Julien thinks again of suicide.", "analysis": "These chapters relate the next stage in the love of Julien and Mathilde, in which Julien initiates action and painfully gains an ascendancy over Mathilde. In the form of Korasov, another father-image reappears to take Julien in hand and teach him the art of seduction. Korasov sees Julien's problem immediately. It will be necessary to attract Mathilde's attention to himself away from herself. Julien must make Mathilde see him not as an ideal she has created but as he is. Korasov's offer to Julien should remind the reader of a similar one made by Fouque in Part I. The identity of circumstances points up Julien's contrasting situations: In Verrieres, he refused happiness because he was goaded by ambition; here, he refuses to satisfy that ambition, now silenced by a love of which he is the victim. Julien is so much the victim of his love that he adopts the point of view of the woman who scorns him to deprecate himself pitilessly. This period of depression that Julien is experiencing Stendhal had analyzed in his treatise on love. Julien sees himself as the most abject of beings, as inferior to Korasov, and at fault for not being loved by the perfect Mathilde. It is not by chance that Julien chooses Mme. de Fervaques as his instrument. He admits that her beautiful eyes remind him of those loving and passionate eyes of Mme. de Renal. He longs unconsciously for that experience where he was loved. Two more mentors are introduced to guide Julien. Altamira and Bustos provide Julien with the necessary information for a seduction. Note that Julien is hypocritical even with his friend Altamira, who is not advised of Julien's stratagem. Stendhal doubtless delights in the dissection of the prude. It is reminiscent of the seduction undertaken in Laclos' Liaisons Dangereuses by Valmont of his prudish victim, more sincere, however, in her religious principles than is Mme. de Fervaques. Stendhal's portrayal of the latter as somewhat of an imposter absolves Julien of any guilt, since she is not truly a victim. The abrupt images betraying Julien's extreme sensibility are meant to convince the reader of the hero's great effort in playing his role. Julien is moved by the sight of the sofa and ladder in the true romantic tradition. Note, however, that the rapid narration and abrupt sentences betoken restraint and a refusal on the part of Stendhal to fall into the raptures and effusiveness of the hyperbole a la Chateaubriand. Julien remains the passive actor of the role carefully outlined by Korasov, acting as a sort of robot. Another note is inserted by Stendhal to show to what extent Julien's ambition is dead. The possibility that the marquis might be named as a minister would give Julien an opportunity to become a bishop. Such a possibility is very far from Julien's present aspiration. Julien's return has sufficed to change the impetuous Mathilde's plans completely. Mathilde has rationalized her interpretation of virtue to justify her reversal in position She had decided to return to virtue, but now virtue means legitimizing her love for Julien through marriage: \"He's my real husband,\" blurts out Mathilde. Note Stendhal's \"peeping Tom\" tendency . The privilege of the superior soul is that he may observe others observing him without their knowledge. Julien is protected by hat brims, his own and that of Mme. de Fervaques, as he observed Mathilde watching him. Although his love at first incapacitates him for creative action, Julien nonetheless makes progress as an actor and conversationalist. Again, Stendhal states this fact without offering a demonstration of it. Profiting from his knowledge of Mathilde's character, Julien decides that she will admire him for uttering absurdities with eloquence. The dinner at the home of Mme. de Fervaques is similar to the one Julien attended in Part I at the Valenods'. Both present Julien appearing in the enemy camp, and his refusal to take a stand politically is thereby underlined. In Verrieres, Julien frequented the society of both liberal and monarchists; here, in spite of his Jansenistic mentor, Pirard, Julien is frequenting the Jesuit milieu. Julien experiences the same feeling of superiority at the two dinners. He had scorned the materialism and bad taste of the Valenods; here, he is disgusted by the pompousness of the guests and by the sterility of the conversation. Stendhal again underlines Julien's lack of ambition by intimating how he could, were he so inclined, profit from his relationship with Mme. de Fervaques to have himself named a bishop. One aspect of the tragedy of Julien Sorel begins to become apparent. Ironically, he abandoned the tender love of Mme. de Renal because of his insatiable ambition. He is now reaping the fruits of this ambition -- or he could, but he no longer hears that voice -- in favor of a love inferior to the one he abandoned. There is another advantage to feigning a courtship other than the obvious purpose, which is to inspire jealousy in the real love object. If the victim responds, one may observe the mechanism of love and its progress objectively and with a cool head, hardly possible if one is really in love. Stendhal's own ambition was to achieve an impossible synthesis: to love passionately but without the enslavement of his will and mind. Mathilde is being taken in by Julien's stratagem in a different way than he had anticipated, however. She admires his duplicity as she observes him courting Mme. de Fervaques. This means simply that she sees through the stratagem but that it is nonetheless successful because she is able to relegate this newly discovered quality of Julien to her idealization of him. Julien's despair reaches its greatest intensity as he again contemplates suicide. Even if he succeeds in reviving Mathilde's love, he knows that it will not produce a lasting effect. He concludes by condemning himself: Why am I myself?"}

CHAPTER LIV STRASBOURG Fascination! Love gives thee all his love, energy and all his power of suffering unhappiness. It is only his enchanting pleasures, his sweet delights, which are outside thy sphere. When I saw her sleep I was made to say "With all her angelic beauty and her sweet weaknesses she is absolutely mine! There she is, quite in my power, such as Heaven made her in its pity in order to ravish a man's heart."--_Ode of Schiller_. Julien was compelled to spend eight days in Strasbourg and tried to distract himself by thoughts of military glory and patriotic devotion. Was he in love then? he could not tell, he only felt in his tortured soul that Mathilde was the absolute mistress both of his happiness and of his imagination. He needed all the energy of his character to keep himself from sinking into despair. It was out of his power to think of anything unconnected with mademoiselle de la Mole. His ambition and his simple personal successes had formerly distracted him from the sentiments which madame de Renal had inspired. Mathilde was all-absorbing; she loomed large over his whole future. Julien saw failure in every phase of that future. This same individual whom we remember to have been so presumptuous and haughty at Verrieres, had fallen into an excess of grotesque modesty. Three days ago he would only have been too pleased to have killed the abbe Castanede, and now, at Strasbourg, if a child had picked a quarrel with him he would have thought the child was in the right. In thinking again about the adversaries and enemies whom he had met in his life he always thought that he, Julien, had been in the wrong. The fact was that the same powerful imagination which had formerly been continuously employed in painting a successful future in the most brilliant colours had now been transformed into his implacable enemy. The absolute solicitude of a traveller's life increased the ascendancy of this sinister imagination. What a boon a friend would have been! But Julien said to himself, "Is there a single heart which beats with affection for me? And even if I did have a friend, would not honour enjoin me to eternal silence?" He was riding gloomily in the outskirts of Kehl; it is a market town on the banks of the Rhine and immortalised by Desaix and Gouvion Saint-Cyr. A German peasant showed him the little brooks, roads and islands of the Rhine, which have acquired a name through the courage of these great generals. Julien was guiding his horse with his left hand, while he held unfolded in his right the superb map which adorns the _Memoirs of the Marshal Saint Cyr_. A merry exclamation made him lift his head. It was the Prince Korasoff, that London friend of his, who had initiated him some months before into the elementary rules of high fatuity. Faithful to his great art, Korasoff, who had just arrived at Strasbourg, had been one hour in Kehl and had never read a single line in his whole life about the siege of 1796, began to explain it all to Julien. The German peasant looked at him in astonishment; for he knew enough French to appreciate the enormous blunders which the prince was making. Julien was a thousand leagues away from the peasant's thoughts. He was looking in astonishment at the handsome young man and admiring his grace in sitting a horse. "What a lucky temperament," he said to himself, "and how his trousers suit him and how elegantly his hair is cut! Alas, if I had been like him, it might have been that she would not have come to dislike me after loving me for three days." When the prince had finished his siege of Kehl, he said to Julien, "You look like a Trappist, you are carrying to excess that principle of gravity which I enjoined upon you in London. A melancholy manner cannot be good form. What is wanted is an air of boredom. If you are melancholy, it is because you lack something, because you have failed in something." "That means showing one's own inferiority; if, on the other hand you are bored, it is only what has made an unsuccessful attempt to please you, which is inferior. So realise, my dear friend, the enormity of your mistake." Julien tossed a crown to the gaping peasant who was listening to them. "Good," said the prince, "that shows grace and a noble disdain, very good!" And he put his horse to the gallop. Full of a stupid admiration, Julien followed him. "Ah! if I have been like that, she would not have preferred Croisenois to me!" The more his reason was offended by the grotesque affectations of the prince the more he despised himself for not having them. It was impossible for self-disgust to be carried further. The prince still finding him distinctly melancholy, said to him as they re-entered Strasbourg, "Come, my dear fellow, have you lost all your money, or perhaps you are in love with some little actress. "The Russians copy French manners, but always at an interval of fifty years. They have now reached the age of Louis XV." These jests about love brought the tears to Julien's eyes. "Why should I not consult this charming man," he suddenly said to himself. "Well, yes, my dear friend," he said to the prince, "you see in me a man who is very much in love and jilted into the bargain. A charming woman who lives in a neighbouring town has left me stranded here after three passionate days, and the change kills me." Using fictitious names, he described to the prince Mathilde's conduct and character. "You need not finish," said Korasoff. "In order to give you confidence in your doctor, I will finish the story you have confided to me. This young woman's husband enjoys an enormous income, or even more probably, she belongs herself to the high nobility of the district. She must be proud about something." Julien nodded his head, he had no longer the courage to speak. "Very good," said the prince, "here are three fairly bitter pills that you will take without delay. "1. See madame ----. What is her name, any way?" "Madame de Dubois." "What a name!" said the prince bursting into laughter. "But forgive me, you find it sublime. Your tactics must be to see Madame de Dubois every day; above all do not appear to be cold and piqued. Remember the great principle of your century: be the opposite of what is expected. Be exactly as you were the week before you were honoured by her favours." "Ah! I was calm enough then," exclaimed Julien in despair, "I thought I was taking pity on her...." "The moth is burning itself at the candle," continued the prince using a metaphor as old as the world. "1. You will see her every day. "2. You will pay court to a woman in her own set, but without manifesting a passion, do you understand? I do not disguise from you that your role is difficult; you are playing a part, and if she realises you are playing it you are lost." "She has so much intelligence and I have so little, I shall be lost," said Julien sadly. "No, you are only more in love than I thought. Madame de Dubois is preoccupied with herself as are all women who have been favoured by heaven either with too much pedigree or too much money. She contemplates herself instead of contemplating you, consequently she does not know you. During the two or three fits of love into which she managed to work herself for your especial benefit, she saw in you the hero of her dreams, and not the man you really are. "But, deuce take it, this is elementary, my dear Sorel, are you an absolute novice? "Oddslife! Let us go into this shop. Look at that charming black cravat, one would say it was made by John Anderson of Burlington Street. Be kind enough to take it and throw far away that awful black cord which you are wearing round your neck." "And now," continued the prince as they came out of the shop of the first hosier of Strasbourg, "what is the society in which madame de Dubois lives? Great God, what a name, don't be angry, my dear Sorel, I can't help it.... Now, whom are you going to pay court to?" "To an absolute prude, the daughter of an immensely rich stocking-merchant. She has the finest eyes in the world and they please me infinitely; she doubtless holds the highest place in the society of the district, but in the midst of all her greatness she blushes and becomes positively confused if anyone starts talking about trade or shops. And, unfortunately, her father was one of the best known merchants in Strasbourg." "So," said the prince with a laugh, "you are sure that when one talks about trade your fair lady thinks about herself and not about you. This silly weakness is divine and extremely useful, it will prevent you from yielding to a single moment's folly when near her sparkling eyes. Success is assured." Julien was thinking of madame the marechale de Fervaques who often came to the Hotel de la Mole. She was a beautiful foreigner who had married the marechal a year before his death. The one object of her whole life seemed to be to make people forget that she was the daughter of a manufacturer. In order to cut some figure in Paris she had placed herself at the head of the party of piety. Julien sincerely admired the prince; what would he not have given to have possessed his affectations! The conversation between the two friends was interminable. Korasoff was delighted: No Frenchman had ever listened to him for so long. "So I have succeeded at last," said the prince to himself complacently, "in getting a proper hearing and that too through giving lessons to my master." "So we are quite agreed," he repeated to Julien for the tenth time. "When you talk to the young beauty, I mean the daughter of the Strasbourg stocking merchant in the presence of madame de Dubois, not a trace of passion. But on the other hand be ardently passionate when you write. Reading a well-written love-letter is a prude's supremest pleasure. It is a moment of relaxation. She leaves off posing and dares to listen to her own heart; consequently two letters a day." "Never, never," said Julien despondently, "I would rather be ground in a mortar than make up three phrases. I am a corpse, my dear fellow, hope nothing from me. Let me die by the road side." "And who is talking about making up phrases? I have got six volumes of copied-out love-letters in my bag. I have letters to suit every variation of feminine character, including the most highly virtuous. Did not Kalisky pay court at Richmond-on-the-Thames at three leagues from London, you know, to the prettiest Quakeress in the whole of England?" Julien was less unhappy when he left his friend at two o'clock in the morning. The prince summoned a copyist on the following day, and two days afterwards Julien was the possessor of fifty-three carefully numbered love-letters intended for the most sublime and the most melancholy virtue. "The reason why there is not fifty-four," said the prince "is because Kalisky allowed himself to be dismissed. But what does it matter to you, if you are badly treated by the stocking-merchant's daughter since you only wish to produce an impression upon madame de Dubois' heart." They went out riding every day, the prince was mad on Julien. Not knowing how else to manifest his sudden friendship, he finished up by offering him the hand of one of his cousins, a rich Moscow heiress; "and once married," he added, "my influence and that cross of yours will get you made a Colonel within two years." "But that cross was not given me by Napoleon, far from it." "What does it matter?" said the prince, "didn't he invent it. It is still the first in Europe by a long way." Julien was on the point of accepting; but his duty called him back to the great personage. When he left Korasoff he promised to write. He received the answer to the secret note which he had brought, and posted towards Paris; but he had scarcely been alone for two successive days before leaving France, and Mathilde seemed a worse punishment than death. "I will not marry the millions Korasoff offers me," he said to himself, "and I will follow his advice. "After all the art of seduction is his speciality. He has thought about nothing else except that alone for more than fifteen years, for he is now thirty. "One can't say that he lacks intelligence; he is subtle and cunning; enthusiasm and poetry are impossible in such a character. He is an attorney: an additional reason for his not making a mistake. "I must do it, I will pay court to madame de Fervaques. "It is very likely she will bore me a little, but I will look at her beautiful eyes which are so like those other eyes which have loved me more than anyone in the world. "She is a foreigner; she is a new character to observe. "I feel mad, and as though I were going to the devil. I must follow the advice of a friend and not trust myself." CHAPTER LV THE MINISTRY OF VIRTUE But if I take this pleasure with so much prudence and circumspection I shall no longer find it a pleasure.--_Lope de Vega_. As soon as our hero had returned to Paris and had come out of the study of the marquis de La Mole, who seemed very displeased with the despatches that were given him, he rushed off for the comte Altamira. This noble foreigner combined with the advantage of having once been condemned to death a very grave demeanour together with the good fortune of a devout temperament; these two qualities, and more than anything, the comte's high birth, made an especial appeal to madame de Fervaques who saw a lot of him. Julien solemnly confessed to him that he was very much in love with her. "Her virtue is the purest and the highest," answered Altamira, "only it is a little Jesuitical and dogmatic. "There are days when, though I understand each of the expressions which she makes use of, I never understand the whole sentence. She often makes me think that I do not know French as well as I am said to. But your acquaintance with her will get you talked about; it will give you weight in the world. But let us go to Bustos," said Count Altamira who had a methodical turn of mind; "he once paid court to madame la marechale." Don Diego Bustos had the matter explained to him at length, while he said nothing, like a barrister in his chambers. He had a big monk-like face with black moustaches and an inimitable gravity; he was, however, a good carbonaro. "I understand," he said to Julien at last. "Has the marechale de Fervaques had lovers, or has she not? Have you consequently any hope of success? That is the question. I don't mind telling you, for my own part, that I have failed. Now that I am no more piqued I reason it out to myself in this way; she is often bad tempered, and as I will tell you in a minute, she is quite vindictive. "I fail to detect in her that bilious temperament which is the sign of genius, and shows as it were a veneer of passion over all its actions. On the contrary, she owes her rare beauty and her fresh complexion to the phlegmatic, tranquil character of the Dutch." Julien began to lose patience with the phlegmatic slowness of the imperturbable Spaniard; he could not help giving vent to some monosyllables from time to time. "Will you listen to me?" Don Diego Bustos gravely said to him. "Forgive the _furia franchese_; I am all ears," said Julien. "The marechale de Fervaques then is a great hater; she persecutes ruthlessly people she has never seen--advocates, poor devils of men of letters who have composed songs like Colle, you know? "J'ai la marotte D'aimer Marote, etc." And Julien had to put up with the whole quotation. The Spaniard was very pleased to get a chance of singing in French. That divine song was never listened to more impatiently. When it was finished Don Diego said--"The marechale procured the dismissal of the author of the song: "Un jour l'amour au cabaret." Julien shuddered lest he should want to sing it. He contented himself with analysing it. As a matter of fact, it was blasphemous and somewhat indecent. "When the marechale become enraged against that song," said Don Diego, "I remarked to her that a woman of her rank ought not to read all the stupid things that are published. Whatever progress piety and gravity may make France will always have a cabaret literature. "'Be careful,' I said to madame de Fervaques when she had succeeded in depriving the author, a poor devil on half-pay, of a place worth eighteen hundred francs a year, 'you have attacked this rhymster with your own arms, he may answer you with his rhymes; he will make a song about virtue. The gilded salons will be on your side; but people who like to laugh will repeat his epigrams.' Do you know, monsieur, what the marechale answered? 'Let all Paris come and see me walking to my martyrdom for the sake of the Lord. It will be a new spectacle for France. The people will learn to respect the quality. It will be the finest day of my life.' Her eyes never looked finer." "And she has superb ones," exclaimed Julien. "I see that you are in love. Further," went on Don Diego Bustos gravely, "she has not the bilious constitution which causes vindictiveness. If, however, she likes to do harm, it is because she is unhappy, I suspect some secret misfortune. May it not be quite well a case of prude tired of her role?" The Spaniard looked at him in silence for a good minute. "That's the whole point," he added gravely, "and that's what may give you ground for some hope. I have often reflected about it during the two years that I was her very humble servant. All your future, my amorous sir, depends on this great problem. Is she a prude tired of her role and only malicious because she is unhappy?" "Or," said Altamira emerging at last from his deep silence, "can it be as I have said twenty times before, simply a case of French vanity; the memory of her father, the celebrated cloth merchant, constitutes the unhappiness of this frigid melancholy nature. The only happiness she could find would be to live in Toledo and to be tortured by a confessor who would show her hell wide open every day." "Altamira informs me you are one of us," said Don Diego, whose demeanour was growing graver and graver to Julien as he went out. "You will help us one day in re-winning our liberty, so I would like to help you in this little amusement. It is right that you should know the marechale's style; here are four letters in her hand-writing." "I will copy them out," exclaimed Julien, "and bring them back to you." "And you will never let anyone know a word of what we have been saying." "Never, on my honour," cried Julien. "Well, God help you," added the Spaniard, and he silently escorted Altamira and Julien as far as the staircase. This somewhat amused our hero; he was on the point of smiling. "So we have the devout Altamira," he said to himself, "aiding me in an adulterous enterprise." During Don Diego's solemn conversation Julien had been attentive to the hours struck by the clock of the Hotel d'Aligre. The dinner hour was drawing near, he was going to see Mathilde again. He went in and dressed with much care. "Mistake No. 1," he said to himself as he descended the staircase: "I must follow the prince's instructions to the letter." He went up to his room again and put on a travelling suit which was as simple as it could be. "All I have to do now," he thought, "is to keep control of my expression." It was only half-past five and they dined at six. He thought of going down to the salon which he found deserted. He was moved to the point of tears at the sight of the blue sofa. "I must make an end of this foolish sensitiveness," he said angrily, "it will betray me." He took up a paper in order to keep himself in countenance and passed three or four times from the salon into the garden. It was only when he was well concealed by a large oak and was trembling all over, that he ventured to raise his eyes at mademoiselle de la Mole's window. It was hermetically sealed; he was on the point of fainting and remained for a long time leaning against the oak; then with a staggering step he went to have another look at the gardener's ladder. The chain which he had once forced asunder--in, alas, such different circumstances--had not yet been repaired. Carried away by a moment of madness, Julien pressed it to his lips. After having wandered about for a long time between the salon and the garden, Julien felt horribly tired; he was now feeling acutely the effects of a first success. My eyes will be expressionless and will not betray me! The guests gradually arrived in the salon; the door never opened without instilling anxiety into Julien's heart. They sat down at table. Mademoiselle de la Mole, always faithful to her habit of keeping people waiting, eventually appeared. She blushed a great deal on seeing Julien, she had not been told of his arrival. In accordance with Prince Korasoff's recommendation, Julien looked at his hands. They were trembling. Troubled though he was beyond words by this discovery, he was sufficiently happy to look merely tired. M. de la Mole sang his praises. The marquise spoke to him a minute afterwards and complimented him on his tired appearance. Julien said to himself at every minute, "I ought not to look too much at mademoiselle de la Mole, I ought not to avoid looking at her too much either. I must appear as I was eight days before my unhappiness----" He had occasion to be satisfied with his success and remained in the salon. Paying attention for the first time to the mistress of the house, he made every effort to make the visitors speak and to keep the conversation alive. His politeness was rewarded; madame la marechale de Fervaques was announced about eight o'clock. Julien retired and shortly afterwards appeared dressed with the greatest care. Madame de la Mole was infinitely grateful to him for this mark of respect and made a point of manifesting her satisfaction by telling madame de Fervaques about his journey. Julien established himself near the marechale in such a position that Mathilde could not notice his eyes. In this position he lavished in accordance with all the rules in the art of love, the most abject admiration on madame de Fervaques. The first of the 53 letters with which Prince Korasoff had presented him commenced with a tirade on this sentiment. The marechale announced that she was going to the Opera-Bouffe. Julien rushed there. He ran across the Chevalier de Beauvoisis who took him into a box occupied by Messieurs the Gentlemen of the Chamber, just next to madame de Fervaques's box. Julien constantly looked at her. "I must keep a siege-journal," he said to himself as he went back to the hotel, "otherwise I shall forget my attacks." He wrote two or three pages on this boring theme, and in this way achieved the admirable result of scarcely thinking at all about mademoiselle de la Mole. Mathilde had almost forgotten him during his journey. "He is simply a commonplace person after all," she thought, "his name will always recall to me the greatest mistake in my life. I must honestly go back to all my ideas about prudence and honour; a woman who forgets them has everything to lose." She showed herself inclined to allow the contract with the marquis de Croisenois, which had been prepared so long ago, to be at last concluded. He was mad with joy; he would have been very much astonished had he been told that there was an element of resignation at the bottom of those feelings of Mathilde which made him so proud. All mademoiselle de la Mole's ideas changed when she saw Julien. "As a matter of fact he is my husband," she said to herself. "If I am sincere in my return to sensible notions, he is clearly the man I ought to marry." She was expecting importunities and airs of unhappiness on the part of Julien; she commenced rehearsing her answers, for he would doubtless try to address some words to her when they left the dinner table. Far from that he remained stubbornly in the salon and did not even look in the direction of the garden, though God knows what pain that caused him! "It is better to have this explanation out all at once," thought mademoiselle de la Mole; she went into the garden alone, Julien did not appear. Mathilde went and walked near the salon window. She found him very much occupied in describing to madame de Fervaques the old ruined chateau which crown the banks along the Rhine and invest them with so much atmosphere. He was beginning to acquit himself with some credit in that sentimental picturesque jargon which is called wit in certain salons. Prince Korasoff would have been very proud if he had been at Paris. This evening was exactly what he had predicted. He would have approved the line of conduct which Julien followed on the subsequent days. An intrigue among the members of the secret government was going to bestow a few blue ribbons; madame marechale de Fervaques was insisting on her great uncle being made a chevalier of the order. The marquis de la Mole had the same pretensions for his father-in-law; they joined forces and the marechale came to the Hotel de la Mole nearly every day. It was from her that Julien learned that the marquis was going to be a minister. He was offering to the _Camarilla_ a very ingenious plan for the annihilation of the charter within three years without any disturbance. If M. de la Mole became a minister, Julien could hope for a bishopric: but all these important interests seemed to be veiled and hazy. His imagination only perceived them very vaguely, and so to speak, in the far distance. The awful unhappiness which was making him into a madman could find no other interest in life except the character of his relations with mademoiselle de la Mole. He calculated that after five or six careful years he would manage to get himself loved again. This cold brain had been reduced, as one sees, to a state of complete disorder. Out of all the qualities which had formerly distinguished him, all that remained was a little firmness. He was literally faithful to the line of conduct which prince Korasoff had dictated, and placed himself every evening near madame Fervaques' armchair, but he found it impossible to think of a word to say to her. The strain of making Mathilde think that he had recovered exhausted his whole moral force, and when he was with the marechale he seemed almost lifeless; even his eyes had lost all their fire, as in cases of extreme physical suffering. As madame de la Mole's views were invariably a counterpart of the opinions of that husband of hers who could make her into a Duchess, she had been singing Julien's praises for some days. CHAPTER LVI MORAL LOVE There also was of course in Adeline That calm patrician polish in the address, Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line Of anything which Nature would express; Just as a Mandarin finds nothing fine. At least his manner suffers not to guess That anything he views can greatly please. _Don Juan, c. xiii. st._ 84. "There is an element of madness in all this family's way of looking at things," thought the marechale; "they are infatuated with their young abbe, whose only accomplishment is to be a good listener, though his eyes are fine enough, it is true." Julien, on his side, found in the marechale's manners an almost perfect instance of that patrician calm which exhales a scrupulous politeness; and, what is more, announces at the same time the impossibility of any violent emotion. Madame de Fervaques would have been as much scandalised by any unexpected movement or any lack of self-control, as by a lack of dignity towards one's inferiors. She would have regarded the slightest symptom of sensibility as a kind of moral drunkenness which puts one to the blush and was extremely prejudicial to what a person of high rank owed to herself. Her great happiness was to talk of the king's last hunt; her favourite book, was the Memoirs of the Duke de Saint Simon, especially the genealogical part. Julien knew the place where the arrangement of the light suited madame de Fervaques' particular style of beauty. He got there in advance, but was careful to turn his chair in such a way as not to see Mathilde. Astonished one day at this consistent policy of hiding himself from her, she left the blue sofa and came to work by the little table near the marechale's armchair. Julien had a fairly close view of her over madame de Fervaques' hat. Those eyes, which were the arbiters of his fate, frightened him, and then hurled him violently out of his habitual apathy. He talked, and talked very well. He was speaking to the marechale, but his one aim was to produce an impression upon Mathilde's soul. He became so animated that eventually madame de Fervaques did not manage to understand a word he said. This was a prime merit. If it had occurred to Julien to follow it up by some phrases of German mysticism, lofty religion, and Jesuitism, the marechale would have immediately given him a rank among the superior men whose mission it was to regenerate the age. "Since he has bad enough taste," said mademoiselle de la Mole, "to talk so long and so ardently to madame de Fervaques, I shall not listen to him any more." She kept her resolution during the whole latter part of the evening, although she had difficulty in doing so. At midnight, when she took her mother's candle to accompany her to her room, madame de la Mole stopped on the staircase to enter into an exhaustive eulogy of Julien. Mathilde ended by losing her temper. She could not get to sleep. She felt calmed by this thought: "the very things which I despise in a man may none the less constitute a great merit in the eyes of the marechale." As for Julien, he had done something, he was less unhappy; his eyes chanced to fall on the Russian leather portfolio in which prince Korasoff had placed the fifty-three love letters which he had presented to him. Julien saw a note at the bottom of the first letter: No. 1 is sent eight days after the first meeting. "I am behind hand," exclaimed Julien. "It is quite a long time since I met madame de Fervaques." He immediately began to copy out this first love letter. It was a homily packed with moral platitudes and deadly dull. Julien was fortunate enough to fall asleep at the second page. Some hours afterwards he was surprised to see the broad daylight as he lent on his desk. The most painful moments in his life were those when he woke up every morning to realise his unhappiness. On this particular day he finished copying out his letter in a state verging on laughter. "Is it possible," he said to himself, "that there ever lived a young man who actually wrote like that." He counted several sentences of nine lines each. At the bottom of the original he noticed a pencilled note. "These letters are delivered personally, on horseback, black cravat, blue tail-coat. You give the letter to the porter with a contrite air; expression of profound melancholy. If you notice any chambermaid, dry your eyes furtively and speak to her." All this was duly carried out. "I am taking a very bold course!" thought Julien as he came out of the Hotel de Fervaques, "but all the worse for Korasoff. To think of daring to write to so virtuous a celebrity. I shall be treated with the utmost contempt, and nothing will amuse me more. It is really the only comedy that I can in any way appreciate. Yes, it will amuse me to load with ridicule that odious creature whom I call myself. If I believed in myself, I would commit some crime to distract myself." The moment when Julien brought his horse back to the stable was the happiest he had experienced for a whole month. Korasoff had expressly forbidden him to look at the mistress who had left him, on any pretext whatsoever. But the step of that horse, which she knew so well, and Julien's way of knocking on the stable door with his riding-whip to call a man, sometimes attracted Mathilde to behind the window-curtain. The muslin was so light that Julien could see through it. By looking under the brim of his hat in a certain way, he could get a view of Mathilde's figure without seeing her eyes. "Consequently," he said to himself, "she cannot see mine, and that is not really looking at her." In the evening madame de Fervaques behaved towards him, exactly as though she had never received the philosophic mystical and religious dissertation which he had given to her porter in the morning with so melancholy an air. Chance had shown Julien on the preceding day how to be eloquent; he placed himself in such a position that he could see Mathilde's eyes. She, on her side, left the blue sofa a minute after the marechale's arrival; this involved abandoning her usual associates. M. de Croisenois seemed overwhelmed by this new caprice: his palpable grief alleviated the awfulness of Julien's agony. This unexpected turn in his life made him talk like an angel, and inasmuch as a certain element of self-appreciation will insinuate itself even into those hearts which serve as a temple for the most august virtue, the marechale said to herself as she got into her carriage, "Madame de la Mole is right, this young priest has distinction. My presence must have overawed him at first. As a matter of fact, the whole tone of this house is very frivolous; I can see nothing but instances of virtue helped by oldness, and standing in great need of the chills of age. This young man must have managed to appreciate the difference; he writes well, but I fear very much that this request of his in his letter for me to enlighten him with my advice, is really nothing less than an, as yet, unconscious sentiment. "Nevertheless how many conversions have begun like that! What makes me consider this a good omen is the difference between his style and that of the young people whose letters I have had an opportunity of seeing. One cannot avoid recognising unction, profound seriousness, and much conviction in the prose of this young acolyte; he has no doubt the sweet virtue of a Massillon." CHAPTER LVII THE FINEST PLACES IN THE CHURCH Services! talents! merits! bah! belong to a coterie. _Telemaque_. The idea of a bishopric had thus become associated with the idea of Julien in the mind of a woman, who would sooner or later have at her disposal the finest places in the Church of France. This idea had not struck Julien at all; at the present time his thoughts were strictly limited to his actual unhappiness. Everything tended to intensify it. The sight of his room, for instance, had become unbearable. When he came back in the evening with his candle, each piece of furniture and each little ornament seemed to become articulate, and to announce harshly some new phase of his unhappiness. "I have a hard task before me today," he said to himself as he came in with a vivacity which he had not experienced for a long time; "let us hope that the second letter will be as boring as the first." It was more so. What he was copying seemed so absurd that he finished up by transcribing it line for line without thinking of the sense. "It is even more bombastic," he said to himself, "than those official documents of the treaty of Munster which my professor of diplomacy made me copy out at London." It was only then that he remembered madame de Fervaque's letters which he had forgotten to give back to the grave Spaniard Don Diego Bustos. He found them. They were really almost as nonsensical as those of the young Russian nobleman. Their vagueness was unlimited. It meant everything and nothing. "It's the AEolian harp of style," thought Julien. "The only real thing I see in the middle of all these lofty thoughts about annihilation, death, infinity, etc., is an abominable fear of ridicule." The monologue which we have just condensed was repeated for fifteen days on end. Falling off to sleep as he copied out a sort of commentary on the Apocalypse, going with a melancholy expression to deliver it the following day, taking his horse back to the stable in the hope of catching sight of Mathilde's dress, working, going in the evening to the opera on those evenings when madame de Fervaques did not come to the Hotel de la Mole, such were the monotonous events in Julien's life. His life had more interest, when madame la Fervaques visited the marquise; he could then catch a glimpse of Mathilde's eyes underneath a feather of the marechale's hat, and he would wax eloquent. His picturesque and sentimental phrases began to assume a style, which was both more striking and more elegant. He quite realised that what he said was absurd in Mathilde's eyes, but he wished to impress her by the elegance of his diction. "The falser my speeches are the more I ought to please," thought Julien, and he then had the abominable audacity to exaggerate certain elements in his own character. He soon appreciated that to avoid appearing vulgar in the eyes of the marechale it was necessary to eschew simple and rational ideas. He would continue on these lines, or would cut short his grand eloquence according as he saw appreciation or indifference in the eyes of the two great ladies whom he had set out to please. Taking it all round, his life was less awful than when his days were passed in inaction. "But," he said to himself one evening, "here I am copying out the fifteenth of these abominable dissertations; the first fourteen have been duly delivered to the marechale's porter. I shall have the honour of filling all the drawers in her escritoire. And yet she treats me as though I never wrote. What can be the end of all this? Will my constancy bore her as much as it does me? I must admit that that Russian friend of Korasoff's who was in love with the pretty Quakeress of Richmond, was a terrible man in his time; no one could be more overwhelming." Like all mediocre individuals, who chance to come into contact with the manoeuvres of a great general, Julien understood nothing of the attack executed by the young Russian on the heart of the young English girl. The only purpose of the first forty letters was to secure forgiveness for the boldness of writing at all. The sweet person, who perhaps lived a life of inordinate boredom, had to be induced to contract the habit of receiving letters, which were perhaps a little less insipid than her everyday life. One morning a letter was delivered to Julien. He recognised the arms of madame la Fervaques, and broke the seal with an eagerness which would have seemed impossible to him some days before. It was only an invitation to dinner. He rushed to prince Korasoffs instructions. Unfortunately the young Russian had taken it into his head to be as flippant as Dorat, just when he should have been simple and intelligible! Julien was not able to form any idea of the moral position which he ought to take up at the marechale's dinner. The salon was extremely magnificent and decorated like the gallery de Diane in the Tuileries with panelled oil-paintings. There were some light spots on these pictures. Julien learnt later that the mistress of the house had thought the subject somewhat lacking in decency and that she had had the pictures corrected. "What a moral century!" he thought. He noticed in this salon three of the persons who had been present at the drawing up of the secret note. One of them, my lord bishop of ---- the marechale's uncle had the disposition of the ecclesiastical patronage, and could, it was said, refuse his niece nothing. "What immense progress I have made," said Julien to himself with a melancholy smile, "and how indifferent I am to it. Here I am dining with the famous bishop of ----." The dinner was mediocre and the conversation wearisome. "It's like the small talk in a bad book," thought Julien. "All the greatest subjects of human thought are proudly tackled. After listening for three minutes one asks oneself which is greater--the speaker's bombast, or his abominable ignorance?" The reader has doubtless forgotten the little man of letters named Tanbeau, who was the nephew of the Academician, and intended to be professor, who seemed entrusted with the task of poisoning the salon of the Hotel de la Mole with his base calumnies. It was this little man who gave Julien the first inkling that though, madame de Fervaques did not answer, she might quite well take an indulgent view of the sentiment which dictated them. M. Tanbeau's sinister soul was lacerated by the thought of Julien's success; "but since, on the other hand, a man of merit cannot be in two places at the same time any more than a fool," said the future professor to himself, "if Sorel becomes the lover of the sublime marechale, she will obtain some lucrative position for him in the church, and I shall be rid of him in the Hotel de la Mole." M. the abbe Pirard addressed long sermons to Julien concerning his success at the hotel de Fervaques. There was a sectarian jealousy between the austere Jansenist and the salon of the virtuous marechale which was Jesuitical, reactionary, and monarchical. CHAPTER LVIII MANON LESCAUT Accordingly once he was thoroughly convinced of the asinine stupidity of the prior, he would usually succeed well enough by calling white black, and black white. _Lichtenberg_. The Russian instructions peremptorily forbade the writer from ever contradicting in conversation the recipient of the letters. No pretext could excuse any deviation from the role of that most ecstatic admiration. The letters were always based on that hypothesis. One evening at the opera, when in madame de Fervaques' box, Julien spoke of the ballet of _Manon Lescaut_ in the most enthusiastic terms. His only reason for talking in that strain was the fact that he thought it insignificant. The marechale said that the ballet was very inferior to the abbe Prevost's novel. "The idea," thought Julien, both surprised and amused, "of so highly virtuous a person praising a novel! Madame de Fervaques used to profess two or three times a week the most absolute contempt for those writers, who, by means of their insipid works, try to corrupt a youth which is, alas! only too inclined to the errors of the senses." "_Manon Lescaut_" continued the marechale, "is said to be one of the best of this immoral and dangerous type of book. The weaknesses and the deserved anguish of a criminal heart are, they say, portrayed with a truth which is not lacking in depth; a fact which does not prevent your Bonaparte from stating at St. Helena that it is simply a novel written for lackeys." The word Bonaparte restored to Julien all the activity of his mind. "They have tried to ruin me with the marechale; they have told her of my enthusiasm for Napoleon. This fact has sufficiently piqued her to make her yield to the temptation to make me feel it." This discovery amused him all the evening, and rendered him amusing. As he took leave of the marechale in the vestibule of the opera, she said to him, "Remember, monsieur, one must not like Bonaparte if you like me; at the best he can only be accepted as a necessity imposed by Providence. Besides, the man did not have a sufficiently supple soul to appreciate masterpieces of art." "When you like me," Julien kept on repeating to himself, "that means nothing or means everything. Here we have mysteries of language which are beyond us poor provincials." And he thought a great deal about madame de Renal, as he copied out an immense letter destined for the marechale. "How is it," she said to him the following day, with an assumed indifference which he thought was clumsily assumed, "that you talk to me about London and Richmond in a letter which you wrote last night, I think, when you came back from the opera?" Julien was very embarrassed. He had copied line by line without thinking about what he was writing, and had apparently forgotten to substitute Paris and Saint Cloud for the words London and Richmond which occurred in the original. He commenced two or three sentences, but found it impossible to finish them. He felt on the point of succumbing to a fit of idiotic laughter. Finally by picking his words he succeeded in formulating this inspiration: "Exalted as I was by the discussion of the most sublime and greatest interests of the human soul, my own soul may have been somewhat absent in my letter to you." "I am making an impression," he said to himself, "so I can spare myself the boredom of the rest of the evening." He left the Hotel de Fervaques at a run. In the evening he had another look at the original of the letter which he had copied out on the previous night, and soon came to the fatal place where the young Russian made mention of London and of Richmond. Julien was very astonished to find this letter almost tender. It had been the contrast between the apparent lightness of his conversation, and the sublime and almost apocalyptic profundity of his letters which had marked him out for favour. The marechale was particularly pleased by the longness of the sentences; this was very far from being that sprightly style which that immoral man Voltaire had brought into fashion. Although our hero made every possible human effort to eliminate from his conversation any symptom of good sense, it still preserved a certain anti-monarchical and blasphemous tinge which did not escape madame de Fervaques. Surrounded as she was by persons who, though eminently moral, had very often not a single idea during a whole evening, this lady was profoundly struck by anything resembling a novelty, but at the same time she thought she owed it to herself to be offended by it. She called this defect: Keeping the imprint of the lightness of the age. But such salons are only worth observing when one has a favour to procure. The reader doubtless shares all the ennui of the colourless life which Julien was leading. This period represents the steppes of our journey. Mademoiselle de la Mole needed to exercise her self-control to avoid thinking of Julien during the whole period filled by the de Fervaques episode. Her soul was a prey to violent battles; sometimes she piqued herself on despising that melancholy young man, but his conversation captivated her in spite of herself. She was particularly astonished by his absolute falseness. He did not say a single word to the marechale which was not a lie, or at any rate, an abominable travesty of his own way of thinking, which Mathilde knew so perfectly in every phase. This Machiavellianism impressed her. "What subtlety," she said to herself. "What a difference between the bombastic coxcombs, or the common rascals like Tanbeau who talk in the same strain." Nevertheless Julien went through awful days. It was only to accomplish the most painful of duties that he put in a daily appearance in the marechale's salon. The strain of playing a part ended by depriving his mind of all its strength. As he crossed each night the immense courtyard of the Hotel de Fervaques, it was only through sheer force in character and logic that he succeeded in keeping a little above the level of despair. "I overcame despair at the seminary," he said, "yet what an awful prospect I had then. I was then either going to make my fortune or come to grief just as I am now. I found myself obliged to pass all my life in intimate association with the most contemptible and disgusting things in the whole world. The following spring, just eleven short months later, I was perhaps the happiest of all young people of my own age." But very often all this fine logic proved unavailing against the awful reality. He saw Mathilde every day at breakfast and at dinner. He knew from the numerous letters which de la Mole dictated to him that she was on the eve of marrying de Croisenois. This charming man already called twice a day at the Hotel de la Mole; the jealous eye of a jilted lover was alive to every one of his movements. When he thought he had noticed that mademoiselle de la Mole was beginning to encourage her intended, Julien could not help looking tenderly at his pistols as he went up to his room. "Ah," he said to himself, "would it not be much wiser to take the marks out of my linen and to go into some solitary forest twenty leagues from Paris to put an end to this atrocious life? I should be unknown in the district, my death would remain a secret for a fortnight, and who would bother about me after a fortnight?" This reasoning was very logical. But on the following day a glimpse of Mathilde's arm between the sleeve of her dress and her glove sufficed to plunge our young philosopher into memories which, though agonising, none the less gave him a hold on life. "Well," he said to himself, "I will follow this Russian plan to the end. How will it all finish?" "So far as the marechale is concerned, after I have copied out these fifty-three letters, I shall not write any others. "As for Mathilde, these six weeks of painful acting will either leave her anger unchanged, or will win me a moment of reconciliation. Great God! I should die of happiness." And he could not finish his train of thought. After a long reverie he succeeded in taking up the thread of his argument. "In that case," he said to himself, "I should win one day of happiness, and after that her cruelties which are based, alas, on my lack of ability to please her will recommence. I should have nothing left to do, I should be ruined and lost for ever. With such a character as hers what guarantee can she give me? Alas! My manners are no doubt lacking in elegance, and my style of speech is heavy and monotonous. Great God, why am I myself?"

Chapters 24-28

https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-2-chapters-2428

Smitten by love, Julien is unable to amuse himself in Strasbourg. He encounters his London friend, the Russian Prince Korasov, who befriends and undertakes to cheer him. The prince advises Julien how to proceed in his love affair with Mathilde. He must resort to inspiring jealousy in the woman he loves by courting another. The prince gives Julien a series of love letters with directions as to how and when they are to be delivered to the lady. Julien intends to court Mme. de Fervaques, a beautiful widow of a marshal of bourgeois lineage, a prude who is influential in the Congregation. Julien agrees to the stratagem. At the same time, he turns down an offer made by Korasov for the hand of the latter's cousin, a match that would facilitate a glorious military career for Julien in Russia. Upon returning to Paris, Julien asks advice of Altamira in his courting of Mme. de Fervaques. Altamira introduces him to Don Diego Bustos, who had unsuccessfully attempted to court this lady. From Bustos, Julien learns how to go about the conquest. At the Moles', Julien must exert much self-control to begin his campaign. Civil but not attentive to Mathilde, he seeks out Mme. de Fervaques and spends the evening in conversation with her. At the theater, his eyes remain fixed on Mme. de Fervaques. Upon seeing Julien again, Mathilde, who has sworn to forget him, to return to virtue, and to hasten her marriage to Croisenois, now reverses her position, seeing in Julien her real husband. Mathilde is consternated by Julien's indifference for her. Mme. de la Mole now looks upon Julien more favorably since he seems to be interested in Mme. de Fervaques. Julien copies the first letter and delivers it, following the directions of the prince. During his evening conversations, Julien places himself in such a way that he can observe Mathilde without being seen. Mme. de Fervaques is quite favorably impressed with Julien, in whose eloquence, metaphysical bent, and mystical preoccupation she thinks she sees the making of a great churchman. Two weeks and many letters later, Julien receives an invitation to dinner at the home of Mme. de Fervaques. Julien finds the dinner, the conversation, and the guests insipid. Tanbeau, his rival at the Hotel de la Mole, encourages him in his conquest of Mme. de Fervaques. One evening at the opera, Mme. de Fervaques intimates that whoever loves her must not love Napoleon. Julien interprets this as an avowal of a certain success in his campaign. Julien's carelessness in copying a letter almost causes Mme. de Fervaques to doubt his sincerity, but he succeeds in excusing the blunder. Mathilde is succumbing to his strategy. She admires his Machiavellianism in telling Mme. de Fervaques things he obviously does not believe. Mathilde's marriage with Croisenois is imminent, and Julien thinks again of suicide.

These chapters relate the next stage in the love of Julien and Mathilde, in which Julien initiates action and painfully gains an ascendancy over Mathilde. In the form of Korasov, another father-image reappears to take Julien in hand and teach him the art of seduction. Korasov sees Julien's problem immediately. It will be necessary to attract Mathilde's attention to himself away from herself. Julien must make Mathilde see him not as an ideal she has created but as he is. Korasov's offer to Julien should remind the reader of a similar one made by Fouque in Part I. The identity of circumstances points up Julien's contrasting situations: In Verrieres, he refused happiness because he was goaded by ambition; here, he refuses to satisfy that ambition, now silenced by a love of which he is the victim. Julien is so much the victim of his love that he adopts the point of view of the woman who scorns him to deprecate himself pitilessly. This period of depression that Julien is experiencing Stendhal had analyzed in his treatise on love. Julien sees himself as the most abject of beings, as inferior to Korasov, and at fault for not being loved by the perfect Mathilde. It is not by chance that Julien chooses Mme. de Fervaques as his instrument. He admits that her beautiful eyes remind him of those loving and passionate eyes of Mme. de Renal. He longs unconsciously for that experience where he was loved. Two more mentors are introduced to guide Julien. Altamira and Bustos provide Julien with the necessary information for a seduction. Note that Julien is hypocritical even with his friend Altamira, who is not advised of Julien's stratagem. Stendhal doubtless delights in the dissection of the prude. It is reminiscent of the seduction undertaken in Laclos' Liaisons Dangereuses by Valmont of his prudish victim, more sincere, however, in her religious principles than is Mme. de Fervaques. Stendhal's portrayal of the latter as somewhat of an imposter absolves Julien of any guilt, since she is not truly a victim. The abrupt images betraying Julien's extreme sensibility are meant to convince the reader of the hero's great effort in playing his role. Julien is moved by the sight of the sofa and ladder in the true romantic tradition. Note, however, that the rapid narration and abrupt sentences betoken restraint and a refusal on the part of Stendhal to fall into the raptures and effusiveness of the hyperbole a la Chateaubriand. Julien remains the passive actor of the role carefully outlined by Korasov, acting as a sort of robot. Another note is inserted by Stendhal to show to what extent Julien's ambition is dead. The possibility that the marquis might be named as a minister would give Julien an opportunity to become a bishop. Such a possibility is very far from Julien's present aspiration. Julien's return has sufficed to change the impetuous Mathilde's plans completely. Mathilde has rationalized her interpretation of virtue to justify her reversal in position She had decided to return to virtue, but now virtue means legitimizing her love for Julien through marriage: "He's my real husband," blurts out Mathilde. Note Stendhal's "peeping Tom" tendency . The privilege of the superior soul is that he may observe others observing him without their knowledge. Julien is protected by hat brims, his own and that of Mme. de Fervaques, as he observed Mathilde watching him. Although his love at first incapacitates him for creative action, Julien nonetheless makes progress as an actor and conversationalist. Again, Stendhal states this fact without offering a demonstration of it. Profiting from his knowledge of Mathilde's character, Julien decides that she will admire him for uttering absurdities with eloquence. The dinner at the home of Mme. de Fervaques is similar to the one Julien attended in Part I at the Valenods'. Both present Julien appearing in the enemy camp, and his refusal to take a stand politically is thereby underlined. In Verrieres, Julien frequented the society of both liberal and monarchists; here, in spite of his Jansenistic mentor, Pirard, Julien is frequenting the Jesuit milieu. Julien experiences the same feeling of superiority at the two dinners. He had scorned the materialism and bad taste of the Valenods; here, he is disgusted by the pompousness of the guests and by the sterility of the conversation. Stendhal again underlines Julien's lack of ambition by intimating how he could, were he so inclined, profit from his relationship with Mme. de Fervaques to have himself named a bishop. One aspect of the tragedy of Julien Sorel begins to become apparent. Ironically, he abandoned the tender love of Mme. de Renal because of his insatiable ambition. He is now reaping the fruits of this ambition -- or he could, but he no longer hears that voice -- in favor of a love inferior to the one he abandoned. There is another advantage to feigning a courtship other than the obvious purpose, which is to inspire jealousy in the real love object. If the victim responds, one may observe the mechanism of love and its progress objectively and with a cool head, hardly possible if one is really in love. Stendhal's own ambition was to achieve an impossible synthesis: to love passionately but without the enslavement of his will and mind. Mathilde is being taken in by Julien's stratagem in a different way than he had anticipated, however. She admires his duplicity as she observes him courting Mme. de Fervaques. This means simply that she sees through the stratagem but that it is nonetheless successful because she is able to relegate this newly discovered quality of Julien to her idealization of him. Julien's despair reaches its greatest intensity as he again contemplates suicide. Even if he succeeds in reviving Mathilde's love, he knows that it will not produce a lasting effect. He concludes by condemning himself: Why am I myself?

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_1_part_1.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 11

chapter 11

{"name": "Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-11-20", "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.", "analysis": "The Colonel's past history is insinuated once again, through his own comments about disappointed love, and allusion to his own experience. His disappointment at being ignored by Marianne seems to parallel some past experience of his; and his comments about the tragic history of a girl he knew similar to Marianne foreshadows some misfortune that Marianne will come to because of her open, emotional nature. Once again, Elinor and Marianne are contrasted to what their differing reactions would be to this conversation with the Colonel. While Elinor decides to leave the delicate subject alone out of respect for the Colonel's privacy, Marianne would have concocted a history of romantic, thwarted love. Elinor perhaps tends to read too little into things, and Marianne too much; they are dramatic foils of each other in terms of views and behavior, each representing opposite extremes in terms of who they are and what they believe"}

Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection. Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration of their opinions. When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them. Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind. This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her present home. Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at home;--and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys. In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister. Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him. This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint smile, "Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments." "No," replied Elinor, "her opinions are all romantic." "Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist." "I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself." "This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions." "I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor. "There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage." After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,-- "Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?" "Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles. I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second attachment's being pardonable." "This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of sentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who from an inforced change--from a series of unfortunate circumstances"-- Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head. The lady would probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.

Chapter 11

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

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.

The Colonel's past history is insinuated once again, through his own comments about disappointed love, and allusion to his own experience. His disappointment at being ignored by Marianne seems to parallel some past experience of his; and his comments about the tragic history of a girl he knew similar to Marianne foreshadows some misfortune that Marianne will come to because of her open, emotional nature. Once again, Elinor and Marianne are contrasted to what their differing reactions would be to this conversation with the Colonel. While Elinor decides to leave the delicate subject alone out of respect for the Colonel's privacy, Marianne would have concocted a history of romantic, thwarted love. Elinor perhaps tends to read too little into things, and Marianne too much; they are dramatic foils of each other in terms of views and behavior, each representing opposite extremes in terms of who they are and what they believe

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/42.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_41_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 42

chapter 42

{"name": "Chapter 42", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-42", "summary": "Elinor visits her brother's house once more before everyone sets off for Cleveland. Everyone seems intent on Elinor visiting Colonel Brandon's house at Delaford, assuming that the Colonel will marry her. Early in April, the Palmers, Mrs. Jennings, and the Dashwoods leave London to go to Cleveland. The plan is for the party of ladies to go slowly, and for Colonel Brandon and Mr. Palmer to meet up with them at Cleveland. Despite her desire to go home, Marianne is sad to leave London, home of so many Willoughby-related memories. Elinor, however, is feeling pretty good, and has high hopes for the coming journey. Cleveland turns out to be a perfectly lovely house, with pretty grounds - a nice-sounding place to spend a few days of vacation. Marianne is overcome by the idea that she's only thirty miles away from Willoughby's house, Combe Magna, and she imagines that she can see it in the distance. Marianne vows to spend her time at the Palmers' taking long, lonely, rather romantic and sentimental walks. Unfortunately, bad weather settles in, and prevents Marianne from taking an evening walk. Everyone settles down with gossip, crafts, and reading - sounds pretty cozy. Colonel Brandon and Mr. Palmer arrive the next day. Elinor finally gets to know Mr. Palmer a little better, and discovers that he's better than she'd thought - though much worse in general than Edward. Colonel Brandon tells her a bit about Edward, or rather, some things that concern Edward; the two of them chat about the Parsonage at Delaford, and how it could be improved before Edward settles there. Mrs. Jennings takes Colonel Brandon's affectionate treatment of Elinor to be a sign of his love for her. Elinor, however, is sure that he still loves Marianne, for though he speaks mostly with her older sister, he can't help but observe the rather sickly Marianne. Speaking of which, Marianne has taken ill - after several damp, chilly walks, she's caught cold, and is actually quite unwell. Elinor persuades her to go to bed and try and get a good night's rest.", "analysis": ""}

One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton without any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to Cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters in town;--and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public, assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the country. It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send her to Delaford;--a place, in which, of all others, she would now least chuse to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there. Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of Charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their journey, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival. Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished for ever, without great pain. Nor could she leave the place in which Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which SHE could have no share, without shedding many tears. Elinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive. She had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to be divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the persecution of Lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might do towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her own. Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was it dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of the third they drove up to Cleveland. Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping lawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive; and like every other place of the same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the offices. Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty from Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its walls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their summits Combe Magna might be seen. In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles. She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house, on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the gardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of Charlotte,--and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she found fresh sources of merriment. The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay at Cleveland. With great surprise therefore, did she find herself prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. She had depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even SHE could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking. Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer had her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements, and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther than Reading that night. Elinor, however little concerned in it, joined in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding her way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the family in general, soon procured herself a book. Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh. The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had reduced very low. Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew not what to expect to find him in his own family. She found him, however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and habits, they were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all unusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating, uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been devoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the whole, much better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she could like him no more;--not sorry to be driven by the observation of his Epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with complacency on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple taste, and diffident feelings. Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire lately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of Mr. Ferrars, and the kind confidante of himself, talked to her a great deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them.--His behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment, and would have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the first, believed Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself. But as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head, except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion; and she could not help believing herself the nicest observer of the two;--she watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour;--and while his looks of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the latter lady's observation;--SHE could discover in them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover. Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them, where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest, had--assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet shoes and stockings--given Marianne a cold so violent as, though for a day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself. Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all declined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a cough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely; and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.

Chapter 42

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-42

Elinor visits her brother's house once more before everyone sets off for Cleveland. Everyone seems intent on Elinor visiting Colonel Brandon's house at Delaford, assuming that the Colonel will marry her. Early in April, the Palmers, Mrs. Jennings, and the Dashwoods leave London to go to Cleveland. The plan is for the party of ladies to go slowly, and for Colonel Brandon and Mr. Palmer to meet up with them at Cleveland. Despite her desire to go home, Marianne is sad to leave London, home of so many Willoughby-related memories. Elinor, however, is feeling pretty good, and has high hopes for the coming journey. Cleveland turns out to be a perfectly lovely house, with pretty grounds - a nice-sounding place to spend a few days of vacation. Marianne is overcome by the idea that she's only thirty miles away from Willoughby's house, Combe Magna, and she imagines that she can see it in the distance. Marianne vows to spend her time at the Palmers' taking long, lonely, rather romantic and sentimental walks. Unfortunately, bad weather settles in, and prevents Marianne from taking an evening walk. Everyone settles down with gossip, crafts, and reading - sounds pretty cozy. Colonel Brandon and Mr. Palmer arrive the next day. Elinor finally gets to know Mr. Palmer a little better, and discovers that he's better than she'd thought - though much worse in general than Edward. Colonel Brandon tells her a bit about Edward, or rather, some things that concern Edward; the two of them chat about the Parsonage at Delaford, and how it could be improved before Edward settles there. Mrs. Jennings takes Colonel Brandon's affectionate treatment of Elinor to be a sign of his love for her. Elinor, however, is sure that he still loves Marianne, for though he speaks mostly with her older sister, he can't help but observe the rather sickly Marianne. Speaking of which, Marianne has taken ill - after several damp, chilly walks, she's caught cold, and is actually quite unwell. Elinor persuades her to go to bed and try and get a good night's rest.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/08.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_7_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 8

chapter 8

{"name": "Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-8", "summary": "Mrs. Jennings is a chatty old gossip with a heart of gold. Having found husbands for her two daughters, she now embarks upon the mission of marrying off all the other eligible young ladies of her acquaintance. Next up: Elinor and Marianne. Mrs. Jennings is certain that Colonel Brandon is head over heels in love with Marianne. She immediately decides that they should get married. She then delights in poking fun at both sides of this pair - much to everyone's embarrassment. Marianne finds Mrs. Jennings' jokes both funny and offensive, given Colonel Brandon's advanced age. Mrs. Dashwood finds it necessary to remind her ageist daughter that the guy isn't exactly at death's door. Marianne counters that he's old enough to be her father - shouldn't his \"age and infirmity\" protect him from mockery? Here, Elinor also steps in to defend the Colonel, who, it must be said, is far from \"infirm,\" even if he has rheumatism. Marianne, rather heartlessly, admits that Colonel Brandon isn't about to die , but claims that a man of 35 shouldn't be thinking about marriage at his age. Elinor cautiously agrees that perhaps a man his age shouldn't marry a young girl, but that he should be allowed to marry an older lady of 27 or so. Marianne concedes that this would be OK - after all, a woman who's unmarried at 27 is practically dead to the world, so it would be a marriage of convenience, in which the couple could provide company for each other in their declining years. We have to wonder what Marianne would think of marriage in our modern world - after all, it's not unusual for men and women to get married after 30 nowadays! Elinor tries futilely to convince her sister that 30 isn't the end of life as we know it, then gives up and heads out. Once her sister's gone, Marianne brings up Edward Ferrars - he hasn't come to visit them at Barton Cottage yet. What could possibly be preventing him? Marianne can't understand her sister's apparent lack of emotion with regards to her erstwhile suitor. Doesn't Elinor feel anything at all?", "analysis": ""}

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

Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-8

Mrs. Jennings is a chatty old gossip with a heart of gold. Having found husbands for her two daughters, she now embarks upon the mission of marrying off all the other eligible young ladies of her acquaintance. Next up: Elinor and Marianne. Mrs. Jennings is certain that Colonel Brandon is head over heels in love with Marianne. She immediately decides that they should get married. She then delights in poking fun at both sides of this pair - much to everyone's embarrassment. Marianne finds Mrs. Jennings' jokes both funny and offensive, given Colonel Brandon's advanced age. Mrs. Dashwood finds it necessary to remind her ageist daughter that the guy isn't exactly at death's door. Marianne counters that he's old enough to be her father - shouldn't his "age and infirmity" protect him from mockery? Here, Elinor also steps in to defend the Colonel, who, it must be said, is far from "infirm," even if he has rheumatism. Marianne, rather heartlessly, admits that Colonel Brandon isn't about to die , but claims that a man of 35 shouldn't be thinking about marriage at his age. Elinor cautiously agrees that perhaps a man his age shouldn't marry a young girl, but that he should be allowed to marry an older lady of 27 or so. Marianne concedes that this would be OK - after all, a woman who's unmarried at 27 is practically dead to the world, so it would be a marriage of convenience, in which the couple could provide company for each other in their declining years. We have to wonder what Marianne would think of marriage in our modern world - after all, it's not unusual for men and women to get married after 30 nowadays! Elinor tries futilely to convince her sister that 30 isn't the end of life as we know it, then gives up and heads out. Once her sister's gone, Marianne brings up Edward Ferrars - he hasn't come to visit them at Barton Cottage yet. What could possibly be preventing him? Marianne can't understand her sister's apparent lack of emotion with regards to her erstwhile suitor. Doesn't Elinor feel anything at all?

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/32.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_3_part_2.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 32

chapter 32

{"name": "Chapter 32", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-40", "summary": "Elinor tells Marianne of the Colonel's story, and though Marianne is now convinced of Willoughby's guilt, it does not ease her mind. Marianne also stops avoiding the Colonel's company and becomes more civil to him, which is a positive development. They receive word from their mother, who thinks coming back to Barton at such a time would only remind Marianne constantly of Willoughby; they are to remain in town for the time being. Mrs. Palmer and Sir John, although they do not mention Willoughby in Marianne's company, express their great distaste for him to Elinor; they resolve to break off their acquaintance with him forever. Willoughby is soon married, which Marianne is grieved to hear; then, the Miss Steeles come to town, much to Elinor's regret.", "analysis": "Again, Marianne's selfishness and childlike behavior begins to be ruled by compassion for others; she decides to bear the rest of her time in London because she thinks it will give Elinor a chance to see Edward, and she wants to see her sister glad. It is ironic then that Marianne's justification for staying is also Elinor's reason for leaving; Elinor decides to risk the painful chance of seeing Edward because she believes Marianne will be better off in town, though Marianne certainly would prefer to be with her mother at such a time. Although Sir John, Mrs. Palmer, and Mrs. Jennings certainly mean well toward Marianne, their constant inquiries and expressions of concern are certainly too much of a good thing. Although all three are of fairly high status in their society, Austen's depiction of them places them in a hierarchy of manners, in which they are fairly low. In addressing her characters and determining the tone in which she speaks of them, Austen uses valuation of their manners as prime consideration; therefore Edward and Colonel Brandon are treated in a much more dignified tone and depicted more positively than the others, who are lightly mocked, and discussed with much less regard and esteem"}

When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt WAS carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might ONCE have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them. To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than Elinor's. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which SHE could wish her not to indulge! Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her. From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends. Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one. She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it right that they should sometimes see their brother. Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment's rest. But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire. Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of them all. Sir John, could not have thought it possible. "A man of whom he had always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an unaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart. He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert, and they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end of it!" Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. "She was determined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was." The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shewn in procuring all the particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen. The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no interest in ONE person at least among their circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was ONE who would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health. Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature. Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very shocking, indeed!" and by the means of this continual though gentle vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married. Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him. THESE assured him that his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and THESE gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to HER; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to think at all of Mrs. Ferrars. Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he was married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning. She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event. The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before. About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and were welcomed by them all with great cordiality. Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her STILL in town. "I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here STILL," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. "But I always thought I SHOULD. I was almost sure you would not leave London yet awhile; though you TOLD me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a MONTH. But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and sister came. And now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly glad you did not keep to YOUR WORD." Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-command to make it appear that she did NOT. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?" "Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did." "Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is a single man, I warrant you." "There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never think about him from one hour's end to another. 'Lord! here comes your beau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I--I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine." "Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do--the Doctor is the man, I see." "No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of." Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would NOT, and Miss Steele was made completely happy. "I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge. "No, I do not think we shall." "Oh, yes, I dare say you will." Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition. "What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together!" "Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit is but just begun!" Lucy was silenced. "I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss Steele. "I am sorry she is not well--" for Marianne had left the room on their arrival. "You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation." "Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me!--I think she might see US; and I am sure we would not speak a word." Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them. "Oh, if that's all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see HER." Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other.

Chapter 32

https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-40

Elinor tells Marianne of the Colonel's story, and though Marianne is now convinced of Willoughby's guilt, it does not ease her mind. Marianne also stops avoiding the Colonel's company and becomes more civil to him, which is a positive development. They receive word from their mother, who thinks coming back to Barton at such a time would only remind Marianne constantly of Willoughby; they are to remain in town for the time being. Mrs. Palmer and Sir John, although they do not mention Willoughby in Marianne's company, express their great distaste for him to Elinor; they resolve to break off their acquaintance with him forever. Willoughby is soon married, which Marianne is grieved to hear; then, the Miss Steeles come to town, much to Elinor's regret.

Again, Marianne's selfishness and childlike behavior begins to be ruled by compassion for others; she decides to bear the rest of her time in London because she thinks it will give Elinor a chance to see Edward, and she wants to see her sister glad. It is ironic then that Marianne's justification for staying is also Elinor's reason for leaving; Elinor decides to risk the painful chance of seeing Edward because she believes Marianne will be better off in town, though Marianne certainly would prefer to be with her mother at such a time. Although Sir John, Mrs. Palmer, and Mrs. Jennings certainly mean well toward Marianne, their constant inquiries and expressions of concern are certainly too much of a good thing. Although all three are of fairly high status in their society, Austen's depiction of them places them in a hierarchy of manners, in which they are fairly low. In addressing her characters and determining the tone in which she speaks of them, Austen uses valuation of their manners as prime consideration; therefore Edward and Colonel Brandon are treated in a much more dignified tone and depicted more positively than the others, who are lightly mocked, and discussed with much less regard and esteem

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/27.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_26_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 27

chapter 27

{"name": "Chapter 27", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim36.asp", "summary": "With the help of Doramin's people as allies, Jim oversees the hauling of two cannons up the mountain, working all night. Sherif Ali watched in disbelief as Doramin had himself carried up the mountain to have a good view of the fighting. The Bugis fired at Sherif Ali's stronghold on the opposite mountain, destroying it with cannon balls. The Bugis then attacked the remains. Jim and Dain Waris were the first to enter the ruins. Jim's servant, Tamb'Itam was constantly by his side. Sherif Ali fell on his knees and asked for forgiveness. He pledged obedience and was forgiven. Joy spread round Patusan, and Jim became a hero on whom the natives depended. Jim took their devotion very seriously and felt great responsibility towards them.", "analysis": "Notes Because of the defeat of Sherif Ali, Jim becomes a hero in the eyes of the Malays and is soon referred to as Tuan Jim, or Lord Jim. The Bugis think he has supernatural powers and begin to worship him. They accept his word as the truth; \"his word decided everything.\" Marlow comments that Jim is one of those exceptional men whose fame spreads like wild fire; unfortunately, his adoration leads to his isolation from the common people and the attendant loneliness. For the most part, he is cut off from his world. Only Tamb'Itam, Jim's personal servant who follows him like a shadow until the last day of Jim's life, gives him regular human contact."}

'Already the legend had gifted him with supernatural powers. Yes, it was said, there had been many ropes cunningly disposed, and a strange contrivance that turned by the efforts of many men, and each gun went up tearing slowly through the bushes, like a wild pig rooting its way in the undergrowth, but . . . and the wisest shook their heads. There was something occult in all this, no doubt; for what is the strength of ropes and of men's arms? There is a rebellious soul in things which must be overcome by powerful charms and incantations. Thus old Sura--a very respectable householder of Patusan--with whom I had a quiet chat one evening. However, Sura was a professional sorcerer also, who attended all the rice sowings and reapings for miles around for the purpose of subduing the stubborn souls of things. This occupation he seemed to think a most arduous one, and perhaps the souls of things are more stubborn than the souls of men. As to the simple folk of outlying villages, they believed and said (as the most natural thing in the world) that Jim had carried the guns up the hill on his back--two at a time. 'This would make Jim stamp his foot in vexation and exclaim with an exasperated little laugh, "What can you do with such silly beggars? They will sit up half the night talking bally rot, and the greater the lie the more they seem to like it." You could trace the subtle influence of his surroundings in this irritation. It was part of his captivity. The earnestness of his denials was amusing, and at last I said, "My dear fellow, you don't suppose _I_ believe this." He looked at me quite startled. "Well, no! I suppose not," he said, and burst into a Homeric peal of laughter. "Well, anyhow the guns were there, and went off all together at sunrise. Jove! You should have seen the splinters fly," he cried. By his side Dain Waris, listening with a quiet smile, dropped his eyelids and shuffled his feet a little. It appears that the success in mounting the guns had given Jim's people such a feeling of confidence that he ventured to leave the battery under charge of two elderly Bugis who had seen some fighting in their day, and went to join Dain Waris and the storming party who were concealed in the ravine. In the small hours they began creeping up, and when two-thirds of the way up, lay in the wet grass waiting for the appearance of the sun, which was the agreed signal. He told me with what impatient anguishing emotion he watched the swift coming of the dawn; how, heated with the work and the climbing, he felt the cold dew chilling his very bones; how afraid he was he would begin to shiver and shake like a leaf before the time came for the advance. "It was the slowest half-hour in my life," he declared. Gradually the silent stockade came out on the sky above him. Men scattered all down the slope were crouching amongst the dark stones and dripping bushes. Dain Waris was lying flattened by his side. "We looked at each other," Jim said, resting a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder. "He smiled at me as cheery as you please, and I dared not stir my lips for fear I would break out into a shivering fit. 'Pon my word, it's true! I had been streaming with perspiration when we took cover--so you may imagine . . ." He declared, and I believe him, that he had no fears as to the result. He was only anxious as to his ability to repress these shivers. He didn't bother about the result. He was bound to get to the top of that hill and stay there, whatever might happen. There could be no going back for him. Those people had trusted him implicitly. Him alone! His bare word. . . . 'I remember how, at this point, he paused with his eyes fixed upon me. "As far as he knew, they never had an occasion to regret it yet," he said. "Never. He hoped to God they never would. Meantime--worse luck!--they had got into the habit of taking his word for anything and everything. I could have no idea! Why, only the other day an old fool he had never seen in his life came from some village miles away to find out if he should divorce his wife. Fact. Solemn word. That's the sort of thing. . . He wouldn't have believed it. Would I? Squatted on the verandah chewing betel-nut, sighing and spitting all over the place for more than an hour, and as glum as an undertaker before he came out with that dashed conundrum. That's the kind of thing that isn't so funny as it looks. What was a fellow to say?--Good wife?--Yes. Good wife--old though. Started a confounded long story about some brass pots. Been living together for fifteen years--twenty years--could not tell. A long, long time. Good wife. Beat her a little--not much--just a little, when she was young. Had to--for the sake of his honour. Suddenly in her old age she goes and lends three brass pots to her sister's son's wife, and begins to abuse him every day in a loud voice. His enemies jeered at him; his face was utterly blackened. Pots totally lost. Awfully cut up about it. Impossible to fathom a story like that; told him to go home, and promised to come along myself and settle it all. It's all very well to grin, but it was the dashedest nuisance! A day's journey through the forest, another day lost in coaxing a lot of silly villagers to get at the rights of the affair. There was the making of a sanguinary shindy in the thing. Every bally idiot took sides with one family or the other, and one half of the village was ready to go for the other half with anything that came handy. Honour bright! No joke! . . . Instead of attending to their bally crops. Got him the infernal pots back of course--and pacified all hands. No trouble to settle it. Of course not. Could settle the deadliest quarrel in the country by crooking his little finger. The trouble was to get at the truth of anything. Was not sure to this day whether he had been fair to all parties. It worried him. And the talk! Jove! There didn't seem to be any head or tail to it. Rather storm a twenty-foot-high old stockade any day. Much! Child's play to that other job. Wouldn't take so long either. Well, yes; a funny set out, upon the whole--the fool looked old enough to be his grandfather. But from another point of view it was no joke. His word decided everything--ever since the smashing of Sherif Ali. An awful responsibility," he repeated. "No, really--joking apart, had it been three lives instead of three rotten brass pots it would have been the same. . . ." 'Thus he illustrated the moral effect of his victory in war. It was in truth immense. It had led him from strife to peace, and through death into the innermost life of the people; but the gloom of the land spread out under the sunshine preserved its appearance of inscrutable, of secular repose. The sound of his fresh young voice--it's extraordinary how very few signs of wear he showed--floated lightly, and passed away over the unchanged face of the forests like the sound of the big guns on that cold dewy morning when he had no other concern on earth but the proper control of the chills in his body. With the first slant of sun-rays along these immovable tree-tops the summit of one hill wreathed itself, with heavy reports, in white clouds of smoke, and the other burst into an amazing noise of yells, war-cries, shouts of anger, of surprise, of dismay. Jim and Dain Waris were the first to lay their hands on the stakes. The popular story has it that Jim with a touch of one finger had thrown down the gate. He was, of course, anxious to disclaim this achievement. The whole stockade--he would insist on explaining to you--was a poor affair (Sherif Ali trusted mainly to the inaccessible position); and, anyway, the thing had been already knocked to pieces and only hung together by a miracle. He put his shoulder to it like a little fool and went in head over heels. Jove! If it hadn't been for Dain Waris, a pock-marked tattooed vagabond would have pinned him with his spear to a baulk of timber like one of Stein's beetles. The third man in, it seems, had been Tamb' Itam, Jim's own servant. This was a Malay from the north, a stranger who had wandered into Patusan, and had been forcibly detained by Rajah Allang as paddler of one of the state boats. He had made a bolt of it at the first opportunity, and finding a precarious refuge (but very little to eat) amongst the Bugis settlers, had attached himself to Jim's person. His complexion was very dark, his face flat, his eyes prominent and injected with bile. There was something excessive, almost fanatical, in his devotion to his "white lord." He was inseparable from Jim like a morose shadow. On state occasions he would tread on his master's heels, one hand on the haft of his kriss, keeping the common people at a distance by his truculent brooding glances. Jim had made him the headman of his establishment, and all Patusan respected and courted him as a person of much influence. At the taking of the stockade he had distinguished himself greatly by the methodical ferocity of his fighting. The storming party had come on so quick--Jim said--that notwithstanding the panic of the garrison, there was a "hot five minutes hand-to-hand inside that stockade, till some bally ass set fire to the shelters of boughs and dry grass, and we all had to clear out for dear life." 'The rout, it seems, had been complete. Doramin, waiting immovably in his chair on the hillside, with the smoke of the guns spreading slowly above his big head, received the news with a deep grunt. When informed that his son was safe and leading the pursuit, he, without another sound, made a mighty effort to rise; his attendants hurried to his help, and, held up reverently, he shuffled with great dignity into a bit of shade, where he laid himself down to sleep, covered entirely with a piece of white sheeting. In Patusan the excitement was intense. Jim told me that from the hill, turning his back on the stockade with its embers, black ashes, and half-consumed corpses, he could see time after time the open spaces between the houses on both sides of the stream fill suddenly with a seething rush of people and get empty in a moment. His ears caught feebly from below the tremendous din of gongs and drums; the wild shouts of the crowd reached him in bursts of faint roaring. A lot of streamers made a flutter as of little white, red, yellow birds amongst the brown ridges of roofs. "You must have enjoyed it," I murmured, feeling the stir of sympathetic emotion. '"It was . . . it was immense! Immense!" he cried aloud, flinging his arms open. The sudden movement startled me as though I had seen him bare the secrets of his breast to the sunshine, to the brooding forests, to the steely sea. Below us the town reposed in easy curves upon the banks of a stream whose current seemed to sleep. "Immense!" he repeated for a third time, speaking in a whisper, for himself alone. 'Immense! No doubt it was immense; the seal of success upon his words, the conquered ground for the soles of his feet, the blind trust of men, the belief in himself snatched from the fire, the solitude of his achievement. All this, as I've warned you, gets dwarfed in the telling. I can't with mere words convey to you the impression of his total and utter isolation. I know, of course, he was in every sense alone of his kind there, but the unsuspected qualities of his nature had brought him in such close touch with his surroundings that this isolation seemed only the effect of his power. His loneliness added to his stature. There was nothing within sight to compare him with, as though he had been one of those exceptional men who can be only measured by the greatness of their fame; and his fame, remember, was the greatest thing around for many a day's journey. You would have to paddle, pole, or track a long weary way through the jungle before you passed beyond the reach of its voice. Its voice was not the trumpeting of the disreputable goddess we all know--not blatant--not brazen. It took its tone from the stillness and gloom of the land without a past, where his word was the one truth of every passing day. It shared something of the nature of that silence through which it accompanied you into unexplored depths, heard continuously by your side, penetrating, far-reaching--tinged with wonder and mystery on the lips of whispering men.'

Chapter 27

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim36.asp

With the help of Doramin's people as allies, Jim oversees the hauling of two cannons up the mountain, working all night. Sherif Ali watched in disbelief as Doramin had himself carried up the mountain to have a good view of the fighting. The Bugis fired at Sherif Ali's stronghold on the opposite mountain, destroying it with cannon balls. The Bugis then attacked the remains. Jim and Dain Waris were the first to enter the ruins. Jim's servant, Tamb'Itam was constantly by his side. Sherif Ali fell on his knees and asked for forgiveness. He pledged obedience and was forgiven. Joy spread round Patusan, and Jim became a hero on whom the natives depended. Jim took their devotion very seriously and felt great responsibility towards them.

Notes Because of the defeat of Sherif Ali, Jim becomes a hero in the eyes of the Malays and is soon referred to as Tuan Jim, or Lord Jim. The Bugis think he has supernatural powers and begin to worship him. They accept his word as the truth; "his word decided everything." Marlow comments that Jim is one of those exceptional men whose fame spreads like wild fire; unfortunately, his adoration leads to his isolation from the common people and the attendant loneliness. For the most part, he is cut off from his world. Only Tamb'Itam, Jim's personal servant who follows him like a shadow until the last day of Jim's life, gives him regular human contact.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/04.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_0_part_4.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 4

chapter 4

{"name": "Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-1-chapters-1-11", "summary": "Rolliver's Inn is the only alehouse in the village, and can only boast of an off-license: nobody can legally drink on the premises, but this rule is often averted. Mrs. Durbeyfield had found her husband there bragging about his grand project for his family. He will send Tess to claim kin, for there is a lady of the name d'Urberville. John Durbeyfield admits that he has not told Tess this, but she is tractable and will do what he wishes. Joan Durbeyfield reminds her husband that there are many families that were once estimable and are now ordinary, but agrees to the arrangement. Tess arrives, and Abraham tells her that she will marry a gentleman. It is eleven o'clock when Tess gets her family to bed, and the next morning John is unable to go on his journey. Tess agrees to go with Abraham. On the way there, Abraham and Tess discuss how other stars are worlds just like Earth. Tess says that some worlds are splendid, but a few are blighted, and they decide that they are on a blighted one. Tess realizes the vanity of her father's pride. Suddenly, the wagon stops and they find that the morning mail-cart has crashed into their horse, killing it. Tess blames herself, while Abraham blames it for living on a blighted star. Tess does not know how to break the news to her family, but John Durbeyfield takes the news stoically.", "analysis": "At this point in the novel, Tess Durbeyfield is a passive character subject to the wishes of her family and afflicted by their sense of irresponsibility. She is the key to her father's design to regain the family fortune, for he intends to marry her off to a gentleman who will provide for her and for her parents; however, Tess has no say in her father's plans. Hardy allows for the strong possibility that John Durbeyfield's plans will amount to nothing, with the reminder that other families have amounted to little despite their former high esteem. Hardy returns to the idea of the cruelty of fate in this chapter with the discussion between Tess and Abraham concerning the stars; the two siblings decide that the misfortunes they suffer are due to living on a blighted star rather than any direct sense of cause and effect. This theme is also illustrated by the accident that Tess and Abraham have concerning the horse and wagon; the occurrence is a complete accident, yet Hardy instills the event with a sense of determinism, as if it were part of the Durbeyfield fate. Tess's reaction to the accident is ironic, for Tess believes herself responsible for an event for which she had no control; furthermore, it is her father's irresponsibility that caused her to take the wagon to deliver the beehives. Nevertheless, Tess feels guilty for the event; this will lead her to be more susceptible to her father's wishes"}

Rolliver's inn, the single alehouse at this end of the long and broken village, could only boast of an off-licence; hence, as nobody could legally drink on the premises, the amount of overt accommodation for consumers was strictly limited to a little board about six inches wide and two yards long, fixed to the garden palings by pieces of wire, so as to form a ledge. On this board thirsty strangers deposited their cups as they stood in the road and drank, and threw the dregs on the dusty ground to the pattern of Polynesia, and wished they could have a restful seat inside. Thus the strangers. But there were also local customers who felt the same wish; and where there's a will there's a way. In a large bedroom upstairs, the window of which was thickly curtained with a great woollen shawl lately discarded by the landlady, Mrs Rolliver, were gathered on this evening nearly a dozen persons, all seeking beatitude; all old inhabitants of the nearer end of Marlott, and frequenters of this retreat. Not only did the distance to the The Pure Drop, the fully-licensed tavern at the further part of the dispersed village, render its accommodation practically unavailable for dwellers at this end; but the far more serious question, the quality of the liquor, confirmed the prevalent opinion that it was better to drink with Rolliver in a corner of the housetop than with the other landlord in a wide house. A gaunt four-post bedstead which stood in the room afforded sitting-space for several persons gathered round three of its sides; a couple more men had elevated themselves on a chest of drawers; another rested on the oak-carved "cwoffer"; two on the wash-stand; another on the stool; and thus all were, somehow, seated at their ease. The stage of mental comfort to which they had arrived at this hour was one wherein their souls expanded beyond their skins, and spread their personalities warmly through the room. In this process the chamber and its furniture grew more and more dignified and luxurious; the shawl hanging at the window took upon itself the richness of tapestry; the brass handles of the chest of drawers were as golden knockers; and the carved bedposts seemed to have some kinship with the magnificent pillars of Solomon's temple. Mrs Durbeyfield, having quickly walked hitherward after parting from Tess, opened the front door, crossed the downstairs room, which was in deep gloom, and then unfastened the stair-door like one whose fingers knew the tricks of the latches well. Her ascent of the crooked staircase was a slower process, and her face, as it rose into the light above the last stair, encountered the gaze of all the party assembled in the bedroom. "--Being a few private friends I've asked in to keep up club-walking at my own expense," the landlady exclaimed at the sound of footsteps, as glibly as a child repeating the Catechism, while she peered over the stairs. "Oh, 'tis you, Mrs Durbeyfield--Lard--how you frightened me!--I thought it might be some gaffer sent by Gover'ment." Mrs Durbeyfield was welcomed with glances and nods by the remainder of the conclave, and turned to where her husband sat. He was humming absently to himself, in a low tone: "I be as good as some folks here and there! I've got a great family vault at Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill, and finer skillentons than any man in Wessex!" "I've something to tell 'ee that's come into my head about that--a grand projick!" whispered his cheerful wife. "Here, John, don't 'ee see me?" She nudged him, while he, looking through her as through a window-pane, went on with his recitative. "Hush! Don't 'ee sing so loud, my good man," said the landlady; "in case any member of the Gover'ment should be passing, and take away my licends." "He's told 'ee what's happened to us, I suppose?" asked Mrs Durbeyfield. "Yes--in a way. D'ye think there's any money hanging by it?" "Ah, that's the secret," said Joan Durbeyfield sagely. "However, 'tis well to be kin to a coach, even if you don't ride in 'en." She dropped her public voice, and continued in a low tone to her husband: "I've been thinking since you brought the news that there's a great rich lady out by Trantridge, on the edge o' The Chase, of the name of d'Urberville." "Hey--what's that?" said Sir John. She repeated the information. "That lady must be our relation," she said. "And my projick is to send Tess to claim kin." "There IS a lady of the name, now you mention it," said Durbeyfield. "Pa'son Tringham didn't think of that. But she's nothing beside we--a junior branch of us, no doubt, hailing long since King Norman's day." While this question was being discussed neither of the pair noticed, in their preoccupation, that little Abraham had crept into the room, and was awaiting an opportunity of asking them to return. "She is rich, and she'd be sure to take notice o' the maid," continued Mrs Durbeyfield; "and 'twill be a very good thing. I don't see why two branches o' one family should not be on visiting terms." "Yes; and we'll all claim kin!" said Abraham brightly from under the bedstead. "And we'll all go and see her when Tess has gone to live with her; and we'll ride in her coach and wear black clothes!" "How do you come here, child? What nonsense be ye talking! Go away, and play on the stairs till father and mother be ready! ... Well, Tess ought to go to this other member of our family. She'd be sure to win the lady--Tess would; and likely enough 'twould lead to some noble gentleman marrying her. In short, I know it." "How?" "I tried her fate in the _Fortune-Teller_, and it brought out that very thing! ... You should ha' seen how pretty she looked to-day; her skin is as sumple as a duchess'." "What says the maid herself to going?" "I've not asked her. She don't know there is any such lady-relation yet. But it would certainly put her in the way of a grand marriage, and she won't say nay to going." "Tess is queer." "But she's tractable at bottom. Leave her to me." Though this conversation had been private, sufficient of its import reached the understandings of those around to suggest to them that the Durbeyfields had weightier concerns to talk of now than common folks had, and that Tess, their pretty eldest daughter, had fine prospects in store. "Tess is a fine figure o' fun, as I said to myself to-day when I zeed her vamping round parish with the rest," observed one of the elderly boozers in an undertone. "But Joan Durbeyfield must mind that she don't get green malt in floor." It was a local phrase which had a peculiar meaning, and there was no reply. The conversation became inclusive, and presently other footsteps were heard crossing the room below. "--Being a few private friends asked in to-night to keep up club-walking at my own expense." The landlady had rapidly re-used the formula she kept on hand for intruders before she recognized that the newcomer was Tess. Even to her mother's gaze the girl's young features looked sadly out of place amid the alcoholic vapours which floated here as no unsuitable medium for wrinkled middle-age; and hardly was a reproachful flash from Tess's dark eyes needed to make her father and mother rise from their seats, hastily finish their ale, and descend the stairs behind her, Mrs Rolliver's caution following their footsteps. "No noise, please, if ye'll be so good, my dears; or I mid lose my licends, and be summons'd, and I don't know what all! 'Night t'ye!" They went home together, Tess holding one arm of her father, and Mrs Durbeyfield the other. He had, in truth, drunk very little--not a fourth of the quantity which a systematic tippler could carry to church on a Sunday afternoon without a hitch in his eastings or genuflections; but the weakness of Sir John's constitution made mountains of his petty sins in this kind. On reaching the fresh air he was sufficiently unsteady to incline the row of three at one moment as if they were marching to London, and at another as if they were marching to Bath--which produced a comical effect, frequent enough in families on nocturnal homegoings; and, like most comical effects, not quite so comic after all. The two women valiantly disguised these forced excursions and countermarches as well as they could from Durbeyfield, their cause, and from Abraham, and from themselves; and so they approached by degrees their own door, the head of the family bursting suddenly into his former refrain as he drew near, as if to fortify his soul at sight of the smallness of his present residence-- "I've got a fam--ily vault at Kingsbere!" "Hush--don't be so silly, Jacky," said his wife. "Yours is not the only family that was of 'count in wold days. Look at the Anktells, and Horseys, and the Tringhams themselves--gone to seed a'most as much as you--though you was bigger folks than they, that's true. Thank God, I was never of no family, and have nothing to be ashamed of in that way!" "Don't you be so sure o' that. From you nater 'tis my belief you've disgraced yourselves more than any o' us, and was kings and queens outright at one time." Tess turned the subject by saying what was far more prominent in her own mind at the moment than thoughts of her ancestry--"I am afraid father won't be able to take the journey with the beehives to-morrow so early." "I? I shall be all right in an hour or two," said Durbeyfield. It was eleven o'clock before the family were all in bed, and two o'clock next morning was the latest hour for starting with the beehives if they were to be delivered to the retailers in Casterbridge before the Saturday market began, the way thither lying by bad roads over a distance of between twenty and thirty miles, and the horse and waggon being of the slowest. At half-past one Mrs Durbeyfield came into the large bedroom where Tess and all her little brothers and sisters slept. "The poor man can't go," she said to her eldest daughter, whose great eyes had opened the moment her mother's hand touched the door. Tess sat up in bed, lost in a vague interspace between a dream and this information. "But somebody must go," she replied. "It is late for the hives already. Swarming will soon be over for the year; and it we put off taking 'em till next week's market the call for 'em will be past, and they'll be thrown on our hands." Mrs Durbeyfield looked unequal to the emergency. "Some young feller, perhaps, would go? One of them who were so much after dancing with 'ee yesterday," she presently suggested. "O no--I wouldn't have it for the world!" declared Tess proudly. "And letting everybody know the reason--such a thing to be ashamed of! I think _I_ could go if Abraham could go with me to kip me company." Her mother at length agreed to this arrangement. Little Abraham was aroused from his deep sleep in a corner of the same apartment, and made to put on his clothes while still mentally in the other world. Meanwhile Tess had hastily dressed herself; and the twain, lighting a lantern, went out to the stable. The rickety little waggon was already laden, and the girl led out the horse, Prince, only a degree less rickety than the vehicle. The poor creature looked wonderingly round at the night, at the lantern, at their two figures, as if he could not believe that at that hour, when every living thing was intended to be in shelter and at rest, he was called upon to go out and labour. They put a stock of candle-ends into the lantern, hung the latter to the off-side of the load, and directed the horse onward, walking at his shoulder at first during the uphill parts of the way, in order not to overload an animal of so little vigour. To cheer themselves as well as they could, they made an artificial morning with the lantern, some bread and butter, and their own conversation, the real morning being far from come. Abraham, as he more fully awoke (for he had moved in a sort of trance so far), began to talk of the strange shapes assumed by the various dark objects against the sky; of this tree that looked like a raging tiger springing from a lair; of that which resembled a giant's head. When they had passed the little town of Stourcastle, dumbly somnolent under its thick brown thatch, they reached higher ground. Still higher, on their left, the elevation called Bulbarrow, or Bealbarrow, well-nigh the highest in South Wessex, swelled into the sky, engirdled by its earthen trenches. From hereabout the long road was fairly level for some distance onward. They mounted in front of the waggon, and Abraham grew reflective. "Tess!" he said in a preparatory tone, after a silence. "Yes, Abraham." "Bain't you glad that we've become gentlefolk?" "Not particular glad." "But you be glad that you 'm going to marry a gentleman?" "What?" said Tess, lifting her face. "That our great relation will help 'ee to marry a gentleman." "I? Our great relation? We have no such relation. What has put that into your head?" "I heard 'em talking about it up at Rolliver's when I went to find father. There's a rich lady of our family out at Trantridge, and mother said that if you claimed kin with the lady, she'd put 'ee in the way of marrying a gentleman." His sister became abruptly still, and lapsed into a pondering silence. Abraham talked on, rather for the pleasure of utterance than for audition, so that his sister's abstraction was of no account. He leant back against the hives, and with upturned face made observations on the stars, whose cold pulses were beating amid the black hollows above, in serene dissociation from these two wisps of human life. He asked how far away those twinklers were, and whether God was on the other side of them. But ever and anon his childish prattle recurred to what impressed his imagination even more deeply than the wonders of creation. If Tess were made rich by marrying a gentleman, would she have money enough to buy a spyglass so large that it would draw the stars as near to her as Nettlecombe-Tout? The renewed subject, which seemed to have impregnated the whole family, filled Tess with impatience. "Never mind that now!" she exclaimed. "Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?" "Yes." "All like ours?" "I don't know; but I think so. They sometimes seem to be like the apples on our stubbard-tree. Most of them splendid and sound--a few blighted." "Which do we live on--a splendid one or a blighted one?" "A blighted one." "'Tis very unlucky that we didn't pitch on a sound one, when there were so many more of 'em!" "Yes." "Is it like that REALLY, Tess?" said Abraham, turning to her much impressed, on reconsideration of this rare information. "How would it have been if we had pitched on a sound one?" "Well, father wouldn't have coughed and creeped about as he does, and wouldn't have got too tipsy to go on this journey; and mother wouldn't have been always washing, and never getting finished." "And you would have been a rich lady ready-made, and not have had to be made rich by marrying a gentleman?" "O Aby, don't--don't talk of that any more!" Left to his reflections Abraham soon grew drowsy. Tess was not skilful in the management of a horse, but she thought that she could take upon herself the entire conduct of the load for the present and allow Abraham to go to sleep if he wished to do so. She made him a sort of nest in front of the hives, in such a manner that he could not fall, and, taking the reins into her own hands, jogged on as before. Prince required but slight attention, lacking energy for superfluous movements of any sort. With no longer a companion to distract her, Tess fell more deeply into reverie than ever, her back leaning against the hives. The mute procession past her shoulders of trees and hedges became attached to fantastic scenes outside reality, and the occasional heave of the wind became the sigh of some immense sad soul, conterminous with the universe in space, and with history in time. Then, examining the mesh of events in her own life, she seemed to see the vanity of her father's pride; the gentlemanly suitor awaiting herself in her mother's fancy; to see him as a grimacing personage, laughing at her poverty and her shrouded knightly ancestry. Everything grew more and more extravagant, and she no longer knew how time passed. A sudden jerk shook her in her seat, and Tess awoke from the sleep into which she, too, had fallen. They were a long way further on than when she had lost consciousness, and the waggon had stopped. A hollow groan, unlike anything she had ever heard in her life, came from the front, followed by a shout of "Hoi there!" The lantern hanging at her waggon had gone out, but another was shining in her face--much brighter than her own had been. Something terrible had happened. The harness was entangled with an object which blocked the way. In consternation Tess jumped down, and discovered the dreadful truth. The groan had proceeded from her father's poor horse Prince. The morning mail-cart, with its two noiseless wheels, speeding along these lanes like an arrow, as it always did, had driven into her slow and unlighted equipage. The pointed shaft of the cart had entered the breast of the unhappy Prince like a sword, and from the wound his life's blood was spouting in a stream, and falling with a hiss into the road. In her despair Tess sprang forward and put her hand upon the hole, with the only result that she became splashed from face to skirt with the crimson drops. Then she stood helplessly looking on. Prince also stood firm and motionless as long as he could; till he suddenly sank down in a heap. By this time the mail-cart man had joined her, and began dragging and unharnessing the hot form of Prince. But he was already dead, and, seeing that nothing more could be done immediately, the mail-cart man returned to his own animal, which was uninjured. "You was on the wrong side," he said. "I am bound to go on with the mail-bags, so that the best thing for you to do is bide here with your load. I'll send somebody to help you as soon as I can. It is getting daylight, and you have nothing to fear." He mounted and sped on his way; while Tess stood and waited. The atmosphere turned pale, the birds shook themselves in the hedges, arose, and twittered; the lane showed all its white features, and Tess showed hers, still whiter. The huge pool of blood in front of her was already assuming the iridescence of coagulation; and when the sun rose a hundred prismatic hues were reflected from it. Prince lay alongside, still and stark; his eyes half open, the hole in his chest looking scarcely large enough to have let out all that had animated him. "'Tis all my doing--all mine!" the girl cried, gazing at the spectacle. "No excuse for me--none. What will mother and father live on now? Aby, Aby!" She shook the child, who had slept soundly through the whole disaster. "We can't go on with our load--Prince is killed!" When Abraham realized all, the furrows of fifty years were extemporized on his young face. "Why, I danced and laughed only yesterday!" she went on to herself. "To think that I was such a fool!" "'Tis because we be on a blighted star, and not a sound one, isn't it, Tess?" murmured Abraham through his tears. In silence they waited through an interval which seemed endless. At length a sound, and an approaching object, proved to them that the driver of the mail-car had been as good as his word. A farmer's man from near Stourcastle came up, leading a strong cob. He was harnessed to the waggon of beehives in the place of Prince, and the load taken on towards Casterbridge. The evening of the same day saw the empty waggon reach again the spot of the accident. Prince had lain there in the ditch since the morning; but the place of the blood-pool was still visible in the middle of the road, though scratched and scraped over by passing vehicles. All that was left of Prince was now hoisted into the waggon he had formerly hauled, and with his hoofs in the air, and his shoes shining in the setting sunlight, he retraced the eight or nine miles to Marlott. Tess had gone back earlier. How to break the news was more than she could think. It was a relief to her tongue to find from the faces of her parents that they already knew of their loss, though this did not lessen the self-reproach which she continued to heap upon herself for her negligence. But the very shiftlessness of the household rendered the misfortune a less terrifying one to them than it would have been to a thriving family, though in the present case it meant ruin, and in the other it would only have meant inconvenience. In the Durbeyfield countenances there was nothing of the red wrath that would have burnt upon the girl from parents more ambitious for her welfare. Nobody blamed Tess as she blamed herself. When it was discovered that the knacker and tanner would give only a very few shillings for Prince's carcase because of his decrepitude, Durbeyfield rose to the occasion. "No," said he stoically, "I won't sell his old body. When we d'Urbervilles was knights in the land, we didn't sell our chargers for cat's meat. Let 'em keep their shillings! He've served me well in his lifetime, and I won't part from him now." He worked harder the next day in digging a grave for Prince in the garden than he had worked for months to grow a crop for his family. When the hole was ready, Durbeyfield and his wife tied a rope round the horse and dragged him up the path towards it, the children following in funeral train. Abraham and 'Liza-Lu sobbed, Hope and Modesty discharged their griefs in loud blares which echoed from the walls; and when Prince was tumbled in they gathered round the grave. The bread-winner had been taken away from them; what would they do? "Is he gone to heaven?" asked Abraham, between the sobs. Then Durbeyfield began to shovel in the earth, and the children cried anew. All except Tess. Her face was dry and pale, as though she regarded herself in the light of a murderess.

Chapter 4

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

Rolliver's Inn is the only alehouse in the village, and can only boast of an off-license: nobody can legally drink on the premises, but this rule is often averted. Mrs. Durbeyfield had found her husband there bragging about his grand project for his family. He will send Tess to claim kin, for there is a lady of the name d'Urberville. John Durbeyfield admits that he has not told Tess this, but she is tractable and will do what he wishes. Joan Durbeyfield reminds her husband that there are many families that were once estimable and are now ordinary, but agrees to the arrangement. Tess arrives, and Abraham tells her that she will marry a gentleman. It is eleven o'clock when Tess gets her family to bed, and the next morning John is unable to go on his journey. Tess agrees to go with Abraham. On the way there, Abraham and Tess discuss how other stars are worlds just like Earth. Tess says that some worlds are splendid, but a few are blighted, and they decide that they are on a blighted one. Tess realizes the vanity of her father's pride. Suddenly, the wagon stops and they find that the morning mail-cart has crashed into their horse, killing it. Tess blames herself, while Abraham blames it for living on a blighted star. Tess does not know how to break the news to her family, but John Durbeyfield takes the news stoically.

At this point in the novel, Tess Durbeyfield is a passive character subject to the wishes of her family and afflicted by their sense of irresponsibility. She is the key to her father's design to regain the family fortune, for he intends to marry her off to a gentleman who will provide for her and for her parents; however, Tess has no say in her father's plans. Hardy allows for the strong possibility that John Durbeyfield's plans will amount to nothing, with the reminder that other families have amounted to little despite their former high esteem. Hardy returns to the idea of the cruelty of fate in this chapter with the discussion between Tess and Abraham concerning the stars; the two siblings decide that the misfortunes they suffer are due to living on a blighted star rather than any direct sense of cause and effect. This theme is also illustrated by the accident that Tess and Abraham have concerning the horse and wagon; the occurrence is a complete accident, yet Hardy instills the event with a sense of determinism, as if it were part of the Durbeyfield fate. Tess's reaction to the accident is ironic, for Tess believes herself responsible for an event for which she had no control; furthermore, it is her father's irresponsibility that caused her to take the wagon to deliver the beehives. Nevertheless, Tess feels guilty for the event; this will lead her to be more susceptible to her father's wishes

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/56.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_6_part_3.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 55

chapter 55

{"name": "Chapter 55", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-7-chapters-53-59", "summary": "Angel reaches Sandbourne, a fashionable village that had recently experienced tremendous growth. Angel wonders where Tess could be amidst the wealth and fashion around him. He asks the postman for the address of a Mrs. Clare, and then a Miss Durbeyfield, but he does not know either. Another postal worker tells Angel the address of a d'Urberville at The Herons. Angel goes to this lodging house and asks Mrs. Brooks, the householder, for Teresa d'Urberville. He learns that she has been passing as a married woman. Tess appears, loosely wrapped in a cashmere dressing gown. Angel begs forgiveness for going away, but she says that it is too late. She says that she waited and waited, but Alec has won her back. She says that she hates Alec now, for he told her the lie that Angel would never come again. Angel can barely speak, but feels that Tess had ceased to recognize the body before her as her husband.", "analysis": "The village of Sandbourne proves a stark contrast to the other regions in which Tess has stayed; this village community is thriving and fashionable, and its description foreshadows the later revelation of this chapter that Tess has returned to the sophisticated and urbane Alec d'Urberville. Tess herself comes to physically resemble this area, having adopted a more fashionable and stylish dress that endows her with an appearance of assurance and strength. Hardy juxtaposes Tess with the now sickly and decrepit Angel, who demonstrates his weakness in comparison with Tess. However, Angel's reappearance breaks Tess's facade of strength, demonstrating that her decision to return to Alec is one of weakness and desperation. Significantly, Tess does not blame Angel for what has occurred, but rather shifts the blame to Alec. This foreshadows the events that will drive the final chapters of the novel. Angel's realization that Tess had not recognized the body before her as her husband parallels his earlier condemnation of Tess as a different woman in Tess's shape. In this situation, it is Tess who rejects Angel, for she cannot reconcile what she believes about her husband with the actual person in front of her"}

At eleven o'clock that night, having secured a bed at one of the hotels and telegraphed his address to his father immediately on his arrival, he walked out into the streets of Sandbourne. It was too late to call on or inquire for any one, and he reluctantly postponed his purpose till the morning. But he could not retire to rest just yet. This fashionable watering-place, with its eastern and its western stations, its piers, its groves of pines, its promenades, and its covered gardens, was, to Angel Clare, like a fairy place suddenly created by the stroke of a wand, and allowed to get a little dusty. An outlying eastern tract of the enormous Egdon Waste was close at hand, yet on the very verge of that tawny piece of antiquity such a glittering novelty as this pleasure city had chosen to spring up. Within the space of a mile from its outskirts every irregularity of the soil was prehistoric, every channel an undisturbed British trackway; not a sod having been turned there since the days of the Caesars. Yet the exotic had grown here, suddenly as the prophet's gourd; and had drawn hither Tess. By the midnight lamps he went up and down the winding way of this new world in an old one, and could discern between the trees and against the stars the lofty roofs, chimneys, gazebos, and towers of the numerous fanciful residences of which the place was composed. It was a city of detached mansions; a Mediterranean lounging-place on the English Channel; and as seen now by night it seemed even more imposing than it was. The sea was near at hand, but not intrusive; it murmured, and he thought it was the pines; the pines murmured in precisely the same tones, and he thought they were the sea. Where could Tess possibly be, a cottage-girl, his young wife, amidst all this wealth and fashion? The more he pondered, the more was he puzzled. Were there any cows to milk here? There certainly were no fields to till. She was most probably engaged to do something in one of these large houses; and he sauntered along, looking at the chamber-windows and their lights going out one by one, and wondered which of them might be hers. Conjecture was useless, and just after twelve o'clock he entered and went to bed. Before putting out his light he re-read Tess's impassioned letter. Sleep, however, he could not--so near her, yet so far from her--and he continually lifted the window-blind and regarded the backs of the opposite houses, and wondered behind which of the sashes she reposed at that moment. He might almost as well have sat up all night. In the morning he arose at seven, and shortly after went out, taking the direction of the chief post-office. At the door he met an intelligent postman coming out with letters for the morning delivery. "Do you know the address of a Mrs Clare?" asked Angel. The postman shook his head. Then, remembering that she would have been likely to continue the use of her maiden name, Clare said-- "Of a Miss Durbeyfield?" "Durbeyfield?" This also was strange to the postman addressed. "There's visitors coming and going every day, as you know, sir," he said; "and without the name of the house 'tis impossible to find 'em." One of his comrades hastening out at that moment, the name was repeated to him. "I know no name of Durbeyfield; but there is the name of d'Urberville at The Herons," said the second. "That's it!" cried Clare, pleased to think that she had reverted to the real pronunciation. "What place is The Herons?" "A stylish lodging-house. 'Tis all lodging-houses here, bless 'ee." Clare received directions how to find the house, and hastened thither, arriving with the milkman. The Herons, though an ordinary villa, stood in its own grounds, and was certainly the last place in which one would have expected to find lodgings, so private was its appearance. If poor Tess was a servant here, as he feared, she would go to the back-door to that milkman, and he was inclined to go thither also. However, in his doubts he turned to the front, and rang. The hour being early, the landlady herself opened the door. Clare inquired for Teresa d'Urberville or Durbeyfield. "Mrs d'Urberville?" "Yes." Tess, then, passed as a married woman, and he felt glad, even though she had not adopted his name. "Will you kindly tell her that a relative is anxious to see her?" "It is rather early. What name shall I give, sir?" "Angel." "Mr Angel?" "No; Angel. It is my Christian name. She'll understand." "I'll see if she is awake." He was shown into the front room--the dining-room--and looked out through the spring curtains at the little lawn, and the rhododendrons and other shrubs upon it. Obviously her position was by no means so bad as he had feared, and it crossed his mind that she must somehow have claimed and sold the jewels to attain it. He did not blame her for one moment. Soon his sharpened ear detected footsteps upon the stairs, at which his heart thumped so painfully that he could hardly stand firm. "Dear me! what will she think of me, so altered as I am!" he said to himself; and the door opened. Tess appeared on the threshold--not at all as he had expected to see her--bewilderingly otherwise, indeed. Her great natural beauty was, if not heightened, rendered more obvious by her attire. She was loosely wrapped in a cashmere dressing-gown of gray-white, embroidered in half-mourning tints, and she wore slippers of the same hue. Her neck rose out of a frill of down, and her well-remembered cable of dark-brown hair was partially coiled up in a mass at the back of her head and partly hanging on her shoulder--the evident result of haste. He had held out his arms, but they had fallen again to his side; for she had not come forward, remaining still in the opening of the doorway. Mere yellow skeleton that he was now, he felt the contrast between them, and thought his appearance distasteful to her. "Tess!" he said huskily, "can you forgive me for going away? Can't you--come to me? How do you get to be--like this?" "It is too late," said she, her voice sounding hard through the room, her eyes shining unnaturally. "I did not think rightly of you--I did not see you as you were!" he continued to plead. "I have learnt to since, dearest Tessy mine!" "Too late, too late!" she said, waving her hand in the impatience of a person whose tortures cause every instant to seem an hour. "Don't come close to me, Angel! No--you must not. Keep away." "But don't you love me, my dear wife, because I have been so pulled down by illness? You are not so fickle--I am come on purpose for you--my mother and father will welcome you now!" "Yes--O, yes, yes! But I say, I say it is too late." She seemed to feel like a fugitive in a dream, who tries to move away, but cannot. "Don't you know all--don't you know it? Yet how do you come here if you do not know?" "I inquired here and there, and I found the way." "I waited and waited for you," she went on, her tones suddenly resuming their old fluty pathos. "But you did not come! And I wrote to you, and you did not come! He kept on saying you would never come any more, and that I was a foolish woman. He was very kind to me, and to mother, and to all of us after father's death. He--" "I don't understand." "He has won me back to him." Clare looked at her keenly, then, gathering her meaning, flagged like one plague-stricken, and his glance sank; it fell on her hands, which, once rosy, were now white and more delicate. She continued-- "He is upstairs. I hate him now, because he told me a lie--that you would not come again; and you HAVE come! These clothes are what he's put upon me: I didn't care what he did wi' me! But--will you go away, Angel, please, and never come any more?" They stood fixed, their baffled hearts looking out of their eyes with a joylessness pitiful to see. Both seemed to implore something to shelter them from reality. "Ah--it is my fault!" said Clare. But he could not get on. Speech was as inexpressive as silence. But he had a vague consciousness of one thing, though it was not clear to him till later; that his original Tess had spiritually ceased to recognize the body before him as hers--allowing it to drift, like a corpse upon the current, in a direction dissociated from its living will. A few instants passed, and he found that Tess was gone. His face grew colder and more shrunken as he stood concentrated on the moment, and a minute or two after, he found himself in the street, walking along he did not know whither.

Chapter 55

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

Angel reaches Sandbourne, a fashionable village that had recently experienced tremendous growth. Angel wonders where Tess could be amidst the wealth and fashion around him. He asks the postman for the address of a Mrs. Clare, and then a Miss Durbeyfield, but he does not know either. Another postal worker tells Angel the address of a d'Urberville at The Herons. Angel goes to this lodging house and asks Mrs. Brooks, the householder, for Teresa d'Urberville. He learns that she has been passing as a married woman. Tess appears, loosely wrapped in a cashmere dressing gown. Angel begs forgiveness for going away, but she says that it is too late. She says that she waited and waited, but Alec has won her back. She says that she hates Alec now, for he told her the lie that Angel would never come again. Angel can barely speak, but feels that Tess had ceased to recognize the body before her as her husband.

The village of Sandbourne proves a stark contrast to the other regions in which Tess has stayed; this village community is thriving and fashionable, and its description foreshadows the later revelation of this chapter that Tess has returned to the sophisticated and urbane Alec d'Urberville. Tess herself comes to physically resemble this area, having adopted a more fashionable and stylish dress that endows her with an appearance of assurance and strength. Hardy juxtaposes Tess with the now sickly and decrepit Angel, who demonstrates his weakness in comparison with Tess. However, Angel's reappearance breaks Tess's facade of strength, demonstrating that her decision to return to Alec is one of weakness and desperation. Significantly, Tess does not blame Angel for what has occurred, but rather shifts the blame to Alec. This foreshadows the events that will drive the final chapters of the novel. Angel's realization that Tess had not recognized the body before her as her husband parallels his earlier condemnation of Tess as a different woman in Tess's shape. In this situation, it is Tess who rejects Angel, for she cannot reconcile what she believes about her husband with the actual person in front of her

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_2_part_7.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 22

chapter 22

{"name": "Chapter 22", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-3-chapters-16-24", "summary": "The next morning Dairyman Crick orders his workers to overhaul the mead, for there is garlic in it that has spoiled the milk. While searching for garlic in the field, Angel finds Tess and they search together. Dairyman Crick finds them and tells her that she should not be out in the fields, for she was not feeling well a day or so ago. Tess mentions to Angel that Izzy Huett and Retty look pretty, but Angel insists on Tess's superiority. Tess finally tells Angel to marry one of them if she wants a dairywoman and not a lady, and not to think of marrying her. From this day Tess forces herself to take pains to avoid Angel.", "analysis": "Tess begins to retreat from any possible romantic engagement with Angel Clare in this chapter, as he makes his feelings for her more explicit. She rejects Angel's affection for her because she believes that he wants a simple girl as a wife and not a member of a noble family. The rationale for Tess's rejection of Angel is ironic, for her shame stems not from the more lowly details of her history, but rather the lofty ones. She fears that she may be exposed as a noble lady, not that she may be exposed as an unchaste woman"}

They came downstairs yawning next morning; but skimming and milking were proceeded with as usual, and they went indoors to breakfast. Dairyman Crick was discovered stamping about the house. He had received a letter, in which a customer had complained that the butter had a twang. "And begad, so 't have!" said the dairyman, who held in his left hand a wooden slice on which a lump of butter was stuck. "Yes--taste for yourself!" Several of them gathered round him; and Mr Clare tasted, Tess tasted, also the other indoor milkmaids, one or two of the milking-men, and last of all Mrs Crick, who came out from the waiting breakfast-table. There certainly was a twang. The dairyman, who had thrown himself into abstraction to better realize the taste, and so divine the particular species of noxious weed to which it appertained, suddenly exclaimed-- "'Tis garlic! and I thought there wasn't a blade left in that mead!" Then all the old hands remembered that a certain dry mead, into which a few of the cows had been admitted of late, had, in years gone by, spoilt the butter in the same way. The dairyman had not recognized the taste at that time, and thought the butter bewitched. "We must overhaul that mead," he resumed; "this mustn't continny!" All having armed themselves with old pointed knives, they went out together. As the inimical plant could only be present in very microscopic dimensions to have escaped ordinary observation, to find it seemed rather a hopeless attempt in the stretch of rich grass before them. However, they formed themselves into line, all assisting, owing to the importance of the search; the dairyman at the upper end with Mr Clare, who had volunteered to help; then Tess, Marian, Izz Huett, and Retty; then Bill Lewell, Jonathan, and the married dairywomen--Beck Knibbs, with her wooly black hair and rolling eyes; and flaxen Frances, consumptive from the winter damps of the water-meads--who lived in their respective cottages. With eyes fixed upon the ground they crept slowly across a strip of the field, returning a little further down in such a manner that, when they should have finished, not a single inch of the pasture but would have fallen under the eye of some one of them. It was a most tedious business, not more than half a dozen shoots of garlic being discoverable in the whole field; yet such was the herb's pungency that probably one bite of it by one cow had been sufficient to season the whole dairy's produce for the day. Differing one from another in natures and moods so greatly as they did, they yet formed, bending, a curiously uniform row--automatic, noiseless; and an alien observer passing down the neighbouring lane might well have been excused for massing them as "Hodge". As they crept along, stooping low to discern the plant, a soft yellow gleam was reflected from the buttercups into their shaded faces, giving them an elfish, moonlit aspect, though the sun was pouring upon their backs in all the strength of noon. Angel Clare, who communistically stuck to his rule of taking part with the rest in everything, glanced up now and then. It was not, of course, by accident that he walked next to Tess. "Well, how are you?" he murmured. "Very well, thank you, sir," she replied demurely. As they had been discussing a score of personal matters only half-an-hour before, the introductory style seemed a little superfluous. But they got no further in speech just then. They crept and crept, the hem of her petticoat just touching his gaiter, and his elbow sometimes brushing hers. At last the dairyman, who came next, could stand it no longer. "Upon my soul and body, this here stooping do fairly make my back open and shut!" he exclaimed, straightening himself slowly with an excruciated look till quite upright. "And you, maidy Tess, you wasn't well a day or two ago--this will make your head ache finely! Don't do any more, if you feel fainty; leave the rest to finish it." Dairyman Crick withdrew, and Tess dropped behind. Mr Clare also stepped out of line, and began privateering about for the weed. When she found him near her, her very tension at what she had heard the night before made her the first to speak. "Don't they look pretty?" she said. "Who?" "Izzy Huett and Retty." Tess had moodily decided that either of these maidens would make a good farmer's wife, and that she ought to recommend them, and obscure her own wretched charms. "Pretty? Well, yes--they are pretty girls--fresh looking. I have often thought so." "Though, poor dears, prettiness won't last long!" "O no, unfortunately." "They are excellent dairywomen." "Yes: though not better than you." "They skim better than I." "Do they?" Clare remained observing them--not without their observing him. "She is colouring up," continued Tess heroically. "Who?" "Retty Priddle." "Oh! Why it that?" "Because you are looking at her." Self-sacrificing as her mood might be, Tess could not well go further and cry, "Marry one of them, if you really do want a dairywoman and not a lady; and don't think of marrying me!" She followed Dairyman Crick, and had the mournful satisfaction of seeing that Clare remained behind. From this day she forced herself to take pains to avoid him--never allowing herself, as formerly, to remain long in his company, even if their juxtaposition were purely accidental. She gave the other three every chance. Tess was woman enough to realize from their avowals to herself that Angel Clare had the honour of all the dairymaids in his keeping, and her perception of his care to avoid compromising the happiness of either in the least degree bred a tender respect in Tess for what she deemed, rightly or wrongly, the self-controlling sense of duty shown by him, a quality which she had never expected to find in one of the opposite sex, and in the absence of which more than one of the simple hearts who were his house-mates might have gone weeping on her pilgrimage.

Chapter 22

https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-3-chapters-16-24

The next morning Dairyman Crick orders his workers to overhaul the mead, for there is garlic in it that has spoiled the milk. While searching for garlic in the field, Angel finds Tess and they search together. Dairyman Crick finds them and tells her that she should not be out in the fields, for she was not feeling well a day or so ago. Tess mentions to Angel that Izzy Huett and Retty look pretty, but Angel insists on Tess's superiority. Tess finally tells Angel to marry one of them if she wants a dairywoman and not a lady, and not to think of marrying her. From this day Tess forces herself to take pains to avoid Angel.

Tess begins to retreat from any possible romantic engagement with Angel Clare in this chapter, as he makes his feelings for her more explicit. She rejects Angel's affection for her because she believes that he wants a simple girl as a wife and not a member of a noble family. The rationale for Tess's rejection of Angel is ironic, for her shame stems not from the more lowly details of her history, but rather the lofty ones. She fears that she may be exposed as a noble lady, not that she may be exposed as an unchaste woman

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/book_6.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Brothers Karamazov/section_5_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 6.chapter 1-chapter 3

book 6

{"name": "Book 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422052201/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-brothers-karamazov/study-guide/summary-book-6", "summary": "Father Zossima is dying, yet he is still talking to those gathered around him. Alyosha comes back to the monastery after his other visits, and he goes to Father Zossima's side. Father Zossima is happy to see him, and he explains to Alyosha the meaning of his bow to Dmitri during their interview. He says that he bowed to Dmitri because he prophesied great misfortune for him, a fate he does not believe that Alyosha will share. He urges Alyosha to go back to his brothers and help them, for helping them with their difficulties will show Alyosha how to embrace all of humanity and show those in anguish how to appreciate life. Father Zossima then begins talking about his older brother. Father Zossima says that he looked up to his brother. He then tells Alyosha that he reminds him of his dear brother, which is part of the reason why Zossima has taken such a liking to Alyosha. Father Zossima's brother, who was some eight years older than he, fell into the company of an intellectual with liberal ideas. He disagreed with his religious mother, and she became very saddened by his beliefs. One day, he fell ill with tuberculosis, and the doctors told him that he had only several months to live. He began acting very loving, and he handled his incapacitation very bravely. He became very interested in every living being around him. He talked incessantly about the need to love all of nature and humanity. He had a great effect on those around him in his last days, and his younger brother never forgot the lesson he learned from his teachings. Father Zossima calls his late brother \"a message from above.\" Father Zossima pauses to tell those around him how greatly the Bible has affected him. It captured his imagination as a young boy, and he never lost his fascination with it. He wishes that all men could find the meaning he found in the book as a boy. He says, \"it is like a sculpted model of the world, of mankind, and of the characters of men; everything is there and it contains guidance for us for all ages. How many mysteries are solved in it, how many revealed!\" Father Zossima then talks about his wayward life as a young man. He says of his youth, \"drunkenness, debauchery, and rowdyism were almost matters of pride.\" When he graduated from military school, he was a free spirit. He spent money \"with the total recklessness and abandon of youth.\" He became quite enamored of a girl, but he did not ask to marry her because he was having too much fun as a bachelor. Then, after being gone for several months, he found out that the girl had married another man. Hot-blooded Zossima was incensed, losing \"all sense of reality.\" He decided to challenge her new husband to a duel. The morning of the duel, however, Zossima was musing on his brother's last wishes. He realized that his hot-headedness was not consistent with the message of love his brother had advocated. He went to the duel anyway, revived by his new outlook on life. He let the other man shoot, bravely facing his opponent, looking at him \"with love.\" The other man shot, but the bullet just nicked Zossima, who turned and tossed his pistol away before asking the man's forgiveness. After the duel, he decided to retire from military service and go to a monastery. When he told his fellow officers about his resignation, they teased him, but they did not reproach him. In fact, they admired his bravery and liked his honesty. He talked about the duel with people from around the community, and he became quite famous for his duel. News about Zossima's actions reached many people, and one night Zossima received a visitor. The man was a famous philanthropist who was respected throughout the town. The man said he had heard Zossima's story and was rather impressed. He asked about what had prompted Zossima's change of heart, and Zossima told him about it, his decision to strike out in a new direction in life, and the exhilaration of that realization. The two continued talking, and they met and talked for nights on end. After many of these meetings, the man told Zossima that he had killed someone but another man had been blamed for the crime. Even though the man died before his trial, Zossima's visitor always felt the need to confess, despite becoming a good citizen and an essential member of his community. One day, overcome by guilt, he confessed to his crime in the open, but everyone chalked it up to temporary insanity. They could not believe that such a good man was capable of committing such a terrible act. Zossima's visitor became sick after his many talks with Zossima, arguably because he felt so guilty. Father Zossima visited him, and he never told anyone of the man's crimes. Before the man died, he told Father Zossima he was at peace with the world for the first time in years. Zossima then tells Alyosha his theory about the importance of monks in Russia. He knows that often, monks are derided in society for being \"shameless beggars living off other people's labor.\" Zossima feels that monks and the true Russian folks are the key to the salvation of the Russian people. The regular folks are ultimately the most important agents of change, but the monks lead them by example. He feels that the monk is actually very near to the common people, and he believes that all men should be equal; the hierarchy among masters and servants should not exist. If hierarchy between a master and a servant can be abolished, they can become true \"brothers in spirit.\" Zossima goes on to tell all those around him that all men are intertwined, so man should love all those around him, and he should also feel that he is culpable for the sins of others. God is mysterious. Man should not judge his brethren; only God can judge. There is no Hell; there is only man's conscience to torment him. This is a \"spiritual Hell.\" Suddenly, in the middle of his speech, Father Zossima lowers himself to the ground, spreads his arms, and embraces the Earth. In a state of \"ecstasy,\" he dies. Those in the monastery quickly find out about his death. By morning, even the townspeople know. Father Zossima, the famous elder, is no longer.", "analysis": "Father Zossima is the sole focus of Book Six. In very plain terms he tells those around him his beliefs and gives them spiritual advice. This section of the novel reads like a theological text or a piece of apologetics, and it is perhaps the most didactic installment of The Brothers Karamazov. In many novels, extracting characters' true beliefs from their words and actions can take a great deal of analysis and inference. In this novel, however, many characters speak their minds plainly and clearly. At one point in a discussion with Alyosha, Ivan explains that all \"good Russians\" are most concerned about their relationship to God and country. Why should a man shy away from these grand issues if they are so close to every Russian's heart? Zossima's words from his bed, for his part, are not simply his views. They are the views that he believes all men should share. He is not content to love humanity; he wants others to feel the same way about humanity that he does, for he believes it to be morally, psychologically, and spiritually healthy to do so. Father Zossima is the character whose words and deeds influence Alyosha, the hero of the novel, the most. Thus, his sage words are central to the theme of the book. It is almost as if Dostoevsky is speaking directly to the reader--not that this is Dostoevsky's final word on these matters, but it is a perspective he wants readers to take seriously. A common trope in The Brothers Karamazov is that each character has a foil or doppelganger in some respect. Ivan's atheism is very much defined against Alyosha's piousness, Dmitri's sensualism is a reflection of his father's. In keeping with this pattern of doubling, Father Zossima tells Alyosha how much he reminds the old man of his late brother. Unlike the story about the Grand Inquisitor that Ivan told, the story of Zossima's brother is based on fact. Alyosha is very much like Zossima's brother, as he is like Christ in The Grand Inquisitor. Alyosha is thus being established as the successor protagonist in a couple of dramatic religious traditions. He is likened both to Christ and the brother who Zossima saw as a role model. Alyosha is still a young man, but high expectations are set for him. Dostoevsky lends him storied weight by associating him with almost mythical characters. Zossima's brother, however, is not perfect like Christ, nor is he unwavering in his beliefs. In fact, he undergoes a complete change during Zossima's description of him, going from liberal intellectual to reverent mentor. This implies that Alyosha too has an internal conflict with which he struggles. Alyosha does not seem to have the wayward streak of Dmitri or the skepticism of his brother Ivan, however, so what is his struggle? It seems that Alyosha feels very concerned about his father and brothers, and he does not know how to help them most. He also wants to stay in the monastery with Father Zossima but knows he must go into the world. This is a key moral struggle for people of faith, who feel responsible both to the Church and to the world. Alyosha is not the only character with an internal struggle. Father Zossima describes his younger days as an army officer. He was not always the paragon of love and understanding that he is now. He was a hot-headed profligate. The almost saintly Zossima now seems incapable of any feelings outside of love and charity. The idea that he once recklessly challenged a man to a duel may seem impossible, but this is the standard material of testimonial apologetics. Until now, Alyosha and Zossima have seemed insufficiently three-dimensional. Knowing that they have struggles and weaknesses helps us see them as more human. Just because Father Zossima has gained a bit of humanity, however, his status as an acclaimed icon is not shaken. Zossima's spiritual conversion before the duel gained him fame, and people from all around heard about him. Even now, he is famous for his religious fervor. Fame does not require singularity of purpose and character; the more interesting protagonists overcome conflicts and serve as examples to others. Conflict is not necessarily weakness in a world of uncertainty; it can lead to realization, understanding, and prudent action. Just because Dmitri is deeply conflicted, for instance, on that basis alone he is not necessarily worse morally than Alyosha and Zossima. Dmitri means well, at least, and he is struggling with conflicting impulses. He is capable of a deep understanding of the complexity of an issue, and this is why he tends to be ambivalent. Feeling conflicted is more honest than having a steadfast opinion and sticking to it uncritically. A strong, unwavering opinion can be stubbornness, yet for Alyosha and Zossima, it is integrity."}

Book VI. The Russian Monk Chapter I. Father Zossima And His Visitors When with an anxious and aching heart Alyosha went into his elder's cell, he stood still almost astonished. Instead of a sick man at his last gasp, perhaps unconscious, as he had feared to find him, he saw him sitting up in his chair and, though weak and exhausted, his face was bright and cheerful, he was surrounded by visitors and engaged in a quiet and joyful conversation. But he had only got up from his bed a quarter of an hour before Alyosha's arrival; his visitors had gathered together in his cell earlier, waiting for him to wake, having received a most confident assurance from Father Paissy that "the teacher would get up, and as he had himself promised in the morning, converse once more with those dear to his heart." This promise and indeed every word of the dying elder Father Paissy put implicit trust in. If he had seen him unconscious, if he had seen him breathe his last, and yet had his promise that he would rise up and say good-by to him, he would not have believed perhaps even in death, but would still have expected the dead man to recover and fulfill his promise. In the morning as he lay down to sleep, Father Zossima had told him positively: "I shall not die without the delight of another conversation with you, beloved of my heart. I shall look once more on your dear face and pour out my heart to you once again." The monks, who had gathered for this probably last conversation with Father Zossima, had all been his devoted friends for many years. There were four of them: Father Iosif and Father Paissy, Father Mihail, the warden of the hermitage, a man not very old and far from being learned. He was of humble origin, of strong will and steadfast faith, of austere appearance, but of deep tenderness, though he obviously concealed it as though he were almost ashamed of it. The fourth, Father Anfim, was a very old and humble little monk of the poorest peasant class. He was almost illiterate, and very quiet, scarcely speaking to any one. He was the humblest of the humble, and looked as though he had been frightened by something great and awful beyond the scope of his intelligence. Father Zossima had a great affection for this timorous man, and always treated him with marked respect, though perhaps there was no one he had known to whom he had said less, in spite of the fact that he had spent years wandering about holy Russia with him. That was very long ago, forty years before, when Father Zossima first began his life as a monk in a poor and little monastery at Kostroma, and when, shortly after, he had accompanied Father Anfim on his pilgrimage to collect alms for their poor monastery. The whole party were in the bedroom which, as we mentioned before, was very small, so that there was scarcely room for the four of them (in addition to Porfiry, the novice, who stood) to sit round Father Zossima on chairs brought from the sitting-room. It was already beginning to get dark, the room was lighted up by the lamps and the candles before the ikons. Seeing Alyosha standing embarrassed in the doorway, Father Zossima smiled at him joyfully and held out his hand. "Welcome, my quiet one, welcome, my dear, here you are too. I knew you would come." Alyosha went up to him, bowed down before him to the ground and wept. Something surged up from his heart, his soul was quivering, he wanted to sob. "Come, don't weep over me yet," Father Zossima smiled, laying his right hand on his head. "You see I am sitting up talking; maybe I shall live another twenty years yet, as that dear good woman from Vishegorye, with her little Lizaveta in her arms, wished me yesterday. God bless the mother and the little girl Lizaveta," he crossed himself. "Porfiry, did you take her offering where I told you?" He meant the sixty copecks brought him the day before by the good-humored woman to be given "to some one poorer than me." Such offerings, always of money gained by personal toil, are made by way of penance voluntarily undertaken. The elder had sent Porfiry the evening before to a widow, whose house had been burnt down lately, and who after the fire had gone with her children begging alms. Porfiry hastened to reply that he had given the money, as he had been instructed, "from an unknown benefactress." "Get up, my dear boy," the elder went on to Alyosha. "Let me look at you. Have you been home and seen your brother?" It seemed strange to Alyosha that he asked so confidently and precisely, about one of his brothers only--but which one? Then perhaps he had sent him out both yesterday and to-day for the sake of that brother. "I have seen one of my brothers," answered Alyosha. "I mean the elder one, to whom I bowed down." "I only saw him yesterday and could not find him to-day," said Alyosha. "Make haste to find him, go again to-morrow and make haste, leave everything and make haste. Perhaps you may still have time to prevent something terrible. I bowed down yesterday to the great suffering in store for him." He was suddenly silent and seemed to be pondering. The words were strange. Father Iosif, who had witnessed the scene yesterday, exchanged glances with Father Paissy. Alyosha could not resist asking: "Father and teacher," he began with extreme emotion, "your words are too obscure.... What is this suffering in store for him?" "Don't inquire. I seemed to see something terrible yesterday ... as though his whole future were expressed in his eyes. A look came into his eyes--so that I was instantly horror-stricken at what that man is preparing for himself. Once or twice in my life I've seen such a look in a man's face ... reflecting as it were his future fate, and that fate, alas, came to pass. I sent you to him, Alexey, for I thought your brotherly face would help him. But everything and all our fates are from the Lord. 'Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.' Remember that. You, Alexey, I've many times silently blessed for your face, know that," added the elder with a gentle smile. "This is what I think of you, you will go forth from these walls, but will live like a monk in the world. You will have many enemies, but even your foes will love you. Life will bring you many misfortunes, but you will find your happiness in them, and will bless life and will make others bless it--which is what matters most. Well, that is your character. Fathers and teachers," he addressed his friends with a tender smile, "I have never till to-day told even him why the face of this youth is so dear to me. Now I will tell you. His face has been as it were a remembrance and a prophecy for me. At the dawn of my life when I was a child I had an elder brother who died before my eyes at seventeen. And later on in the course of my life I gradually became convinced that that brother had been for a guidance and a sign from on high for me. For had he not come into my life, I should never perhaps, so I fancy at least, have become a monk and entered on this precious path. He appeared first to me in my childhood, and here, at the end of my pilgrimage, he seems to have come to me over again. It is marvelous, fathers and teachers, that Alexey, who has some, though not a great, resemblance in face, seems to me so like him spiritually, that many times I have taken him for that young man, my brother, mysteriously come back to me at the end of my pilgrimage, as a reminder and an inspiration. So that I positively wondered at so strange a dream in myself. Do you hear this, Porfiry?" he turned to the novice who waited on him. "Many times I've seen in your face as it were a look of mortification that I love Alexey more than you. Now you know why that was so, but I love you too, know that, and many times I grieved at your mortification. I should like to tell you, dear friends, of that youth, my brother, for there has been no presence in my life more precious, more significant and touching. My heart is full of tenderness, and I look at my whole life at this moment as though living through it again." ------------------------------------- Here I must observe that this last conversation of Father Zossima with the friends who visited him on the last day of his life has been partly preserved in writing. Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov wrote it down from memory, some time after his elder's death. But whether this was only the conversation that took place then, or whether he added to it his notes of parts of former conversations with his teacher, I cannot determine. In his account, Father Zossima's talk goes on without interruption, as though he told his life to his friends in the form of a story, though there is no doubt, from other accounts of it, that the conversation that evening was general. Though the guests did not interrupt Father Zossima much, yet they too talked, perhaps even told something themselves. Besides, Father Zossima could not have carried on an uninterrupted narrative, for he was sometimes gasping for breath, his voice failed him, and he even lay down to rest on his bed, though he did not fall asleep and his visitors did not leave their seats. Once or twice the conversation was interrupted by Father Paissy's reading the Gospel. It is worthy of note, too, that no one of them supposed that he would die that night, for on that evening of his life after his deep sleep in the day he seemed suddenly to have found new strength, which kept him up through this long conversation. It was like a last effort of love which gave him marvelous energy; only for a little time, however, for his life was cut short immediately.... But of that later. I will only add now that I have preferred to confine myself to the account given by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov. It will be shorter and not so fatiguing, though of course, as I must repeat, Alyosha took a great deal from previous conversations and added them to it. ------------------------------------- Notes of the Life of the deceased Priest and Monk, the Elder Zossima, taken from his own words by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES _(a)_ _Father Zossima's Brother_ Beloved fathers and teachers, I was born in a distant province in the north, in the town of V. My father was a gentleman by birth, but of no great consequence or position. He died when I was only two years old, and I don't remember him at all. He left my mother a small house built of wood, and a fortune, not large, but sufficient to keep her and her children in comfort. There were two of us, my elder brother Markel and I. He was eight years older than I was, of hasty irritable temperament, but kind-hearted and never ironical. He was remarkably silent, especially at home with me, his mother, and the servants. He did well at school, but did not get on with his schoolfellows, though he never quarreled, at least so my mother has told me. Six months before his death, when he was seventeen, he made friends with a political exile who had been banished from Moscow to our town for freethinking, and led a solitary existence there. He was a good scholar who had gained distinction in philosophy in the university. Something made him take a fancy to Markel, and he used to ask him to see him. The young man would spend whole evenings with him during that winter, till the exile was summoned to Petersburg to take up his post again at his own request, as he had powerful friends. It was the beginning of Lent, and Markel would not fast, he was rude and laughed at it. "That's all silly twaddle, and there is no God," he said, horrifying my mother, the servants, and me too. For though I was only nine, I too was aghast at hearing such words. We had four servants, all serfs. I remember my mother selling one of the four, the cook Afimya, who was lame and elderly, for sixty paper roubles, and hiring a free servant to take her place. In the sixth week in Lent, my brother, who was never strong and had a tendency to consumption, was taken ill. He was tall but thin and delicate- looking, and of very pleasing countenance. I suppose he caught cold, anyway the doctor, who came, soon whispered to my mother that it was galloping consumption, that he would not live through the spring. My mother began weeping, and, careful not to alarm my brother, she entreated him to go to church, to confess and take the sacrament, as he was still able to move about. This made him angry, and he said something profane about the church. He grew thoughtful, however; he guessed at once that he was seriously ill, and that that was why his mother was begging him to confess and take the sacrament. He had been aware, indeed, for a long time past, that he was far from well, and had a year before coolly observed at dinner to our mother and me, "My life won't be long among you, I may not live another year," which seemed now like a prophecy. Three days passed and Holy Week had come. And on Tuesday morning my brother began going to church. "I am doing this simply for your sake, mother, to please and comfort you," he said. My mother wept with joy and grief. "His end must be near," she thought, "if there's such a change in him." But he was not able to go to church long, he took to his bed, so he had to confess and take the sacrament at home. It was a late Easter, and the days were bright, fine, and full of fragrance. I remember he used to cough all night and sleep badly, but in the morning he dressed and tried to sit up in an arm-chair. That's how I remember him sitting, sweet and gentle, smiling, his face bright and joyous, in spite of his illness. A marvelous change passed over him, his spirit seemed transformed. The old nurse would come in and say, "Let me light the lamp before the holy image, my dear." And once he would not have allowed it and would have blown it out. "Light it, light it, dear, I was a wretch to have prevented you doing it. You are praying when you light the lamp, and I am praying when I rejoice seeing you. So we are praying to the same God." Those words seemed strange to us, and mother would go to her room and weep, but when she went in to him she wiped her eyes and looked cheerful. "Mother, don't weep, darling," he would say, "I've long to live yet, long to rejoice with you, and life is glad and joyful." "Ah, dear boy, how can you talk of joy when you lie feverish at night, coughing as though you would tear yourself to pieces." "Don't cry, mother," he would answer, "life is paradise, and we are all in paradise, but we won't see it, if we would, we should have heaven on earth the next day." Every one wondered at his words, he spoke so strangely and positively; we were all touched and wept. Friends came to see us. "Dear ones," he would say to them, "what have I done that you should love me so, how can you love any one like me, and how was it I did not know, I did not appreciate it before?" When the servants came in to him he would say continually, "Dear, kind people, why are you doing so much for me, do I deserve to be waited on? If it were God's will for me to live, I would wait on you, for all men should wait on one another." Mother shook her head as she listened. "My darling, it's your illness makes you talk like that." "Mother, darling," he would say, "there must be servants and masters, but if so I will be the servant of my servants, the same as they are to me. And another thing, mother, every one of us has sinned against all men, and I more than any." Mother positively smiled at that, smiled through her tears. "Why, how could you have sinned against all men, more than all? Robbers and murderers have done that, but what sin have you committed yet, that you hold yourself more guilty than all?" "Mother, little heart of mine," he said (he had begun using such strange caressing words at that time), "little heart of mine, my joy, believe me, every one is really responsible to all men for all men and for everything. I don't know how to explain it to you, but I feel it is so, painfully even. And how is it we went on then living, getting angry and not knowing?" So he would get up every day, more and more sweet and joyous and full of love. When the doctor, an old German called Eisenschmidt, came: "Well, doctor, have I another day in this world?" he would ask, joking. "You'll live many days yet," the doctor would answer, "and months and years too." "Months and years!" he would exclaim. "Why reckon the days? One day is enough for a man to know all happiness. My dear ones, why do we quarrel, try to outshine each other and keep grudges against each other? Let's go straight into the garden, walk and play there, love, appreciate, and kiss each other, and glorify life." "Your son cannot last long," the doctor told my mother, as she accompanied him to the door. "The disease is affecting his brain." The windows of his room looked out into the garden, and our garden was a shady one, with old trees in it which were coming into bud. The first birds of spring were flitting in the branches, chirruping and singing at the windows. And looking at them and admiring them, he began suddenly begging their forgiveness too: "Birds of heaven, happy birds, forgive me, for I have sinned against you too." None of us could understand that at the time, but he shed tears of joy. "Yes," he said, "there was such a glory of God all about me: birds, trees, meadows, sky; only I lived in shame and dishonored it all and did not notice the beauty and glory." "You take too many sins on yourself," mother used to say, weeping. "Mother, darling, it's for joy, not for grief I am crying. Though I can't explain it to you, I like to humble myself before them, for I don't know how to love them enough. If I have sinned against every one, yet all forgive me, too, and that's heaven. Am I not in heaven now?" And there was a great deal more I don't remember. I remember I went once into his room when there was no one else there. It was a bright evening, the sun was setting, and the whole room was lighted up. He beckoned me, and I went up to him. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face tenderly, lovingly; he said nothing for a minute, only looked at me like that. "Well," he said, "run and play now, enjoy life for me too." I went out then and ran to play. And many times in my life afterwards I remembered even with tears how he told me to enjoy life for him too. There were many other marvelous and beautiful sayings of his, though we did not understand them at the time. He died the third week after Easter. He was fully conscious though he could not talk; up to his last hour he did not change. He looked happy, his eyes beamed and sought us, he smiled at us, beckoned us. There was a great deal of talk even in the town about his death. I was impressed by all this at the time, but not too much so, though I cried a good deal at his funeral. I was young then, a child, but a lasting impression, a hidden feeling of it all, remained in my heart, ready to rise up and respond when the time came. So indeed it happened. _(b) Of the Holy Scriptures in the Life of Father Zossima_ I was left alone with my mother. Her friends began advising her to send me to Petersburg as other parents did. "You have only one son now," they said, "and have a fair income, and you will be depriving him perhaps of a brilliant career if you keep him here." They suggested I should be sent to Petersburg to the Cadet Corps, that I might afterwards enter the Imperial Guard. My mother hesitated for a long time, it was awful to part with her only child, but she made up her mind to it at last, though not without many tears, believing she was acting for my happiness. She brought me to Petersburg and put me into the Cadet Corps, and I never saw her again. For she too died three years afterwards. She spent those three years mourning and grieving for both of us. From the house of my childhood I have brought nothing but precious memories, for there are no memories more precious than those of early childhood in one's first home. And that is almost always so if there is any love and harmony in the family at all. Indeed, precious memories may remain even of a bad home, if only the heart knows how to find what is precious. With my memories of home I count, too, my memories of the Bible, which, child as I was, I was very eager to read at home. I had a book of Scripture history then with excellent pictures, called _A Hundred and Four Stories from the Old and New Testament_, and I learned to read from it. I have it lying on my shelf now, I keep it as a precious relic of the past. But even before I learned to read, I remember first being moved to devotional feeling at eight years old. My mother took me alone to mass (I don't remember where my brother was at the time) on the Monday before Easter. It was a fine day, and I remember to-day, as though I saw it now, how the incense rose from the censer and softly floated upwards and, overhead in the cupola, mingled in rising waves with the sunlight that streamed in at the little window. I was stirred by the sight, and for the first time in my life I consciously received the seed of God's word in my heart. A youth came out into the middle of the church carrying a big book, so large that at the time I fancied he could scarcely carry it. He laid it on the reading desk, opened it, and began reading, and suddenly for the first time I understood something read in the church of God. In the land of Uz, there lived a man, righteous and God-fearing, and he had great wealth, so many camels, so many sheep and asses, and his children feasted, and he loved them very much and prayed for them. "It may be that my sons have sinned in their feasting." Now the devil came before the Lord together with the sons of God, and said to the Lord that he had gone up and down the earth and under the earth. "And hast thou considered my servant Job?" God asked of him. And God boasted to the devil, pointing to his great and holy servant. And the devil laughed at God's words. "Give him over to me and Thou wilt see that Thy servant will murmur against Thee and curse Thy name." And God gave up the just man He loved so, to the devil. And the devil smote his children and his cattle and scattered his wealth, all of a sudden like a thunderbolt from heaven. And Job rent his mantle and fell down upon the ground and cried aloud, "Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return into the earth; the Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord for ever and ever." Fathers and teachers, forgive my tears now, for all my childhood rises up again before me, and I breathe now as I breathed then, with the breast of a little child of eight, and I feel as I did then, awe and wonder and gladness. The camels at that time caught my imagination, and Satan, who talked like that with God, and God who gave His servant up to destruction, and His servant crying out: "Blessed be Thy name although Thou dost punish me," and then the soft and sweet singing in the church: "Let my prayer rise up before Thee," and again incense from the priest's censer and the kneeling and the prayer. Ever since then--only yesterday I took it up--I've never been able to read that sacred tale without tears. And how much that is great, mysterious and unfathomable there is in it! Afterwards I heard the words of mockery and blame, proud words, "How could God give up the most loved of His saints for the diversion of the devil, take from him his children, smite him with sore boils so that he cleansed the corruption from his sores with a pot-sherd--and for no object except to boast to the devil! 'See what My saint can suffer for My sake.' " But the greatness of it lies just in the fact that it is a mystery--that the passing earthly show and the eternal verity are brought together in it. In the face of the earthly truth, the eternal truth is accomplished. The Creator, just as on the first days of creation He ended each day with praise: "That is good that I have created," looks upon Job and again praises His creation. And Job, praising the Lord, serves not only Him but all His creation for generations and generations, and for ever and ever, since for that he was ordained. Good heavens, what a book it is, and what lessons there are in it! What a book the Bible is, what a miracle, what strength is given with it to man! It is like a mold cast of the world and man and human nature, everything is there, and a law for everything for all the ages. And what mysteries are solved and revealed! God raises Job again, gives him wealth again. Many years pass by, and he has other children and loves them. But how could he love those new ones when those first children are no more, when he has lost them? Remembering them, how could he be fully happy with those new ones, however dear the new ones might be? But he could, he could. It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet, tender joy. The mild serenity of age takes the place of the riotous blood of youth. I bless the rising sun each day, and, as before, my hearts sings to meet it, but now I love even more its setting, its long slanting rays and the soft, tender, gentle memories that come with them, the dear images from the whole of my long, happy life--and over all the Divine Truth, softening, reconciling, forgiving! My life is ending, I know that well, but every day that is left me I feel how my earthly life is in touch with a new infinite, unknown, that approaching life, the nearness of which sets my soul quivering with rapture, my mind glowing and my heart weeping with joy. Friends and teachers, I have heard more than once, and of late one may hear it more often, that the priests, and above all the village priests, are complaining on all sides of their miserable income and their humiliating lot. They plainly state, even in print--I've read it myself--that they are unable to teach the Scriptures to the people because of the smallness of their means, and if Lutherans and heretics come and lead the flock astray, they let them lead them astray because they have so little to live upon. May the Lord increase the sustenance that is so precious to them, for their complaint is just, too. But of a truth I say, if any one is to blame in the matter, half the fault is ours. For he may be short of time, he may say truly that he is overwhelmed all the while with work and services, but still it's not all the time, even he has an hour a week to remember God. And he does not work the whole year round. Let him gather round him once a week, some hour in the evening, if only the children at first--the fathers will hear of it and they too will begin to come. There's no need to build halls for this, let him take them into his own cottage. They won't spoil his cottage, they would only be there one hour. Let him open that book and begin reading it without grand words or superciliousness, without condescension to them, but gently and kindly, being glad that he is reading to them and that they are listening with attention, loving the words himself, only stopping from time to time to explain words that are not understood by the peasants. Don't be anxious, they will understand everything, the orthodox heart will understand all! Let him read them about Abraham and Sarah, about Isaac and Rebecca, of how Jacob went to Laban and wrestled with the Lord in his dream and said, "This place is holy"--and he will impress the devout mind of the peasant. Let him read, especially to the children, how the brothers sold Joseph, the tender boy, the dreamer and prophet, into bondage, and told their father that a wild beast had devoured him, and showed him his blood- stained clothes. Let him read them how the brothers afterwards journeyed into Egypt for corn, and Joseph, already a great ruler, unrecognized by them, tormented them, accused them, kept his brother Benjamin, and all through love: "I love you, and loving you I torment you." For he remembered all his life how they had sold him to the merchants in the burning desert by the well, and how, wringing his hands, he had wept and besought his brothers not to sell him as a slave in a strange land. And how, seeing them again after many years, he loved them beyond measure, but he harassed and tormented them in love. He left them at last not able to bear the suffering of his heart, flung himself on his bed and wept. Then, wiping his tears away, he went out to them joyful and told them, "Brothers, I am your brother Joseph!" Let him read them further how happy old Jacob was on learning that his darling boy was still alive, and how he went to Egypt leaving his own country, and died in a foreign land, bequeathing his great prophecy that had lain mysteriously hidden in his meek and timid heart all his life, that from his offspring, from Judah, will come the great hope of the world, the Messiah and Saviour. Fathers and teachers, forgive me and don't be angry, that like a little child I've been babbling of what you know long ago, and can teach me a hundred times more skillfully. I only speak from rapture, and forgive my tears, for I love the Bible. Let him too weep, the priest of God, and be sure that the hearts of his listeners will throb in response. Only a little tiny seed is needed--drop it into the heart of the peasant and it won't die, it will live in his soul all his life, it will be hidden in the midst of his darkness and sin, like a bright spot, like a great reminder. And there's no need of much teaching or explanation, he will understand it all simply. Do you suppose that the peasants don't understand? Try reading them the touching story of the fair Esther and the haughty Vashti; or the miraculous story of Jonah in the whale. Don't forget either the parables of Our Lord, choose especially from the Gospel of St. Luke (that is what I did), and then from the Acts of the Apostles the conversion of St. Paul (that you mustn't leave out on any account), and from the _Lives of the Saints_, for instance, the life of Alexey, the man of God and, greatest of all, the happy martyr and the seer of God, Mary of Egypt--and you will penetrate their hearts with these simple tales. Give one hour a week to it in spite of your poverty, only one little hour. And you will see for yourselves that our people is gracious and grateful, and will repay you a hundred-fold. Mindful of the kindness of their priest and the moving words they have heard from him, they will of their own accord help him in his fields and in his house, and will treat him with more respect than before--so that it will even increase his worldly well-being too. The thing is so simple that sometimes one is even afraid to put it into words, for fear of being laughed at, and yet how true it is! One who does not believe in God will not believe in God's people. He who believes in God's people will see His Holiness too, even though he had not believed in it till then. Only the people and their future spiritual power will convert our atheists, who have torn themselves away from their native soil. And what is the use of Christ's words, unless we set an example? The people is lost without the Word of God, for its soul is athirst for the Word and for all that is good. In my youth, long ago, nearly forty years ago, I traveled all over Russia with Father Anfim, collecting funds for our monastery, and we stayed one night on the bank of a great navigable river with some fishermen. A good- looking peasant lad, about eighteen, joined us; he had to hurry back next morning to pull a merchant's barge along the bank. I noticed him looking straight before him with clear and tender eyes. It was a bright, warm, still, July night, a cool mist rose from the broad river, we could hear the plash of a fish, the birds were still, all was hushed and beautiful, everything praying to God. Only we two were not sleeping, the lad and I, and we talked of the beauty of this world of God's and of the great mystery of it. Every blade of grass, every insect, ant, and golden bee, all so marvelously know their path, though they have not intelligence, they bear witness to the mystery of God and continually accomplish it themselves. I saw the dear lad's heart was moved. He told me that he loved the forest and the forest birds. He was a bird-catcher, knew the note of each of them, could call each bird. "I know nothing better than to be in the forest," said he, "though all things are good." "Truly," I answered him, "all things are good and fair, because all is truth. Look," said I, "at the horse, that great beast that is so near to man; or the lowly, pensive ox, which feeds him and works for him; look at their faces, what meekness, what devotion to man, who often beats them mercilessly. What gentleness, what confidence and what beauty! It's touching to know that there's no sin in them, for all, all except man, is sinless, and Christ has been with them before us." "Why," asked the boy, "is Christ with them too?" "It cannot but be so," said I, "since the Word is for all. All creation and all creatures, every leaf is striving to the Word, singing glory to God, weeping to Christ, unconsciously accomplishing this by the mystery of their sinless life. Yonder," said I, "in the forest wanders the dreadful bear, fierce and menacing, and yet innocent in it." And I told him how once a bear came to a great saint who had taken refuge in a tiny cell in the wood. And the great saint pitied him, went up to him without fear and gave him a piece of bread. "Go along," said he, "Christ be with you," and the savage beast walked away meekly and obediently, doing no harm. And the lad was delighted that the bear had walked away without hurting the saint, and that Christ was with him too. "Ah," said he, "how good that is, how good and beautiful is all God's work!" He sat musing softly and sweetly. I saw he understood. And he slept beside me a light and sinless sleep. May God bless youth! And I prayed for him as I went to sleep. Lord, send peace and light to Thy people! Chapter II. The Duel _(c) Recollections of Father Zossima's Youth before he became a Monk. The Duel_ I spent a long time, almost eight years, in the military cadet school at Petersburg, and in the novelty of my surroundings there, many of my childish impressions grew dimmer, though I forgot nothing. I picked up so many new habits and opinions that I was transformed into a cruel, absurd, almost savage creature. A surface polish of courtesy and society manners I did acquire together with the French language. But we all, myself included, looked upon the soldiers in our service as cattle. I was perhaps worse than the rest in that respect, for I was so much more impressionable than my companions. By the time we left the school as officers, we were ready to lay down our lives for the honor of the regiment, but no one of us had any knowledge of the real meaning of honor, and if any one had known it, he would have been the first to ridicule it. Drunkenness, debauchery and devilry were what we almost prided ourselves on. I don't say that we were bad by nature, all these young men were good fellows, but they behaved badly, and I worst of all. What made it worse for me was that I had come into my own money, and so I flung myself into a life of pleasure, and plunged headlong into all the recklessness of youth. I was fond of reading, yet strange to say, the Bible was the one book I never opened at that time, though I always carried it about with me, and I was never separated from it; in very truth I was keeping that book "for the day and the hour, for the month and the year," though I knew it not. After four years of this life, I chanced to be in the town of K. where our regiment was stationed at the time. We found the people of the town hospitable, rich and fond of entertainments. I met with a cordial reception everywhere, as I was of a lively temperament and was known to be well off, which always goes a long way in the world. And then a circumstance happened which was the beginning of it all. I formed an attachment to a beautiful and intelligent young girl of noble and lofty character, the daughter of people much respected. They were well-to-do people of influence and position. They always gave me a cordial and friendly reception. I fancied that the young lady looked on me with favor and my heart was aflame at such an idea. Later on I saw and fully realized that I perhaps was not so passionately in love with her at all, but only recognized the elevation of her mind and character, which I could not indeed have helped doing. I was prevented, however, from making her an offer at the time by my selfishness, I was loath to part with the allurements of my free and licentious bachelor life in the heyday of my youth, and with my pockets full of money. I did drop some hint as to my feelings however, though I put off taking any decisive step for a time. Then, all of a sudden, we were ordered off for two months to another district. On my return two months later, I found the young lady already married to a rich neighboring landowner, a very amiable man, still young though older than I was, connected with the best Petersburg society, which I was not, and of excellent education, which I also was not. I was so overwhelmed at this unexpected circumstance that my mind was positively clouded. The worst of it all was that, as I learned then, the young landowner had been a long while betrothed to her, and I had met him indeed many times in her house, but blinded by my conceit I had noticed nothing. And this particularly mortified me; almost everybody had known all about it, while I knew nothing. I was filled with sudden irrepressible fury. With flushed face I began recalling how often I had been on the point of declaring my love to her, and as she had not attempted to stop me or to warn me, she must, I concluded, have been laughing at me all the time. Later on, of course, I reflected and remembered that she had been very far from laughing at me; on the contrary, she used to turn off any love-making on my part with a jest and begin talking of other subjects; but at that moment I was incapable of reflecting and was all eagerness for revenge. I am surprised to remember that my wrath and revengeful feelings were extremely repugnant to my own nature, for being of an easy temper, I found it difficult to be angry with any one for long, and so I had to work myself up artificially and became at last revolting and absurd. I waited for an opportunity and succeeded in insulting my "rival" in the presence of a large company. I insulted him on a perfectly extraneous pretext, jeering at his opinion upon an important public event--it was in the year 1826(5)--and my jeer was, so people said, clever and effective. Then I forced him to ask for an explanation, and behaved so rudely that he accepted my challenge in spite of the vast inequality between us, as I was younger, a person of no consequence, and of inferior rank. I learned afterwards for a fact that it was from a jealous feeling on his side also that my challenge was accepted; he had been rather jealous of me on his wife's account before their marriage; he fancied now that if he submitted to be insulted by me and refused to accept my challenge, and if she heard of it, she might begin to despise him and waver in her love for him. I soon found a second in a comrade, an ensign of our regiment. In those days though duels were severely punished, yet dueling was a kind of fashion among the officers--so strong and deeply rooted will a brutal prejudice sometimes be. It was the end of June, and our meeting was to take place at seven o'clock the next day on the outskirts of the town--and then something happened that in very truth was the turning-point of my life. In the evening, returning home in a savage and brutal humor, I flew into a rage with my orderly Afanasy, and gave him two blows in the face with all my might, so that it was covered with blood. He had not long been in my service and I had struck him before, but never with such ferocious cruelty. And, believe me, though it's forty years ago, I recall it now with shame and pain. I went to bed and slept for about three hours; when I waked up the day was breaking. I got up--I did not want to sleep any more--I went to the window--opened it, it looked out upon the garden; I saw the sun rising; it was warm and beautiful, the birds were singing. "What's the meaning of it?" I thought. "I feel in my heart as it were something vile and shameful. Is it because I am going to shed blood? No," I thought, "I feel it's not that. Can it be that I am afraid of death, afraid of being killed? No, that's not it, that's not it at all."... And all at once I knew what it was: it was because I had beaten Afanasy the evening before! It all rose before my mind, it all was as it were repeated over again; he stood before me and I was beating him straight on the face and he was holding his arms stiffly down, his head erect, his eyes fixed upon me as though on parade. He staggered at every blow and did not even dare to raise his hands to protect himself. That is what a man has been brought to, and that was a man beating a fellow creature! What a crime! It was as though a sharp dagger had pierced me right through. I stood as if I were struck dumb, while the sun was shining, the leaves were rejoicing and the birds were trilling the praise of God.... I hid my face in my hands, fell on my bed and broke into a storm of tears. And then I remembered my brother Markel and what he said on his death-bed to his servants: "My dear ones, why do you wait on me, why do you love me, am I worth your waiting on me?" "Yes, am I worth it?" flashed through my mind. "After all what am I worth, that another man, a fellow creature, made in the likeness and image of God, should serve me?" For the first time in my life this question forced itself upon me. He had said, "Mother, my little heart, in truth we are each responsible to all for all, it's only that men don't know this. If they knew it, the world would be a paradise at once." "God, can that too be false?" I thought as I wept. "In truth, perhaps, I am more than all others responsible for all, a greater sinner than all men in the world." And all at once the whole truth in its full light appeared to me; what was I going to do? I was going to kill a good, clever, noble man, who had done me no wrong, and by depriving his wife of happiness for the rest of her life, I should be torturing and killing her too. I lay thus in my bed with my face in the pillow, heedless how the time was passing. Suddenly my second, the ensign, came in with the pistols to fetch me. "Ah," said he, "it's a good thing you are up already, it's time we were off, come along!" I did not know what to do and hurried to and fro undecided; we went out to the carriage, however. "Wait here a minute," I said to him. "I'll be back directly, I have forgotten my purse." And I ran back alone, to Afanasy's little room. "Afanasy," I said, "I gave you two blows on the face yesterday, forgive me," I said. He started as though he were frightened, and looked at me; and I saw that it was not enough, and on the spot, in my full officer's uniform, I dropped at his feet and bowed my head to the ground. "Forgive me," I said. Then he was completely aghast. "Your honor ... sir, what are you doing? Am I worth it?" And he burst out crying as I had done before, hid this face in his hands, turned to the window and shook all over with his sobs. I flew out to my comrade and jumped into the carriage. "Ready," I cried. "Have you ever seen a conqueror?" I asked him. "Here is one before you." I was in ecstasy, laughing and talking all the way, I don't remember what about. He looked at me. "Well, brother, you are a plucky fellow, you'll keep up the honor of the uniform, I can see." So we reached the place and found them there, waiting us. We were placed twelve paces apart; he had the first shot. I stood gayly, looking him full in the face; I did not twitch an eyelash, I looked lovingly at him, for I knew what I would do. His shot just grazed my cheek and ear. "Thank God," I cried, "no man has been killed," and I seized my pistol, turned back and flung it far away into the wood. "That's the place for you," I cried. I turned to my adversary. "Forgive me, young fool that I am, sir," I said, "for my unprovoked insult to you and for forcing you to fire at me. I am ten times worse than you and more, maybe. Tell that to the person whom you hold dearest in the world." I had no sooner said this than they all three shouted at me. "Upon my word," cried my adversary, annoyed, "if you did not want to fight, why did not you let me alone?" "Yesterday I was a fool, to-day I know better," I answered him gayly. "As to yesterday, I believe you, but as for to-day, it is difficult to agree with your opinion," said he. "Bravo," I cried, clapping my hands. "I agree with you there too. I have deserved it!" "Will you shoot, sir, or not?" "No, I won't," I said; "if you like, fire at me again, but it would be better for you not to fire." The seconds, especially mine, were shouting too: "Can you disgrace the regiment like this, facing your antagonist and begging his forgiveness! If I'd only known this!" I stood facing them all, not laughing now. "Gentlemen," I said, "is it really so wonderful in these days to find a man who can repent of his stupidity and publicly confess his wrongdoing?" "But not in a duel," cried my second again. "That's what's so strange," I said. "For I ought to have owned my fault as soon as I got here, before he had fired a shot, before leading him into a great and deadly sin; but we have made our life so grotesque, that to act in that way would have been almost impossible, for only after I have faced his shot at the distance of twelve paces could my words have any significance for him, and if I had spoken before, he would have said, 'He is a coward, the sight of the pistols has frightened him, no use to listen to him.' Gentlemen," I cried suddenly, speaking straight from my heart, "look around you at the gifts of God, the clear sky, the pure air, the tender grass, the birds; nature is beautiful and sinless, and we, only we, are sinful and foolish, and we don't understand that life is heaven, for we have only to understand that and it will at once be fulfilled in all its beauty, we shall embrace each other and weep." I would have said more but I could not; my voice broke with the sweetness and youthful gladness of it, and there was such bliss in my heart as I had never known before in my life. "All this as rational and edifying," said my antagonist, "and in any case you are an original person." "You may laugh," I said to him, laughing too, "but afterwards you will approve of me." "Oh, I am ready to approve of you now," said he; "will you shake hands? for I believe you are genuinely sincere." "No," I said, "not now, later on when I have grown worthier and deserve your esteem, then shake hands and you will do well." We went home, my second upbraiding me all the way, while I kissed him. All my comrades heard of the affair at once and gathered together to pass judgment on me the same day. "He has disgraced the uniform," they said; "let him resign his commission." Some stood up for me: "He faced the shot," they said. "Yes, but he was afraid of his other shot and begged for forgiveness." "If he had been afraid of being shot, he would have shot his own pistol first before asking forgiveness, while he flung it loaded into the forest. No, there's something else in this, something original." I enjoyed listening and looking at them. "My dear friends and comrades," said I, "don't worry about my resigning my commission, for I have done so already. I have sent in my papers this morning and as soon as I get my discharge I shall go into a monastery--it's with that object I am leaving the regiment." When I had said this every one of them burst out laughing. "You should have told us of that first, that explains everything, we can't judge a monk." They laughed and could not stop themselves, and not scornfully, but kindly and merrily. They all felt friendly to me at once, even those who had been sternest in their censure, and all the following month, before my discharge came, they could not make enough of me. "Ah, you monk," they would say. And every one said something kind to me, they began trying to dissuade me, even to pity me: "What are you doing to yourself?" "No," they would say, "he is a brave fellow, he faced fire and could have fired his own pistol too, but he had a dream the night before that he should become a monk, that's why he did it." It was the same thing with the society of the town. Till then I had been kindly received, but had not been the object of special attention, and now all came to know me at once and invited me; they laughed at me, but they loved me. I may mention that although everybody talked openly of our duel, the authorities took no notice of it, because my antagonist was a near relation of our general, and as there had been no bloodshed and no serious consequences, and as I resigned my commission, they took it as a joke. And I began then to speak aloud and fearlessly, regardless of their laughter, for it was always kindly and not spiteful laughter. These conversations mostly took place in the evenings, in the company of ladies; women particularly liked listening to me then and they made the men listen. "But how can I possibly be responsible for all?" every one would laugh in my face. "Can I, for instance, be responsible for you?" "You may well not know it," I would answer, "since the whole world has long been going on a different line, since we consider the veriest lies as truth and demand the same lies from others. Here I have for once in my life acted sincerely and, well, you all look upon me as a madman. Though you are friendly to me, yet, you see, you all laugh at me." "But how can we help being friendly to you?" said my hostess, laughing. The room was full of people. All of a sudden the young lady rose, on whose account the duel had been fought and whom only lately I had intended to be my future wife. I had not noticed her coming into the room. She got up, came to me and held out her hand. "Let me tell you," she said, "that I am the first not to laugh at you, but on the contrary I thank you with tears and express my respect for you for your action then." Her husband, too, came up and then they all approached me and almost kissed me. My heart was filled with joy, but my attention was especially caught by a middle-aged man who came up to me with the others. I knew him by name already, but had never made his acquaintance nor exchanged a word with him till that evening. _(d) The Mysterious Visitor_ He had long been an official in the town; he was in a prominent position, respected by all, rich and had a reputation for benevolence. He subscribed considerable sums to the almshouse and the orphan asylum; he was very charitable, too, in secret, a fact which only became known after his death. He was a man of about fifty, almost stern in appearance and not much given to conversation. He had been married about ten years and his wife, who was still young, had borne him three children. Well, I was sitting alone in my room the following evening, when my door suddenly opened and this gentleman walked in. I must mention, by the way, that I was no longer living in my former quarters. As soon as I resigned my commission, I took rooms with an old lady, the widow of a government clerk. My landlady's servant waited upon me, for I had moved into her rooms simply because on my return from the duel I had sent Afanasy back to the regiment, as I felt ashamed to look him in the face after my last interview with him. So prone is the man of the world to be ashamed of any righteous action. "I have," said my visitor, "with great interest listened to you speaking in different houses the last few days and I wanted at last to make your personal acquaintance, so as to talk to you more intimately. Can you, dear sir, grant me this favor?" "I can, with the greatest pleasure, and I shall look upon it as an honor." I said this, though I felt almost dismayed, so greatly was I impressed from the first moment by the appearance of this man. For though other people had listened to me with interest and attention, no one had come to me before with such a serious, stern and concentrated expression. And now he had come to see me in my own rooms. He sat down. "You are, I see, a man of great strength of character," he said; "as you have dared to serve the truth, even when by doing so you risked incurring the contempt of all." "Your praise is, perhaps, excessive," I replied. "No, it's not excessive," he answered; "believe me, such a course of action is far more difficult than you think. It is that which has impressed me, and it is only on that account that I have come to you," he continued. "Tell me, please, that is if you are not annoyed by my perhaps unseemly curiosity, what were your exact sensations, if you can recall them, at the moment when you made up your mind to ask forgiveness at the duel. Do not think my question frivolous; on the contrary, I have in asking the question a secret motive of my own, which I will perhaps explain to you later on, if it is God's will that we should become more intimately acquainted." All the while he was speaking, I was looking at him straight into the face and I felt all at once a complete trust in him and great curiosity on my side also, for I felt that there was some strange secret in his soul. "You ask what were my exact sensations at the moment when I asked my opponent's forgiveness," I answered; "but I had better tell you from the beginning what I have not yet told any one else." And I described all that had passed between Afanasy and me, and how I had bowed down to the ground at his feet. "From that you can see for yourself," I concluded, "that at the time of the duel it was easier for me, for I had made a beginning already at home, and when once I had started on that road, to go farther along it was far from being difficult, but became a source of joy and happiness." I liked the way he looked at me as he listened. "All that," he said, "is exceedingly interesting. I will come to see you again and again." And from that time forth he came to see me nearly every evening. And we should have become greater friends, if only he had ever talked of himself. But about himself he scarcely ever said a word, yet continually asked me about myself. In spite of that I became very fond of him and spoke with perfect frankness to him about all my feelings; "for," thought I, "what need have I to know his secrets, since I can see without that that he is a good man? Moreover, though he is such a serious man and my senior, he comes to see a youngster like me and treats me as his equal." And I learned a great deal that was profitable from him, for he was a man of lofty mind. "That life is heaven," he said to me suddenly, "that I have long been thinking about"; and all at once he added, "I think of nothing else indeed." He looked at me and smiled. "I am more convinced of it than you are, I will tell you later why." I listened to him and thought that he evidently wanted to tell me something. "Heaven," he went on, "lies hidden within all of us--here it lies hidden in me now, and if I will it, it will be revealed to me to-morrow and for all time." I looked at him; he was speaking with great emotion and gazing mysteriously at me, as if he were questioning me. "And that we are all responsible to all for all, apart from our own sins, you were quite right in thinking that, and it is wonderful how you could comprehend it in all its significance at once. And in very truth, so soon as men understand that, the Kingdom of Heaven will be for them not a dream, but a living reality." "And when," I cried out to him bitterly, "when will that come to pass? and will it ever come to pass? Is not it simply a dream of ours?" "What then, you don't believe it," he said. "You preach it and don't believe it yourself. Believe me, this dream, as you call it, will come to pass without doubt; it will come, but not now, for every process has its law. It's a spiritual, psychological process. To transform the world, to recreate it afresh, men must turn into another path psychologically. Until you have become really, in actual fact, a brother to every one, brotherhood will not come to pass. No sort of scientific teaching, no kind of common interest, will ever teach men to share property and privileges with equal consideration for all. Every one will think his share too small and they will be always envying, complaining and attacking one another. You ask when it will come to pass; it will come to pass, but first we have to go through the period of isolation." "What do you mean by isolation?" I asked him. "Why, the isolation that prevails everywhere, above all in our age--it has not fully developed, it has not reached its limit yet. For every one strives to keep his individuality as apart as possible, wishes to secure the greatest possible fullness of life for himself; but meantime all his efforts result not in attaining fullness of life but self-destruction, for instead of self-realization he ends by arriving at complete solitude. All mankind in our age have split up into units, they all keep apart, each in his own groove; each one holds aloof, hides himself and hides what he has, from the rest, and he ends by being repelled by others and repelling them. He heaps up riches by himself and thinks, 'How strong I am now and how secure,' and in his madness he does not understand that the more he heaps up, the more he sinks into self-destructive impotence. For he is accustomed to rely upon himself alone and to cut himself off from the whole; he has trained himself not to believe in the help of others, in men and in humanity, and only trembles for fear he should lose his money and the privileges that he has won for himself. Everywhere in these days men have, in their mockery, ceased to understand that the true security is to be found in social solidarity rather than in isolated individual effort. But this terrible individualism must inevitably have an end, and all will suddenly understand how unnaturally they are separated from one another. It will be the spirit of the time, and people will marvel that they have sat so long in darkness without seeing the light. And then the sign of the Son of Man will be seen in the heavens.... But, until then, we must keep the banner flying. Sometimes even if he has to do it alone, and his conduct seems to be crazy, a man must set an example, and so draw men's souls out of their solitude, and spur them to some act of brotherly love, that the great idea may not die." Our evenings, one after another, were spent in such stirring and fervent talk. I gave up society and visited my neighbors much less frequently. Besides, my vogue was somewhat over. I say this, not as blame, for they still loved me and treated me good-humoredly, but there's no denying that fashion is a great power in society. I began to regard my mysterious visitor with admiration, for besides enjoying his intelligence, I began to perceive that he was brooding over some plan in his heart, and was preparing himself perhaps for a great deed. Perhaps he liked my not showing curiosity about his secret, not seeking to discover it by direct question nor by insinuation. But I noticed at last, that he seemed to show signs of wanting to tell me something. This had become quite evident, indeed, about a month after he first began to visit me. "Do you know," he said to me once, "that people are very inquisitive about us in the town and wonder why I come to see you so often. But let them wonder, for _soon all will be explained_." Sometimes an extraordinary agitation would come over him, and almost always on such occasions he would get up and go away. Sometimes he would fix a long piercing look upon me, and I thought, "He will say something directly now." But he would suddenly begin talking of something ordinary and familiar. He often complained of headache too. One day, quite unexpectedly indeed, after he had been talking with great fervor a long time, I saw him suddenly turn pale, and his face worked convulsively, while he stared persistently at me. "What's the matter?" I said; "do you feel ill?"--he had just been complaining of headache. "I ... do you know ... I murdered some one." He said this and smiled with a face as white as chalk. "Why is it he is smiling?" The thought flashed through my mind before I realized anything else. I too turned pale. "What are you saying?" I cried. "You see," he said, with a pale smile, "how much it has cost me to say the first word. Now I have said it, I feel I've taken the first step and shall go on." For a long while I could not believe him, and I did not believe him at that time, but only after he had been to see me three days running and told me all about it. I thought he was mad, but ended by being convinced, to my great grief and amazement. His crime was a great and terrible one. Fourteen years before, he had murdered the widow of a landowner, a wealthy and handsome young woman who had a house in our town. He fell passionately in love with her, declared his feeling and tried to persuade her to marry him. But she had already given her heart to another man, an officer of noble birth and high rank in the service, who was at that time away at the front, though she was expecting him soon to return. She refused his offer and begged him not to come and see her. After he had ceased to visit her, he took advantage of his knowledge of the house to enter at night through the garden by the roof, at great risk of discovery. But, as often happens, a crime committed with extraordinary audacity is more successful than others. Entering the garret through the skylight, he went down the ladder, knowing that the door at the bottom of it was sometimes, through the negligence of the servants, left unlocked. He hoped to find it so, and so it was. He made his way in the dark to her bedroom, where a light was burning. As though on purpose, both her maids had gone off to a birthday-party in the same street, without asking leave. The other servants slept in the servants' quarters or in the kitchen on the ground-floor. His passion flamed up at the sight of her asleep, and then vindictive, jealous anger took possession of his heart, and like a drunken man, beside himself, he thrust a knife into her heart, so that she did not even cry out. Then with devilish and criminal cunning he contrived that suspicion should fall on the servants. He was so base as to take her purse, to open her chest with keys from under her pillow, and to take some things from it, doing it all as it might have been done by an ignorant servant, leaving valuable papers and taking only money. He took some of the larger gold things, but left smaller articles that were ten times as valuable. He took with him, too, some things for himself as remembrances, but of that later. Having done this awful deed, he returned by the way he had come. Neither the next day, when the alarm was raised, nor at any time after in his life, did any one dream of suspecting that he was the criminal. No one indeed knew of his love for her, for he was always reserved and silent and had no friend to whom he would have opened his heart. He was looked upon simply as an acquaintance, and not a very intimate one, of the murdered woman, as for the previous fortnight he had not even visited her. A serf of hers called Pyotr was at once suspected, and every circumstance confirmed the suspicion. The man knew--indeed his mistress did not conceal the fact--that having to send one of her serfs as a recruit she had decided to send him, as he had no relations and his conduct was unsatisfactory. People had heard him angrily threatening to murder her when he was drunk in a tavern. Two days before her death, he had run away, staying no one knew where in the town. The day after the murder, he was found on the road leading out of the town, dead drunk, with a knife in his pocket, and his right hand happened to be stained with blood. He declared that his nose had been bleeding, but no one believed him. The maids confessed that they had gone to a party and that the street-door had been left open till they returned. And a number of similar details came to light, throwing suspicion on the innocent servant. They arrested him, and he was tried for the murder; but a week after the arrest, the prisoner fell sick of a fever and died unconscious in the hospital. There the matter ended and the judges and the authorities and every one in the town remained convinced that the crime had been committed by no one but the servant who had died in the hospital. And after that the punishment began. My mysterious visitor, now my friend, told me that at first he was not in the least troubled by pangs of conscience. He was miserable a long time, but not for that reason; only from regret that he had killed the woman he loved, that she was no more, that in killing her he had killed his love, while the fire of passion was still in his veins. But of the innocent blood he had shed, of the murder of a fellow creature, he scarcely thought. The thought that his victim might have become the wife of another man was insupportable to him, and so, for a long time, he was convinced in his conscience that he could not have acted otherwise. At first he was worried at the arrest of the servant, but his illness and death soon set his mind at rest, for the man's death was apparently (so he reflected at the time) not owing to his arrest or his fright, but a chill he had taken on the day he ran away, when he had lain all night dead drunk on the damp ground. The theft of the money and other things troubled him little, for he argued that the theft had not been committed for gain but to avert suspicion. The sum stolen was small, and he shortly afterwards subscribed the whole of it, and much more, towards the funds for maintaining an almshouse in the town. He did this on purpose to set his conscience at rest about the theft, and it's a remarkable fact that for a long time he really was at peace--he told me this himself. He entered then upon a career of great activity in the service, volunteered for a difficult and laborious duty, which occupied him two years, and being a man of strong will almost forgot the past. Whenever he recalled it, he tried not to think of it at all. He became active in philanthropy too, founded and helped to maintain many institutions in the town, did a good deal in the two capitals, and in both Moscow and Petersburg was elected a member of philanthropic societies. At last, however, he began brooding over the past, and the strain of it was too much for him. Then he was attracted by a fine and intelligent girl and soon after married her, hoping that marriage would dispel his lonely depression, and that by entering on a new life and scrupulously doing his duty to his wife and children, he would escape from old memories altogether. But the very opposite of what he expected happened. He began, even in the first month of his marriage, to be continually fretted by the thought, "My wife loves me--but what if she knew?" When she first told him that she would soon bear him a child, he was troubled. "I am giving life, but I have taken life." Children came. "How dare I love them, teach and educate them, how can I talk to them of virtue? I have shed blood." They were splendid children, he longed to caress them; "and I can't look at their innocent candid faces, I am unworthy." At last he began to be bitterly and ominously haunted by the blood of his murdered victim, by the young life he had destroyed, by the blood that cried out for vengeance. He had begun to have awful dreams. But, being a man of fortitude, he bore his suffering a long time, thinking: "I shall expiate everything by this secret agony." But that hope, too, was vain; the longer it went on, the more intense was his suffering. He was respected in society for his active benevolence, though every one was overawed by his stern and gloomy character. But the more he was respected, the more intolerable it was for him. He confessed to me that he had thoughts of killing himself. But he began to be haunted by another idea--an idea which he had at first regarded as impossible and unthinkable, though at last it got such a hold on his heart that he could not shake it off. He dreamed of rising up, going out and confessing in the face of all men that he had committed murder. For three years this dream had pursued him, haunting him in different forms. At last he believed with his whole heart that if he confessed his crime, he would heal his soul and would be at peace for ever. But this belief filled his heart with terror, for how could he carry it out? And then came what happened at my duel. "Looking at you, I have made up my mind." I looked at him. "Is it possible," I cried, clasping my hands, "that such a trivial incident could give rise to such a resolution in you?" "My resolution has been growing for the last three years," he answered, "and your story only gave the last touch to it. Looking at you, I reproached myself and envied you." He said this to me almost sullenly. "But you won't be believed," I observed; "it's fourteen years ago." "I have proofs, great proofs. I shall show them." Then I cried and kissed him. "Tell me one thing, one thing," he said (as though it all depended upon me), "my wife, my children! My wife may die of grief, and though my children won't lose their rank and property, they'll be a convict's children and for ever! And what a memory, what a memory of me I shall leave in their hearts!" I said nothing. "And to part from them, to leave them for ever? It's for ever, you know, for ever!" I sat still and repeated a silent prayer. I got up at last, I felt afraid. "Well?" He looked at me. "Go!" said I, "confess. Everything passes, only the truth remains. Your children will understand, when they grow up, the nobility of your resolution." He left me that time as though he had made up his mind. Yet for more than a fortnight afterwards, he came to me every evening, still preparing himself, still unable to bring himself to the point. He made my heart ache. One day he would come determined and say fervently: "I know it will be heaven for me, heaven, the moment I confess. Fourteen years I've been in hell. I want to suffer. I will take my punishment and begin to live. You can pass through the world doing wrong, but there's no turning back. Now I dare not love my neighbor nor even my own children. Good God, my children will understand, perhaps, what my punishment has cost me and will not condemn me! God is not in strength but in truth." "All will understand your sacrifice," I said to him, "if not at once, they will understand later; for you have served truth, the higher truth, not of the earth." And he would go away seeming comforted, but next day he would come again, bitter, pale, sarcastic. "Every time I come to you, you look at me so inquisitively as though to say, 'He has still not confessed!' Wait a bit, don't despise me too much. It's not such an easy thing to do, as you would think. Perhaps I shall not do it at all. You won't go and inform against me then, will you?" And far from looking at him with indiscreet curiosity, I was afraid to look at him at all. I was quite ill from anxiety, and my heart was full of tears. I could not sleep at night. "I have just come from my wife," he went on. "Do you understand what the word 'wife' means? When I went out, the children called to me, 'Good-by, father, make haste back to read _The Children's Magazine_ with us.' No, you don't understand that! No one is wise from another man's woe." His eyes were glittering, his lips were twitching. Suddenly he struck the table with his fist so that everything on it danced--it was the first time he had done such a thing, he was such a mild man. "But need I?" he exclaimed, "must I? No one has been condemned, no one has been sent to Siberia in my place, the man died of fever. And I've been punished by my sufferings for the blood I shed. And I shan't be believed, they won't believe my proofs. Need I confess, need I? I am ready to go on suffering all my life for the blood I have shed, if only my wife and children may be spared. Will it be just to ruin them with me? Aren't we making a mistake? What is right in this case? And will people recognize it, will they appreciate it, will they respect it?" "Good Lord!" I thought to myself, "he is thinking of other people's respect at such a moment!" And I felt so sorry for him then, that I believe I would have shared his fate if it could have comforted him. I saw he was beside himself. I was aghast, realizing with my heart as well as my mind what such a resolution meant. "Decide my fate!" he exclaimed again. "Go and confess," I whispered to him. My voice failed me, but I whispered it firmly. I took up the New Testament from the table, the Russian translation, and showed him the Gospel of St. John, chapter xii. verse 24: "Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit." I had just been reading that verse when he came in. He read it. "That's true," he said, but he smiled bitterly. "It's terrible the things you find in those books," he said, after a pause. "It's easy enough to thrust them upon one. And who wrote them? Can they have been written by men?" "The Holy Spirit wrote them," said I. "It's easy for you to prate," he smiled again, this time almost with hatred. I took the book again, opened it in another place and showed him the Epistle to the Hebrews, chapter x. verse 31. He read: "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God." He read it and simply flung down the book. He was trembling all over. "An awful text," he said. "There's no denying you've picked out fitting ones." He rose from the chair. "Well!" he said, "good-by, perhaps I shan't come again ... we shall meet in heaven. So I have been for fourteen years 'in the hands of the living God,' that's how one must think of those fourteen years. To-morrow I will beseech those hands to let me go." I wanted to take him in my arms and kiss him, but I did not dare--his face was contorted and somber. He went away. "Good God," I thought, "what has he gone to face!" I fell on my knees before the ikon and wept for him before the Holy Mother of God, our swift defender and helper. I was half an hour praying in tears, and it was late, about midnight. Suddenly I saw the door open and he came in again. I was surprised. "Where have you been?" I asked him. "I think," he said, "I've forgotten something ... my handkerchief, I think.... Well, even if I've not forgotten anything, let me stay a little." He sat down. I stood over him. "You sit down, too," said he. I sat down. We sat still for two minutes; he looked intently at me and suddenly smiled--I remembered that--then he got up, embraced me warmly and kissed me. "Remember," he said, "how I came to you a second time. Do you hear, remember it!" And he went out. "To-morrow," I thought. And so it was. I did not know that evening that the next day was his birthday. I had not been out for the last few days, so I had no chance of hearing it from any one. On that day he always had a great gathering, every one in the town went to it. It was the same this time. After dinner he walked into the middle of the room, with a paper in his hand--a formal declaration to the chief of his department who was present. This declaration he read aloud to the whole assembly. It contained a full account of the crime, in every detail. "I cut myself off from men as a monster. God has visited me," he said in conclusion. "I want to suffer for my sin!" Then he brought out and laid on the table all the things he had been keeping for fourteen years, that he thought would prove his crime, the jewels belonging to the murdered woman which he had stolen to divert suspicion, a cross and a locket taken from her neck with a portrait of her betrothed in the locket, her notebook and two letters; one from her betrothed, telling her that he would soon be with her, and her unfinished answer left on the table to be sent off next day. He carried off these two letters--what for? Why had he kept them for fourteen years afterwards instead of destroying them as evidence against him? And this is what happened: every one was amazed and horrified, every one refused to believe it and thought that he was deranged, though all listened with intense curiosity. A few days later it was fully decided and agreed in every house that the unhappy man was mad. The legal authorities could not refuse to take the case up, but they too dropped it. Though the trinkets and letters made them ponder, they decided that even if they did turn out to be authentic, no charge could be based on those alone. Besides, she might have given him those things as a friend, or asked him to take care of them for her. I heard afterwards, however, that the genuineness of the things was proved by the friends and relations of the murdered woman, and that there was no doubt about them. Yet nothing was destined to come of it, after all. Five days later, all had heard that he was ill and that his life was in danger. The nature of his illness I can't explain, they said it was an affection of the heart. But it became known that the doctors had been induced by his wife to investigate his mental condition also, and had come to the conclusion that it was a case of insanity. I betrayed nothing, though people ran to question me. But when I wanted to visit him, I was for a long while forbidden to do so, above all by his wife. "It's you who have caused his illness," she said to me; "he was always gloomy, but for the last year people noticed that he was peculiarly excited and did strange things, and now you have been the ruin of him. Your preaching has brought him to this; for the last month he was always with you." Indeed, not only his wife but the whole town were down upon me and blamed me. "It's all your doing," they said. I was silent and indeed rejoiced at heart, for I saw plainly God's mercy to the man who had turned against himself and punished himself. I could not believe in his insanity. They let me see him at last, he insisted upon saying good-by to me. I went in to him and saw at once, that not only his days, but his hours were numbered. He was weak, yellow, his hands trembled, he gasped for breath, but his face was full of tender and happy feeling. "It is done!" he said. "I've long been yearning to see you, why didn't you come?" I did not tell him that they would not let me see him. "God has had pity on me and is calling me to Himself. I know I am dying, but I feel joy and peace for the first time after so many years. There was heaven in my heart from the moment I had done what I had to do. Now I dare to love my children and to kiss them. Neither my wife nor the judges, nor any one has believed it. My children will never believe it either. I see in that God's mercy to them. I shall die, and my name will be without a stain for them. And now I feel God near, my heart rejoices as in Heaven ... I have done my duty." He could not speak, he gasped for breath, he pressed my hand warmly, looking fervently at me. We did not talk for long, his wife kept peeping in at us. But he had time to whisper to me: "Do you remember how I came back to you that second time, at midnight? I told you to remember it. You know what I came back for? I came to kill you!" I started. "I went out from you then into the darkness, I wandered about the streets, struggling with myself. And suddenly I hated you so that I could hardly bear it. Now, I thought, he is all that binds me, and he is my judge. I can't refuse to face my punishment to-morrow, for he knows all. It was not that I was afraid you would betray me (I never even thought of that), but I thought, 'How can I look him in the face if I don't confess?' And if you had been at the other end of the earth, but alive, it would have been all the same, the thought was unendurable that you were alive knowing everything and condemning me. I hated you as though you were the cause, as though you were to blame for everything. I came back to you then, remembering that you had a dagger lying on your table. I sat down and asked you to sit down, and for a whole minute I pondered. If I had killed you, I should have been ruined by that murder even if I had not confessed the other. But I didn't think about that at all, and I didn't want to think of it at that moment. I only hated you and longed to revenge myself on you for everything. The Lord vanquished the devil in my heart. But let me tell you, you were never nearer death." A week later he died. The whole town followed him to the grave. The chief priest made a speech full of feeling. All lamented the terrible illness that had cut short his days. But all the town was up in arms against me after the funeral, and people even refused to see me. Some, at first a few and afterwards more, began indeed to believe in the truth of his story, and they visited me and questioned me with great interest and eagerness, for man loves to see the downfall and disgrace of the righteous. But I held my tongue, and very shortly after, I left the town, and five months later by God's grace I entered upon the safe and blessed path, praising the unseen finger which had guided me so clearly to it. But I remember in my prayer to this day, the servant of God, Mihail, who suffered so greatly. Chapter III. Conversations And Exhortations Of Father Zossima _(e) The Russian Monk and his possible Significance_ Fathers and teachers, what is the monk? In the cultivated world the word is nowadays pronounced by some people with a jeer, and by others it is used as a term of abuse, and this contempt for the monk is growing. It is true, alas, it is true, that there are many sluggards, gluttons, profligates and insolent beggars among monks. Educated people point to these: "You are idlers, useless members of society, you live on the labor of others, you are shameless beggars." And yet how many meek and humble monks there are, yearning for solitude and fervent prayer in peace! These are less noticed, or passed over in silence. And how surprised men would be if I were to say that from these meek monks, who yearn for solitary prayer, the salvation of Russia will come perhaps once more! For they are in truth made ready in peace and quiet "for the day and the hour, the month and the year." Meanwhile, in their solitude, they keep the image of Christ fair and undefiled, in the purity of God's truth, from the times of the Fathers of old, the Apostles and the martyrs. And when the time comes they will show it to the tottering creeds of the world. That is a great thought. That star will rise out of the East. That is my view of the monk, and is it false? is it too proud? Look at the worldly and all who set themselves up above the people of God, has not God's image and His truth been distorted in them? They have science; but in science there is nothing but what is the object of sense. The spiritual world, the higher part of man's being is rejected altogether, dismissed with a sort of triumph, even with hatred. The world has proclaimed the reign of freedom, especially of late, but what do we see in this freedom of theirs? Nothing but slavery and self-destruction! For the world says: "You have desires and so satisfy them, for you have the same rights as the most rich and powerful. Don't be afraid of satisfying them and even multiply your desires." That is the modern doctrine of the world. In that they see freedom. And what follows from this right of multiplication of desires? In the rich, isolation and spiritual suicide; in the poor, envy and murder; for they have been given rights, but have not been shown the means of satisfying their wants. They maintain that the world is getting more and more united, more and more bound together in brotherly community, as it overcomes distance and sets thoughts flying through the air. Alas, put no faith in such a bond of union. Interpreting freedom as the multiplication and rapid satisfaction of desires, men distort their own nature, for many senseless and foolish desires and habits and ridiculous fancies are fostered in them. They live only for mutual envy, for luxury and ostentation. To have dinners, visits, carriages, rank and slaves to wait on one is looked upon as a necessity, for which life, honor and human feeling are sacrificed, and men even commit suicide if they are unable to satisfy it. We see the same thing among those who are not rich, while the poor drown their unsatisfied need and their envy in drunkenness. But soon they will drink blood instead of wine, they are being led on to it. I ask you is such a man free? I knew one "champion of freedom" who told me himself that, when he was deprived of tobacco in prison, he was so wretched at the privation that he almost went and betrayed his cause for the sake of getting tobacco again! And such a man says, "I am fighting for the cause of humanity." How can such a one fight? what is he fit for? He is capable perhaps of some action quickly over, but he cannot hold out long. And it's no wonder that instead of gaining freedom they have sunk into slavery, and instead of serving the cause of brotherly love and the union of humanity have fallen, on the contrary, into dissension and isolation, as my mysterious visitor and teacher said to me in my youth. And therefore the idea of the service of humanity, of brotherly love and the solidarity of mankind, is more and more dying out in the world, and indeed this idea is sometimes treated with derision. For how can a man shake off his habits? What can become of him if he is in such bondage to the habit of satisfying the innumerable desires he has created for himself? He is isolated, and what concern has he with the rest of humanity? They have succeeded in accumulating a greater mass of objects, but the joy in the world has grown less. The monastic way is very different. Obedience, fasting and prayer are laughed at, yet only through them lies the way to real, true freedom. I cut off my superfluous and unnecessary desires, I subdue my proud and wanton will and chastise it with obedience, and with God's help I attain freedom of spirit and with it spiritual joy. Which is most capable of conceiving a great idea and serving it--the rich man in his isolation or the man who has freed himself from the tyranny of material things and habits? The monk is reproached for his solitude, "You have secluded yourself within the walls of the monastery for your own salvation, and have forgotten the brotherly service of humanity!" But we shall see which will be most zealous in the cause of brotherly love. For it is not we, but they, who are in isolation, though they don't see that. Of old, leaders of the people came from among us, and why should they not again? The same meek and humble ascetics will rise up and go out to work for the great cause. The salvation of Russia comes from the people. And the Russian monk has always been on the side of the people. We are isolated only if the people are isolated. The people believe as we do, and an unbelieving reformer will never do anything in Russia, even if he is sincere in heart and a genius. Remember that! The people will meet the atheist and overcome him, and Russia will be one and orthodox. Take care of the peasant and guard his heart. Go on educating him quietly. That's your duty as monks, for the peasant has God in his heart. (_f_) _Of Masters and Servants, and of whether it is possible for them to be Brothers in the Spirit_ Of course, I don't deny that there is sin in the peasants too. And the fire of corruption is spreading visibly, hourly, working from above downwards. The spirit of isolation is coming upon the people too. Money- lenders and devourers of the commune are rising up. Already the merchant grows more and more eager for rank, and strives to show himself cultured though he has not a trace of culture, and to this end meanly despises his old traditions, and is even ashamed of the faith of his fathers. He visits princes, though he is only a peasant corrupted. The peasants are rotting in drunkenness and cannot shake off the habit. And what cruelty to their wives, to their children even! All from drunkenness! I've seen in the factories children of nine years old, frail, rickety, bent and already depraved. The stuffy workshop, the din of machinery, work all day long, the vile language and the drink, the drink--is that what a little child's heart needs? He needs sunshine, childish play, good examples all about him, and at least a little love. There must be no more of this, monks, no more torturing of children, rise up and preach that, make haste, make haste! But God will save Russia, for though the peasants are corrupted and cannot renounce their filthy sin, yet they know it is cursed by God and that they do wrong in sinning. So that our people still believe in righteousness, have faith in God and weep tears of devotion. It is different with the upper classes. They, following science, want to base justice on reason alone, but not with Christ, as before, and they have already proclaimed that there is no crime, that there is no sin. And that's consistent, for if you have no God what is the meaning of crime? In Europe the people are already rising up against the rich with violence, and the leaders of the people are everywhere leading them to bloodshed, and teaching them that their wrath is righteous. But their "wrath is accursed, for it is cruel." But God will save Russia as He has saved her many times. Salvation will come from the people, from their faith and their meekness. Fathers and teachers, watch over the people's faith and this will not be a dream. I've been struck all my life in our great people by their dignity, their true and seemly dignity. I've seen it myself, I can testify to it, I've seen it and marveled at it, I've seen it in spite of the degraded sins and poverty-stricken appearance of our peasantry. They are not servile, and even after two centuries of serfdom they are free in manner and bearing, yet without insolence, and not revengeful and not envious. "You are rich and noble, you are clever and talented, well, be so, God bless you. I respect you, but I know that I too am a man. By the very fact that I respect you without envy I prove my dignity as a man." In truth if they don't say this (for they don't know how to say this yet), that is how they act. I have seen it myself, I have known it myself, and, would you believe it, the poorer our Russian peasant is, the more noticeable is that serene goodness, for the rich among them are for the most part corrupted already, and much of that is due to our carelessness and indifference. But God will save His people, for Russia is great in her humility. I dream of seeing, and seem to see clearly already, our future. It will come to pass, that even the most corrupt of our rich will end by being ashamed of his riches before the poor, and the poor, seeing his humility, will understand and give way before him, will respond joyfully and kindly to his honorable shame. Believe me that it will end in that; things are moving to that. Equality is to be found only in the spiritual dignity of man, and that will only be understood among us. If we were brothers, there would be fraternity, but before that, they will never agree about the division of wealth. We preserve the image of Christ, and it will shine forth like a precious diamond to the whole world. So may it be, so may it be! Fathers and teachers, a touching incident befell me once. In my wanderings I met in the town of K. my old orderly, Afanasy. It was eight years since I had parted from him. He chanced to see me in the market-place, recognized me, ran up to me, and how delighted he was! He simply pounced on me: "Master dear, is it you? Is it really you I see?" He took me home with him. He was no longer in the army, he was married and already had two little children. He and his wife earned their living as costermongers in the market-place. His room was poor, but bright and clean. He made me sit down, set the samovar, sent for his wife, as though my appearance were a festival for them. He brought me his children: "Bless them, Father." "Is it for me to bless them? I am only a humble monk. I will pray for them. And for you, Afanasy Pavlovitch, I have prayed every day since that day, for it all came from you," said I. And I explained that to him as well as I could. And what do you think? The man kept gazing at me and could not believe that I, his former master, an officer, was now before him in such a guise and position; it made him shed tears. "Why are you weeping?" said I, "better rejoice over me, dear friend, whom I can never forget, for my path is a glad and joyful one." He did not say much, but kept sighing and shaking his head over me tenderly. "What has became of your fortune?" he asked. "I gave it to the monastery," I answered; "we live in common." After tea I began saying good-by, and suddenly he brought out half a rouble as an offering to the monastery, and another half-rouble I saw him thrusting hurriedly into my hand: "That's for you in your wanderings, it may be of use to you, Father." I took his half-rouble, bowed to him and his wife, and went out rejoicing. And on my way I thought: "Here we are both now, he at home and I on the road, sighing and shaking our heads, no doubt, and yet smiling joyfully in the gladness of our hearts, remembering how God brought about our meeting." I have never seen him again since then. I had been his master and he my servant, but now when we exchanged a loving kiss with softened hearts, there was a great human bond between us. I have thought a great deal about that, and now what I think is this: Is it so inconceivable that that grand and simple-hearted unity might in due time become universal among the Russian people? I believe that it will come to pass and that the time is at hand. And of servants I will add this: In old days when I was young I was often angry with servants; "the cook had served something too hot, the orderly had not brushed my clothes." But what taught me better then was a thought of my dear brother's, which I had heard from him in childhood: "Am I worth it, that another should serve me and be ordered about by me in his poverty and ignorance?" And I wondered at the time that such simple and self- evident ideas should be so slow to occur to our minds. It is impossible that there should be no servants in the world, but act so that your servant may be freer in spirit than if he were not a servant. And why cannot I be a servant to my servant and even let him see it, and that without any pride on my part or any mistrust on his? Why should not my servant be like my own kindred, so that I may take him into my family and rejoice in doing so? Even now this can be done, but it will lead to the grand unity of men in the future, when a man will not seek servants for himself, or desire to turn his fellow creatures into servants as he does now, but on the contrary, will long with his whole heart to be the servant of all, as the Gospel teaches. And can it be a dream, that in the end man will find his joy only in deeds of light and mercy, and not in cruel pleasures as now, in gluttony, fornication, ostentation, boasting and envious rivalry of one with the other? I firmly believe that it is not and that the time is at hand. People laugh and ask: "When will that time come and does it look like coming?" I believe that with Christ's help we shall accomplish this great thing. And how many ideas there have been on earth in the history of man which were unthinkable ten years before they appeared! Yet when their destined hour had come, they came forth and spread over the whole earth. So it will be with us, and our people will shine forth in the world, and all men will say: "The stone which the builders rejected has become the corner-stone of the building." And we may ask the scornful themselves: If our hope is a dream, when will you build up your edifice and order things justly by your intellect alone, without Christ? If they declare that it is they who are advancing towards unity, only the most simple-hearted among them believe it, so that one may positively marvel at such simplicity. Of a truth, they have more fantastic dreams than we. They aim at justice, but, denying Christ, they will end by flooding the earth with blood, for blood cries out for blood, and he that taketh up the sword shall perish by the sword. And if it were not for Christ's covenant, they would slaughter one another down to the last two men on earth. And those two last men would not be able to restrain each other in their pride, and the one would slay the other and then himself. And that would come to pass, were it not for the promise of Christ that for the sake of the humble and meek the days shall be shortened. While I was still wearing an officer's uniform after my duel, I talked about servants in general society, and I remember every one was amazed at me. "What!" they asked, "are we to make our servants sit down on the sofa and offer them tea?" And I answered them: "Why not, sometimes at least?" Every one laughed. Their question was frivolous and my answer was not clear; but the thought in it was to some extent right. (_g_) _Of Prayer, of Love, and of Contact with other Worlds_ Young man, be not forgetful of prayer. Every time you pray, if your prayer is sincere, there will be new feeling and new meaning in it, which will give you fresh courage, and you will understand that prayer is an education. Remember, too, every day, and whenever you can, repeat to yourself, "Lord, have mercy on all who appear before Thee to-day." For every hour and every moment thousands of men leave life on this earth, and their souls appear before God. And how many of them depart in solitude, unknown, sad, dejected that no one mourns for them or even knows whether they have lived or not! And behold, from the other end of the earth perhaps, your prayer for their rest will rise up to God though you knew them not nor they you. How touching it must be to a soul standing in dread before the Lord to feel at that instant that, for him too, there is one to pray, that there is a fellow creature left on earth to love him too! And God will look on you both more graciously, for if you have had so much pity on him, how much will He have pity Who is infinitely more loving and merciful than you! And He will forgive him for your sake. Brothers, have no fear of men's sin. Love a man even in his sin, for that is the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on earth. Love all God's creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all- embracing love. Love the animals: God has given them the rudiments of thought and joy untroubled. Do not trouble it, don't harass them, don't deprive them of their happiness, don't work against God's intent. Man, do not pride yourself on superiority to the animals; they are without sin, and you, with your greatness, defile the earth by your appearance on it, and leave the traces of your foulness after you--alas, it is true of almost every one of us! Love children especially, for they too are sinless like the angels; they live to soften and purify our hearts and as it were to guide us. Woe to him who offends a child! Father Anfim taught me to love children. The kind, silent man used often on our wanderings to spend the farthings given us on sweets and cakes for the children. He could not pass by a child without emotion. That's the nature of the man. At some thoughts one stands perplexed, especially at the sight of men's sin, and wonders whether one should use force or humble love. Always decide to use humble love. If you resolve on that once for all, you may subdue the whole world. Loving humility is marvelously strong, the strongest of all things, and there is nothing else like it. Every day and every hour, every minute, walk round yourself and watch yourself, and see that your image is a seemly one. You pass by a little child, you pass by, spiteful, with ugly words, with wrathful heart; you may not have noticed the child, but he has seen you, and your image, unseemly and ignoble, may remain in his defenseless heart. You don't know it, but you may have sown an evil seed in him and it may grow, and all because you were not careful before the child, because you did not foster in yourself a careful, actively benevolent love. Brothers, love is a teacher; but one must know how to acquire it, for it is hard to acquire, it is dearly bought, it is won slowly by long labor. For we must love not only occasionally, for a moment, but for ever. Every one can love occasionally, even the wicked can. My brother asked the birds to forgive him; that sounds senseless, but it is right; for all is like an ocean, all is flowing and blending; a touch in one place sets up movement at the other end of the earth. It may be senseless to beg forgiveness of the birds, but birds would be happier at your side--a little happier, anyway--and children and all animals, if you were nobler than you are now. It's all like an ocean, I tell you. Then you would pray to the birds too, consumed by an all-embracing love, in a sort of transport, and pray that they too will forgive you your sin. Treasure this ecstasy, however senseless it may seem to men. My friends, pray to God for gladness. Be glad as children, as the birds of heaven. And let not the sin of men confound you in your doings. Fear not that it will wear away your work and hinder its being accomplished. Do not say, "Sin is mighty, wickedness is mighty, evil environment is mighty, and we are lonely and helpless, and evil environment is wearing us away and hindering our good work from being done." Fly from that dejection, children! There is only one means of salvation, then take yourself and make yourself responsible for all men's sins, that is the truth, you know, friends, for as soon as you sincerely make yourself responsible for everything and for all men, you will see at once that it is really so, and that you are to blame for every one and for all things. But throwing your own indolence and impotence on others you will end by sharing the pride of Satan and murmuring against God. Of the pride of Satan what I think is this: it is hard for us on earth to comprehend it, and therefore it is so easy to fall into error and to share it, even imagining that we are doing something grand and fine. Indeed, many of the strongest feelings and movements of our nature we cannot comprehend on earth. Let not that be a stumbling-block, and think not that it may serve as a justification to you for anything. For the Eternal Judge asks of you what you can comprehend and not what you cannot. You will know that yourself hereafter, for you will behold all things truly then and will not dispute them. On earth, indeed, we are as it were astray, and if it were not for the precious image of Christ before us, we should be undone and altogether lost, as was the human race before the flood. Much on earth is hidden from us, but to make up for that we have been given a precious mystic sense of our living bond with the other world, with the higher heavenly world, and the roots of our thoughts and feelings are not here but in other worlds. That is why the philosophers say that we cannot apprehend the reality of things on earth. God took seeds from different worlds and sowed them on this earth, and His garden grew up and everything came up that could come up, but what grows lives and is alive only through the feeling of its contact with other mysterious worlds. If that feeling grows weak or is destroyed in you, the heavenly growth will die away in you. Then you will be indifferent to life and even grow to hate it. That's what I think. _(h) Can a Man judge his Fellow Creatures? Faith to the End_ Remember particularly that you cannot be a judge of any one. For no one can judge a criminal, until he recognizes that he is just such a criminal as the man standing before him, and that he perhaps is more than all men to blame for that crime. When he understands that, he will be able to be a judge. Though that sounds absurd, it is true. If I had been righteous myself, perhaps there would have been no criminal standing before me. If you can take upon yourself the crime of the criminal your heart is judging, take it at once, suffer for him yourself, and let him go without reproach. And even if the law itself makes you his judge, act in the same spirit so far as possible, for he will go away and condemn himself more bitterly than you have done. If, after your kiss, he goes away untouched, mocking at you, do not let that be a stumbling-block to you. It shows his time has not yet come, but it will come in due course. And if it come not, no matter; if not he, then another in his place will understand and suffer, and judge and condemn himself, and the truth will be fulfilled. Believe that, believe it without doubt; for in that lies all the hope and faith of the saints. Work without ceasing. If you remember in the night as you go to sleep, "I have not done what I ought to have done," rise up at once and do it. If the people around you are spiteful and callous and will not hear you, fall down before them and beg their forgiveness; for in truth you are to blame for their not wanting to hear you. And if you cannot speak to them in their bitterness, serve them in silence and in humility, never losing hope. If all men abandon you and even drive you away by force, then when you are left alone fall on the earth and kiss it, water it with your tears and it will bring forth fruit even though no one has seen or heard you in your solitude. Believe to the end, even if all men went astray and you were left the only one faithful; bring your offering even then and praise God in your loneliness. And if two of you are gathered together--then there is a whole world, a world of living love. Embrace each other tenderly and praise God, for if only in you two His truth has been fulfilled. If you sin yourself and grieve even unto death for your sins or for your sudden sin, then rejoice for others, rejoice for the righteous man, rejoice that if you have sinned, he is righteous and has not sinned. If the evil-doing of men moves you to indignation and overwhelming distress, even to a desire for vengeance on the evil-doers, shun above all things that feeling. Go at once and seek suffering for yourself, as though you were yourself guilty of that wrong. Accept that suffering and bear it and your heart will find comfort, and you will understand that you too are guilty, for you might have been a light to the evil-doers, even as the one man sinless, and you were not a light to them. If you had been a light, you would have lightened the path for others too, and the evil-doer might perhaps have been saved by your light from his sin. And even though your light was shining, yet you see men were not saved by it, hold firm and doubt not the power of the heavenly light. Believe that if they were not saved, they will be saved hereafter. And if they are not saved hereafter, then their sons will be saved, for your light will not die even when you are dead. The righteous man departs, but his light remains. Men are always saved after the death of the deliverer. Men reject their prophets and slay them, but they love their martyrs and honor those whom they have slain. You are working for the whole, you are acting for the future. Seek no reward, for great is your reward on this earth: the spiritual joy which is only vouchsafed to the righteous man. Fear not the great nor the mighty, but be wise and ever serene. Know the measure, know the times, study that. When you are left alone, pray. Love to throw yourself on the earth and kiss it. Kiss the earth and love it with an unceasing, consuming love. Love all men, love everything. Seek that rapture and ecstasy. Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love those tears. Don't be ashamed of that ecstasy, prize it, for it is a gift of God and a great one; it is not given to many but only to the elect. _(i) Of Hell and Hell Fire, a Mystic Reflection_ Fathers and teachers, I ponder, "What is hell?" I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love. Once in infinite existence, immeasurable in time and space, a spiritual creature was given on his coming to earth, the power of saying, "I am and I love." Once, only once, there was given him a moment of active _living_ love, and for that was earthly life given him, and with it times and seasons. And that happy creature rejected the priceless gift, prized it and loved it not, scorned it and remained callous. Such a one, having left the earth, sees Abraham's bosom and talks with Abraham as we are told in the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, and beholds heaven and can go up to the Lord. But that is just his torment, to rise up to the Lord without ever having loved, to be brought close to those who have loved when he has despised their love. For he sees clearly and says to himself, "Now I have understanding, and though I now thirst to love, there will be nothing great, no sacrifice in my love, for my earthly life is over, and Abraham will not come even with a drop of living water (that is the gift of earthly active life) to cool the fiery thirst of spiritual love which burns in me now, though I despised it on earth; there is no more life for me and will be no more time! Even though I would gladly give my life for others, it can never be, for that life is passed which can be sacrificed for love, and now there is a gulf fixed between that life and this existence." They talk of hell fire in the material sense. I don't go into that mystery and I shun it. But I think if there were fire in material sense, they would be glad of it, for I imagine that in material agony, their still greater spiritual agony would be forgotten for a moment. Moreover, that spiritual agony cannot be taken from them, for that suffering is not external but within them. And if it could be taken from them, I think it would be bitterer still for the unhappy creatures. For even if the righteous in Paradise forgave them, beholding their torments, and called them up to heaven in their infinite love, they would only multiply their torments, for they would arouse in them still more keenly a flaming thirst for responsive, active and grateful love which is now impossible. In the timidity of my heart I imagine, however, that the very recognition of this impossibility would serve at last to console them. For accepting the love of the righteous together with the impossibility of repaying it, by this submissiveness and the effect of this humility, they will attain at last, as it were, to a certain semblance of that active love which they scorned in life, to something like its outward expression.... I am sorry, friends and brothers, that I cannot express this clearly. But woe to those who have slain themselves on earth, woe to the suicides! I believe that there can be none more miserable then they. They tell us that it is a sin to pray for them and outwardly the Church, as it were, renounces them, but in my secret heart I believe that we may pray even for them. Love can never be an offense to Christ. For such as those I have prayed inwardly all my life, I confess it, fathers and teachers, and even now I pray for them every day. Oh, there are some who remain proud and fierce even in hell, in spite of their certain knowledge and contemplation of the absolute truth; there are some fearful ones who have given themselves over to Satan and his proud spirit entirely. For such, hell is voluntary and ever consuming; they are tortured by their own choice. For they have cursed themselves, cursing God and life. They live upon their vindictive pride like a starving man in the desert sucking blood out of his own body. But they are never satisfied, and they refuse forgiveness, they curse God Who calls them. They cannot behold the living God without hatred, and they cry out that the God of life should be annihilated, that God should destroy Himself and His own creation. And they will burn in the fire of their own wrath for ever and yearn for death and annihilation. But they will not attain to death.... ------------------------------------- Here Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov's manuscript ends. I repeat, it is incomplete and fragmentary. Biographical details, for instance, cover only Father Zossima's earliest youth. Of his teaching and opinions we find brought together sayings evidently uttered on very different occasions. His utterances during the last few hours have not been kept separate from the rest, but their general character can be gathered from what we have in Alexey Fyodorovitch's manuscript. The elder's death came in the end quite unexpectedly. For although those who were gathered about him that last evening realized that his death was approaching, yet it was difficult to imagine that it would come so suddenly. On the contrary, his friends, as I observed already, seeing him that night apparently so cheerful and talkative, were convinced that there was at least a temporary change for the better in his condition. Even five minutes before his death, they said afterwards wonderingly, it was impossible to foresee it. He seemed suddenly to feel an acute pain in his chest, he turned pale and pressed his hands to his heart. All rose from their seats and hastened to him. But though suffering, he still looked at them with a smile, sank slowly from his chair on to his knees, then bowed his face to the ground, stretched out his arms and as though in joyful ecstasy, praying and kissing the ground, quietly and joyfully gave up his soul to God. The news of his death spread at once through the hermitage and reached the monastery. The nearest friends of the deceased and those whose duty it was from their position began to lay out the corpse according to the ancient ritual, and all the monks gathered together in the church. And before dawn the news of the death reached the town. By the morning all the town was talking of the event, and crowds were flocking from the town to the monastery. But this subject will be treated in the next book; I will only add here that before a day had passed something happened so unexpected, so strange, upsetting, and bewildering in its effect on the monks and the townspeople, that after all these years, that day of general suspense is still vividly remembered in the town.

Book 6

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Father Zossima is dying, yet he is still talking to those gathered around him. Alyosha comes back to the monastery after his other visits, and he goes to Father Zossima's side. Father Zossima is happy to see him, and he explains to Alyosha the meaning of his bow to Dmitri during their interview. He says that he bowed to Dmitri because he prophesied great misfortune for him, a fate he does not believe that Alyosha will share. He urges Alyosha to go back to his brothers and help them, for helping them with their difficulties will show Alyosha how to embrace all of humanity and show those in anguish how to appreciate life. Father Zossima then begins talking about his older brother. Father Zossima says that he looked up to his brother. He then tells Alyosha that he reminds him of his dear brother, which is part of the reason why Zossima has taken such a liking to Alyosha. Father Zossima's brother, who was some eight years older than he, fell into the company of an intellectual with liberal ideas. He disagreed with his religious mother, and she became very saddened by his beliefs. One day, he fell ill with tuberculosis, and the doctors told him that he had only several months to live. He began acting very loving, and he handled his incapacitation very bravely. He became very interested in every living being around him. He talked incessantly about the need to love all of nature and humanity. He had a great effect on those around him in his last days, and his younger brother never forgot the lesson he learned from his teachings. Father Zossima calls his late brother "a message from above." Father Zossima pauses to tell those around him how greatly the Bible has affected him. It captured his imagination as a young boy, and he never lost his fascination with it. He wishes that all men could find the meaning he found in the book as a boy. He says, "it is like a sculpted model of the world, of mankind, and of the characters of men; everything is there and it contains guidance for us for all ages. How many mysteries are solved in it, how many revealed!" Father Zossima then talks about his wayward life as a young man. He says of his youth, "drunkenness, debauchery, and rowdyism were almost matters of pride." When he graduated from military school, he was a free spirit. He spent money "with the total recklessness and abandon of youth." He became quite enamored of a girl, but he did not ask to marry her because he was having too much fun as a bachelor. Then, after being gone for several months, he found out that the girl had married another man. Hot-blooded Zossima was incensed, losing "all sense of reality." He decided to challenge her new husband to a duel. The morning of the duel, however, Zossima was musing on his brother's last wishes. He realized that his hot-headedness was not consistent with the message of love his brother had advocated. He went to the duel anyway, revived by his new outlook on life. He let the other man shoot, bravely facing his opponent, looking at him "with love." The other man shot, but the bullet just nicked Zossima, who turned and tossed his pistol away before asking the man's forgiveness. After the duel, he decided to retire from military service and go to a monastery. When he told his fellow officers about his resignation, they teased him, but they did not reproach him. In fact, they admired his bravery and liked his honesty. He talked about the duel with people from around the community, and he became quite famous for his duel. News about Zossima's actions reached many people, and one night Zossima received a visitor. The man was a famous philanthropist who was respected throughout the town. The man said he had heard Zossima's story and was rather impressed. He asked about what had prompted Zossima's change of heart, and Zossima told him about it, his decision to strike out in a new direction in life, and the exhilaration of that realization. The two continued talking, and they met and talked for nights on end. After many of these meetings, the man told Zossima that he had killed someone but another man had been blamed for the crime. Even though the man died before his trial, Zossima's visitor always felt the need to confess, despite becoming a good citizen and an essential member of his community. One day, overcome by guilt, he confessed to his crime in the open, but everyone chalked it up to temporary insanity. They could not believe that such a good man was capable of committing such a terrible act. Zossima's visitor became sick after his many talks with Zossima, arguably because he felt so guilty. Father Zossima visited him, and he never told anyone of the man's crimes. Before the man died, he told Father Zossima he was at peace with the world for the first time in years. Zossima then tells Alyosha his theory about the importance of monks in Russia. He knows that often, monks are derided in society for being "shameless beggars living off other people's labor." Zossima feels that monks and the true Russian folks are the key to the salvation of the Russian people. The regular folks are ultimately the most important agents of change, but the monks lead them by example. He feels that the monk is actually very near to the common people, and he believes that all men should be equal; the hierarchy among masters and servants should not exist. If hierarchy between a master and a servant can be abolished, they can become true "brothers in spirit." Zossima goes on to tell all those around him that all men are intertwined, so man should love all those around him, and he should also feel that he is culpable for the sins of others. God is mysterious. Man should not judge his brethren; only God can judge. There is no Hell; there is only man's conscience to torment him. This is a "spiritual Hell." Suddenly, in the middle of his speech, Father Zossima lowers himself to the ground, spreads his arms, and embraces the Earth. In a state of "ecstasy," he dies. Those in the monastery quickly find out about his death. By morning, even the townspeople know. Father Zossima, the famous elder, is no longer.

Father Zossima is the sole focus of Book Six. In very plain terms he tells those around him his beliefs and gives them spiritual advice. This section of the novel reads like a theological text or a piece of apologetics, and it is perhaps the most didactic installment of The Brothers Karamazov. In many novels, extracting characters' true beliefs from their words and actions can take a great deal of analysis and inference. In this novel, however, many characters speak their minds plainly and clearly. At one point in a discussion with Alyosha, Ivan explains that all "good Russians" are most concerned about their relationship to God and country. Why should a man shy away from these grand issues if they are so close to every Russian's heart? Zossima's words from his bed, for his part, are not simply his views. They are the views that he believes all men should share. He is not content to love humanity; he wants others to feel the same way about humanity that he does, for he believes it to be morally, psychologically, and spiritually healthy to do so. Father Zossima is the character whose words and deeds influence Alyosha, the hero of the novel, the most. Thus, his sage words are central to the theme of the book. It is almost as if Dostoevsky is speaking directly to the reader--not that this is Dostoevsky's final word on these matters, but it is a perspective he wants readers to take seriously. A common trope in The Brothers Karamazov is that each character has a foil or doppelganger in some respect. Ivan's atheism is very much defined against Alyosha's piousness, Dmitri's sensualism is a reflection of his father's. In keeping with this pattern of doubling, Father Zossima tells Alyosha how much he reminds the old man of his late brother. Unlike the story about the Grand Inquisitor that Ivan told, the story of Zossima's brother is based on fact. Alyosha is very much like Zossima's brother, as he is like Christ in The Grand Inquisitor. Alyosha is thus being established as the successor protagonist in a couple of dramatic religious traditions. He is likened both to Christ and the brother who Zossima saw as a role model. Alyosha is still a young man, but high expectations are set for him. Dostoevsky lends him storied weight by associating him with almost mythical characters. Zossima's brother, however, is not perfect like Christ, nor is he unwavering in his beliefs. In fact, he undergoes a complete change during Zossima's description of him, going from liberal intellectual to reverent mentor. This implies that Alyosha too has an internal conflict with which he struggles. Alyosha does not seem to have the wayward streak of Dmitri or the skepticism of his brother Ivan, however, so what is his struggle? It seems that Alyosha feels very concerned about his father and brothers, and he does not know how to help them most. He also wants to stay in the monastery with Father Zossima but knows he must go into the world. This is a key moral struggle for people of faith, who feel responsible both to the Church and to the world. Alyosha is not the only character with an internal struggle. Father Zossima describes his younger days as an army officer. He was not always the paragon of love and understanding that he is now. He was a hot-headed profligate. The almost saintly Zossima now seems incapable of any feelings outside of love and charity. The idea that he once recklessly challenged a man to a duel may seem impossible, but this is the standard material of testimonial apologetics. Until now, Alyosha and Zossima have seemed insufficiently three-dimensional. Knowing that they have struggles and weaknesses helps us see them as more human. Just because Father Zossima has gained a bit of humanity, however, his status as an acclaimed icon is not shaken. Zossima's spiritual conversion before the duel gained him fame, and people from all around heard about him. Even now, he is famous for his religious fervor. Fame does not require singularity of purpose and character; the more interesting protagonists overcome conflicts and serve as examples to others. Conflict is not necessarily weakness in a world of uncertainty; it can lead to realization, understanding, and prudent action. Just because Dmitri is deeply conflicted, for instance, on that basis alone he is not necessarily worse morally than Alyosha and Zossima. Dmitri means well, at least, and he is struggling with conflicting impulses. He is capable of a deep understanding of the complexity of an issue, and this is why he tends to be ambivalent. Feeling conflicted is more honest than having a steadfast opinion and sticking to it uncritically. A strong, unwavering opinion can be stubbornness, yet for Alyosha and Zossima, it is integrity.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/06.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_0_part_6.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 6

chapter 6

{"name": "Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-1-chapters-1-11", "summary": "As Tess leaves Trantridge Cross to return home, her fellow travelers in the van remark about the roses that adorn her appearance, the first time that she is aware of the spectacle she presents to them. Her mother greets Tess excitedly, and Tess shows her a letter written by Mrs. d'Urberville stating that Tess's services would be useful to her in the management of their poultry farm. Tess tells her parents that she would rather stay with them, but she cannot tell them why for she does not know the reason. Later, Alec d'Urberville visits the Durbeyfields to see whether Tess could come to manage the poultry farm. Joan Durbeyfield thinks highly of Alec as a mighty handsome man. John Durbeyfield is convinced that Alec will marry Tess, but Tess tells her father that she does not like having Alec there. Joan Durbeyfield finally prepares for her daughter to leave, assuming that she will marry, for she has been discovering matches for her daughter since she was born.", "analysis": "Hardy further establishes in this chapter that Tess is unaware of the sexuality that she presents to others. Although it is evident to all who see Tess that she is adorned to appear attractive, Tess does not realize the purposes for which she was sent to Trantridge Cross. This lack of awareness of her sexuality also appears when Tess cannot articulate her objection to going to stay with the d'Urbervilles. Her obvious reason for not wanting to stay at Trantridge is the presence of Alec d'Urberville and his advances toward her, but she cannot frame this in terms of sexual anxiety. Hardy also continues with the theme of Tess as the pawn of others around her in this chapter, in which establishes that Joan Durbeyfield uses her daughter specifically to make romantic matches in hopes of raising her own estate. Her explicit purpose is to find a gentleman for her daughter, and she has pursued this course of action ever since her daughter's birth. However, if this is a sign that Joan Durbeyfield is in some sense manipulative, it also indicates the lowly state in which Tess' mother lives; her one hope for raising herself from poverty is to have her daughter marry a gentleman. Joan Durbeyfield's attempts to find her daughter a gentleman to marry, if not commendable, are nevertheless the actions of a desperate woman"}

Tess went down the hill to Trantridge Cross, and inattentively waited to take her seat in the van returning from Chaseborough to Shaston. She did not know what the other occupants said to her as she entered, though she answered them; and when they had started anew she rode along with an inward and not an outward eye. One among her fellow-travellers addressed her more pointedly than any had spoken before: "Why, you be quite a posy! And such roses in early June!" Then she became aware of the spectacle she presented to their surprised vision: roses at her breasts; roses in her hat; roses and strawberries in her basket to the brim. She blushed, and said confusedly that the flowers had been given to her. When the passengers were not looking she stealthily removed the more prominent blooms from her hat and placed them in the basket, where she covered them with her handkerchief. Then she fell to reflecting again, and in looking downwards a thorn of the rose remaining in her breast accidentally pricked her chin. Like all the cottagers in Blackmoor Vale, Tess was steeped in fancies and prefigurative superstitions; she thought this an ill omen--the first she had noticed that day. The van travelled only so far as Shaston, and there were several miles of pedestrian descent from that mountain-town into the vale to Marlott. Her mother had advised her to stay here for the night, at the house of a cottage-woman they knew, if she should feel too tired to come on; and this Tess did, not descending to her home till the following afternoon. When she entered the house she perceived in a moment from her mother's triumphant manner that something had occurred in the interim. "Oh yes; I know all about it! I told 'ee it would be all right, and now 'tis proved!" "Since I've been away? What has?" said Tess rather wearily. Her mother surveyed the girl up and down with arch approval, and went on banteringly: "So you've brought 'em round!" "How do you know, mother?" "I've had a letter." Tess then remembered that there would have been time for this. "They say--Mrs d'Urberville says--that she wants you to look after a little fowl-farm which is her hobby. But this is only her artful way of getting 'ee there without raising your hopes. She's going to own 'ee as kin--that's the meaning o't." "But I didn't see her." "You zid somebody, I suppose?" "I saw her son." "And did he own 'ee?" "Well--he called me Coz." "An' I knew it! Jacky--he called her Coz!" cried Joan to her husband. "Well, he spoke to his mother, of course, and she do want 'ee there." "But I don't know that I am apt at tending fowls," said the dubious Tess. "Then I don't know who is apt. You've be'n born in the business, and brought up in it. They that be born in a business always know more about it than any 'prentice. Besides, that's only just a show of something for you to do, that you midn't feel beholden." "I don't altogether think I ought to go," said Tess thoughtfully. "Who wrote the letter? Will you let me look at it?" "Mrs d'Urberville wrote it. Here it is." The letter was in the third person, and briefly informed Mrs Durbeyfield that her daughter's services would be useful to that lady in the management of her poultry-farm, that a comfortable room would be provided for her if she could come, and that the wages would be on a liberal scale if they liked her. "Oh--that's all!" said Tess. "You couldn't expect her to throw her arms round 'ee, an' to kiss and to coll 'ee all at once." Tess looked out of the window. "I would rather stay here with father and you," she said. "But why?" "I'd rather not tell you why, mother; indeed, I don't quite know why." A week afterwards she came in one evening from an unavailing search for some light occupation in the immediate neighbourhood. Her idea had been to get together sufficient money during the summer to purchase another horse. Hardly had she crossed the threshold before one of the children danced across the room, saying, "The gentleman's been here!" Her mother hastened to explain, smiles breaking from every inch of her person. Mrs d'Urberville's son had called on horseback, having been riding by chance in the direction of Marlott. He had wished to know, finally, in the name of his mother, if Tess could really come to manage the old lady's fowl-farm or not; the lad who had hitherto superintended the birds having proved untrustworthy. "Mr d'Urberville says you must be a good girl if you are at all as you appear; he knows you must be worth your weight in gold. He is very much interested in 'ee--truth to tell." Tess seemed for the moment really pleased to hear that she had won such high opinion from a stranger when, in her own esteem, she had sunk so low. "It is very good of him to think that," she murmured; "and if I was quite sure how it would be living there, I would go any-when." "He is a mighty handsome man!" "I don't think so," said Tess coldly. "Well, there's your chance, whether or no; and I'm sure he wears a beautiful diamond ring!" "Yes," said little Abraham, brightly, from the window-bench; "and I seed it! and it did twinkle when he put his hand up to his mistarshers. Mother, why did our grand relation keep on putting his hand up to his mistarshers?" "Hark at that child!" cried Mrs Durbeyfield, with parenthetic admiration. "Perhaps to show his diamond ring," murmured Sir John, dreamily, from his chair. "I'll think it over," said Tess, leaving the room. "Well, she's made a conquest o' the younger branch of us, straight off," continued the matron to her husband, "and she's a fool if she don't follow it up." "I don't quite like my children going away from home," said the haggler. "As the head of the family, the rest ought to come to me." "But do let her go, Jacky," coaxed his poor witless wife. "He's struck wi' her--you can see that. He called her Coz! He'll marry her, most likely, and make a lady of her; and then she'll be what her forefathers was." John Durbeyfield had more conceit than energy or health, and this supposition was pleasant to him. "Well, perhaps that's what young Mr d'Urberville means," he admitted; "and sure enough he mid have serious thoughts about improving his blood by linking on to the old line. Tess, the little rogue! And have she really paid 'em a visit to such an end as this?" Meanwhile Tess was walking thoughtfully among the gooseberry-bushes in the garden, and over Prince's grave. When she came in her mother pursued her advantage. "Well, what be you going to do?" she asked. "I wish I had seen Mrs d'Urberville," said Tess. "I think you mid as well settle it. Then you'll see her soon enough." Her father coughed in his chair. "I don't know what to say!" answered the girl restlessly. "It is for you to decide. I killed the old horse, and I suppose I ought to do something to get ye a new one. But--but--I don't quite like Mr d'Urberville being there!" The children, who had made use of this idea of Tess being taken up by their wealthy kinsfolk (which they imagined the other family to be) as a species of dolorifuge after the death of the horse, began to cry at Tess's reluctance, and teased and reproached her for hesitating. "Tess won't go-o-o and be made a la-a-dy of!--no, she says she wo-o-on't!" they wailed, with square mouths. "And we shan't have a nice new horse, and lots o' golden money to buy fairlings! And Tess won't look pretty in her best cloze no mo-o-ore!" Her mother chimed in to the same tune: a certain way she had of making her labours in the house seem heavier than they were by prolonging them indefinitely, also weighed in the argument. Her father alone preserved an attitude of neutrality. "I will go," said Tess at last. Her mother could not repress her consciousness of the nuptial vision conjured up by the girl's consent. "That's right! For such a pretty maid as 'tis, this is a fine chance!" Tess smiled crossly. "I hope it is a chance for earning money. It is no other kind of chance. You had better say nothing of that silly sort about parish." Mrs Durbeyfield did not promise. She was not quite sure that she did not feel proud enough, after the visitor's remarks, to say a good deal. Thus it was arranged; and the young girl wrote, agreeing to be ready to set out on any day on which she might be required. She was duly informed that Mrs d'Urberville was glad of her decision, and that a spring-cart should be sent to meet her and her luggage at the top of the Vale on the day after the morrow, when she must hold herself prepared to start. Mrs d'Urberville's handwriting seemed rather masculine. "A cart?" murmured Joan Durbeyfield doubtingly. "It might have been a carriage for her own kin!" Having at last taken her course Tess was less restless and abstracted, going about her business with some self-assurance in the thought of acquiring another horse for her father by an occupation which would not be onerous. She had hoped to be a teacher at the school, but the fates seemed to decide otherwise. Being mentally older than her mother she did not regard Mrs Durbeyfield's matrimonial hopes for her in a serious aspect for a moment. The light-minded woman had been discovering good matches for her daughter almost from the year of her birth.

Chapter 6

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

As Tess leaves Trantridge Cross to return home, her fellow travelers in the van remark about the roses that adorn her appearance, the first time that she is aware of the spectacle she presents to them. Her mother greets Tess excitedly, and Tess shows her a letter written by Mrs. d'Urberville stating that Tess's services would be useful to her in the management of their poultry farm. Tess tells her parents that she would rather stay with them, but she cannot tell them why for she does not know the reason. Later, Alec d'Urberville visits the Durbeyfields to see whether Tess could come to manage the poultry farm. Joan Durbeyfield thinks highly of Alec as a mighty handsome man. John Durbeyfield is convinced that Alec will marry Tess, but Tess tells her father that she does not like having Alec there. Joan Durbeyfield finally prepares for her daughter to leave, assuming that she will marry, for she has been discovering matches for her daughter since she was born.

Hardy further establishes in this chapter that Tess is unaware of the sexuality that she presents to others. Although it is evident to all who see Tess that she is adorned to appear attractive, Tess does not realize the purposes for which she was sent to Trantridge Cross. This lack of awareness of her sexuality also appears when Tess cannot articulate her objection to going to stay with the d'Urbervilles. Her obvious reason for not wanting to stay at Trantridge is the presence of Alec d'Urberville and his advances toward her, but she cannot frame this in terms of sexual anxiety. Hardy also continues with the theme of Tess as the pawn of others around her in this chapter, in which establishes that Joan Durbeyfield uses her daughter specifically to make romantic matches in hopes of raising her own estate. Her explicit purpose is to find a gentleman for her daughter, and she has pursued this course of action ever since her daughter's birth. However, if this is a sign that Joan Durbeyfield is in some sense manipulative, it also indicates the lowly state in which Tess' mother lives; her one hope for raising herself from poverty is to have her daughter marry a gentleman. Joan Durbeyfield's attempts to find her daughter a gentleman to marry, if not commendable, are nevertheless the actions of a desperate woman

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/27.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_4_part_3.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 4.chapter 3

book 4, chapter 3

{"name": "book 4, Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section5/", "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", "analysis": ""}

Chapter III. A Meeting With The Schoolboys "Thank goodness he did not ask me about Grushenka," thought Alyosha, as he left his father's house and turned towards Madame Hohlakov's, "or I might have to tell him of my meeting with Grushenka yesterday." Alyosha felt painfully that since yesterday both combatants had renewed their energies, and that their hearts had grown hard again. "Father is spiteful and angry, he's made some plan and will stick to it. And what of Dmitri? He too will be harder than yesterday, he too must be spiteful and angry, and he too, no doubt, has made some plan. Oh, I must succeed in finding him to-day, whatever happens." But Alyosha had not long to meditate. An incident occurred on the road, which, though apparently of little consequence, made a great impression on him. Just after he had crossed the square and turned the corner coming out into Mihailovsky Street, which is divided by a small ditch from the High Street (our whole town is intersected by ditches), he saw a group of schoolboys between the ages of nine and twelve, at the bridge. They were going home from school, some with their bags on their shoulders, others with leather satchels slung across them, some in short jackets, others in little overcoats. Some even had those high boots with creases round the ankles, such as little boys spoilt by rich fathers love to wear. The whole group was talking eagerly about something, apparently holding a council. Alyosha had never from his Moscow days been able to pass children without taking notice of them, and although he was particularly fond of children of three or thereabout, he liked schoolboys of ten and eleven too. And so, anxious as he was to-day, he wanted at once to turn aside to talk to them. He looked into their excited rosy faces, and noticed at once that all the boys had stones in their hands. Behind the ditch some thirty paces away, there was another schoolboy standing by a fence. He too had a satchel at his side. He was about ten years old, pale, delicate-looking and with sparkling black eyes. He kept an attentive and anxious watch on the other six, obviously his schoolfellows with whom he had just come out of school, but with whom he had evidently had a feud. Alyosha went up and, addressing a fair, curly-headed, rosy boy in a black jacket, observed: "When I used to wear a satchel like yours, I always used to carry it on my left side, so as to have my right hand free, but you've got yours on your right side. So it will be awkward for you to get at it." Alyosha had no art or premeditation in beginning with this practical remark. But it is the only way for a grown-up person to get at once into confidential relations with a child, or still more with a group of children. One must begin in a serious, businesslike way so as to be on a perfectly equal footing. Alyosha understood it by instinct. "But he is left-handed," another, a fine healthy-looking boy of eleven, answered promptly. All the others stared at Alyosha. "He even throws stones with his left hand," observed a third. At that instant a stone flew into the group, but only just grazed the left-handed boy, though it was well and vigorously thrown by the boy standing the other side of the ditch. "Give it him, hit him back, Smurov," they all shouted. But Smurov, the left-handed boy, needed no telling, and at once revenged himself; he threw a stone, but it missed the boy and hit the ground. The boy the other side of the ditch, the pocket of whose coat was visibly bulging with stones, flung another stone at the group; this time it flew straight at Alyosha and hit him painfully on the shoulder. "He aimed it at you, he meant it for you. You are Karamazov, Karamazov!" the boys shouted, laughing. "Come, all throw at him at once!" and six stones flew at the boy. One struck the boy on the head and he fell down, but at once leapt up and began ferociously returning their fire. Both sides threw stones incessantly. Many of the group had their pockets full too. "What are you about! Aren't you ashamed? Six against one! Why, you'll kill him," cried Alyosha. He ran forward and met the flying stones to screen the solitary boy. Three or four ceased throwing for a minute. "He began first!" cried a boy in a red shirt in an angry childish voice. "He is a beast, he stabbed Krassotkin in class the other day with a penknife. It bled. Krassotkin wouldn't tell tales, but he must be thrashed." "But what for? I suppose you tease him." "There, he sent a stone in your back again, he knows you," cried the children. "It's you he is throwing at now, not us. Come, all of you, at him again, don't miss, Smurov!" and again a fire of stones, and a very vicious one, began. The boy the other side of the ditch was hit in the chest; he screamed, began to cry and ran away uphill towards Mihailovsky Street. They all shouted: "Aha, he is funking, he is running away. Wisp of tow!" "You don't know what a beast he is, Karamazov, killing is too good for him," said the boy in the jacket, with flashing eyes. He seemed to be the eldest. "What's wrong with him?" asked Alyosha, "is he a tell-tale or what?" The boys looked at one another as though derisively. "Are you going that way, to Mihailovsky?" the same boy went on. "Catch him up.... You see he's stopped again, he is waiting and looking at you." "He is looking at you," the other boys chimed in. "You ask him, does he like a disheveled wisp of tow. Do you hear, ask him that!" There was a general burst of laughter. Alyosha looked at them, and they at him. "Don't go near him, he'll hurt you," cried Smurov in a warning voice. "I shan't ask him about the wisp of tow, for I expect you tease him with that question somehow. But I'll find out from him why you hate him so." "Find out then, find out," cried the boys, laughing. Alyosha crossed the bridge and walked uphill by the fence, straight towards the boy. "You'd better look out," the boys called after him; "he won't be afraid of you. He will stab you in a minute, on the sly, as he did Krassotkin." The boy waited for him without budging. Coming up to him, Alyosha saw facing him a child of about nine years old. He was an undersized weakly boy with a thin pale face, with large dark eyes that gazed at him vindictively. He was dressed in a rather shabby old overcoat, which he had monstrously outgrown. His bare arms stuck out beyond his sleeves. There was a large patch on the right knee of his trousers, and in his right boot just at the toe there was a big hole in the leather, carefully blackened with ink. Both the pockets of his great-coat were weighed down with stones. Alyosha stopped two steps in front of him, looking inquiringly at him. The boy, seeing at once from Alyosha's eyes that he wouldn't beat him, became less defiant, and addressed him first. "I am alone, and there are six of them. I'll beat them all, alone!" he said suddenly, with flashing eyes. "I think one of the stones must have hurt you badly," observed Alyosha. "But I hit Smurov on the head!" cried the boy. "They told me that you know me, and that you threw a stone at me on purpose," said Alyosha. The boy looked darkly at him. "I don't know you. Do you know me?" Alyosha continued. "Let me alone!" the boy cried irritably; but he did not move, as though he were expecting something, and again there was a vindictive light in his eyes. "Very well, I am going," said Alyosha; "only I don't know you and I don't tease you. They told me how they tease you, but I don't want to tease you. Good-by!" "Monk in silk trousers!" cried the boy, following Alyosha with the same vindictive and defiant expression, and he threw himself into an attitude of defense, feeling sure that now Alyosha would fall upon him; but Alyosha turned, looked at him, and walked away. He had not gone three steps before the biggest stone the boy had in his pocket hit him a painful blow in the back. "So you'll hit a man from behind! They tell the truth, then, when they say that you attack on the sly," said Alyosha, turning round again. This time the boy threw a stone savagely right into Alyosha's face; but Alyosha just had time to guard himself, and the stone struck him on the elbow. "Aren't you ashamed? What have I done to you?" he cried. The boy waited in silent defiance, certain that now Alyosha would attack him. Seeing that even now he would not, his rage was like a little wild beast's; he flew at Alyosha himself, and before Alyosha had time to move, the spiteful child had seized his left hand with both of his and bit his middle finger. He fixed his teeth in it and it was ten seconds before he let go. Alyosha cried out with pain and pulled his finger away with all his might. The child let go at last and retreated to his former distance. Alyosha's finger had been badly bitten to the bone, close to the nail; it began to bleed. Alyosha took out his handkerchief and bound it tightly round his injured hand. He was a full minute bandaging it. The boy stood waiting all the time. At last Alyosha raised his gentle eyes and looked at him. "Very well," he said, "you see how badly you've bitten me. That's enough, isn't it? Now tell me, what have I done to you?" The boy stared in amazement. "Though I don't know you and it's the first time I've seen you," Alyosha went on with the same serenity, "yet I must have done something to you--you wouldn't have hurt me like this for nothing. So what have I done? How have I wronged you, tell me?" Instead of answering, the boy broke into a loud tearful wail and ran away. Alyosha walked slowly after him towards Mihailovsky Street, and for a long time he saw the child running in the distance as fast as ever, not turning his head, and no doubt still keeping up his tearful wail. He made up his mind to find him out as soon as he had time, and to solve this mystery. Just now he had not the time.

book 4, Chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section5/

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

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/14328-chapters/book_i.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Consolation of Philosophy/section_0_part_0.txt

The Consolation of Philosophy.book i

book i

{"name": "Book I", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201128165942/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-consolation-of-philosophy/study-guide/summary-book-i", "summary": "Book I of The Consolation of Philosophy begins with a poem which explains why the writer has begun this work. He says \"I who once composed with eager zest/Am driven by grief to shelter in sad songs.\" This lament echoes a classical form of Greek poetry and gives us information about the poet's situation as well as an introduction to his outlook and purpose for the ensuing dialogue. The lament is a conventional form of grief poetry, and the reference to \"song\" in the second line is also traditional for beginnings . The sorrowful writer is visited by a vision of a woman standing over him. A mystical vision, she is \"full of years\" yet with undiminished color and vigor. She appears to him of varying height, sometimes of normal human dimensions and sometimes scraping the heavens. Boethius carefully notes her robe, which he says consists of an \"imperishable material\" woven by her own hands. This magical dress, however, is covered with the dust of long neglect. She bears written on her hem the Greek letter Pi, and on the top of her gown the letter Theta. Between these letters is a ladder of steps going from the bottom to the top. Another feature of the woman's dress is that it has been \"torn by the hands of marauders who had each carried off such pieces as he could get.\" She also carries some books in her right hand, and in her left hand a scepter. Before the woman arrived, Boethius tells us that standing at his bedside were the muses of Poetry, who dictated to him as he wrote poetry and wept. At the sight of the Muses the woman becomes angry. She calls the muses \"hysterical sluts,\" and tells them that they have no medicine to cure Boethius's sickness, and they will steal his Reason away and make him worse. Boethius is not an ordinary man, she says, for he has been nourished by the philosophies of \"Zeno and Plato\". She further insults them, and the Muses blush and leave. The mysterious woman, now alone with Boethius, sits down on his bed and recites a poem to him, articulating his grief, and again lamenting his fall from grace. And the woman now says that the time has come for healing rather than lamentation. She says, Are you not the man who was raised on my learning? Why do you not recognize me? Continuing in the doctoring tone, she says that Boethius' grief is nothing serious - only a bit of amnesia. At this she takes a fold of her dress and wipes the tears from Boethius's eyes. His reaction is detailed in a poem, which says that Boethius's eyes were then cleared. Boethius looks upon the woman, and realizes that she is Philosophy, his nursemaid of old. She has come to succor him, and make his imprisonment easier. She details that she, like Boethius, has undergone many trials, and in the latter years the various philosophical sects had struggled to \"seize for their own the inheritance of wisdom\" by trying to carry her off. They only got parts of her robe, and each went away thinking that they had obtained the whole of philosophy. These traces of her clothing had given these Epicureans and Stoics a reputation of wisdom among the ignorant. Again, Philosophy recites a poem, extolling the virtues of men who are not moved by the vagaries of fortune. She asks Boethius why he weeps at this, and tells him to explain to her his \"illness\" or wound so that she may heal him. Boethius then details his list of woes. He reminds her that he is in prison, rather than studying her wisdom in the library of his home. He complains that such is the lot of her followers, and that he had gone into politics because Plato had written that any state was best run by \"philosopher-kings\". He explains how his gravity and honesty made him no friends in the political arena, and incited the jealousy and hatred of powerful enemies. He had campaigned for just laws and fair taxation, and had resisted and tried to uproot corruption. He explains the various charges brought against him, but the crux of the matter is that he was accused of having desired the safety of the Senate. Because of the crooked politics of the day, and because he had prevented an informer from producing evidence of the Senate's treason, he was judged by that same body has having commited a crime. Boethius cries out to Philosophy - Was this justice? He was also accused of unchecked ambition, but he says that he had always followed her recommendation of the Pythagorean maxim \"Follow God\" in all things. He is angry and saddened that, while he was faithful to Philosophy, his reward is imprisonment and, soon, execution. Boethius then recites a longer poem, extolling God but asking why the world is ruled by fickle Fortune. Philosophy responds, saying that it is not important that he is no longer in his ornate library. Her teachings are the only things of value, and those are still inside him. She diagnoses him as \"swollen and calloused\" under the influence of disturbing emotions, and she will begin with a gentle cure, working up to stronger medicine when he has begun to heal. She then questions Boethius to discover precisely the state of his mind. She wants to know if he believes in a directed universe, or if he is convinced of the haphazard nature of fate. Boethius responds that he believes that God the Creator watches over his creation. Continuing the questioning, she discovers that he is confused about how fate and fortune do not control the final, most important destiny of man. Philosophy says that Boethius has forgotten his true nature, and that he is a spiritual being, a soul in communication with God, rather than just a rational animal existing in the material world. Boethius weeps because he is in mortal peril and his possessions and honors have been taken away from him; Philosophy reminds him he still has his most important, and, in fact, his only true possession - his soul. She stops here, however, because the patient is still too ill to take the full \"cure\" she offers. The Book ends with a poem extolling the virtue of rejecting emotions and ignoring the dictates of fortune.", "analysis": "This Book sets up of Boethius' situation and introduces the mysterious personage of Philosophy. Some of Boethius' conventions are specifically Classical in origin, and do not necessarily make sense when read by a reader today unless some historical context is included. It was common for philosophical discussions and arguments of any type be presented in a dialogue format. The apocalyptic nature of this dialogue is necessary because of the solitary imprisonment of the writer. He is alone in his cell, and has conversations only with himself. He must imagine a speaker, or be visited by the incarnate spirit of Philosophy, in order to carry on a conversation and thus present his \"consolation\" of philosophical principles in the Platonic dialogue form. The varying height of Philosophy is significant; it is symbolic of the various guises of philosophical study. When she is of average height, she offers the practical advice for the down-to-earth pursuit of moral, or ethical, philosophy. When she is piercing the heavens, she is showing her capacity for metaphysical thought, which is considered by Boethius to be speculative or contemplative philosophy. The Pi and Theta on her gown represent the two Greek names for these types of philosophy, which begin with those letters. The division is between the practical and the contemplative forms of philosophy, the practical including moral philosophy and ethics, the contemplative or speculative includes theology, metaphysics, and the natural sciences such as physics. The impermeable fabric of the gown represents the permanence and objective reality of Philosophy in its true form, and the scraps torn by the factions of lesser philosophers a metaphor for Boethius' opinion of those schools of thought. At the beginning of Part V, there is a line in the poem that reads \"swifter hours of the night\". Roman timekeeping had much in common with how it is done today, but in their system of reckoning hours, by means of a water clock, there is a significant difference. The Romans changed the length of the nighttime hours to coincide with the shortening and lengthening of days by the seasons. During the winter, the nights were longer, so the same number of hours were used for nighttime as during the summer, but the length of the \"hours\" were lengthened. The reverse was true for summer, with the nighttime hours being \"swifter\" and shorter. Boethius was imprisoned on what he called \"false accusations\". Politically, Boethius had made no friends, for he was above corruption and graft during one of the most corrupt times of the Roman Empire. He had formerly been a high official for the emperor Theodoric, and his fall from the heights of Roman patrician power to imprisonment was almost as great as any fall for a man of his time could be. For a man of his culture and refinement, the irony of losing everything because of his own virtue, and in an arena, which he didn't enter willingly but rather chose out of duty, must have been acute. Boethius says in Book I that he mourns the fact that he is no longer in his library, with its ivory decorations, reading his beloved books. So he creates, in his prison cell, under threat of imminent execution, a fantasy of philosophical discourse with the Lady Philosophy herself. It is an academic conceit not unique to Boethius, but is also telling of his state of mind and emotional needs. He needs comfort - consolation - and finds it in carefully constructing in his mind a person representing his most cherished pursuit of Philosophy. To this authority he appeals for comfort and for answers to his questions, and make an attempt to formulate a theodicy, or theory of good and evil. After reading this first book of The Consolation of Philosophy, perhaps two things strike the modern reader. Why doesn't Boethius, a Christian, appeal to God or Jesus or the Virgin Mary for his consolation in his time of mortal peril, rather than Philosophy? Boethius was a Christian, and people often pray to God when they are in trouble or think they are going to die. Boethius wrote a consolation of Philosophy, not Theology, and we could assume that at least part of his motivation was coldly stylistic rather than personally applicable. Boethius carefully imitated the Platonic dialogues, and to have the Christian God intrude into what was a pagan form would have offended his sensibilities. It is more likely, however, that Boethius, while a Christian, may not have been particularly religious. But even if Boethius was devout, it also bears considering that his culture was still pagan in many ways. He may have had an overlay of Christianity, and truly believed in it, but as a Neo-Platonist and Roman his appeal to reason and philosophy was perhaps closer to his heart. He does, however, refer to a personal God, and reminds us to pray humbly to God at the end of this book. The second oddity is the inclusion of verse in a philosophical text. Boethius was not exactly writing a dry philosophical treatise - this is a consolation and meant to be a balm or medicine for a troubled soul. This book, though definitely philosophical in nature, was meant to be a sort of instructional self-help book for the late Roman Empire. Such consolations of philosophical thoughts were written by other writers and widely read. The divorce from emotions, and the shunning of the honors and cares of the material world are main themes in The Consolation of Philosophy. This Neo-Platonist, and what would become later medieval philosophical idea is central to Boethius's thinking, and what he found most comforting in his prison cell."}

<CHAPTER> BOOK I. SONG I. BOETHIUS' COMPLAINT. Who wrought my studious numbers Smoothly once in happier days, Now perforce in tears and sadness Learn a mournful strain to raise. Lo, the Muses, grief-dishevelled, Guide my pen and voice my woe; Down their cheeks unfeigned the tear drops To my sad complainings flow! These alone in danger's hour Faithful found, have dared attend On the footsteps of the exile To his lonely journey's end. These that were the pride and pleasure Of my youth and high estate Still remain the only solace Of the old man's mournful fate. Old? Ah yes; swift, ere I knew it, By these sorrows on me pressed Age hath come; lo, Grief hath bid me Wear the garb that fits her best. O'er my head untimely sprinkled These white hairs my woes proclaim, And the skin hangs loose and shrivelled On this sorrow-shrunken frame. Blest is death that intervenes not In the sweet, sweet years of peace, But unto the broken-hearted, When they call him, brings release! Yet Death passes by the wretched, Shuts his ear and slumbers deep; Will not heed the cry of anguish, Will not close the eyes that weep. For, while yet inconstant Fortune Poured her gifts and all was bright, Death's dark hour had all but whelmed me In the gloom of endless night. Now, because misfortune's shadow Hath o'erclouded that false face, Cruel Life still halts and lingers, Though I loathe his weary race. Friends, why did ye once so lightly Vaunt me happy among men? Surely he who so hath fallen Was not firmly founded then. While I was thus mutely pondering within myself, and recording my sorrowful complainings with my pen, it seemed to me that there appeared above my head a woman of a countenance exceeding venerable. Her eyes were bright as fire, and of a more than human keenness; her complexion was lively, her vigour showed no trace of enfeeblement; and yet her years were right full, and she plainly seemed not of our age and time. Her stature was difficult to judge. At one moment it exceeded not the common height, at another her forehead seemed to strike the sky; and whenever she raised her head higher, she began to pierce within the very heavens, and to baffle the eyes of them that looked upon her. Her garments were of an imperishable fabric, wrought with the finest threads and of the most delicate workmanship; and these, as her own lips afterwards assured me, she had herself woven with her own hands. The beauty of this vesture had been somewhat tarnished by age and neglect, and wore that dingy look which marble contracts from exposure. On the lower-most edge was inwoven the Greek letter [Greek: P], on the topmost the letter [Greek: Th],[A] and between the two were to be seen steps, like a staircase, from the lower to the upper letter. This robe, moreover, had been torn by the hands of violent persons, who had each snatched away what he could clutch.[B] Her right hand held a note-book; in her left she bore a staff. And when she saw the Muses of Poesie standing by my bedside, dictating the words of my lamentations, she was moved awhile to wrath, and her eyes flashed sternly. 'Who,' said she, 'has allowed yon play-acting wantons to approach this sick man--these who, so far from giving medicine to heal his malady, even feed it with sweet poison? These it is who kill the rich crop of reason with the barren thorns of passion, who accustom men's minds to disease, instead of setting them free. Now, were it some common man whom your allurements were seducing, as is usually your way, I should be less indignant. On such a one I should not have spent my pains for naught. But this is one nurtured in the Eleatic and Academic philosophies. Nay, get ye gone, ye sirens, whose sweetness lasteth not; leave him for my muses to tend and heal!' At these words of upbraiding, the whole band, in deepened sadness, with downcast eyes, and blushes that confessed their shame, dolefully left the chamber. But I, because my sight was dimmed with much weeping, and I could not tell who was this woman of authority so commanding--I was dumfoundered, and, with my gaze fastened on the earth, continued silently to await what she might do next. Then she drew near me and sat on the edge of my couch, and, looking into my face all heavy with grief and fixed in sadness on the ground, she bewailed in these words the disorder of my mind: FOOTNOTES: [A] [Greek: P] (P) stands for the Political life, the life of action; [Greek: Th] (Th) for the Theoretical life, the life of thought. [B] The Stoic, Epicurean, and other philosophical sects, which Boethius regards as heterodox. See also below, ch. iii., p. 14. SONG II. HIS DESPONDENCY. Alas! in what abyss his mind Is plunged, how wildly tossed! Still, still towards the outer night She sinks, her true light lost, As oft as, lashed tumultuously By earth-born blasts, care's waves rise high. Yet once he ranged the open heavens, The sun's bright pathway tracked; Watched how the cold moon waxed and waned; Nor rested, till there lacked To his wide ken no star that steers Amid the maze of circling spheres. The causes why the blusterous winds Vex ocean's tranquil face, Whose hand doth turn the stable globe, Or why his even race From out the ruddy east the sun Unto the western waves doth run: What is it tempers cunningly The placid hours of spring, So that it blossoms with the rose For earth's engarlanding: Who loads the year's maturer prime With clustered grapes in autumn time: All this he knew--thus ever strove Deep Nature's lore to guess. Now, reft of reason's light, he lies, And bonds his neck oppress; While by the heavy load constrained, His eyes to this dull earth are chained. II. 'But the time,' said she, 'calls rather for healing than for lamentation.' Then, with her eyes bent full upon me, 'Art thou that man,' she cries, 'who, erstwhile fed with the milk and reared upon the nourishment which is mine to give, had grown up to the full vigour of a manly spirit? And yet I had bestowed such armour on thee as would have proved an invincible defence, hadst thou not first cast it away. Dost thou know me? Why art thou silent? Is it shame or amazement that hath struck thee dumb? Would it were shame; but, as I see, a stupor hath seized upon thee.' Then, when she saw me not only answering nothing, but mute and utterly incapable of speech, she gently touched my breast with her hand, and said: 'There is no danger; these are the symptoms of lethargy, the usual sickness of deluded minds. For awhile he has forgotten himself; he will easily recover his memory, if only he first recognises me. And that he may do so, let me now wipe his eyes that are clouded with a mist of mortal things.' Thereat, with a fold of her robe, she dried my eyes all swimming with tears. SONG III. THE MISTS DISPELLED. Then the gloom of night was scattered, Sight returned unto mine eyes. So, when haply rainy Caurus Rolls the storm-clouds through the skies, Hidden is the sun; all heaven Is obscured in starless night. But if, in wild onset sweeping, Boreas frees day's prisoned light, All suddenly the radiant god outstreams, And strikes our dazzled eyesight with his beams. III. Even so the clouds of my melancholy were broken up. I saw the clear sky, and regained the power to recognise the face of my physician. Accordingly, when I had lifted my eyes and fixed my gaze upon her, I beheld my nurse, Philosophy, whose halls I had frequented from my youth up. 'Ah! why,' I cried, 'mistress of all excellence, hast thou come down from on high, and entered the solitude of this my exile? Is it that thou, too, even as I, mayst be persecuted with false accusations?' 'Could I desert thee, child,' said she, 'and not lighten the burden which thou hast taken upon thee through the hatred of my name, by sharing this trouble? Even forgetting that it were not lawful for Philosophy to leave companionless the way of the innocent, should I, thinkest thou, fear to incur reproach, or shrink from it, as though some strange new thing had befallen? Thinkest thou that now, for the first time in an evil age, Wisdom hath been assailed by peril? Did I not often in days of old, before my servant Plato lived, wage stern warfare with the rashness of folly? In his lifetime, too, Socrates, his master, won with my aid the victory of an unjust death. And when, one after the other, the Epicurean herd, the Stoic, and the rest, each of them as far as in them lay, went about to seize the heritage he left, and were dragging me off protesting and resisting, as their booty, they tore in pieces the garment which I had woven with my own hands, and, clutching the torn pieces, went off, believing that the whole of me had passed into their possession. And some of them, because some traces of my vesture were seen upon them, were destroyed through the mistake of the lewd multitude, who falsely deemed them to be my disciples. It may be thou knowest not of the banishment of Anaxagoras, of the poison draught of Socrates, nor of Zeno's torturing, because these things happened in a distant country; yet mightest thou have learnt the fate of Arrius, of Seneca, of Soranus, whose stories are neither old nor unknown to fame. These men were brought to destruction for no other reason than that, settled as they were in my principles, their lives were a manifest contrast to the ways of the wicked. So there is nothing thou shouldst wonder at, if on the seas of this life we are tossed by storm-blasts, seeing that we have made it our chiefest aim to refuse compliance with evil-doers. And though, maybe, the host of the wicked is many in number, yet is it contemptible, since it is under no leadership, but is hurried hither and thither at the blind driving of mad error. And if at times and seasons they set in array against us, and fall on in overwhelming strength, our leader draws off her forces into the citadel while they are busy plundering the useless baggage. But we from our vantage ground, safe from all this wild work, laugh to see them making prize of the most valueless of things, protected by a bulwark which aggressive folly may not aspire to reach.' SONG IV. NOTHING CAN SUBDUE VIRTUE. Whoso calm, serene, sedate, Sets his foot on haughty fate; Firm and steadfast, come what will, Keeps his mien unconquered still; Him the rage of furious seas, Tossing high wild menaces, Nor the flames from smoky forges That Vesuvius disgorges, Nor the bolt that from the sky Smites the tower, can terrify. Why, then, shouldst thou feel affright At the tyrant's weakling might? Dread him not, nor fear no harm, And thou shall his rage disarm; But who to hope or fear gives way-- Lost his bosom's rightful sway-- He hath cast away his shield, Like a coward fled the field; He hath forged all unaware Fetters his own neck must bear! IV. 'Dost thou understand?' she asks. Do my words sink into thy mind? Or art thou dull "as the ass to the sound of the lyre"? Why dost thou weep? Why do tears stream from thy eyes? '"Speak out, hide it not in thy heart." If thou lookest for the physician's help, thou must needs disclose thy wound.' Then I, gathering together what strength I could, began: 'Is there still need of telling? Is not the cruelty of fortune against me plain enough? Doth not the very aspect of this place move thee? Is this the library, the room which thou hadst chosen as thy constant resort in my home, the place where we so often sat together and held discourse of all things in heaven and earth? Was my garb and mien like this when I explored with thee nature's hid secrets, and thou didst trace for me with thy wand the courses of the stars, moulding the while my character and the whole conduct of my life after the pattern of the celestial order? Is this the recompense of my obedience? Yet thou hast enjoined by Plato's mouth the maxim, "that states would be happy, either if philosophers ruled them, or if it should so befall that their rulers would turn philosophers." By his mouth likewise thou didst point out this imperative reason why philosophers should enter public life, to wit, lest, if the reins of government be left to unprincipled and profligate citizens, trouble and destruction should come upon the good. Following these precepts, I have tried to apply in the business of public administration the principles which I learnt from thee in leisured seclusion. Thou art my witness and that divinity who hath implanted thee in the hearts of the wise, that I brought to my duties no aim but zeal for the public good. For this cause I have become involved in bitter and irreconcilable feuds, and, as happens inevitably, if a man holds fast to the independence of conscience, I have had to think nothing of giving offence to the powerful in the cause of justice. How often have I encountered and balked Conigastus in his assaults on the fortunes of the weak? How often have I thwarted Trigguilla, steward of the king's household, even when his villainous schemes were as good as accomplished? How often have I risked my position and influence to protect poor wretches from the false charges innumerable with which they were for ever being harassed by the greed and license of the barbarians? No one has ever drawn me aside from justice to oppression. When ruin was overtaking the fortunes of the provincials through the combined pressure of private rapine and public taxation, I grieved no less than the sufferers. When at a season of grievous scarcity a forced sale, disastrous as it was unjustifiable, was proclaimed, and threatened to overwhelm Campania with starvation, I embarked on a struggle with the praetorian prefect in the public interest, I fought the case at the king's judgment-seat, and succeeded in preventing the enforcement of the sale. I rescued the consular Paulinus from the gaping jaws of the court bloodhounds, who in their covetous hopes had already made short work of his wealth. To save Albinus, who was of the same exalted rank, from the penalties of a prejudged charge, I exposed myself to the hatred of Cyprian, the informer. 'Thinkest thou I had laid up for myself store of enmities enough? Well, with the rest of my countrymen, at any rate, my safety should have been assured, since my love of justice had left me no hope of security at court. Yet who was it brought the charges by which I have been struck down? Why, one of my accusers is Basil, who, after being dismissed from the king's household, was driven by his debts to lodge an information against my name. There is Opilio, there is Gaudentius, men who for many and various offences the king's sentence had condemned to banishment; and when they declined to obey, and sought to save themselves by taking sanctuary, the king, as soon as he heard of it, decreed that, if they did not depart from the city of Ravenna within a prescribed time, they should be branded on the forehead and expelled. What would exceed the rigour of this severity? And yet on that same day these very men lodged an information against me, and the information was admitted. Just Heaven! had I deserved this by my way of life? Did it make them fit accusers that my condemnation was a foregone conclusion? Has fortune no shame--if not at the accusation of the innocent, at least for the vileness of the accusers? Perhaps thou wonderest what is the sum of the charges laid against me? I wished, they say, to save the senate. But how? I am accused of hindering an informer from producing evidence to prove the senate guilty of treason. Tell me, then, what is thy counsel, O my mistress. Shall I deny the charge, lest I bring shame on thee? But I did wish it, and I shall never cease to wish it. Shall I admit it? Then the work of thwarting the informer will come to an end. Shall I call the wish for the preservation of that illustrious house a crime? Of a truth the senate, by its decrees concerning me, has made it such! But blind folly, though it deceive itself with false names, cannot alter the true merits of things, and, mindful of the precept of Socrates, I do not think it right either to keep the truth concealed or allow falsehood to pass. But this, however it may be, I leave to thy judgment and to the verdict of the discerning. Moreover, lest the course of events and the true facts should be hidden from posterity, I have myself committed to writing an account of the transaction. 'What need to speak of the forged letters by which an attempt is made to prove that I hoped for the freedom of Rome? Their falsity would have been manifest, if I had been allowed to use the confession of the informers themselves, evidence which has in all matters the most convincing force. Why, what hope of freedom is left to us? Would there were any! I should have answered with the epigram of Canius when Caligula declared him to have been cognisant of a conspiracy against him. "If I had known," said he, "thou shouldst never have known." Grief hath not so blunted my perceptions in this matter that I should complain because impious wretches contrive their villainies against the virtuous, but at their achievement of their hopes I do exceedingly marvel. For evil purposes are, perchance, due to the imperfection of human nature; that it should be possible for scoundrels to carry out their worst schemes against the innocent, while God beholdeth, is verily monstrous. For this cause, not without reason, one of thy disciples asked, "If God exists, whence comes evil? Yet whence comes good, if He exists not?" However, it might well be that wretches who seek the blood of all honest men and of the whole senate should wish to destroy me also, whom they saw to be a bulwark of the senate and all honest men. But did I deserve such a fate from the Fathers also? Thou rememberest, methinks--since thou didst ever stand by my side to direct what I should do or say--thou rememberest, I say, how at Verona, when the king, eager for the general destruction, was bent on implicating the whole senatorial order in the charge of treason brought against Albinus, with what indifference to my own peril I maintained the innocence of its members, one and all. Thou knowest that what I say is the truth, and that I have never boasted of my good deeds in a spirit of self-praise. For whenever a man by proclaiming his good deeds receives the recompense of fame, he diminishes in a measure the secret reward of a good conscience. What issues have overtaken my innocency thou seest. Instead of reaping the rewards of true virtue, I undergo the penalties of a guilt falsely laid to my charge--nay, more than this; never did an open confession of guilt cause such unanimous severity among the assessors, but that some consideration, either of the mere frailty of human nature, or of fortune's universal instability, availed to soften the verdict of some few. Had I been accused of a design to fire the temples, to slaughter the priests with impious sword, of plotting the massacre of all honest men, I should yet have been produced in court, and only punished on due confession or conviction. Now for my too great zeal towards the senate I have been condemned to outlawry and death, unheard and undefended, at a distance of near five hundred miles away.[C] Oh, my judges, well do ye deserve that no one should hereafter be convicted of a fault like mine! 'Yet even my very accusers saw how honourable was the charge they brought against me, and, in order to overlay it with some shadow of guilt, they falsely asserted that in the pursuit of my ambition I had stained my conscience with sacrilegious acts. And yet thy spirit, indwelling in me, had driven from the chamber of my soul all lust of earthly success, and with thine eye ever upon me, there could be no place left for sacrilege. For thou didst daily repeat in my ear and instil into my mind the Pythagorean maxim, "Follow after God." It was not likely, then, that I should covet the assistance of the vilest spirits, when thou wert moulding me to such an excellence as should conform me to the likeness of God. Again, the innocency of the inner sanctuary of my home, the company of friends of the highest probity, a father-in-law revered at once for his pure character and his active beneficence, shield me from the very suspicion of sacrilege. Yet--atrocious as it is--they even draw credence for this charge from _thee_; I am like to be thought implicated in wickedness on this very account, that I am imbued with _thy_ teachings and stablished in _thy_ ways. So it is not enough that my devotion to thee should profit me nothing, but thou also must be assailed by reason of the odium which I have incurred. Verily this is the very crown of my misfortunes, that men's opinions for the most part look not to real merit, but to the event; and only recognise foresight where Fortune has crowned the issue with her approval. Whereby it comes to pass that reputation is the first of all things to abandon the unfortunate. I remember with chagrin how perverse is popular report, how various and discordant men's judgments. This only will I say, that the most crushing of misfortune's burdens is, that as soon as a charge is fastened upon the unhappy, they are believed to have deserved their sufferings. I, for my part, who have been banished from all life's blessings, stripped of my honours, stained in repute, am punished for well-doing. 'And now methinks I see the villainous dens of the wicked surging with joy and gladness, all the most recklessly unscrupulous threatening a new crop of lying informations, the good prostrate with terror at my danger, every ruffian incited by impunity to new daring and to success by the profits of audacity, the guiltless not only robbed of their peace of mind, but even of all means of defence. Wherefore I would fain cry out: FOOTNOTES: [C] The distance from Rome to Pavia, the place of Boethius' imprisonment, is 455 Roman miles. SONG V. BOETHIUS' PRAYER. 'Builder of yon starry dome, Thou that whirlest, throned eternal, Heaven's swift globe, and, as they roam, Guid'st the stars by laws supernal: So in full-sphered splendour dight Cynthia dims the lamps of night, But unto the orb fraternal Closer drawn,[D] doth lose her light. 'Who at fall of eventide, Hesper, his cold radiance showeth, Lucifer his beams doth hide, Paling as the sun's light groweth, Brief, while winter's frost holds sway, By thy will the space of day; Swift, when summer's fervour gloweth, Speed the hours of night away. 'Thou dost rule the changing year: When rude Boreas oppresses, Fall the leaves; they reappear, Wooed by Zephyr's soft caresses. Fields that Sirius burns deep grown By Arcturus' watch were sown: Each the reign of law confesses, Keeps the place that is his own. 'Sovereign Ruler, Lord of all! Can it be that Thou disdainest Only man? 'Gainst him, poor thrall, Wanton Fortune plays her vainest. Guilt's deserved punishment Falleth on the innocent; High uplifted, the profanest On the just their malice vent. 'Virtue cowers in dark retreats, Crime's foul stain the righteous beareth, Perjury and false deceits Hurt not him the wrong who dareth; But whene'er the wicked trust In ill strength to work their lust, Kings, whom nations' awe declareth Mighty, grovel in the dust. 'Look, oh look upon this earth, Thou who on law's sure foundation Framedst all! Have we no worth, We poor men, of all creation? Sore we toss on fortune's tide; Master, bid the waves subside! And earth's ways with consummation Of Thy heaven's order guide!' FOOTNOTES: [D] The moon is regarded as farthest from the sun at the full, and, as she wanes, approaching gradually nearer. V. When I had poured out my griefs in this long and unbroken strain of lamentation, she, with calm countenance, and in no wise disturbed at my complainings, thus spake: 'When I saw thee sorrowful, in tears, I straightway knew thee wretched and an exile. But how far distant that exile I should not know, had not thine own speech revealed it. Yet how far indeed from thy country hast thou, not been banished, but rather hast strayed; or, if thou wilt have it banishment, hast banished thyself! For no one else could ever lawfully have had this power over thee. Now, if thou wilt call to mind from what country thou art sprung, it is not ruled, as once was the Athenian polity, by the sovereignty of the multitude, but "one is its Ruler, one its King," who takes delight in the number of His citizens, not in their banishment; to submit to whose governance and to obey whose ordinances is perfect freedom. Art thou ignorant of that most ancient law of this thy country, whereby it is decreed that no one whatsoever, who hath chosen to fix there his dwelling, may be sent into exile? For truly there is no fear that one who is encompassed by its ramparts and defences should deserve to be exiled. But he who has ceased to wish to dwell therein, he likewise ceases to deserve to do so. And so it is not so much the aspect of this place which moves me, as thy aspect; not so much the library walls set off with glass and ivory which I miss, as the chamber of thy mind, wherein I once placed, not books, but that which gives books their value, the doctrines which my books contain. Now, what thou hast said of thy services to the commonweal is true, only too little compared with the greatness of thy deservings. The things laid to thy charge whereof thou hast spoken, whether such as redound to thy credit, or mere false accusations, are publicly known. As for the crimes and deceits of the informers, thou hast rightly deemed it fitting to pass them over lightly, because the popular voice hath better and more fully pronounced upon them. Thou hast bitterly complained of the injustice of the senate. Thou hast grieved over my calumniation, and likewise hast lamented the damage to my good name. Finally, thine indignation blazed forth against fortune; thou hast complained of the unfairness with which thy merits have been recompensed. Last of all thy frantic muse framed a prayer that the peace which reigns in heaven might rule earth also. But since a throng of tumultuous passions hath assailed thy soul, since thou art distraught with anger, pain, and grief, strong remedies are not proper for thee in this thy present mood. And so for a time I will use milder methods, that the tumours which have grown hard through the influx of disturbing passion may be softened by gentle treatment, till they can bear the force of sharper remedies.' SONG VI. ALL THINGS HAVE THEIR NEEDFUL ORDER He who to th' unwilling furrows Gives the generous grain, When the Crab with baleful fervours Scorches all the plain; He shall find his garner bare, Acorns for his scanty fare. Go not forth to cull sweet violets From the purpled steep, While the furious blasts of winter Through the valleys sweep; Nor the grape o'erhasty bring To the press in days of spring. For to each thing God hath given Its appointed time; No perplexing change permits He In His plan sublime. So who quits the order due Shall a luckless issue rue. VI. 'First, then, wilt thou suffer me by a few questions to make some attempt to test the state of thy mind, that I may learn in what way to set about thy cure?' 'Ask what thou wilt,' said I, 'for I will answer whatever questions thou choosest to put.' Then said she: 'This world of ours--thinkest thou it is governed haphazard and fortuitously, or believest thou that there is in it any rational guidance?' 'Nay,' said I, 'in no wise may I deem that such fixed motions can be determined by random hazard, but I know that God, the Creator, presideth over His work, nor will the day ever come that shall drive me from holding fast the truth of this belief.' 'Yes,' said she; 'thou didst even but now affirm it in song, lamenting that men alone had no portion in the divine care. As to the rest, thou wert unshaken in the belief that they were ruled by reason. Yet I marvel exceedingly how, in spite of thy firm hold on this opinion, thou art fallen into sickness. But let us probe more deeply: something or other is missing, I think. Now, tell me, since thou doubtest not that God governs the world, dost thou perceive by what means He rules it?' 'I scarcely understand what thou meanest,' I said, 'much less can I answer thy question.' 'Did I not say truly that something is missing, whereby, as through a breach in the ramparts, disease hath crept in to disturb thy mind? But, tell me, dost thou remember the universal end towards which the aim of all nature is directed?' 'I once heard,' said I, 'but sorrow hath dulled my recollection.' 'And yet thou knowest whence all things have proceeded.' 'Yes, that I know,' said I, 'and have answered that it is from God.' 'Yet how is it possible that thou knowest not what is the end of existence, when thou dost understand its source and origin? However, these disturbances of mind have force to shake a man's position, but cannot pluck him up and root him altogether out of himself. But answer this also, I pray thee: rememberest thou that thou art a man?' 'How should I not?' said I. 'Then, canst thou say what man is?' 'Is this thy question: Whether I know myself for a being endowed with reason and subject to death? Surely I do acknowledge myself such.' Then she: 'Dost know nothing else that thou art?' 'Nothing.' 'Now,' said she, 'I know another cause of thy disease, one, too, of grave moment. Thou hast ceased to know thy own nature. So, then, I have made full discovery both of the causes of thy sickness and the means of restoring thy health. It is because forgetfulness of thyself hath bewildered thy mind that thou hast bewailed thee as an exile, as one stripped of the blessings that were his; it is because thou knowest not the end of existence that thou deemest abominable and wicked men to be happy and powerful; while, because thou hast forgotten by what means the earth is governed, thou deemest that fortune's changes ebb and flow without the restraint of a guiding hand. These are serious enough to cause not sickness only, but even death; but, thanks be to the Author of our health, the light of nature hath not yet left thee utterly. In thy true judgment concerning the world's government, in that thou believest it subject, not to the random drift of chance, but to divine reason, we have the divine spark from which thy recovery may be hoped. Have, then, no fear; from these weak embers the vital heat shall once more be kindled within thee. But seeing that it is not yet time for strong remedies, and that the mind is manifestly so constituted that when it casts off true opinions it straightway puts on false, wherefrom arises a cloud of confusion that disturbs its true vision, I will now try and disperse these mists by mild and soothing application, that so the darkness of misleading passion may be scattered, and thou mayst come to discern the splendour of the true light.' SONG VII. THE PERTURBATIONS OF PASSION. Stars shed no light Through the black night, When the clouds hide; And the lashed wave, If the winds rave O'er ocean's tide,-- Though once serene As day's fair sheen,-- Soon fouled and spoiled By the storm's spite, Shows to the sight Turbid and soiled. Oft the fair rill, Down the steep hill Seaward that strays, Some tumbled block Of fallen rock Hinders and stays. Then art thou fain Clear and most plain Truth to discern, In the right way Firmly to stay, Nor from it turn? Joy, hope and fear Suffer not near, Drive grief away: Shackled and blind And lost is the mind Where these have sway. </CHAPTER> BOOK II. THE VANITY OF FORTUNE'S GIFTS Summary CH. I. Philosophy reproves Boethius for the foolishness of his complaints against Fortune. Her very nature is caprice.--CH. II. Philosophy in Fortune's name replies to Boethius' reproaches, and proves that the gifts of Fortune are hers to give and to take away.--CH. III. Boethius falls back upon his present sense of misery. Philosophy reminds him of the brilliancy of his former fortunes.--CH. IV. Boethius objects that the memory of past happiness is the bitterest portion of the lot of the unhappy. Philosophy shows that much is still left for which he may be thankful. None enjoy perfect satisfaction with their lot. But happiness depends not on anything which Fortune can give. It is to be sought within.--CH. V. All the gifts of Fortune are external; they can never truly be our own. Man cannot find his good in worldly possessions. Riches bring anxiety and trouble.--CH. VI. High place without virtue is an evil, not a good. Power is an empty name.--CH. VII. Fame is a thing of little account when compared with the immensity of the Universe and the endlessness of Time.--CH. VIII. One service only can Fortune do, when she reveals her own nature and distinguishes true friends from false.

Book I

https://web.archive.org/web/20201128165942/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-consolation-of-philosophy/study-guide/summary-book-i

Book I of The Consolation of Philosophy begins with a poem which explains why the writer has begun this work. He says "I who once composed with eager zest/Am driven by grief to shelter in sad songs." This lament echoes a classical form of Greek poetry and gives us information about the poet's situation as well as an introduction to his outlook and purpose for the ensuing dialogue. The lament is a conventional form of grief poetry, and the reference to "song" in the second line is also traditional for beginnings . The sorrowful writer is visited by a vision of a woman standing over him. A mystical vision, she is "full of years" yet with undiminished color and vigor. She appears to him of varying height, sometimes of normal human dimensions and sometimes scraping the heavens. Boethius carefully notes her robe, which he says consists of an "imperishable material" woven by her own hands. This magical dress, however, is covered with the dust of long neglect. She bears written on her hem the Greek letter Pi, and on the top of her gown the letter Theta. Between these letters is a ladder of steps going from the bottom to the top. Another feature of the woman's dress is that it has been "torn by the hands of marauders who had each carried off such pieces as he could get." She also carries some books in her right hand, and in her left hand a scepter. Before the woman arrived, Boethius tells us that standing at his bedside were the muses of Poetry, who dictated to him as he wrote poetry and wept. At the sight of the Muses the woman becomes angry. She calls the muses "hysterical sluts," and tells them that they have no medicine to cure Boethius's sickness, and they will steal his Reason away and make him worse. Boethius is not an ordinary man, she says, for he has been nourished by the philosophies of "Zeno and Plato". She further insults them, and the Muses blush and leave. The mysterious woman, now alone with Boethius, sits down on his bed and recites a poem to him, articulating his grief, and again lamenting his fall from grace. And the woman now says that the time has come for healing rather than lamentation. She says, Are you not the man who was raised on my learning? Why do you not recognize me? Continuing in the doctoring tone, she says that Boethius' grief is nothing serious - only a bit of amnesia. At this she takes a fold of her dress and wipes the tears from Boethius's eyes. His reaction is detailed in a poem, which says that Boethius's eyes were then cleared. Boethius looks upon the woman, and realizes that she is Philosophy, his nursemaid of old. She has come to succor him, and make his imprisonment easier. She details that she, like Boethius, has undergone many trials, and in the latter years the various philosophical sects had struggled to "seize for their own the inheritance of wisdom" by trying to carry her off. They only got parts of her robe, and each went away thinking that they had obtained the whole of philosophy. These traces of her clothing had given these Epicureans and Stoics a reputation of wisdom among the ignorant. Again, Philosophy recites a poem, extolling the virtues of men who are not moved by the vagaries of fortune. She asks Boethius why he weeps at this, and tells him to explain to her his "illness" or wound so that she may heal him. Boethius then details his list of woes. He reminds her that he is in prison, rather than studying her wisdom in the library of his home. He complains that such is the lot of her followers, and that he had gone into politics because Plato had written that any state was best run by "philosopher-kings". He explains how his gravity and honesty made him no friends in the political arena, and incited the jealousy and hatred of powerful enemies. He had campaigned for just laws and fair taxation, and had resisted and tried to uproot corruption. He explains the various charges brought against him, but the crux of the matter is that he was accused of having desired the safety of the Senate. Because of the crooked politics of the day, and because he had prevented an informer from producing evidence of the Senate's treason, he was judged by that same body has having commited a crime. Boethius cries out to Philosophy - Was this justice? He was also accused of unchecked ambition, but he says that he had always followed her recommendation of the Pythagorean maxim "Follow God" in all things. He is angry and saddened that, while he was faithful to Philosophy, his reward is imprisonment and, soon, execution. Boethius then recites a longer poem, extolling God but asking why the world is ruled by fickle Fortune. Philosophy responds, saying that it is not important that he is no longer in his ornate library. Her teachings are the only things of value, and those are still inside him. She diagnoses him as "swollen and calloused" under the influence of disturbing emotions, and she will begin with a gentle cure, working up to stronger medicine when he has begun to heal. She then questions Boethius to discover precisely the state of his mind. She wants to know if he believes in a directed universe, or if he is convinced of the haphazard nature of fate. Boethius responds that he believes that God the Creator watches over his creation. Continuing the questioning, she discovers that he is confused about how fate and fortune do not control the final, most important destiny of man. Philosophy says that Boethius has forgotten his true nature, and that he is a spiritual being, a soul in communication with God, rather than just a rational animal existing in the material world. Boethius weeps because he is in mortal peril and his possessions and honors have been taken away from him; Philosophy reminds him he still has his most important, and, in fact, his only true possession - his soul. She stops here, however, because the patient is still too ill to take the full "cure" she offers. The Book ends with a poem extolling the virtue of rejecting emotions and ignoring the dictates of fortune.

This Book sets up of Boethius' situation and introduces the mysterious personage of Philosophy. Some of Boethius' conventions are specifically Classical in origin, and do not necessarily make sense when read by a reader today unless some historical context is included. It was common for philosophical discussions and arguments of any type be presented in a dialogue format. The apocalyptic nature of this dialogue is necessary because of the solitary imprisonment of the writer. He is alone in his cell, and has conversations only with himself. He must imagine a speaker, or be visited by the incarnate spirit of Philosophy, in order to carry on a conversation and thus present his "consolation" of philosophical principles in the Platonic dialogue form. The varying height of Philosophy is significant; it is symbolic of the various guises of philosophical study. When she is of average height, she offers the practical advice for the down-to-earth pursuit of moral, or ethical, philosophy. When she is piercing the heavens, she is showing her capacity for metaphysical thought, which is considered by Boethius to be speculative or contemplative philosophy. The Pi and Theta on her gown represent the two Greek names for these types of philosophy, which begin with those letters. The division is between the practical and the contemplative forms of philosophy, the practical including moral philosophy and ethics, the contemplative or speculative includes theology, metaphysics, and the natural sciences such as physics. The impermeable fabric of the gown represents the permanence and objective reality of Philosophy in its true form, and the scraps torn by the factions of lesser philosophers a metaphor for Boethius' opinion of those schools of thought. At the beginning of Part V, there is a line in the poem that reads "swifter hours of the night". Roman timekeeping had much in common with how it is done today, but in their system of reckoning hours, by means of a water clock, there is a significant difference. The Romans changed the length of the nighttime hours to coincide with the shortening and lengthening of days by the seasons. During the winter, the nights were longer, so the same number of hours were used for nighttime as during the summer, but the length of the "hours" were lengthened. The reverse was true for summer, with the nighttime hours being "swifter" and shorter. Boethius was imprisoned on what he called "false accusations". Politically, Boethius had made no friends, for he was above corruption and graft during one of the most corrupt times of the Roman Empire. He had formerly been a high official for the emperor Theodoric, and his fall from the heights of Roman patrician power to imprisonment was almost as great as any fall for a man of his time could be. For a man of his culture and refinement, the irony of losing everything because of his own virtue, and in an arena, which he didn't enter willingly but rather chose out of duty, must have been acute. Boethius says in Book I that he mourns the fact that he is no longer in his library, with its ivory decorations, reading his beloved books. So he creates, in his prison cell, under threat of imminent execution, a fantasy of philosophical discourse with the Lady Philosophy herself. It is an academic conceit not unique to Boethius, but is also telling of his state of mind and emotional needs. He needs comfort - consolation - and finds it in carefully constructing in his mind a person representing his most cherished pursuit of Philosophy. To this authority he appeals for comfort and for answers to his questions, and make an attempt to formulate a theodicy, or theory of good and evil. After reading this first book of The Consolation of Philosophy, perhaps two things strike the modern reader. Why doesn't Boethius, a Christian, appeal to God or Jesus or the Virgin Mary for his consolation in his time of mortal peril, rather than Philosophy? Boethius was a Christian, and people often pray to God when they are in trouble or think they are going to die. Boethius wrote a consolation of Philosophy, not Theology, and we could assume that at least part of his motivation was coldly stylistic rather than personally applicable. Boethius carefully imitated the Platonic dialogues, and to have the Christian God intrude into what was a pagan form would have offended his sensibilities. It is more likely, however, that Boethius, while a Christian, may not have been particularly religious. But even if Boethius was devout, it also bears considering that his culture was still pagan in many ways. He may have had an overlay of Christianity, and truly believed in it, but as a Neo-Platonist and Roman his appeal to reason and philosophy was perhaps closer to his heart. He does, however, refer to a personal God, and reminds us to pray humbly to God at the end of this book. The second oddity is the inclusion of verse in a philosophical text. Boethius was not exactly writing a dry philosophical treatise - this is a consolation and meant to be a balm or medicine for a troubled soul. This book, though definitely philosophical in nature, was meant to be a sort of instructional self-help book for the late Roman Empire. Such consolations of philosophical thoughts were written by other writers and widely read. The divorce from emotions, and the shunning of the honors and cares of the material world are main themes in The Consolation of Philosophy. This Neo-Platonist, and what would become later medieval philosophical idea is central to Boethius's thinking, and what he found most comforting in his prison cell.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/29.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_4_part_5.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 4.chapter 5

book 4, chapter 5

{"name": "book 4, Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section5/", "summary": "Strain in the Drawing-Room Alyosha goes upstairs to talk to Ivan and Katerina. To Alyosha's eyes, Ivan and Katerina are obviously in love, but they torment one another and themselves by inventing moral barriers to keep them apart. Katerina tells Alyosha that she intends to stay loyal to Dmitri, even if he decides to abandon her and marry Grushenka. Ivan says that he thinks her commitment to Dmitri is the right decision. Frustrated, Alyosha tries to make them see that they are only hurting themselves by refusing to acknowledge their love for one another. Ivan admits that he loves Katerina, but says that he thinks she needs to have Dmitri in her life. He says that he has decided to leave for Moscow the next day, and says good-bye. After Ivan leaves, Katerina tells Alyosha a story about an old captain who once provoked Dmitri's wrath. Dmitri beat him badly in front of the captain's young son, who begged him to spare his father. Katerina asks Alyosha to take 200 rubles to the captain to help make up for Dmitri's violence, and Alyosha agrees", "analysis": ""}

Chapter V. A Laceration In The Drawing-Room But in the drawing-room the conversation was already over. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly excited, though she looked resolute. At the moment Alyosha and Madame Hohlakov entered, Ivan Fyodorovitch stood up to take leave. His face was rather pale, and Alyosha looked at him anxiously. For this moment was to solve a doubt, a harassing enigma which had for some time haunted Alyosha. During the preceding month it had been several times suggested to him that his brother Ivan was in love with Katerina Ivanovna, and, what was more, that he meant "to carry her off" from Dmitri. Until quite lately the idea seemed to Alyosha monstrous, though it worried him extremely. He loved both his brothers, and dreaded such rivalry between them. Meantime, Dmitri had said outright on the previous day that he was glad that Ivan was his rival, and that it was a great assistance to him, Dmitri. In what way did it assist him? To marry Grushenka? But that Alyosha considered the worst thing possible. Besides all this, Alyosha had till the evening before implicitly believed that Katerina Ivanovna had a steadfast and passionate love for Dmitri; but he had only believed it till the evening before. He had fancied, too, that she was incapable of loving a man like Ivan, and that she did love Dmitri, and loved him just as he was, in spite of all the strangeness of such a passion. But during yesterday's scene with Grushenka another idea had struck him. The word "lacerating," which Madame Hohlakov had just uttered, almost made him start, because half waking up towards daybreak that night he had cried out "Laceration, laceration," probably applying it to his dream. He had been dreaming all night of the previous day's scene at Katerina Ivanovna's. Now Alyosha was impressed by Madame Hohlakov's blunt and persistent assertion that Katerina Ivanovna was in love with Ivan, and only deceived herself through some sort of pose, from "self-laceration," and tortured herself by her pretended love for Dmitri from some fancied duty of gratitude. "Yes," he thought, "perhaps the whole truth lies in those words." But in that case what was Ivan's position? Alyosha felt instinctively that a character like Katerina Ivanovna's must dominate, and she could only dominate some one like Dmitri, and never a man like Ivan. For Dmitri might at last submit to her domination "to his own happiness" (which was what Alyosha would have desired), but Ivan--no, Ivan could not submit to her, and such submission would not give him happiness. Alyosha could not help believing that of Ivan. And now all these doubts and reflections flitted through his mind as he entered the drawing-room. Another idea, too, forced itself upon him: "What if she loved neither of them--neither Ivan nor Dmitri?" It must be noted that Alyosha felt as it were ashamed of his own thoughts and blamed himself when they kept recurring to him during the last month. "What do I know about love and women and how can I decide such questions?" he thought reproachfully, after such doubts and surmises. And yet it was impossible not to think about it. He felt instinctively that this rivalry was of immense importance in his brothers' lives and that a great deal depended upon it. "One reptile will devour the other," Ivan had pronounced the day before, speaking in anger of his father and Dmitri. So Ivan looked upon Dmitri as a reptile, and perhaps had long done so. Was it perhaps since he had known Katerina Ivanovna? That phrase had, of course, escaped Ivan unawares yesterday, but that only made it more important. If he felt like that, what chance was there of peace? Were there not, on the contrary, new grounds for hatred and hostility in their family? And with which of them was Alyosha to sympathize? And what was he to wish for each of them? He loved them both, but what could he desire for each in the midst of these conflicting interests? He might go quite astray in this maze, and Alyosha's heart could not endure uncertainty, because his love was always of an active character. He was incapable of passive love. If he loved any one, he set to work at once to help him. And to do so he must know what he was aiming at; he must know for certain what was best for each, and having ascertained this it was natural for him to help them both. But instead of a definite aim, he found nothing but uncertainty and perplexity on all sides. "It was lacerating," as was said just now. But what could he understand even in this "laceration"? He did not understand the first word in this perplexing maze. Seeing Alyosha, Katerina Ivanovna said quickly and joyfully to Ivan, who had already got up to go, "A minute! Stay another minute! I want to hear the opinion of this person here whom I trust absolutely. Don't go away," she added, addressing Madame Hohlakov. She made Alyosha sit down beside her, and Madame Hohlakov sat opposite, by Ivan. "You are all my friends here, all I have in the world, my dear friends," she began warmly, in a voice which quivered with genuine tears of suffering, and Alyosha's heart warmed to her at once. "You, Alexey Fyodorovitch, were witness yesterday of that abominable scene, and saw what I did. You did not see it, Ivan Fyodorovitch, he did. What he thought of me yesterday I don't know. I only know one thing, that if it were repeated to-day, this minute, I should express the same feelings again as yesterday--the same feelings, the same words, the same actions. You remember my actions, Alexey Fyodorovitch; you checked me in one of them" ... (as she said that, she flushed and her eyes shone). "I must tell you that I can't get over it. Listen, Alexey Fyodorovitch. I don't even know whether I still love _him_. I feel _pity_ for him, and that is a poor sign of love. If I loved him, if I still loved him, perhaps I shouldn't be sorry for him now, but should hate him." Her voice quivered, and tears glittered on her eyelashes. Alyosha shuddered inwardly. "That girl is truthful and sincere," he thought, "and she does not love Dmitri any more." "That's true, that's true," cried Madame Hohlakov. "Wait, dear. I haven't told you the chief, the final decision I came to during the night. I feel that perhaps my decision is a terrible one--for me, but I foresee that nothing will induce me to change it--nothing. It will be so all my life. My dear, kind, ever-faithful and generous adviser, the one friend I have in the world, Ivan Fyodorovitch, with his deep insight into the heart, approves and commends my decision. He knows it." "Yes, I approve of it," Ivan assented, in a subdued but firm voice. "But I should like Alyosha, too (Ah! Alexey Fyodorovitch, forgive my calling you simply Alyosha), I should like Alexey Fyodorovitch, too, to tell me before my two friends whether I am right. I feel instinctively that you, Alyosha, my dear brother (for you are a dear brother to me)," she said again ecstatically, taking his cold hand in her hot one, "I foresee that your decision, your approval, will bring me peace, in spite of all my sufferings, for, after your words, I shall be calm and submit--I feel that." "I don't know what you are asking me," said Alyosha, flushing. "I only know that I love you and at this moment wish for your happiness more than my own!... But I know nothing about such affairs," something impelled him to add hurriedly. "In such affairs, Alexey Fyodorovitch, in such affairs, the chief thing is honor and duty and something higher--I don't know what--but higher perhaps even than duty. I am conscious of this irresistible feeling in my heart, and it compels me irresistibly. But it may all be put in two words. I've already decided, even if he marries that--creature," she began solemnly, "whom I never, never can forgive, _even then I will not abandon him_. Henceforward I will never, never abandon him!" she cried, breaking into a sort of pale, hysterical ecstasy. "Not that I would run after him continually, get in his way and worry him. Oh, no! I will go away to another town--where you like--but I will watch over him all my life--I will watch over him all my life unceasingly. When he becomes unhappy with that woman, and that is bound to happen quite soon, let him come to me and he will find a friend, a sister.... Only a sister, of course, and so for ever; but he will learn at least that that sister is really his sister, who loves him and has sacrificed all her life to him. I will gain my point. I will insist on his knowing me and confiding entirely in me, without reserve," she cried, in a sort of frenzy. "I will be a god to whom he can pray--and that, at least, he owes me for his treachery and for what I suffered yesterday through him. And let him see that all my life I will be true to him and the promise I gave him, in spite of his being untrue and betraying me. I will--I will become nothing but a means for his happiness, or--how shall I say?--an instrument, a machine for his happiness, and that for my whole life, my whole life, and that he may see that all his life! That's my decision. Ivan Fyodorovitch fully approves me." She was breathless. She had perhaps intended to express her idea with more dignity, art and naturalness, but her speech was too hurried and crude. It was full of youthful impulsiveness, it betrayed that she was still smarting from yesterday's insult, and that her pride craved satisfaction. She felt this herself. Her face suddenly darkened, an unpleasant look came into her eyes. Alyosha at once saw it and felt a pang of sympathy. His brother Ivan made it worse by adding: "I've only expressed my own view," he said. "From any one else, this would have been affected and overstrained, but from you--no. Any other woman would have been wrong, but you are right. I don't know how to explain it, but I see that you are absolutely genuine and, therefore, you are right." "But that's only for the moment. And what does this moment stand for? Nothing but yesterday's insult." Madame Hohlakov obviously had not intended to interfere, but she could not refrain from this very just comment. "Quite so, quite so," cried Ivan, with peculiar eagerness, obviously annoyed at being interrupted, "in any one else this moment would be only due to yesterday's impression and would be only a moment. But with Katerina Ivanovna's character, that moment will last all her life. What for any one else would be only a promise is for her an everlasting burdensome, grim perhaps, but unflagging duty. And she will be sustained by the feeling of this duty being fulfilled. Your life, Katerina Ivanovna, will henceforth be spent in painful brooding over your own feelings, your own heroism, and your own suffering; but in the end that suffering will be softened and will pass into sweet contemplation of the fulfillment of a bold and proud design. Yes, proud it certainly is, and desperate in any case, but a triumph for you. And the consciousness of it will at last be a source of complete satisfaction and will make you resigned to everything else." This was unmistakably said with some malice and obviously with intention; even perhaps with no desire to conceal that he spoke ironically and with intention. "Oh, dear, how mistaken it all is!" Madame Hohlakov cried again. "Alexey Fyodorovitch, you speak. I want dreadfully to know what you will say!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, and burst into tears. Alyosha got up from the sofa. "It's nothing, nothing!" she went on through her tears. "I'm upset, I didn't sleep last night. But by the side of two such friends as you and your brother I still feel strong--for I know--you two will never desert me." "Unluckily I am obliged to return to Moscow--perhaps to-morrow--and to leave you for a long time--And, unluckily, it's unavoidable," Ivan said suddenly. "To-morrow--to Moscow!" her face was suddenly contorted; "but--but, dear me, how fortunate!" she cried in a voice suddenly changed. In one instant there was no trace left of her tears. She underwent an instantaneous transformation, which amazed Alyosha. Instead of a poor, insulted girl, weeping in a sort of "laceration," he saw a woman completely self- possessed and even exceedingly pleased, as though something agreeable had just happened. "Oh, not fortunate that I am losing you, of course not," she corrected herself suddenly, with a charming society smile. "Such a friend as you are could not suppose that. I am only too unhappy at losing you." She rushed impulsively at Ivan, and seizing both his hands, pressed them warmly. "But what is fortunate is that you will be able in Moscow to see auntie and Agafya and to tell them all the horror of my present position. You can speak with complete openness to Agafya, but spare dear auntie. You will know how to do that. You can't think how wretched I was yesterday and this morning, wondering how I could write them that dreadful letter--for one can never tell such things in a letter.... Now it will be easy for me to write, for you will see them and explain everything. Oh, how glad I am! But I am only glad of that, believe me. Of course, no one can take your place.... I will run at once to write the letter," she finished suddenly, and took a step as though to go out of the room. "And what about Alyosha and his opinion, which you were so desperately anxious to hear?" cried Madame Hohlakov. There was a sarcastic, angry note in her voice. "I had not forgotten that," cried Katerina Ivanovna, coming to a sudden standstill, "and why are you so antagonistic at such a moment?" she added, with warm and bitter reproachfulness. "What I said, I repeat. I must have his opinion. More than that, I must have his decision! As he says, so it shall be. You see how anxious I am for your words, Alexey Fyodorovitch.... But what's the matter?" "I couldn't have believed it. I can't understand it!" Alyosha cried suddenly in distress. "What? What?" "He is going to Moscow, and you cry out that you are glad. You said that on purpose! And you begin explaining that you are not glad of that but sorry to be--losing a friend. But that was acting, too--you were playing a part--as in a theater!" "In a theater? What? What do you mean?" exclaimed Katerina Ivanovna, profoundly astonished, flushing crimson, and frowning. "Though you assure him you are sorry to lose a friend in him, you persist in telling him to his face that it's fortunate he is going," said Alyosha breathlessly. He was standing at the table and did not sit down. "What are you talking about? I don't understand." "I don't understand myself.... I seemed to see in a flash ... I know I am not saying it properly, but I'll say it all the same," Alyosha went on in the same shaking and broken voice. "What I see is that perhaps you don't love Dmitri at all ... and never have, from the beginning.... And Dmitri, too, has never loved you ... and only esteems you.... I really don't know how I dare to say all this, but somebody must tell the truth ... for nobody here will tell the truth." "What truth?" cried Katerina Ivanovna, and there was an hysterical ring in her voice. "I'll tell you," Alyosha went on with desperate haste, as though he were jumping from the top of a house. "Call Dmitri; I will fetch him--and let him come here and take your hand and take Ivan's and join your hands. For you're torturing Ivan, simply because you love him--and torturing him, because you love Dmitri through 'self-laceration'--with an unreal love--because you've persuaded yourself." Alyosha broke off and was silent. "You ... you ... you are a little religious idiot--that's what you are!" Katerina Ivanovna snapped. Her face was white and her lips were moving with anger. Ivan suddenly laughed and got up. His hat was in his hand. "You are mistaken, my good Alyosha," he said, with an expression Alyosha had never seen in his face before--an expression of youthful sincerity and strong, irresistibly frank feeling. "Katerina Ivanovna has never cared for me! She has known all the time that I cared for her--though I never said a word of my love to her--she knew, but she didn't care for me. I have never been her friend either, not for one moment; she is too proud to need my friendship. She kept me at her side as a means of revenge. She revenged with me and on me all the insults which she has been continually receiving from Dmitri ever since their first meeting. For even that first meeting has rankled in her heart as an insult--that's what her heart is like! She has talked to me of nothing but her love for him. I am going now; but, believe me, Katerina Ivanovna, you really love him. And the more he insults you, the more you love him--that's your 'laceration.' You love him just as he is; you love him for insulting you. If he reformed, you'd give him up at once and cease to love him. But you need him so as to contemplate continually your heroic fidelity and to reproach him for infidelity. And it all comes from your pride. Oh, there's a great deal of humiliation and self-abasement about it, but it all comes from pride.... I am too young and I've loved you too much. I know that I ought not to say this, that it would be more dignified on my part simply to leave you, and it would be less offensive for you. But I am going far away, and shall never come back.... It is for ever. I don't want to sit beside a 'laceration.'... But I don't know how to speak now. I've said everything.... Good-by, Katerina Ivanovna; you can't be angry with me, for I am a hundred times more severely punished than you, if only by the fact that I shall never see you again. Good-by! I don't want your hand. You have tortured me too deliberately for me to be able to forgive you at this moment. I shall forgive you later, but now I don't want your hand. 'Den Dank, Dame, begehr ich nicht,' " he added, with a forced smile, showing, however, that he could read Schiller, and read him till he knew him by heart--which Alyosha would never have believed. He went out of the room without saying good-by even to his hostess, Madame Hohlakov. Alyosha clasped his hands. "Ivan!" he cried desperately after him. "Come back, Ivan! No, nothing will induce him to come back now!" he cried again, regretfully realizing it; "but it's my fault, my fault. I began it! Ivan spoke angrily, wrongly. Unjustly and angrily. He must come back here, come back," Alyosha kept exclaiming frantically. Katerina Ivanovna went suddenly into the next room. "You have done no harm. You behaved beautifully, like an angel," Madame Hohlakov whispered rapidly and ecstatically to Alyosha. "I will do my utmost to prevent Ivan Fyodorovitch from going." Her face beamed with delight, to the great distress of Alyosha, but Katerina Ivanovna suddenly returned. She had two hundred-rouble notes in her hand. "I have a great favor to ask of you, Alexey Fyodorovitch," she began, addressing Alyosha with an apparently calm and even voice, as though nothing had happened. "A week--yes, I think it was a week ago--Dmitri Fyodorovitch was guilty of a hasty and unjust action--a very ugly action. There is a low tavern here, and in it he met that discharged officer, that captain, whom your father used to employ in some business. Dmitri Fyodorovitch somehow lost his temper with this captain, seized him by the beard and dragged him out into the street and for some distance along it, in that insulting fashion. And I am told that his son, a boy, quite a child, who is at the school here, saw it and ran beside them crying and begging for his father, appealing to every one to defend him, while every one laughed. You must forgive me, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I cannot think without indignation of that disgraceful action of _his_ ... one of those actions of which only Dmitri Fyodorovitch would be capable in his anger ... and in his passions! I can't describe it even.... I can't find my words. I've made inquiries about his victim, and find he is quite a poor man. His name is Snegiryov. He did something wrong in the army and was discharged. I can't tell you what. And now he has sunk into terrible destitution, with his family--an unhappy family of sick children, and, I believe, an insane wife. He has been living here a long time; he used to work as a copying clerk, but now he is getting nothing. I thought if you ... that is I thought ... I don't know. I am so confused. You see, I wanted to ask you, my dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, to go to him, to find some excuse to go to them--I mean to that captain--oh, goodness, how badly I explain it!--and delicately, carefully, as only you know how to" (Alyosha blushed), "manage to give him this assistance, these two hundred roubles. He will be sure to take it.... I mean, persuade him to take it.... Or, rather, what do I mean? You see it's not by way of compensation to prevent him from taking proceedings (for I believe he meant to), but simply a token of sympathy, of a desire to assist him from me, Dmitri Fyodorovitch's betrothed, not from himself.... But you know.... I would go myself, but you'll know how to do it ever so much better. He lives in Lake Street, in the house of a woman called Kalmikov.... For God's sake, Alexey Fyodorovitch, do it for me, and now ... now I am rather ... tired. Good- by!" She turned and disappeared behind the portiere so quickly that Alyosha had not time to utter a word, though he wanted to speak. He longed to beg her pardon, to blame himself, to say something, for his heart was full and he could not bear to go out of the room without it. But Madame Hohlakov took him by the hand and drew him along with her. In the hall she stopped him again as before. "She is proud, she is struggling with herself; but kind, charming, generous," she exclaimed, in a half-whisper. "Oh, how I love her, especially sometimes, and how glad I am again of everything! Dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, you didn't know, but I must tell you, that we all, all--both her aunts, I and all of us, Lise, even--have been hoping and praying for nothing for the last month but that she may give up your favorite Dmitri, who takes no notice of her and does not care for her, and may marry Ivan Fyodorovitch--such an excellent and cultivated young man, who loves her more than anything in the world. We are in a regular plot to bring it about, and I am even staying on here perhaps on that account." "But she has been crying--she has been wounded again," cried Alyosha. "Never trust a woman's tears, Alexey Fyodorovitch. I am never for the women in such cases. I am always on the side of the men." "Mamma, you are spoiling him," Lise's little voice cried from behind the door. "No, it was all my fault. I am horribly to blame," Alyosha repeated unconsoled, hiding his face in his hands in an agony of remorse for his indiscretion. "Quite the contrary; you behaved like an angel, like an angel. I am ready to say so a thousand times over." "Mamma, how has he behaved like an angel?" Lise's voice was heard again. "I somehow fancied all at once," Alyosha went on as though he had not heard Lise, "that she loved Ivan, and so I said that stupid thing.... What will happen now?" "To whom, to whom?" cried Lise. "Mamma, you really want to be the death of me. I ask you and you don't answer." At the moment the maid ran in. "Katerina Ivanovna is ill.... She is crying, struggling ... hysterics." "What is the matter?" cried Lise, in a tone of real anxiety. "Mamma, I shall be having hysterics, and not she!" "Lise, for mercy's sake, don't scream, don't persecute me. At your age one can't know everything that grown-up people know. I'll come and tell you everything you ought to know. Oh, mercy on us! I am coming, I am coming.... Hysterics is a good sign, Alexey Fyodorovitch; it's an excellent thing that she is hysterical. That's just as it ought to be. In such cases I am always against the woman, against all these feminine tears and hysterics. Run and say, Yulia, that I'll fly to her. As for Ivan Fyodorovitch's going away like that, it's her own fault. But he won't go away. Lise, for mercy's sake, don't scream! Oh, yes; you are not screaming. It's I am screaming. Forgive your mamma; but I am delighted, delighted, delighted! Did you notice, Alexey Fyodorovitch, how young, how young Ivan Fyodorovitch was just now when he went out, when he said all that and went out? I thought he was so learned, such a _savant_, and all of a sudden he behaved so warmly, openly, and youthfully, with such youthful inexperience, and it was all so fine, like you.... And the way he repeated that German verse, it was just like you! But I must fly, I must fly! Alexey Fyodorovitch, make haste to carry out her commission, and then make haste back. Lise, do you want anything now? For mercy's sake, don't keep Alexey Fyodorovitch a minute. He will come back to you at once." Madame Hohlakov at last ran off. Before leaving, Alyosha would have opened the door to see Lise. "On no account," cried Lise. "On no account now. Speak through the door. How have you come to be an angel? That's the only thing I want to know." "For an awful piece of stupidity, Lise! Good-by!" "Don't dare to go away like that!" Lise was beginning. "Lise, I have a real sorrow! I'll be back directly, but I have a great, great sorrow!" And he ran out of the room.

book 4, Chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section5/

Strain in the Drawing-Room Alyosha goes upstairs to talk to Ivan and Katerina. To Alyosha's eyes, Ivan and Katerina are obviously in love, but they torment one another and themselves by inventing moral barriers to keep them apart. Katerina tells Alyosha that she intends to stay loyal to Dmitri, even if he decides to abandon her and marry Grushenka. Ivan says that he thinks her commitment to Dmitri is the right decision. Frustrated, Alyosha tries to make them see that they are only hurting themselves by refusing to acknowledge their love for one another. Ivan admits that he loves Katerina, but says that he thinks she needs to have Dmitri in her life. He says that he has decided to leave for Moscow the next day, and says good-bye. After Ivan leaves, Katerina tells Alyosha a story about an old captain who once provoked Dmitri's wrath. Dmitri beat him badly in front of the captain's young son, who begged him to spare his father. Katerina asks Alyosha to take 200 rubles to the captain to help make up for Dmitri's violence, and Alyosha agrees

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/84.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_83_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 12.chapter 5

book 12, chapter 5

{"name": "Book 12, Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-12-chapter-5", "summary": "The narrator tells us that Ivan was originally supposed to testify before Alyosha, but his testimony was delayed because of his illness. Ivan doesn't seem much better now as he walks to the stand, and for some reason, Alyosha jumps up at this point and says, \"Aaah, I remember it.\" No one notices Alyosha. Ivan answers a couple of questions vaguely, and the judge says that it's OK for him to go home if he's sick. He steps off the stand, then returns. Suddenly he pulls out a wad of bills and announces that Smerdyakov is the murderer. Katerina interrupts his testimony and tells everyone to ignore him. But Ivan keeps raving and has to be hauled away by the marshal. Hysterical, Katerina rushes to the stand and waves around the incriminating letter Dmitri had written her. Like Ivan, she seems to be on the brink of a nervous breakdown as she furiously explains the story behind the document. She is whisked away to be attended by the famous doctor from Moscow, who's also treating Ivan. Grushenka denounces Katerina's actions and has to be taken out of the courtroom as well. Dmitri has to be restrained, and his defense lawyer isn't too thrilled about the new evidence. At 8 o'clock in the evening, Kirillovich begins the closing statement for the prosecution.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter V. A Sudden Catastrophe I may note that he had been called before Alyosha. But the usher of the court announced to the President that, owing to an attack of illness or some sort of fit, the witness could not appear at the moment, but was ready to give his evidence as soon as he recovered. But no one seemed to have heard it and it only came out later. His entrance was for the first moment almost unnoticed. The principal witnesses, especially the two rival ladies, had already been questioned. Curiosity was satisfied for the time; the public was feeling almost fatigued. Several more witnesses were still to be heard, who probably had little information to give after all that had been given. Time was passing. Ivan walked up with extraordinary slowness, looking at no one, and with his head bowed, as though plunged in gloomy thought. He was irreproachably dressed, but his face made a painful impression, on me at least: there was an earthy look in it, a look like a dying man's. His eyes were lusterless; he raised them and looked slowly round the court. Alyosha jumped up from his seat and moaned "Ah!" I remember that, but it was hardly noticed. The President began by informing him that he was a witness not on oath, that he might answer or refuse to answer, but that, of course, he must bear witness according to his conscience, and so on, and so on. Ivan listened and looked at him blankly, but his face gradually relaxed into a smile, and as soon as the President, looking at him in astonishment, finished, he laughed outright. "Well, and what else?" he asked in a loud voice. There was a hush in the court; there was a feeling of something strange. The President showed signs of uneasiness. "You ... are perhaps still unwell?" he began, looking everywhere for the usher. "Don't trouble yourself, your excellency, I am well enough and can tell you something interesting," Ivan answered with sudden calmness and respectfulness. "You have some special communication to make?" the President went on, still mistrustfully. Ivan looked down, waited a few seconds and, raising his head, answered, almost stammering: "No ... I haven't. I have nothing particular." They began asking him questions. He answered, as it were, reluctantly, with extreme brevity, with a sort of disgust which grew more and more marked, though he answered rationally. To many questions he answered that he did not know. He knew nothing of his father's money relations with Dmitri. "I wasn't interested in the subject," he added. Threats to murder his father he had heard from the prisoner. Of the money in the envelope he had heard from Smerdyakov. "The same thing over and over again," he interrupted suddenly, with a look of weariness. "I have nothing particular to tell the court." "I see you are unwell and understand your feelings," the President began. He turned to the prosecutor and the counsel for the defense to invite them to examine the witness, if necessary, when Ivan suddenly asked in an exhausted voice: "Let me go, your excellency, I feel very ill." And with these words, without waiting for permission, he turned to walk out of the court. But after taking four steps he stood still, as though he had reached a decision, smiled slowly, and went back. "I am like the peasant girl, your excellency ... you know. How does it go? 'I'll stand up if I like, and I won't if I don't.' They were trying to put on her sarafan to take her to church to be married, and she said, 'I'll stand up if I like, and I won't if I don't.'... It's in some book about the peasantry." "What do you mean by that?" the President asked severely. "Why, this," Ivan suddenly pulled out a roll of notes. "Here's the money ... the notes that lay in that envelope" (he nodded towards the table on which lay the material evidence), "for the sake of which our father was murdered. Where shall I put them? Mr. Superintendent, take them." The usher of the court took the whole roll and handed it to the President. "How could this money have come into your possession if it is the same money?" the President asked wonderingly. "I got them from Smerdyakov, from the murderer, yesterday.... I was with him just before he hanged himself. It was he, not my brother, killed our father. He murdered him and I incited him to do it ... Who doesn't desire his father's death?" "Are you in your right mind?" broke involuntarily from the President. "I should think I am in my right mind ... in the same nasty mind as all of you ... as all these ... ugly faces." He turned suddenly to the audience. "My father has been murdered and they pretend they are horrified," he snarled, with furious contempt. "They keep up the sham with one another. Liars! They all desire the death of their fathers. One reptile devours another.... If there hadn't been a murder, they'd have been angry and gone home ill-humored. It's a spectacle they want! _Panem et circenses_. Though I am one to talk! Have you any water? Give me a drink for Christ's sake!" He suddenly clutched his head. The usher at once approached him. Alyosha jumped up and cried, "He is ill. Don't believe him: he has brain fever." Katerina Ivanovna rose impulsively from her seat and, rigid with horror, gazed at Ivan. Mitya stood up and greedily looked at his brother and listened to him with a wild, strange smile. "Don't disturb yourselves. I am not mad, I am only a murderer," Ivan began again. "You can't expect eloquence from a murderer," he added suddenly for some reason and laughed a queer laugh. The prosecutor bent over to the President in obvious dismay. The two other judges communicated in agitated whispers. Fetyukovitch pricked up his ears as he listened: the hall was hushed in expectation. The President seemed suddenly to recollect himself. "Witness, your words are incomprehensible and impossible here. Calm yourself, if you can, and tell your story ... if you really have something to tell. How can you confirm your statement ... if indeed you are not delirious?" "That's just it. I have no proof. That cur Smerdyakov won't send you proofs from the other world ... in an envelope. You think of nothing but envelopes--one is enough. I've no witnesses ... except one, perhaps," he smiled thoughtfully. "Who is your witness?" "He has a tail, your excellency, and that would be irregular! _Le diable n'existe point!_ Don't pay attention: he is a paltry, pitiful devil," he added suddenly. He ceased laughing and spoke as it were, confidentially. "He is here somewhere, no doubt--under that table with the material evidence on it, perhaps. Where should he sit if not there? You see, listen to me. I told him I don't want to keep quiet, and he talked about the geological cataclysm ... idiocy! Come, release the monster ... he's been singing a hymn. That's because his heart is light! It's like a drunken man in the street bawling how 'Vanka went to Petersburg,' and I would give a quadrillion quadrillions for two seconds of joy. You don't know me! Oh, how stupid all this business is! Come, take me instead of him! I didn't come for nothing.... Why, why is everything so stupid?..." And he began slowly, and as it were reflectively, looking round him again. But the court was all excitement by now. Alyosha rushed towards him, but the court usher had already seized Ivan by the arm. "What are you about?" he cried, staring into the man's face, and suddenly seizing him by the shoulders, he flung him violently to the floor. But the police were on the spot and he was seized. He screamed furiously. And all the time he was being removed, he yelled and screamed something incoherent. The whole court was thrown into confusion. I don't remember everything as it happened. I was excited myself and could not follow. I only know that afterwards, when everything was quiet again and every one understood what had happened, the court usher came in for a reprimand, though he very reasonably explained that the witness had been quite well, that the doctor had seen him an hour ago, when he had a slight attack of giddiness, but that, until he had come into the court, he had talked quite consecutively, so that nothing could have been foreseen--that he had, in fact, insisted on giving evidence. But before every one had completely regained their composure and recovered from this scene, it was followed by another. Katerina Ivanovna had an attack of hysterics. She sobbed, shrieking loudly, but refused to leave the court, struggled, and besought them not to remove her. Suddenly she cried to the President: "There is more evidence I must give at once ... at once! Here is a document, a letter ... take it, read it quickly, quickly! It's a letter from that monster ... that man there, there!" she pointed to Mitya. "It was he killed his father, you will see that directly. He wrote to me how he would kill his father! But the other one is ill, he is ill, he is delirious!" she kept crying out, beside herself. The court usher took the document she held out to the President, and she, dropping into her chair, hiding her face in her hands, began convulsively and noiselessly sobbing, shaking all over, and stifling every sound for fear she should be ejected from the court. The document she had handed up was that letter Mitya had written at the "Metropolis" tavern, which Ivan had spoken of as a "mathematical proof." Alas! its mathematical conclusiveness was recognized, and had it not been for that letter, Mitya might have escaped his doom or, at least, that doom would have been less terrible. It was, I repeat, difficult to notice every detail. What followed is still confused to my mind. The President must, I suppose, have at once passed on the document to the judges, the jury, and the lawyers on both sides. I only remember how they began examining the witness. On being gently asked by the President whether she had recovered sufficiently, Katerina Ivanovna exclaimed impetuously: "I am ready, I am ready! I am quite equal to answering you," she added, evidently still afraid that she would somehow be prevented from giving evidence. She was asked to explain in detail what this letter was and under what circumstances she received it. "I received it the day before the crime was committed, but he wrote it the day before that, at the tavern--that is, two days before he committed the crime. Look, it is written on some sort of bill!" she cried breathlessly. "He hated me at that time, because he had behaved contemptibly and was running after that creature ... and because he owed me that three thousand.... Oh! he was humiliated by that three thousand on account of his own meanness! This is how it happened about that three thousand. I beg you, I beseech you, to hear me. Three weeks before he murdered his father, he came to me one morning. I knew he was in want of money, and what he wanted it for. Yes, yes--to win that creature and carry her off. I knew then that he had been false to me and meant to abandon me, and it was I, I, who gave him that money, who offered it to him on the pretext of his sending it to my sister in Moscow. And as I gave it him, I looked him in the face and said that he could send it when he liked, 'in a month's time would do.' How, how could he have failed to understand that I was practically telling him to his face, 'You want money to be false to me with your creature, so here's the money for you. I give it to you myself. Take it, if you have so little honor as to take it!' I wanted to prove what he was, and what happened? He took it, he took it, and squandered it with that creature in one night.... But he knew, he knew that I knew all about it. I assure you he understood, too, that I gave him that money to test him, to see whether he was so lost to all sense of honor as to take it from me. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine, and he understood it all and he took it--he carried off my money!" "That's true, Katya," Mitya roared suddenly, "I looked into your eyes and I knew that you were dishonoring me, and yet I took your money. Despise me as a scoundrel, despise me, all of you! I've deserved it!" "Prisoner," cried the President, "another word and I will order you to be removed." "That money was a torment to him," Katya went on with impulsive haste. "He wanted to repay it me. He wanted to, that's true; but he needed money for that creature, too. So he murdered his father, but he didn't repay me, and went off with her to that village where he was arrested. There, again, he squandered the money he had stolen after the murder of his father. And a day before the murder he wrote me this letter. He was drunk when he wrote it. I saw it at once, at the time. He wrote it from spite, and feeling certain, positively certain, that I should never show it to any one, even if he did kill him, or else he wouldn't have written it. For he knew I shouldn't want to revenge myself and ruin him! But read it, read it attentively--more attentively, please--and you will see that he had described it all in his letter, all beforehand, how he would kill his father and where his money was kept. Look, please, don't overlook that, there's one phrase there, 'I shall kill him as soon as Ivan has gone away.' So he thought it all out beforehand how he would kill him," Katerina Ivanovna pointed out to the court with venomous and malignant triumph. Oh! it was clear she had studied every line of that letter and detected every meaning underlining it. "If he hadn't been drunk, he wouldn't have written to me; but, look, everything is written there beforehand, just as he committed the murder after. A complete program of it!" she exclaimed frantically. She was reckless now of all consequences to herself, though, no doubt, she had foreseen them even a month ago, for even then, perhaps, shaking with anger, she had pondered whether to show it at the trial or not. Now she had taken the fatal plunge. I remember that the letter was read aloud by the clerk, directly afterwards, I believe. It made an overwhelming impression. They asked Mitya whether he admitted having written the letter. "It's mine, mine!" cried Mitya. "I shouldn't have written it, if I hadn't been drunk!... We've hated each other for many things, Katya, but I swear, I swear I loved you even while I hated you, and you didn't love me!" He sank back on his seat, wringing his hands in despair. The prosecutor and counsel for the defense began cross-examining her, chiefly to ascertain what had induced her to conceal such a document and to give her evidence in quite a different tone and spirit just before. "Yes, yes. I was telling lies just now. I was lying against my honor and my conscience, but I wanted to save him, for he has hated and despised me so!" Katya cried madly. "Oh, he has despised me horribly, he has always despised me, and do you know, he has despised me from the very moment that I bowed down to him for that money. I saw that.... I felt it at once at the time, but for a long time I wouldn't believe it. How often I have read it in his eyes, 'You came of yourself, though.' Oh, he didn't understand, he had no idea why I ran to him, he can suspect nothing but baseness, he judged me by himself, he thought every one was like himself!" Katya hissed furiously, in a perfect frenzy. "And he only wanted to marry me, because I'd inherited a fortune, because of that, because of that! I always suspected it was because of that! Oh, he is a brute! He was always convinced that I should be trembling with shame all my life before him, because I went to him then, and that he had a right to despise me for ever for it, and so to be superior to me--that's why he wanted to marry me! That's so, that's all so! I tried to conquer him by my love--a love that knew no bounds. I even tried to forgive his faithlessness; but he understood nothing, nothing! How could he understand indeed? He is a monster! I only received that letter the next evening: it was brought me from the tavern--and only that morning, only that morning I wanted to forgive him everything, everything--even his treachery!" The President and the prosecutor, of course, tried to calm her. I can't help thinking that they felt ashamed of taking advantage of her hysteria and of listening to such avowals. I remember hearing them say to her, "We understand how hard it is for you; be sure we are able to feel for you," and so on, and so on. And yet they dragged the evidence out of the raving, hysterical woman. She described at last with extraordinary clearness, which is so often seen, though only for a moment, in such over-wrought states, how Ivan had been nearly driven out of his mind during the last two months trying to save "the monster and murderer," his brother. "He tortured himself," she exclaimed, "he was always trying to minimize his brother's guilt and confessing to me that he, too, had never loved his father, and perhaps desired his death himself. Oh, he has a tender, over- tender conscience! He tormented himself with his conscience! He told me everything, everything! He came every day and talked to me as his only friend. I have the honor to be his only friend!" she cried suddenly with a sort of defiance, and her eyes flashed. "He had been twice to see Smerdyakov. One day he came to me and said, 'If it was not my brother, but Smerdyakov committed the murder' (for the legend was circulating everywhere that Smerdyakov had done it), 'perhaps I too am guilty, for Smerdyakov knew I didn't like my father and perhaps believed that I desired my father's death.' Then I brought out that letter and showed it him. He was entirely convinced that his brother had done it, and he was overwhelmed by it. He couldn't endure the thought that his own brother was a parricide! Only a week ago I saw that it was making him ill. During the last few days he has talked incoherently in my presence. I saw his mind was giving way. He walked about, raving; he was seen muttering in the streets. The doctor from Moscow, at my request, examined him the day before yesterday and told me that he was on the eve of brain fever--and all on his account, on account of this monster! And last night he learnt that Smerdyakov was dead! It was such a shock that it drove him out of his mind ... and all through this monster, all for the sake of saving the monster!" Oh, of course, such an outpouring, such an avowal is only possible once in a lifetime--at the hour of death, for instance, on the way to the scaffold! But it was in Katya's character, and it was such a moment in her life. It was the same impetuous Katya who had thrown herself on the mercy of a young profligate to save her father; the same Katya who had just before, in her pride and chastity, sacrificed herself and her maidenly modesty before all these people, telling of Mitya's generous conduct, in the hope of softening his fate a little. And now, again, she sacrificed herself; but this time it was for another, and perhaps only now--perhaps only at this moment--she felt and knew how dear that other was to her! She had sacrificed herself in terror for him, conceiving all of a sudden that he had ruined himself by his confession that it was he who had committed the murder, not his brother, she had sacrificed herself to save him, to save his good name, his reputation! And yet one terrible doubt occurred to one--was she lying in her description of her former relations with Mitya?--that was the question. No, she had not intentionally slandered him when she cried that Mitya despised her for her bowing down to him! She believed it herself. She had been firmly convinced, perhaps ever since that bow, that the simple-hearted Mitya, who even then adored her, was laughing at her and despising her. She had loved him with an hysterical, "lacerated" love only from pride, from wounded pride, and that love was not like love, but more like revenge. Oh! perhaps that lacerated love would have grown into real love, perhaps Katya longed for nothing more than that, but Mitya's faithlessness had wounded her to the bottom of her heart, and her heart could not forgive him. The moment of revenge had come upon her suddenly, and all that had been accumulating so long and so painfully in the offended woman's breast burst out all at once and unexpectedly. She betrayed Mitya, but she betrayed herself, too. And no sooner had she given full expression to her feelings than the tension of course was over and she was overwhelmed with shame. Hysterics began again: she fell on the floor, sobbing and screaming. She was carried out. At that moment Grushenka, with a wail, rushed towards Mitya before they had time to prevent her. "Mitya," she wailed, "your serpent has destroyed you! There, she has shown you what she is!" she shouted to the judges, shaking with anger. At a signal from the President they seized her and tried to remove her from the court. She wouldn't allow it. She fought and struggled to get back to Mitya. Mitya uttered a cry and struggled to get to her. He was overpowered. Yes, I think the ladies who came to see the spectacle must have been satisfied--the show had been a varied one. Then I remember the Moscow doctor appeared on the scene. I believe the President had previously sent the court usher to arrange for medical aid for Ivan. The doctor announced to the court that the sick man was suffering from a dangerous attack of brain fever, and that he must be at once removed. In answer to questions from the prosecutor and the counsel for the defense he said that the patient had come to him of his own accord the day before yesterday and that he had warned him that he had such an attack coming on, but he had not consented to be looked after. "He was certainly not in a normal state of mind: he told me himself that he saw visions when he was awake, that he met several persons in the street, who were dead, and that Satan visited him every evening," said the doctor, in conclusion. Having given his evidence, the celebrated doctor withdrew. The letter produced by Katerina Ivanovna was added to the material proofs. After some deliberation, the judges decided to proceed with the trial and to enter both the unexpected pieces of evidence (given by Ivan and Katerina Ivanovna) on the protocol. But I will not detail the evidence of the other witnesses, who only repeated and confirmed what had been said before, though all with their characteristic peculiarities. I repeat, all was brought together in the prosecutor's speech, which I shall quote immediately. Every one was excited, every one was electrified by the late catastrophe, and all were awaiting the speeches for the prosecution and the defense with intense impatience. Fetyukovitch was obviously shaken by Katerina Ivanovna's evidence. But the prosecutor was triumphant. When all the evidence had been taken, the court was adjourned for almost an hour. I believe it was just eight o'clock when the President returned to his seat and our prosecutor, Ippolit Kirillovitch, began his speech.

Book 12, Chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-12-chapter-5

The narrator tells us that Ivan was originally supposed to testify before Alyosha, but his testimony was delayed because of his illness. Ivan doesn't seem much better now as he walks to the stand, and for some reason, Alyosha jumps up at this point and says, "Aaah, I remember it." No one notices Alyosha. Ivan answers a couple of questions vaguely, and the judge says that it's OK for him to go home if he's sick. He steps off the stand, then returns. Suddenly he pulls out a wad of bills and announces that Smerdyakov is the murderer. Katerina interrupts his testimony and tells everyone to ignore him. But Ivan keeps raving and has to be hauled away by the marshal. Hysterical, Katerina rushes to the stand and waves around the incriminating letter Dmitri had written her. Like Ivan, she seems to be on the brink of a nervous breakdown as she furiously explains the story behind the document. She is whisked away to be attended by the famous doctor from Moscow, who's also treating Ivan. Grushenka denounces Katerina's actions and has to be taken out of the courtroom as well. Dmitri has to be restrained, and his defense lawyer isn't too thrilled about the new evidence. At 8 o'clock in the evening, Kirillovich begins the closing statement for the prosecution.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Prince/section_23_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapter 26

chapter 26

{"name": "Chapter 26", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapter-26", "summary": "There could not be a more appropriate time to welcome a new ruler to Italy. In order for the greatness of Italian spirit to be shown, Italy had to be humiliated first. Although it appeared a prince was coming to lead her, bad luck struck him down, so that she still waits eagerly for her rescuer. The Medici family can fill this role, if they will imitate the precepts Machiavelli has explained. Even signs from God point to their coming greatness. The other Italian princes never achieved this goal, because their old methods of warfare were unsound. There is no lack of courage or strength among the Italians, but their leaders are weak. For this reason, Italian armies have lost in the field for the last 20 years. If the Medici family want to become great leaders, they will raise their own armies. All the other European armies, despite their successes, have weaknesses that can be exploited with new strategies. Italy has been waiting for a savior to liberate her from oppression by the foreign barbarians. Let the Medici take up the cause, and Italy will be great once more.", "analysis": "The final chapter of The Prince is Machiavelli's exhortation to the Medici family to lead Italy out of foreign domination under a strong, centralized leadership. His tone is passionate and poetic, in contrast to the dry, direct style of the rest of the book. Still, Machiavelli slips back into his more familiar analytical style when discussing the various military techniques employed by the German, Swiss, French, and Spanish. Methods of warfare were another of Machiavelli's great interests. In 1520, he wrote an entire book on the subject in his Art of War . Machiavelli is at his most fervent when describing the bravery and strength of the Italian national spirit, and he rebukes the foolish leaders who have failed to make use of this great raw material. Even here, though, he has room for a small jab: The Italians, he says, fight well individually, but do not take well to authority, because they all think they know best. Another notable break with the rest of the book is the repeated invocation of God, who has been conspicuously absent from Machiavelli's discussion up until this point: Italy beseeches God for a redeemer, God favors the Medici, God wants the people to use free will, and God sends signs to show that the time is near. Machiavelli even refers to the man who was thought to have been ordained by God to save Italy, namely Cesare Borgia, who but for his rotten luck would have unified Italy. Italy still waits for this promised savior. The bitterness of Italy's subjugation to foreign powers runs throughout this final chapter. All of Machiavelli's observations and advice about the state and the prince have been directed toward this goal, to bring forth the leader who will liberate Italy from the barbarians and unify it. Then Italy will be the peaceful, prosperous state Machiavelli envisions, with a prince who works for the security and stability his subjects need. Machiavelli closes the book with a quotation from the patriotic poem \"My Italy\" by the great Italian poet Francesco Petrarca. Glossary Moses, Cyrus, Theseus the great leaders Machiavelli cited in Chapter 6, whom he presents here as liberators of oppressed peoples. head of the Church Giovanni de Medici, the newly elected Pope Leo X. Sea, cloud, stone, manna miracles that occurred when Moses led the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt. Machiavelli claims these are signs that point to the Medici's role in liberating Italy. Taro . . . Mestre battles in which Italian forces were defeated."}

Having carefully considered the subject of the above discourses, and wondering within myself whether the present times were propitious to a new prince, and whether there were elements that would give an opportunity to a wise and virtuous one to introduce a new order of things which would do honour to him and good to the people of this country, it appears to me that so many things concur to favour a new prince that I never knew a time more fit than the present. And if, as I said, it was necessary that the people of Israel should be captive so as to make manifest the ability of Moses; that the Persians should be oppressed by the Medes so as to discover the greatness of the soul of Cyrus; and that the Athenians should be dispersed to illustrate the capabilities of Theseus: then at the present time, in order to discover the virtue of an Italian spirit, it was necessary that Italy should be reduced to the extremity that she is now in, that she should be more enslaved than the Hebrews, more oppressed than the Persians, more scattered than the Athenians; without head, without order, beaten, despoiled, torn, overrun; and to have endured every kind of desolation. Although lately some spark may have been shown by one, which made us think he was ordained by God for our redemption, nevertheless it was afterwards seen, in the height of his career, that fortune rejected him; so that Italy, left as without life, waits for him who shall yet heal her wounds and put an end to the ravaging and plundering of Lombardy, to the swindling and taxing of the kingdom and of Tuscany, and cleanse those sores that for long have festered. It is seen how she entreats God to send someone who shall deliver her from these wrongs and barbarous insolencies. It is seen also that she is ready and willing to follow a banner if only someone will raise it. Nor is there to be seen at present one in whom she can place more hope than in your illustrious house,(*) with its valour and fortune, favoured by God and by the Church of which it is now the chief, and which could be made the head of this redemption. This will not be difficult if you will recall to yourself the actions and lives of the men I have named. And although they were great and wonderful men, yet they were men, and each one of them had no more opportunity than the present offers, for their enterprises were neither more just nor easier than this, nor was God more their friend than He is yours. (*) Giuliano de Medici. He had just been created a cardinal by Leo X. In 1523 Giuliano was elected Pope, and took the title of Clement VII. With us there is great justice, because that war is just which is necessary, and arms are hallowed when there is no other hope but in them. Here there is the greatest willingness, and where the willingness is great the difficulties cannot be great if you will only follow those men to whom I have directed your attention. Further than this, how extraordinarily the ways of God have been manifested beyond example: the sea is divided, a cloud has led the way, the rock has poured forth water, it has rained manna, everything has contributed to your greatness; you ought to do the rest. God is not willing to do everything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory which belongs to us. And it is not to be wondered at if none of the above-named Italians have been able to accomplish all that is expected from your illustrious house; and if in so many revolutions in Italy, and in so many campaigns, it has always appeared as if military virtue were exhausted, this has happened because the old order of things was not good, and none of us have known how to find a new one. And nothing honours a man more than to establish new laws and new ordinances when he himself was newly risen. Such things when they are well founded and dignified will make him revered and admired, and in Italy there are not wanting opportunities to bring such into use in every form. Here there is great valour in the limbs whilst it fails in the head. Look attentively at the duels and the hand-to-hand combats, how superior the Italians are in strength, dexterity, and subtlety. But when it comes to armies they do not bear comparison, and this springs entirely from the insufficiency of the leaders, since those who are capable are not obedient, and each one seems to himself to know, there having never been any one so distinguished above the rest, either by valour or fortune, that others would yield to him. Hence it is that for so long a time, and during so much fighting in the past twenty years, whenever there has been an army wholly Italian, it has always given a poor account of itself; the first witness to this is Il Taro, afterwards Allesandria, Capua, Genoa, Vaila, Bologna, Mestri.(*) (*) The battles of Il Taro, 1495; Alessandria, 1499; Capua, 1501; Genoa, 1507; Vaila, 1509; Bologna, 1511; Mestri, 1513. If, therefore, your illustrious house wishes to follow these remarkable men who have redeemed their country, it is necessary before all things, as a true foundation for every enterprise, to be provided with your own forces, because there can be no more faithful, truer, or better soldiers. And although singly they are good, altogether they will be much better when they find themselves commanded by their prince, honoured by him, and maintained at his expense. Therefore it is necessary to be prepared with such arms, so that you can be defended against foreigners by Italian valour. And although Swiss and Spanish infantry may be considered very formidable, nevertheless there is a defect in both, by reason of which a third order would not only be able to oppose them, but might be relied upon to overthrow them. For the Spaniards cannot resist cavalry, and the Switzers are afraid of infantry whenever they encounter them in close combat. Owing to this, as has been and may again be seen, the Spaniards are unable to resist French cavalry, and the Switzers are overthrown by Spanish infantry. And although a complete proof of this latter cannot be shown, nevertheless there was some evidence of it at the battle of Ravenna, when the Spanish infantry were confronted by German battalions, who follow the same tactics as the Swiss; when the Spaniards, by agility of body and with the aid of their shields, got in under the pikes of the Germans and stood out of danger, able to attack, while the Germans stood helpless, and, if the cavalry had not dashed up, all would have been over with them. It is possible, therefore, knowing the defects of both these infantries, to invent a new one, which will resist cavalry and not be afraid of infantry; this need not create a new order of arms, but a variation upon the old. And these are the kind of improvements which confer reputation and power upon a new prince. This opportunity, therefore, ought not to be allowed to pass for letting Italy at last see her liberator appear. Nor can one express the love with which he would be received in all those provinces which have suffered so much from these foreign scourings, with what thirst for revenge, with what stubborn faith, with what devotion, with what tears. What door would be closed to him? Who would refuse obedience to him? What envy would hinder him? What Italian would refuse him homage? To all of us this barbarous dominion stinks. Let, therefore, your illustrious house take up this charge with that courage and hope with which all just enterprises are undertaken, so that under its standard our native country may be ennobled, and under its auspices may be verified that saying of Petrarch: Virtu contro al Furore Prendera l'arme, e fia il combatter corto: Che l'antico valore Negli italici cuor non e ancor morto. Virtue against fury shall advance the fight, And it i' th' combat soon shall put to flight: For the old Roman valour is not dead, Nor in th' Italians' brests extinguished. Edward Dacre, 1640.

Chapter 26

https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapter-26

There could not be a more appropriate time to welcome a new ruler to Italy. In order for the greatness of Italian spirit to be shown, Italy had to be humiliated first. Although it appeared a prince was coming to lead her, bad luck struck him down, so that she still waits eagerly for her rescuer. The Medici family can fill this role, if they will imitate the precepts Machiavelli has explained. Even signs from God point to their coming greatness. The other Italian princes never achieved this goal, because their old methods of warfare were unsound. There is no lack of courage or strength among the Italians, but their leaders are weak. For this reason, Italian armies have lost in the field for the last 20 years. If the Medici family want to become great leaders, they will raise their own armies. All the other European armies, despite their successes, have weaknesses that can be exploited with new strategies. Italy has been waiting for a savior to liberate her from oppression by the foreign barbarians. Let the Medici take up the cause, and Italy will be great once more.

The final chapter of The Prince is Machiavelli's exhortation to the Medici family to lead Italy out of foreign domination under a strong, centralized leadership. His tone is passionate and poetic, in contrast to the dry, direct style of the rest of the book. Still, Machiavelli slips back into his more familiar analytical style when discussing the various military techniques employed by the German, Swiss, French, and Spanish. Methods of warfare were another of Machiavelli's great interests. In 1520, he wrote an entire book on the subject in his Art of War . Machiavelli is at his most fervent when describing the bravery and strength of the Italian national spirit, and he rebukes the foolish leaders who have failed to make use of this great raw material. Even here, though, he has room for a small jab: The Italians, he says, fight well individually, but do not take well to authority, because they all think they know best. Another notable break with the rest of the book is the repeated invocation of God, who has been conspicuously absent from Machiavelli's discussion up until this point: Italy beseeches God for a redeemer, God favors the Medici, God wants the people to use free will, and God sends signs to show that the time is near. Machiavelli even refers to the man who was thought to have been ordained by God to save Italy, namely Cesare Borgia, who but for his rotten luck would have unified Italy. Italy still waits for this promised savior. The bitterness of Italy's subjugation to foreign powers runs throughout this final chapter. All of Machiavelli's observations and advice about the state and the prince have been directed toward this goal, to bring forth the leader who will liberate Italy from the barbarians and unify it. Then Italy will be the peaceful, prosperous state Machiavelli envisions, with a prince who works for the security and stability his subjects need. Machiavelli closes the book with a quotation from the patriotic poem "My Italy" by the great Italian poet Francesco Petrarca. Glossary Moses, Cyrus, Theseus the great leaders Machiavelli cited in Chapter 6, whom he presents here as liberators of oppressed peoples. head of the Church Giovanni de Medici, the newly elected Pope Leo X. Sea, cloud, stone, manna miracles that occurred when Moses led the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt. Machiavelli claims these are signs that point to the Medici's role in liberating Italy. Taro . . . Mestre battles in which Italian forces were defeated.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_25_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 1.chapter 26

part 1, chapter 26

{"name": "Part 1, Chapter 26", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-26", "summary": "When lunchtime comes at the seminary, everyone is curious about Julien. They're impressed that he can already read and speak Latin. Julien doesn't realize that during these days, he receives several letters that Father Pirard throws into a fire because he doesn't like the passion in them. Maybe they're from Madame de Renal. One day, one of these letters says farewell forever. Again, Julien never receives it. Julien's friend Fouqe bribes his way into the seminary and asks Julien why he never goes out. Julien has meanwhile gotten himself a reputation as a free thinker, which is a horrible thing inside the seminary. Julien finally becomes aware of just how closely people watch one another in adult society. He spends the next few months trying to change his appearance and body language, but he can't stop looking like a freethinker. One day, Father Pirard calls on Julien and confronts him with the card he took from Besancon with the cafe waitress' name on it. The card also contains instructions about how Julien can secretly meet with this girl. It looks bad, but Julien says he never acted on the card, since it can be proven that he's never left the sight of the seminary priests. Pirard agrees, but still says it was a bad idea to keep this card, since it suggests that Julien still thinks about romantic meetings with girls.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER XXVI THE WORLD, OR WHAT THE RICH LACK I am alone in the world. No one deigns to spare me a thought. All those whom I see make their fortune, have an insolence and hardness of heart which I do not feel in myself. They hate me by reason of kindness and good-humour. Oh, I shall die soon, either from starvation or the unhappiness of seeing men so hard of heart.--_Young_. He hastened to brush his clothes and run down. He was late. Instead of trying to justify himself Julien crossed his arms over his breast. "Peccavi pater optime (I have sinned, I confess my fault, oh, my father)," he said with a contrite air. This first speech was a great success. The clever ones among the seminarists saw that they had to deal with a man who knew something about the elements of the profession. The recreation hour arrived, and Julien saw that he was the object of general curiosity, but he only manifested reserved silence. Following the maxims he had laid down for himself, he considered his three hundred and twenty-one comrades as enemies. The most dangerous of all in his eyes was the abbe Pirard. A few days afterwards Julien had to choose a confessor, and was given a list. "Great heavens! what do they take me for?" he said to himself. "Do they think I don't understand what's what?" Then he chose the abbe Pirard. This step proved decisive without his suspecting it. A little seminarist, who was quite young and a native of Verrieres, and who had declared himself his friend since the first day, informed him that he would probably have acted more prudently if he had chosen M. Castanede, the sub-director of the seminary. "The abbe Castanede is the enemy of Pirard, who is suspected of Jansenism," added the little seminarist in a whisper. All the first steps of our hero were, in spite of the prudence on which he plumed himself, as much mistakes as his choice of a confessor. Misled as he was by all the self-confidence of a man of imagination, he took his projects for facts, and believed that he was a consummate hypocrite. His folly went so far as to reproach himself for his success in this kind of weakness. "Alas, it is my only weapon," he said to himself. "At another period I should have earned my livelihood by eloquent deeds in the face of the enemy." Satisfied as he was with his own conduct, Julien looked around him. He found everywhere the appearance of the purest virtue. Eight or ten seminarists lived in the odour of sanctity, and had visions like Saint Theresa, and Saint Francis, when he received his stigmata on Mount _Vernia_ in the Appenines. But it was a great secret and their friends concealed it. These poor young people who had visions were always in the infirmary. A hundred others combined an indefatigable application to a robust faith. They worked till they fell ill, but without learning much. Two or three were distinguished by a real talent, amongst others a student of the name of Chazel, but both they and Julien felt mutually unsympathetic. The rest of these three hundred and twenty-one seminarists consisted exclusively of coarse persons, who were by no means sure of understanding the Latin words which they kept on repeating the livelong day. Nearly all were the sons of peasants, and they preferred to gain their livelihood by reciting some Latin words than by ploughing the earth. It was after this examination of his colleagues that Julien, during the first few days, promised himself a speedy success. "Intelligent people are needed in every service," he said to himself, "for, after all, there is work to be done. I should have been a sergeant under Napoleon. I shall be a grand vicar among these future cures." "All these poor devils," he added, "manual labourers as they have been since their childhood, have lived on curded milk and black bread up till they arrived here. They would only eat meat five or six times a year in their hovels. Like the Roman soldiers who used to find war the time of rest, these poor peasants are enchanted with the delights of the seminary." Julien could never read anything in their gloomy eyes but the satisfaction of physical craving after dinner, and the expectation of sensual pleasure before the meal. Such were the people among whom Julien had to distinguish himself; but the fact which he did not know, and which they refrained from telling him, was that coming out first in the different courses of dogma, ecclesiastical history, etc., etc., which are taken at the seminary, constituted in their eyes, neither more nor less than a splendid sin. Since the time of Voltaire and two-chamber Government, which is at bottom simply distrust and personal self-examination, and gives the popular mind that bad habit of being suspicious, the Church of France seems to have realised that books are its real enemies. It is the submissive heart which counts for everything in its eyes. It suspects, and rightly so, any success in studies, even sacred ones. What is to prevent a superior man from crossing over to the opposite side like Sieyes or Gregory. The trembling Church clings on to the Pope as its one chance of safety. The Pope alone is in a position to attempt to paralyse all personal self-examination, and to make an impression by means of the pompous piety of his court ceremonial on the bored and morbid spirit of fashionable society. Julien, as he began to get some glimpse of these various truths, which are none the less in total contradiction to all the official pronouncements of any seminary, fell into a profound melancholy. He worked a great deal and rapidly succeeded in learning things which were extremely useful to a priest, extremely false in his own eyes, and devoid of the slightest interest for him. He felt there was nothing else to do. "Am I then forgotten by the whole world," he thought. He did not know that M. Pirard had received and thrown into the fire several letters with the Dijon stamp in which the most lively passion would pierce through the most formal conventionalism of style. "This love seems to be fought by great attacks of remorse. All the better," thought the abbe Pirard. "At any rate this lad has not loved an infidel woman." One day the abbe Pirard opened a letter which seemed half-blotted out by tears. It was an adieu for ever. "At last," said the writer to Julien, "Heaven has granted me the grace of hating, not the author of my fall, but my fall itself. The sacrifice has been made, dear one, not without tears as you see. The safety of those to whom I must devote my life, and whom you love so much, is the decisive factor. A just but terrible God will no longer see His way to avenge on them their mother's crimes. Adieu, Julien. Be just towards all men." The end of the letter was nearly entirely illegible. The writer gave an address at Dijon, but at the same time expressed the hope that Julien would not answer, or at any rate would employ language which a reformed woman could read without blushing. Julien's melancholy, aggravated by the mediocre nourishment which the contractor who gave dinners at thirteen centimes per head supplied to the seminary, began to affect his health, when Fouque suddenly appeared in his room one morning. "I have been able to get in at last. I have duly been five times to Besancon in order to see you. Could never get in. I put someone by the door to watch. Why the devil don't you ever go out?" "It is a test which I have imposed on myself." "I find you greatly changed, but here you are again. I have just learned from a couple of good five franc pieces that I was only a fool not to have offered them on my first journey." The conversation of the two friends went on for ever. Julien changed colour when Fouque said to him, "Do you know, by the by, that your pupils' mother has become positively devout." And he began to talk in that off-hand manner which makes so singular an impression on the passionate soul, whose dearest interests are being destroyed without the speaker having the faintest suspicion of it. "Yes, my friend, the most exalted devoutness. She is said to make pilgrimages. But to the eternal shame of the abbe Maslon, who has played the spy so long on that poor M. Chelan, Madame de Renal would have nothing to do with him. She goes to confession to Dijon or Besancon." "She goes to Besancon," said Julien, flushing all over his forehead. "Pretty often," said Fouque in a questioning manner. "Have you got any _Constitutionnels_ on you?" "What do you say?" replied Fouque. "I'm asking if you've got any _Constitutionnels_?" went on Julien in the quietest tone imaginable. "They cost thirty sous a number here." "What!" exclaimed Fouque. "Liberals even in the seminary! Poor France," he added, assuming the abbe Maslon's hypocritical voice and sugary tone. This visit would have made a deep impression on our hero, if he had not been put on the track of an important discovery by some words addressed to him the following day by the little seminarist from Verrieres. Julien's conduct since he had been at the seminary had been nothing but a series of false steps. He began to make bitter fun of himself. In point of fact the important actions in his life had been cleverly managed, but he was careless about details, and cleverness in a seminary consists in attention to details. Consequently, he had already the reputation among his comrades of being a _strong-minded person._ He had been betrayed by a number of little actions. He had been convicted in their eyes of this enormity, _he thought and judged for himself_ instead of blindly following authority and example. The abbe Pirard had been no help to him. He had not spoken to him on a single occasion apart from the confessional, and even there he listened more than he spoke. Matters would have been very different if he had chosen the abbe Castanede. The moment that Julien realised his folly, he ceased to be bored. He wished to know the whole extent of the evil, and to effect this emerged a little from that haughty obstinate silence with which he had scrupulously rebuffed his comrades. It was now that they took their revenge on him. His advances were welcomed by a contempt verging on derision. He realised that there had not been one single hour from the time of his entry into the seminary, particularly during recreation time, which had not resulted in affecting him one way or another, which had not increased the number of his enemies, or won for him the goodwill of some seminarist who was either sincerely virtuous or of a fibre slightly less coarse than that of the others. The evil to repair was infinite, and the task very difficult. Henceforth, Julien's attention was always on guard. The problem before him was to map out a new character for himself. The moving of his eyes for example, occasioned him a great deal of trouble. It is with good reason that they are carried lowered in these places. "How presumptuous I was at Verrieres," said Julien to himself. "I thought I lived; I was only preparing for life, and here I am at last in the world such as I shall find it, until my part comes to an end, surrounded by real enemies. What immense difficulties," he added, "are involved in keeping up this hypocrisy every single minute. It is enough to put the labours of Hercules into the shade. The Hercules of modern times is the Pope Sixtus Quintus, who deceived by his modesty fifteen years on end forty Cardinals who had seen the liveliness and haughtiness of his whole youth. "So knowledge is nothing here," he said to himself with disgust. "Progress in doctrine, in sacred history, etc., only seem to count. Everything said on those subjects is only intended to entrap fools like me. Alas my only merit consists in my rapid progress, and in the way in which I grasp all their nonsense. Do they really value those things at their true worth? Do they judge them like I do. And I had the stupidity to be proud of my quickness. The only result of my coming out top has been to give me inveterate enemies. Chazel, who really knows more than I do, always throws some blunder in his compositions which gets him put back to the fiftieth place. If he comes out first, it is only because he is absent-minded. O how useful would one word, just one word, of M. Pirard, have been to me." As soon as Julien was disillusioned, the long exercises in ascetic piety, such as the attendances in the chapel five times a week, the intonation of hymns at the chapel of the Sacre Coeur, etc., etc., which had previously seemed to him so deadly boring, became his most interesting opportunities for action. Thanks to a severe introspection, and above all, by trying not to overdo his methods, Julien did not attempt at the outset to perform significant actions (that is to say, actions which are proof of a certain Christian perfection) like those seminarists who served as a model to the rest. Seminarists have a special way, even of eating a poached egg, which betokens progress in the devout life. The reader who smiles at this will perhaps be good enough to remember all the mistakes which the abbe Delille made over the eating of an egg when he was invited to breakfast with a lady of the Court of Louis XVI. Julien first tried to arrive at the state of _non culpa_, that is to say the state of the young seminarist whose demeanour and manner of moving his arms, eyes, etc. while in fact without any trace of worldliness, do not yet indicate that the person is entirely absorbed by the conception of the other world, and the idea of the pure nothingness of this one. Julien incessantly found such phrases as these charcoaled on the walls of the corridors. "What are sixty years of ordeals balanced against an eternity of delights or any eternity of boiling oil in hell?" He despised them no longer. He realised that it was necessary to have them incessantly before his eyes. "What am I going to do all my life," he said to himself. "I shall sell to the faithful a place in heaven. How am I going to make that place visible to their eyes? By the difference between my appearance and that of a layman." After several months of absolutely unremitting application, Julien still had the appearance of thinking. The way in which he would move his eyes and hold his mouth did not betoken that implicit faith which is ready to believe everything and undergo everything, even at the cost of martyrdom. Julien saw with anger that he was surpassed in this by the coarsest peasants. There was good reason for their not appearing full of thought. What pains did he not take to acquire that facial expression of blindly fervent faith which is found so frequently in the Italian convents, and of which Le Guerchin has left such perfect models in his Church pictures for the benefit of us laymen. On feast-days, the seminarists were regaled with sausages and cabbage. Julien's table neighbours observed that he did not appreciate this happiness. That was looked upon as one of his paramount crimes. His comrades saw in this a most odious trait, and the most foolish hypocrisy. Nothing made him more enemies. "Look at this bourgeois, look at this stuck-up person," they would say, "who pretends to despise the best rations there are, sausages and cabbage, shame on the villain! The haughty wretch, he is damned for ever." "Alas, these young peasants, who are my comrades, find their ignorance an immense advantage," Julien would exclaim in his moments of discouragement. "The professor has not got to deliver them on their arrival at the seminary from that awful number of worldly ideas which I brought into it, and which they read on my face whatever I do." Julien watched with an attention bordering on envy the coarsest of the little peasants who arrived at the seminary. From the moment when they were made to doff their shabby jackets to don the black robe, their education consisted of an immense and limitless respect for _hard liquid cash_ as they say in Franche-Comte. That is the consecrated and heroic way of expressing the sublime idea of current money. These seminarists, like the heroes in Voltaire's novels, found their happiness in dining well. Julien discovered in nearly all of them an innate respect for the man who wears a suit of good cloth. This sentiment appreciates the distributive justice, which is given us at our courts, at its value or even above its true value. "What can one gain," they would often repeat among themselves, "by having a law suit with 'a big man?'" That is the expression current in the valleys of the Jura to express a rich man. One can judge of their respect for the richest entity of all--the government. Failure to smile deferentially at the mere name of M. the Prefect is regarded as an imprudence in the eyes of the Franche-Comte peasant, and imprudence in poor people is quickly punished by lack of bread. After having been almost suffocated at first by his feeling of contempt, Julien eventually experienced a feeling of pity; it often happened that the fathers of most of his comrades would enter their hovel in winter evenings and fail to find there either bread, chestnuts or potatoes. "What is there astonishing then?" Julien would say to himself, "if in their eyes the happy man is in the first place the one who has just had a good dinner, and in the second place the one who possesses a good suit? My comrades have a lasting vocation, that is to say, they see in the ecclesiastical calling a long continuance of the happiness of dining well and having a warm suit." Julien happened to hear a young imaginative seminarist say to his companion. "Why shouldn't I become Pope like Sixtus Quintus who kept pigs?" "They only make Italians Popes," answered his friend. "But they will certainly draw lots amongst us for the great vicarships, canonries and perhaps bishoprics. M. P---- Bishop of Chalons, is the son of a cooper. That's what my father is." One day, in the middle of a theology lesson, the Abbe Pirard summoned Julien to him. The young fellow was delighted to leave the dark, moral atmosphere in which he had been plunged. Julien received from the director the same welcome which had frightened him so much on the first day of his entry. "Explain to me what is written on this playing card?" he said, looking at him in a way calculated to make him sink into the earth. Julien read: "Amanda Binet of the Giraffe Cafe before eight o'clock. Say you're from Genlis, and my mother's cousin." Julien realised the immense danger. The spies of the abbe Castanede had stolen the address. "I was trembling with fear the day I came here," he answered, looking at the abbe Pirard's forehead, for he could not endure that terrible gaze. "M. Chelan told me that this is a place of informers and mischief-makers of all kinds, and that spying and tale-bearing by one comrade on another was encouraged by the authorities. Heaven wishes it to be so, so as to show life such as it is to the young priests, and fill them with disgust for the world and all its pomps." "And it's to me that you make these fine speeches," said the abbe Pirard furiously. "You young villain." "My brothers used to beat me at Verrieres," answered Julien coldly, "When they had occasion to be jealous of me." "Indeed, indeed," exclaimed M. Pirard, almost beside himself. Julien went on with his story without being in the least intimidated:-- "The day of my arrival at Besancon I was hungry, and I entered a cafe. My spirit was full of revulsion for so profane a place, but I thought that my breakfast would cost me less than at an inn. A lady, who seemed to be the mistress of the establishment, took pity on my inexperience. 'Besancon is full of bad characters,' she said to me. 'I fear something will happen to you, sir. If some mishap should occur to you, have recourse to me and send to my house before eight o'clock. If the porters of the seminary refuse to execute your errand, say you are my cousin and a native of Genlis.'" "I will have all this chatter verified," exclaimed the abbe Pirard, unable to stand still, and walking about the room. "Back to the cell." The abbe followed Julien and locked him in. The latter immediately began to examine his trunk, at the bottom of which the fatal cards had been so carefully hidden. Nothing was missing in the trunk, but several things had been disarranged. Nevertheless, he had never been without the key. What luck that, during the whole time of my blindness, said Julien to himself, I never availed myself of the permission to go out that Monsieur Castanede would offer me so frequently, with a kindness which I now understand. Perhaps I should have had the weakness to have changed my clothes and gone to see the fair Amanda, and then I should have been ruined. When they gave up hope of exploiting that piece of information for the accomplishment of his ruin, they had used it to inform against him. Two hours afterwards the director summoned him. "You did not lie," he said to him, with a less severe look, "but keeping an address like that is an indiscretion of a gravity which you are unable to realise. Unhappy child! It may perhaps do you harm in ten years' time."

Part 1, Chapter 26

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-26

When lunchtime comes at the seminary, everyone is curious about Julien. They're impressed that he can already read and speak Latin. Julien doesn't realize that during these days, he receives several letters that Father Pirard throws into a fire because he doesn't like the passion in them. Maybe they're from Madame de Renal. One day, one of these letters says farewell forever. Again, Julien never receives it. Julien's friend Fouqe bribes his way into the seminary and asks Julien why he never goes out. Julien has meanwhile gotten himself a reputation as a free thinker, which is a horrible thing inside the seminary. Julien finally becomes aware of just how closely people watch one another in adult society. He spends the next few months trying to change his appearance and body language, but he can't stop looking like a freethinker. One day, Father Pirard calls on Julien and confronts him with the card he took from Besancon with the cafe waitress' name on it. The card also contains instructions about how Julien can secretly meet with this girl. It looks bad, but Julien says he never acted on the card, since it can be proven that he's never left the sight of the seminary priests. Pirard agrees, but still says it was a bad idea to keep this card, since it suggests that Julien still thinks about romantic meetings with girls.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/54.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_20_part_1.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 53

chapter 53

{"name": "CHAPTER 53", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD63.asp", "summary": "The Clare couple eagerly awaits their son's return to the Emminster Vicarage. When Angel arrives, they are shocked at his pathetic appearance. He has aged far beyond a year in his absence, he is skin and bones, and his eyes have lost their luster. Angel asks his parents if Tess has come to them for help and is surprised she has asked for nothing. Angel also inquires about a letter from Tess and is handed the last one that is filled with scathing criticism of his behavior. Her letter touches him, and he accepts the fact that he has been cruel to her, but he does not give up hope for a reconciliation. He writes a letter to her, telling of his homecoming, and sends it to Marlott. Within a few days, Angel receives a letter from Joan, revealing that they no longer live in Marlott and Tess is not with her. Joan promises to reveal Tess's whereabouts in her next letter. A couple of days later, Angel receives the note of warning from Marian and Izz. He immediately sets out to search for Tess.", "analysis": "Notes Angel's suffering shows in his appearance and his parents barely recognize him on his return home. Unfortunately, he will continue to suffer. He always thought that the arrangements that he had made for Tess were sufficient, but she has not asked for a penny. He underestimated her pride and did not realize that Tess would prefer to starve rather than ask for money from his parents. This information makes Angel feel even more miserable, for he realizes how Tess must have suffered. The news he reads in her last letter just makes matters worse. He is ashamed that he has treated his wife so poorly and does not blame her for her written hostility. In spite of the feelings expressed in her letter, Angel has not given up hope about Tess. He plans to find her, beg forgiveness, and reconcile. It is important to notice the characterization of Mr. and Mrs. Clare in this chapter. They are genuinely concerned about their son, realize the facts surrounding his marriage and subsequent departure, and sympathize with Tess's plight. In essence, they are generous, forgiving, and loving. It is ironic that Tess has been afraid to approach them for help; if she had not been so proud, her situation would be very different. If she had received the help from them that Angel arranged, she would not have reached the bottom and made the decisions that she did. Once again, fate has had the upper hand"}

It was evening at Emminster Vicarage. The two customary candles were burning under their green shades in the Vicar's study, but he had not been sitting there. Occasionally he came in, stirred the small fire which sufficed for the increasing mildness of the spring, and went out again; sometimes pausing at the front door, going on to the drawing-room, then returning again to the front door. It faced westward, and though gloom prevailed inside, there was still light enough without to see with distinctness. Mrs Clare, who had been sitting in the drawing-room, followed him hither. "Plenty of time yet," said the Vicar. "He doesn't reach Chalk-Newton till six, even if the train should be punctual, and ten miles of country-road, five of them in Crimmercrock Lane, are not jogged over in a hurry by our old horse." "But he has done it in an hour with us, my dear." "Years ago." Thus they passed the minutes, each well knowing that this was only waste of breath, the one essential being simply to wait. At length there was a slight noise in the lane, and the old pony-chaise appeared indeed outside the railings. They saw alight therefrom a form which they affected to recognize, but would actually have passed by in the street without identifying had he not got out of their carriage at the particular moment when a particular person was due. Mrs Clare rushed through the dark passage to the door, and her husband came more slowly after her. The new arrival, who was just about to enter, saw their anxious faces in the doorway and the gleam of the west in their spectacles because they confronted the last rays of day; but they could only see his shape against the light. "O, my boy, my boy--home again at last!" cried Mrs Clare, who cared no more at that moment for the stains of heterodoxy which had caused all this separation than for the dust upon his clothes. What woman, indeed, among the most faithful adherents of the truth, believes the promises and threats of the Word in the sense in which she believes in her own children, or would not throw her theology to the wind if weighed against their happiness? As soon as they reached the room where the candles were lighted she looked at his face. "O, it is not Angel--not my son--the Angel who went away!" she cried in all the irony of sorrow, as she turned herself aside. His father, too, was shocked to see him, so reduced was that figure from its former contours by worry and the bad season that Clare had experienced, in the climate to which he had so rashly hurried in his first aversion to the mockery of events at home. You could see the skeleton behind the man, and almost the ghost behind the skeleton. He matched Crivelli's dead _Christus_. His sunken eye-pits were of morbid hue, and the light in his eyes had waned. The angular hollows and lines of his aged ancestors had succeeded to their reign in his face twenty years before their time. "I was ill over there, you know," he said. "I am all right now." As if, however, to falsify this assertion, his legs seemed to give way, and he suddenly sat down to save himself from falling. It was only a slight attack of faintness, resulting from the tedious day's journey, and the excitement of arrival. "Has any letter come for me lately?" he asked. "I received the last you sent on by the merest chance, and after considerable delay through being inland; or I might have come sooner." "It was from your wife, we supposed?" "It was." Only one other had recently come. They had not sent it on to him, knowing he would start for home so soon. He hastily opened the letter produced, and was much disturbed to read in Tess's handwriting the sentiments expressed in her last hurried scrawl to him. O why have you treated me so monstrously, Angel! I do not deserve it. I have thought it all over carefully, and I can never, never forgive you! You know that I did not intend to wrong you--why have you so wronged me? You are cruel, cruel indeed! I will try to forget you. It is all injustice I have received at your hands! T. "It is quite true!" said Angel, throwing down the letter. "Perhaps she will never be reconciled to me!" "Don't, Angel, be so anxious about a mere child of the soil!" said his mother. "Child of the soil! Well, we all are children of the soil. I wish she were so in the sense you mean; but let me now explain to you what I have never explained before, that her father is a descendant in the male line of one of the oldest Norman houses, like a good many others who lead obscure agricultural lives in our villages, and are dubbed 'sons of the soil.'" He soon retired to bed; and the next morning, feeling exceedingly unwell, he remained in his room pondering. The circumstances amid which he had left Tess were such that though, while on the south of the Equator and just in receipt of her loving epistle, it had seemed the easiest thing in the world to rush back into her arms the moment he chose to forgive her, now that he had arrived it was not so easy as it had seemed. She was passionate, and her present letter, showing that her estimate of him had changed under his delay--too justly changed, he sadly owned,--made him ask himself if it would be wise to confront her unannounced in the presence of her parents. Supposing that her love had indeed turned to dislike during the last weeks of separation, a sudden meeting might lead to bitter words. Clare therefore thought it would be best to prepare Tess and her family by sending a line to Marlott announcing his return, and his hope that she was still living with them there, as he had arranged for her to do when he left England. He despatched the inquiry that very day, and before the week was out there came a short reply from Mrs Durbeyfield which did not remove his embarrassment, for it bore no address, though to his surprise it was not written from Marlott. SIR, J write these few lines to say that my Daughter is away from me at present, and J am not sure when she will return, but J will let you know as Soon as she do. J do not feel at liberty to tell you Where she is temperly biding. J should say that me and my Family have left Marlott for some Time.-- Yours, J. DURBEYFIELD It was such a relief to Clare to learn that Tess was at least apparently well that her mother's stiff reticence as to her whereabouts did not long distress him. They were all angry with him, evidently. He would wait till Mrs Durbeyfield could inform him of Tess's return, which her letter implied to be soon. He deserved no more. His had been a love "which alters when it alteration finds". He had undergone some strange experiences in his absence; he had seen the virtual Faustina in the literal Cornelia, a spiritual Lucretia in a corporeal Phryne; he had thought of the woman taken and set in the midst as one deserving to be stoned, and of the wife of Uriah being made a queen; and he had asked himself why he had not judged Tess constructively rather than biographically, by the will rather than by the deed? A day or two passed while he waited at his father's house for the promised second note from Joan Durbeyfield, and indirectly to recover a little more strength. The strength showed signs of coming back, but there was no sign of Joan's letter. Then he hunted up the old letter sent on to him in Brazil, which Tess had written from Flintcomb-Ash, and re-read it. The sentences touched him now as much as when he had first perused them. ... I must cry to you in my trouble--I have no one else! ... I think I must die if you do not come soon, or tell me to come to you... please, please, not to be just--only a little kind to me ... If you would come, I could die in your arms! I would be well content to do that if so be you had forgiven me! ... if you will send me one little line, and say, "I am coming soon," I will bide on, Angel--O, so cheerfully! ... think how it do hurt my heart not to see you ever--ever! Ah, if I could only make your dear heart ache one little minute of each day as mine does every day and all day long, it might lead you to show pity to your poor lonely one. ... I would be content, ay, glad, to live with you as your servant, if I may not as your wife; so that I could only be near you, and get glimpses of you, and think of you as mine. ... I long for only one thing in heaven or earth or under the earth, to meet you, my own dear! Come to me--come to me, and save me from what threatens me! Clare determined that he would no longer believe in her more recent and severer regard of him, but would go and find her immediately. He asked his father if she had applied for any money during his absence. His father returned a negative, and then for the first time it occurred to Angel that her pride had stood in her way, and that she had suffered privation. From his remarks his parents now gathered the real reason of the separation; and their Christianity was such that, reprobates being their especial care, the tenderness towards Tess which her blood, her simplicity, even her poverty, had not engendered, was instantly excited by her sin. Whilst he was hastily packing together a few articles for his journey he glanced over a poor plain missive also lately come to hand--the one from Marian and Izz Huett, beginning-- "Honour'd Sir, Look to your Wife if you do love her as much as she do love you," and signed, "From Two Well-Wishers."

CHAPTER 53

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD63.asp

The Clare couple eagerly awaits their son's return to the Emminster Vicarage. When Angel arrives, they are shocked at his pathetic appearance. He has aged far beyond a year in his absence, he is skin and bones, and his eyes have lost their luster. Angel asks his parents if Tess has come to them for help and is surprised she has asked for nothing. Angel also inquires about a letter from Tess and is handed the last one that is filled with scathing criticism of his behavior. Her letter touches him, and he accepts the fact that he has been cruel to her, but he does not give up hope for a reconciliation. He writes a letter to her, telling of his homecoming, and sends it to Marlott. Within a few days, Angel receives a letter from Joan, revealing that they no longer live in Marlott and Tess is not with her. Joan promises to reveal Tess's whereabouts in her next letter. A couple of days later, Angel receives the note of warning from Marian and Izz. He immediately sets out to search for Tess.

Notes Angel's suffering shows in his appearance and his parents barely recognize him on his return home. Unfortunately, he will continue to suffer. He always thought that the arrangements that he had made for Tess were sufficient, but she has not asked for a penny. He underestimated her pride and did not realize that Tess would prefer to starve rather than ask for money from his parents. This information makes Angel feel even more miserable, for he realizes how Tess must have suffered. The news he reads in her last letter just makes matters worse. He is ashamed that he has treated his wife so poorly and does not blame her for her written hostility. In spite of the feelings expressed in her letter, Angel has not given up hope about Tess. He plans to find her, beg forgiveness, and reconcile. It is important to notice the characterization of Mr. and Mrs. Clare in this chapter. They are genuinely concerned about their son, realize the facts surrounding his marriage and subsequent departure, and sympathize with Tess's plight. In essence, they are generous, forgiving, and loving. It is ironic that Tess has been afraid to approach them for help; if she had not been so proud, her situation would be very different. If she had received the help from them that Angel arranged, she would not have reached the bottom and made the decisions that she did. Once again, fate has had the upper hand

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_6_to_8.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Lord Jim/section_3_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapters 6-8

chapters 6-8

{"name": "Chapters 6-8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter6-8", "summary": "Seven and Eight . The authorities allow the inquiry to go ahead with just hearing Jim's account of events. It is impossible to find out now what damaged the ship, but nobody there wants to know this anyway. Whether those attending know it or not, they are drawn by psychological interests. There is the expectation 'of some essential disclosure as to the strength, the power, the horror, of human emotions', but of course 'nothing of the kind could be disclosed'. An official inquiry could not be expected 'to inquire into the state of a man's soul'. . . One of the assessors, Brierly, is described by Marlow as aloof and superior. Marlow also admits to admiring his apparent complacency. He presents a surface 'as hard as granite', but committed suicide barely a week after the inquiry finished. Brierly's mate, Mr Jones, tells Marlow that Brierly charted their position at sea and left a letter of instructions for him and a letter for the ship owners. The narrative deviates further as Jones describes his new captain. After arguing with him, Jones left his ship and is still looking after Brierly's dog. . . The narrative then returns to the inquiry and the last time Brierly spoke to Marlow. At this time, Marlow notes with surprise that Brierly is in a state of irritation about the inquiry and tells Marlow he feels like a fool. He wonders why they are tormenting Jim and he replies he does not know, 'unless it be that he lets you'. Brierly also wonders why Jim cannot see that he is 'done for' now the skipper has fled and tells Marlow he would have done so too. He says he does not care for Jim's sort of courage and will put up 200 rupees if Marlow will give another 100 for Jim to run away. Brierly says that his 'people' know Jim's and will give Marlow 200 rupees now to pass on to Jim. Marlow does not do as he is asked and attends the inquiry the next day instead. On the way out, a man walking with Marlow trips over a dog and calls it a 'wretched cur'. Jim spins around and bars Marlow's way. Jim accuses him of saying something to him, which Marlow denies, and then asks why he has been staring at him; he also asks who is a 'cur' now. Marlow realizes the mistake and points to the dog and Jim flushes with embarrassment. The chapter ends with Marlow inviting Jim to dinner. . . At dinner, in Chapter Seven, Jim relaxes a little and Marlow sees him as being of 'the right sort' and 'one of us'. He appears to be self-controlled until Marlow asks him about the inquiry and Jim clutches his hand and tells him it is hell. He adds that he cannot go home now and face his father as he will have read about the incident by now. Jim is not sure what to do after the inquiry as his certificate has been taken and he also has no money. . . The discussion turns to the events on the Patna and Jim asks Marlow if he knows what he would have done. Jim says it was all about him not being ready and looks ahead as he speaks. He tells Marlow that afterwards, he and the other crew had been picked up by a steamer and had been 'looked askance upon' from that day. Marlow takes pity on him, and then Jim suddenly blazes out, 'what a chance missed'. It is implied that he has missed the chance of being heroic. . . Jim explains that he saw the bulkhead bulge and noticed rust as large as the palm of his hand come off it. He also explains that there were many more times the amount of people on board than there were lifeboats. He confesses his legs wobbled as he stood on the foredeck looking at the sleeping crowd. He believed the ship would go down at any moment and that the rusted ship plates would give way like a dam. Jim saw clearly that he could do nothing about it and this seemed to take the life out of his limbs. He kept thinking of the 800 people and seven boats. He also swears to Marlow that he was not frightened of death. Marlow thinks he was not afraid of death perhaps, but he was afraid of the emergency: Jim's 'confounded imagination' had evoked all the 'horrors of panic, the trampling rush, the pitiful screams ....' . . In Chapter Eight, Marlow describes how he thinks Jim stood 'stock-still' for a couple of minutes. He decided to cut the boats so they would not go down with the ship and tells Marlow he knew his duty. Whilst Jim ran to do this, a beggar stopped him to ask for water. He thought the man would begin shouting and start a panic, and so he hit him with his lamp. He half-throttled him before he realized he wanted water for his sick child. There was confusion in the dark and Jim questioned the skipper if he was going to do anything. He replied, yes, 'clear out'. Jim thought of shoring up the bulkhead, but asks Marlow where would he have got the men to do it and would he have had the courage to swing the maul to strike the first blow. Jim also says he could not save those people singlehandedly. . . Marlow tells his listeners of his mixed emotions and that Jim wanted him to 'comprehend the Inconceivable'. Jim has told him how he has been preparing himself since a child, 'for all the difficulties that can beset one on land and water'. Marlow feels that everything betrayed Jim and he had been tricked into 'that sort of high-minded resignation' which prevented him from doing anything. The other three men saw clearly that they had to release a boat and sweated and struggled to do so. Two Malay men continued to hold on to the wheel. We are told that at the inquiry Brierly asked one of them what he thought about it and he said he thought nothing. On the ship, Jim continued to stand still and one of the engineers asked him to help release the boat. Jim hit him and the engineer called him a coward for not wanting to save his own life. .", "analysis": "Seven and Eight . The events on the Patna are revealed only gradually to the readers in these chapters, but it is evident that Jim continues to torment himself for his inadequacy long after the event. He is the only witness of the four main crewmen who is willing or able to stand and even gains the sympathy of Brierly . He demonstrates a loyalty to the truth and it is as though he wants the chance to explain his actions to clear himself of feelings of guilt. . . The fate of the ship and the people on it has still not been made explicit and the readers are drawn into the narrative web as Marlow deviates from the inquiry, to Brierly's suicide and then on to Jim's 'confession' at dinner. Hints are made to various outcomes - as it is clear the Malay men working on the ship survived to attend the inquiry - and this has the effect of tantalizing the reader to guess about the devastation that may have occurred."}

'The authorities were evidently of the same opinion. The inquiry was not adjourned. It was held on the appointed day to satisfy the law, and it was well attended because of its human interest, no doubt. There was no incertitude as to facts--as to the one material fact, I mean. How the Patna came by her hurt it was impossible to find out; the court did not expect to find out; and in the whole audience there was not a man who cared. Yet, as I've told you, all the sailors in the port attended, and the waterside business was fully represented. Whether they knew it or not, the interest that drew them here was purely psychological--the expectation of some essential disclosure as to the strength, the power, the horror, of human emotions. Naturally nothing of the kind could be disclosed. The examination of the only man able and willing to face it was beating futilely round the well-known fact, and the play of questions upon it was as instructive as the tapping with a hammer on an iron box, were the object to find out what's inside. However, an official inquiry could not be any other thing. Its object was not the fundamental why, but the superficial how, of this affair. 'The young chap could have told them, and, though that very thing was the thing that interested the audience, the questions put to him necessarily led him away from what to me, for instance, would have been the only truth worth knowing. You can't expect the constituted authorities to inquire into the state of a man's soul--or is it only of his liver? Their business was to come down upon the consequences, and frankly, a casual police magistrate and two nautical assessors are not much good for anything else. I don't mean to imply these fellows were stupid. The magistrate was very patient. One of the assessors was a sailing-ship skipper with a reddish beard, and of a pious disposition. Brierly was the other. Big Brierly. Some of you must have heard of Big Brierly--the captain of the crack ship of the Blue Star line. That's the man. 'He seemed consumedly bored by the honour thrust upon him. He had never in his life made a mistake, never had an accident, never a mishap, never a check in his steady rise, and he seemed to be one of those lucky fellows who know nothing of indecision, much less of self-mistrust. At thirty-two he had one of the best commands going in the Eastern trade--and, what's more, he thought a lot of what he had. There was nothing like it in the world, and I suppose if you had asked him point-blank he would have confessed that in his opinion there was not such another commander. The choice had fallen upon the right man. The rest of mankind that did not command the sixteen-knot steel steamer Ossa were rather poor creatures. He had saved lives at sea, had rescued ships in distress, had a gold chronometer presented to him by the underwriters, and a pair of binoculars with a suitable inscription from some foreign Government, in commemoration of these services. He was acutely aware of his merits and of his rewards. I liked him well enough, though some I know--meek, friendly men at that--couldn't stand him at any price. I haven't the slightest doubt he considered himself vastly my superior--indeed, had you been Emperor of East and West, you could not have ignored your inferiority in his presence--but I couldn't get up any real sentiment of offence. He did not despise me for anything I could help, for anything I was--don't you know? I was a negligible quantity simply because I was not _the_ fortunate man of the earth, not Montague Brierly in command of the Ossa, not the owner of an inscribed gold chronometer and of silver-mounted binoculars testifying to the excellence of my seamanship and to my indomitable pluck; not possessed of an acute sense of my merits and of my rewards, besides the love and worship of a black retriever, the most wonderful of its kind--for never was such a man loved thus by such a dog. No doubt, to have all this forced upon you was exasperating enough; but when I reflected that I was associated in these fatal disadvantages with twelve hundred millions of other more or less human beings, I found I could bear my share of his good-natured and contemptuous pity for the sake of something indefinite and attractive in the man. I have never defined to myself this attraction, but there were moments when I envied him. The sting of life could do no more to his complacent soul than the scratch of a pin to the smooth face of a rock. This was enviable. As I looked at him, flanking on one side the unassuming pale-faced magistrate who presided at the inquiry, his self-satisfaction presented to me and to the world a surface as hard as granite. He committed suicide very soon after. 'No wonder Jim's case bored him, and while I thought with something akin to fear of the immensity of his contempt for the young man under examination, he was probably holding silent inquiry into his own case. The verdict must have been of unmitigated guilt, and he took the secret of the evidence with him in that leap into the sea. If I understand anything of men, the matter was no doubt of the gravest import, one of those trifles that awaken ideas--start into life some thought with which a man unused to such a companionship finds it impossible to live. I am in a position to know that it wasn't money, and it wasn't drink, and it wasn't woman. He jumped overboard at sea barely a week after the end of the inquiry, and less than three days after leaving port on his outward passage; as though on that exact spot in the midst of waters he had suddenly perceived the gates of the other world flung open wide for his reception. 'Yet it was not a sudden impulse. His grey-headed mate, a first-rate sailor and a nice old chap with strangers, but in his relations with his commander the surliest chief officer I've ever seen, would tell the story with tears in his eyes. It appears that when he came on deck in the morning Brierly had been writing in the chart-room. "It was ten minutes to four," he said, "and the middle watch was not relieved yet of course. He heard my voice on the bridge speaking to the second mate, and called me in. I was loth to go, and that's the truth, Captain Marlow--I couldn't stand poor Captain Brierly, I tell you with shame; we never know what a man is made of. He had been promoted over too many heads, not counting my own, and he had a damnable trick of making you feel small, nothing but by the way he said 'Good morning.' I never addressed him, sir, but on matters of duty, and then it was as much as I could do to keep a civil tongue in my head." (He flattered himself there. I often wondered how Brierly could put up with his manners for more than half a voyage.) "I've a wife and children," he went on, "and I had been ten years in the Company, always expecting the next command--more fool I. Says he, just like this: 'Come in here, Mr. Jones,' in that swagger voice of his--'Come in here, Mr. Jones.' In I went. 'We'll lay down her position,' says he, stooping over the chart, a pair of dividers in hand. By the standing orders, the officer going off duty would have done that at the end of his watch. However, I said nothing, and looked on while he marked off the ship's position with a tiny cross and wrote the date and the time. I can see him this moment writing his neat figures: seventeen, eight, four A.M. The year would be written in red ink at the top of the chart. He never used his charts more than a year, Captain Brierly didn't. I've the chart now. When he had done he stands looking down at the mark he had made and smiling to himself, then looks up at me. 'Thirty-two miles more as she goes,' says he, 'and then we shall be clear, and you may alter the course twenty degrees to the southward.' '"We were passing to the north of the Hector Bank that voyage. I said, 'All right, sir,' wondering what he was fussing about, since I had to call him before altering the course anyhow. Just then eight bells were struck: we came out on the bridge, and the second mate before going off mentions in the usual way--'Seventy-one on the log.' Captain Brierly looks at the compass and then all round. It was dark and clear, and all the stars were out as plain as on a frosty night in high latitudes. Suddenly he says with a sort of a little sigh: 'I am going aft, and shall set the log at zero for you myself, so that there can be no mistake. Thirty-two miles more on this course and then you are safe. Let's see--the correction on the log is six per cent. additive; say, then, thirty by the dial to run, and you may come twenty degrees to starboard at once. No use losing any distance--is there?' I had never heard him talk so much at a stretch, and to no purpose as it seemed to me. I said nothing. He went down the ladder, and the dog, that was always at his heels whenever he moved, night or day, followed, sliding nose first, after him. I heard his boot-heels tap, tap on the after-deck, then he stopped and spoke to the dog--'Go back, Rover. On the bridge, boy! Go on--get.' Then he calls out to me from the dark, 'Shut that dog up in the chart-room, Mr. Jones--will you?' '"This was the last time I heard his voice, Captain Marlow. These are the last words he spoke in the hearing of any living human being, sir." At this point the old chap's voice got quite unsteady. "He was afraid the poor brute would jump after him, don't you see?" he pursued with a quaver. "Yes, Captain Marlow. He set the log for me; he--would you believe it?--he put a drop of oil in it too. There was the oil-feeder where he left it near by. The boat-swain's mate got the hose along aft to wash down at half-past five; by-and-by he knocks off and runs up on the bridge--'Will you please come aft, Mr. Jones,' he says. 'There's a funny thing. I don't like to touch it.' It was Captain Brierly's gold chronometer watch carefully hung under the rail by its chain. '"As soon as my eyes fell on it something struck me, and I knew, sir. My legs got soft under me. It was as if I had seen him go over; and I could tell how far behind he was left too. The taffrail-log marked eighteen miles and three-quarters, and four iron belaying-pins were missing round the mainmast. Put them in his pockets to help him down, I suppose; but, Lord! what's four iron pins to a powerful man like Captain Brierly. Maybe his confidence in himself was just shook a bit at the last. That's the only sign of fluster he gave in his whole life, I should think; but I am ready to answer for him, that once over he did not try to swim a stroke, the same as he would have had pluck enough to keep up all day long on the bare chance had he fallen overboard accidentally. Yes, sir. He was second to none--if he said so himself, as I heard him once. He had written two letters in the middle watch, one to the Company and the other to me. He gave me a lot of instructions as to the passage--I had been in the trade before he was out of his time--and no end of hints as to my conduct with our people in Shanghai, so that I should keep the command of the Ossa. He wrote like a father would to a favourite son, Captain Marlow, and I was five-and-twenty years his senior and had tasted salt water before he was fairly breeched. In his letter to the owners--it was left open for me to see--he said that he had always done his duty by them--up to that moment--and even now he was not betraying their confidence, since he was leaving the ship to as competent a seaman as could be found--meaning me, sir, meaning me! He told them that if the last act of his life didn't take away all his credit with them, they would give weight to my faithful service and to his warm recommendation, when about to fill the vacancy made by his death. And much more like this, sir. I couldn't believe my eyes. It made me feel queer all over," went on the old chap, in great perturbation, and squashing something in the corner of his eye with the end of a thumb as broad as a spatula. "You would think, sir, he had jumped overboard only to give an unlucky man a last show to get on. What with the shock of him going in this awful rash way, and thinking myself a made man by that chance, I was nearly off my chump for a week. But no fear. The captain of the Pelion was shifted into the Ossa--came aboard in Shanghai--a little popinjay, sir, in a grey check suit, with his hair parted in the middle. 'Aw--I am--aw--your new captain, Mister--Mister--aw--Jones.' He was drowned in scent--fairly stunk with it, Captain Marlow. I dare say it was the look I gave him that made him stammer. He mumbled something about my natural disappointment--I had better know at once that his chief officer got the promotion to the Pelion--he had nothing to do with it, of course--supposed the office knew best--sorry. . . . Says I, 'Don't you mind old Jones, sir; dam' his soul, he's used to it.' I could see directly I had shocked his delicate ear, and while we sat at our first tiffin together he began to find fault in a nasty manner with this and that in the ship. I never heard such a voice out of a Punch and Judy show. I set my teeth hard, and glued my eyes to my plate, and held my peace as long as I could; but at last I had to say something. Up he jumps tiptoeing, ruffling all his pretty plumes, like a little fighting-cock. 'You'll find you have a different person to deal with than the late Captain Brierly.' 'I've found it,' says I, very glum, but pretending to be mighty busy with my steak. 'You are an old ruffian, Mister--aw--Jones; and what's more, you are known for an old ruffian in the employ,' he squeaks at me. The damned bottle-washers stood about listening with their mouths stretched from ear to ear. 'I may be a hard case,' answers I, 'but I ain't so far gone as to put up with the sight of you sitting in Captain Brierly's chair.' With that I lay down my knife and fork. 'You would like to sit in it yourself--that's where the shoe pinches,' he sneers. I left the saloon, got my rags together, and was on the quay with all my dunnage about my feet before the stevedores had turned to again. Yes. Adrift--on shore--after ten years' service--and with a poor woman and four children six thousand miles off depending on my half-pay for every mouthful they ate. Yes, sir! I chucked it rather than hear Captain Brierly abused. He left me his night-glasses--here they are; and he wished me to take care of the dog--here he is. Hallo, Rover, poor boy. Where's the captain, Rover?" The dog looked up at us with mournful yellow eyes, gave one desolate bark, and crept under the table. 'All this was taking place, more than two years afterwards, on board that nautical ruin the Fire-Queen this Jones had got charge of--quite by a funny accident, too--from Matherson--mad Matherson they generally called him--the same who used to hang out in Hai-phong, you know, before the occupation days. The old chap snuffled on-- '"Ay, sir, Captain Brierly will be remembered here, if there's no other place on earth. I wrote fully to his father and did not get a word in reply--neither Thank you, nor Go to the devil!--nothing! Perhaps they did not want to know." 'The sight of that watery-eyed old Jones mopping his bald head with a red cotton handkerchief, the sorrowing yelp of the dog, the squalor of that fly-blown cuddy which was the only shrine of his memory, threw a veil of inexpressibly mean pathos over Brierly's remembered figure, the posthumous revenge of fate for that belief in his own splendour which had almost cheated his life of its legitimate terrors. Almost! Perhaps wholly. Who can tell what flattering view he had induced himself to take of his own suicide? '"Why did he commit the rash act, Captain Marlow--can you think?" asked Jones, pressing his palms together. "Why? It beats me! Why?" He slapped his low and wrinkled forehead. "If he had been poor and old and in debt--and never a show--or else mad. But he wasn't of the kind that goes mad, not he. You trust me. What a mate don't know about his skipper isn't worth knowing. Young, healthy, well off, no cares. . . . I sit here sometimes thinking, thinking, till my head fairly begins to buzz. There was some reason." '"You may depend on it, Captain Jones," said I, "it wasn't anything that would have disturbed much either of us two," I said; and then, as if a light had been flashed into the muddle of his brain, poor old Jones found a last word of amazing profundity. He blew his nose, nodding at me dolefully: "Ay, ay! neither you nor I, sir, had ever thought so much of ourselves." 'Of course the recollection of my last conversation with Brierly is tinged with the knowledge of his end that followed so close upon it. I spoke with him for the last time during the progress of the inquiry. It was after the first adjournment, and he came up with me in the street. He was in a state of irritation, which I noticed with surprise, his usual behaviour when he condescended to converse being perfectly cool, with a trace of amused tolerance, as if the existence of his interlocutor had been a rather good joke. "They caught me for that inquiry, you see," he began, and for a while enlarged complainingly upon the inconveniences of daily attendance in court. "And goodness knows how long it will last. Three days, I suppose." I heard him out in silence; in my then opinion it was a way as good as another of putting on side. "What's the use of it? It is the stupidest set-out you can imagine," he pursued hotly. I remarked that there was no option. He interrupted me with a sort of pent-up violence. "I feel like a fool all the time." I looked up at him. This was going very far--for Brierly--when talking of Brierly. He stopped short, and seizing the lapel of my coat, gave it a slight tug. "Why are we tormenting that young chap?" he asked. This question chimed in so well to the tolling of a certain thought of mine that, with the image of the absconding renegade in my eye, I answered at once, "Hanged if I know, unless it be that he lets you." I was astonished to see him fall into line, so to speak, with that utterance, which ought to have been tolerably cryptic. He said angrily, "Why, yes. Can't he see that wretched skipper of his has cleared out? What does he expect to happen? Nothing can save him. He's done for." We walked on in silence a few steps. "Why eat all that dirt?" he exclaimed, with an oriental energy of expression--about the only sort of energy you can find a trace of east of the fiftieth meridian. I wondered greatly at the direction of his thoughts, but now I strongly suspect it was strictly in character: at bottom poor Brierly must have been thinking of himself. I pointed out to him that the skipper of the Patna was known to have feathered his nest pretty well, and could procure almost anywhere the means of getting away. With Jim it was otherwise: the Government was keeping him in the Sailors' Home for the time being, and probably he hadn't a penny in his pocket to bless himself with. It costs some money to run away. "Does it? Not always," he said, with a bitter laugh, and to some further remark of mine--"Well, then, let him creep twenty feet underground and stay there! By heavens! _I_ would." I don't know why his tone provoked me, and I said, "There is a kind of courage in facing it out as he does, knowing very well that if he went away nobody would trouble to run after him." "Courage be hanged!" growled Brierly. "That sort of courage is of no use to keep a man straight, and I don't care a snap for such courage. If you were to say it was a kind of cowardice now--of softness. I tell you what, I will put up two hundred rupees if you put up another hundred and undertake to make the beggar clear out early to-morrow morning. The fellow's a gentleman if he ain't fit to be touched--he will understand. He must! This infernal publicity is too shocking: there he sits while all these confounded natives, serangs, lascars, quartermasters, are giving evidence that's enough to burn a man to ashes with shame. This is abominable. Why, Marlow, don't you think, don't you feel, that this is abominable; don't you now--come--as a seaman? If he went away all this would stop at once." Brierly said these words with a most unusual animation, and made as if to reach after his pocket-book. I restrained him, and declared coldly that the cowardice of these four men did not seem to me a matter of such great importance. "And you call yourself a seaman, I suppose," he pronounced angrily. I said that's what I called myself, and I hoped I was too. He heard me out, and made a gesture with his big arm that seemed to deprive me of my individuality, to push me away into the crowd. "The worst of it," he said, "is that all you fellows have no sense of dignity; you don't think enough of what you are supposed to be." 'We had been walking slowly meantime, and now stopped opposite the harbour office, in sight of the very spot from which the immense captain of the Patna had vanished as utterly as a tiny feather blown away in a hurricane. I smiled. Brierly went on: "This is a disgrace. We've got all kinds amongst us--some anointed scoundrels in the lot; but, hang it, we must preserve professional decency or we become no better than so many tinkers going about loose. We are trusted. Do you understand?--trusted! Frankly, I don't care a snap for all the pilgrims that ever came out of Asia, but a decent man would not have behaved like this to a full cargo of old rags in bales. We aren't an organised body of men, and the only thing that holds us together is just the name for that kind of decency. Such an affair destroys one's confidence. A man may go pretty near through his whole sea-life without any call to show a stiff upper lip. But when the call comes . . . Aha! . . . If I . . ." 'He broke off, and in a changed tone, "I'll give you two hundred rupees now, Marlow, and you just talk to that chap. Confound him! I wish he had never come out here. Fact is, I rather think some of my people know his. The old man's a parson, and I remember now I met him once when staying with my cousin in Essex last year. If I am not mistaken, the old chap seemed rather to fancy his sailor son. Horrible. I can't do it myself--but you . . ." 'Thus, apropos of Jim, I had a glimpse of the real Brierly a few days before he committed his reality and his sham together to the keeping of the sea. Of course I declined to meddle. The tone of this last "but you" (poor Brierly couldn't help it), that seemed to imply I was no more noticeable than an insect, caused me to look at the proposal with indignation, and on account of that provocation, or for some other reason, I became positive in my mind that the inquiry was a severe punishment to that Jim, and that his facing it--practically of his own free will--was a redeeming feature in his abominable case. I hadn't been so sure of it before. Brierly went off in a huff. At the time his state of mind was more of a mystery to me than it is now. 'Next day, coming into court late, I sat by myself. Of course I could not forget the conversation I had with Brierly, and now I had them both under my eyes. The demeanour of one suggested gloomy impudence and of the other a contemptuous boredom; yet one attitude might not have been truer than the other, and I was aware that one was not true. Brierly was not bored--he was exasperated; and if so, then Jim might not have been impudent. According to my theory he was not. I imagined he was hopeless. Then it was that our glances met. They met, and the look he gave me was discouraging of any intention I might have had to speak to him. Upon either hypothesis--insolence or despair--I felt I could be of no use to him. This was the second day of the proceedings. Very soon after that exchange of glances the inquiry was adjourned again to the next day. The white men began to troop out at once. Jim had been told to stand down some time before, and was able to leave amongst the first. I saw his broad shoulders and his head outlined in the light of the door, and while I made my way slowly out talking with some one--some stranger who had addressed me casually--I could see him from within the court-room resting both elbows on the balustrade of the verandah and turning his back on the small stream of people trickling down the few steps. There was a murmur of voices and a shuffle of boots. 'The next case was that of assault and battery committed upon a money-lender, I believe; and the defendant--a venerable villager with a straight white beard--sat on a mat just outside the door with his sons, daughters, sons-in-law, their wives, and, I should think, half the population of his village besides, squatting or standing around him. A slim dark woman, with part of her back and one black shoulder bared, and with a thin gold ring in her nose, suddenly began to talk in a high-pitched, shrewish tone. The man with me instinctively looked up at her. We were then just through the door, passing behind Jim's burly back. 'Whether those villagers had brought the yellow dog with them, I don't know. Anyhow, a dog was there, weaving himself in and out amongst people's legs in that mute stealthy way native dogs have, and my companion stumbled over him. The dog leaped away without a sound; the man, raising his voice a little, said with a slow laugh, "Look at that wretched cur," and directly afterwards we became separated by a lot of people pushing in. I stood back for a moment against the wall while the stranger managed to get down the steps and disappeared. I saw Jim spin round. He made a step forward and barred my way. We were alone; he glared at me with an air of stubborn resolution. I became aware I was being held up, so to speak, as if in a wood. The verandah was empty by then, the noise and movement in court had ceased: a great silence fell upon the building, in which, somewhere far within, an oriental voice began to whine abjectly. The dog, in the very act of trying to sneak in at the door, sat down hurriedly to hunt for fleas. '"Did you speak to me?" asked Jim very low, and bending forward, not so much towards me but at me, if you know what I mean. I said "No" at once. Something in the sound of that quiet tone of his warned me to be on my defence. I watched him. It was very much like a meeting in a wood, only more uncertain in its issue, since he could possibly want neither my money nor my life--nothing that I could simply give up or defend with a clear conscience. "You say you didn't," he said, very sombre. "But I heard." "Some mistake," I protested, utterly at a loss, and never taking my eyes off him. To watch his face was like watching a darkening sky before a clap of thunder, shade upon shade imperceptibly coming on, the doom growing mysteriously intense in the calm of maturing violence. '"As far as I know, I haven't opened my lips in your hearing," I affirmed with perfect truth. I was getting a little angry, too, at the absurdity of this encounter. It strikes me now I have never in my life been so near a beating--I mean it literally; a beating with fists. I suppose I had some hazy prescience of that eventuality being in the air. Not that he was actively threatening me. On the contrary, he was strangely passive--don't you know? but he was lowering, and, though not exceptionally big, he looked generally fit to demolish a wall. The most reassuring symptom I noticed was a kind of slow and ponderous hesitation, which I took as a tribute to the evident sincerity of my manner and of my tone. We faced each other. In the court the assault case was proceeding. I caught the words: "Well--buffalo--stick--in the greatness of my fear. . . ." '"What did you mean by staring at me all the morning?" said Jim at last. He looked up and looked down again. "Did you expect us all to sit with downcast eyes out of regard for your susceptibilities?" I retorted sharply. I was not going to submit meekly to any of his nonsense. He raised his eyes again, and this time continued to look me straight in the face. "No. That's all right," he pronounced with an air of deliberating with himself upon the truth of this statement--"that's all right. I am going through with that. Only"--and there he spoke a little faster--"I won't let any man call me names outside this court. There was a fellow with you. You spoke to him--oh yes--I know; 'tis all very fine. You spoke to him, but you meant me to hear. . . ." 'I assured him he was under some extraordinary delusion. I had no conception how it came about. "You thought I would be afraid to resent this," he said, with just a faint tinge of bitterness. I was interested enough to discern the slightest shades of expression, but I was not in the least enlightened; yet I don't know what in these words, or perhaps just the intonation of that phrase, induced me suddenly to make all possible allowances for him. I ceased to be annoyed at my unexpected predicament. It was some mistake on his part; he was blundering, and I had an intuition that the blunder was of an odious, of an unfortunate nature. I was anxious to end this scene on grounds of decency, just as one is anxious to cut short some unprovoked and abominable confidence. The funniest part was, that in the midst of all these considerations of the higher order I was conscious of a certain trepidation as to the possibility--nay, likelihood--of this encounter ending in some disreputable brawl which could not possibly be explained, and would make me ridiculous. I did not hanker after a three days' celebrity as the man who got a black eye or something of the sort from the mate of the Patna. He, in all probability, did not care what he did, or at any rate would be fully justified in his own eyes. It took no magician to see he was amazingly angry about something, for all his quiet and even torpid demeanour. I don't deny I was extremely desirous to pacify him at all costs, had I only known what to do. But I didn't know, as you may well imagine. It was a blackness without a single gleam. We confronted each other in silence. He hung fire for about fifteen seconds, then made a step nearer, and I made ready to ward off a blow, though I don't think I moved a muscle. "If you were as big as two men and as strong as six," he said very softly, "I would tell you what I think of you. You . . ." "Stop!" I exclaimed. This checked him for a second. "Before you tell me what you think of me," I went on quickly, "will you kindly tell me what it is I've said or done?" During the pause that ensued he surveyed me with indignation, while I made supernatural efforts of memory, in which I was hindered by the oriental voice within the court-room expostulating with impassioned volubility against a charge of falsehood. Then we spoke almost together. "I will soon show you I am not," he said, in a tone suggestive of a crisis. "I declare I don't know," I protested earnestly at the same time. He tried to crush me by the scorn of his glance. "Now that you see I am not afraid you try to crawl out of it," he said. "Who's a cur now--hey?" Then, at last, I understood. 'He had been scanning my features as though looking for a place where he would plant his fist. "I will allow no man," . . . he mumbled threateningly. It was, indeed, a hideous mistake; he had given himself away utterly. I can't give you an idea how shocked I was. I suppose he saw some reflection of my feelings in my face, because his expression changed just a little. "Good God!" I stammered, "you don't think I . . ." "But I am sure I've heard," he persisted, raising his voice for the first time since the beginning of this deplorable scene. Then with a shade of disdain he added, "It wasn't you, then? Very well; I'll find the other." "Don't be a fool," I cried in exasperation; "it wasn't that at all." "I've heard," he said again with an unshaken and sombre perseverance. 'There may be those who could have laughed at his pertinacity; I didn't. Oh, I didn't! There had never been a man so mercilessly shown up by his own natural impulse. A single word had stripped him of his discretion--of that discretion which is more necessary to the decencies of our inner being than clothing is to the decorum of our body. "Don't be a fool," I repeated. "But the other man said it, you don't deny that?" he pronounced distinctly, and looking in my face without flinching. "No, I don't deny," said I, returning his gaze. At last his eyes followed downwards the direction of my pointing finger. He appeared at first uncomprehending, then confounded, and at last amazed and scared as though a dog had been a monster and he had never seen a dog before. "Nobody dreamt of insulting you," I said. 'He contemplated the wretched animal, that moved no more than an effigy: it sat with ears pricked and its sharp muzzle pointed into the doorway, and suddenly snapped at a fly like a piece of mechanism. 'I looked at him. The red of his fair sunburnt complexion deepened suddenly under the down of his cheeks, invaded his forehead, spread to the roots of his curly hair. His ears became intensely crimson, and even the clear blue of his eyes was darkened many shades by the rush of blood to his head. His lips pouted a little, trembling as though he had been on the point of bursting into tears. I perceived he was incapable of pronouncing a word from the excess of his humiliation. From disappointment too--who knows? Perhaps he looked forward to that hammering he was going to give me for rehabilitation, for appeasement? Who can tell what relief he expected from this chance of a row? He was naive enough to expect anything; but he had given himself away for nothing in this case. He had been frank with himself--let alone with me--in the wild hope of arriving in that way at some effective refutation, and the stars had been ironically unpropitious. He made an inarticulate noise in his throat like a man imperfectly stunned by a blow on the head. It was pitiful. 'I didn't catch up again with him till well outside the gate. I had even to trot a bit at the last, but when, out of breath at his elbow, I taxed him with running away, he said, "Never!" and at once turned at bay. I explained I never meant to say he was running away from _me_. "From no man--from not a single man on earth," he affirmed with a stubborn mien. I forbore to point out the one obvious exception which would hold good for the bravest of us; I thought he would find out by himself very soon. He looked at me patiently while I was thinking of something to say, but I could find nothing on the spur of the moment, and he began to walk on. I kept up, and anxious not to lose him, I said hurriedly that I couldn't think of leaving him under a false impression of my--of my--I stammered. The stupidity of the phrase appalled me while I was trying to finish it, but the power of sentences has nothing to do with their sense or the logic of their construction. My idiotic mumble seemed to please him. He cut it short by saying, with courteous placidity that argued an immense power of self-control or else a wonderful elasticity of spirits--"Altogether my mistake." I marvelled greatly at this expression: he might have been alluding to some trifling occurrence. Hadn't he understood its deplorable meaning? "You may well forgive me," he continued, and went on a little moodily, "All these staring people in court seemed such fools that--that it might have been as I supposed." 'This opened suddenly a new view of him to my wonder. I looked at him curiously and met his unabashed and impenetrable eyes. "I can't put up with this kind of thing," he said, very simply, "and I don't mean to. In court it's different; I've got to stand that--and I can do it too." 'I don't pretend I understood him. The views he let me have of himself were like those glimpses through the shifting rents in a thick fog--bits of vivid and vanishing detail, giving no connected idea of the general aspect of a country. They fed one's curiosity without satisfying it; they were no good for purposes of orientation. Upon the whole he was misleading. That's how I summed him up to myself after he left me late in the evening. I had been staying at the Malabar House for a few days, and on my pressing invitation he dined with me there.''An outward-bound mail-boat had come in that afternoon, and the big dining-room of the hotel was more than half full of people with a-hundred-pounds-round-the-world tickets in their pockets. There were married couples looking domesticated and bored with each other in the midst of their travels; there were small parties and large parties, and lone individuals dining solemnly or feasting boisterously, but all thinking, conversing, joking, or scowling as was their wont at home; and just as intelligently receptive of new impressions as their trunks upstairs. Henceforth they would be labelled as having passed through this and that place, and so would be their luggage. They would cherish this distinction of their persons, and preserve the gummed tickets on their portmanteaus as documentary evidence, as the only permanent trace of their improving enterprise. The dark-faced servants tripped without noise over the vast and polished floor; now and then a girl's laugh would be heard, as innocent and empty as her mind, or, in a sudden hush of crockery, a few words in an affected drawl from some wit embroidering for the benefit of a grinning tableful the last funny story of shipboard scandal. Two nomadic old maids, dressed up to kill, worked acrimoniously through the bill of fare, whispering to each other with faded lips, wooden-faced and bizarre, like two sumptuous scarecrows. A little wine opened Jim's heart and loosened his tongue. His appetite was good, too, I noticed. He seemed to have buried somewhere the opening episode of our acquaintance. It was like a thing of which there would be no more question in this world. And all the time I had before me these blue, boyish eyes looking straight into mine, this young face, these capable shoulders, the open bronzed forehead with a white line under the roots of clustering fair hair, this appearance appealing at sight to all my sympathies: this frank aspect, the artless smile, the youthful seriousness. He was of the right sort; he was one of us. He talked soberly, with a sort of composed unreserve, and with a quiet bearing that might have been the outcome of manly self-control, of impudence, of callousness, of a colossal unconsciousness, of a gigantic deception. Who can tell! From our tone we might have been discussing a third person, a football match, last year's weather. My mind floated in a sea of conjectures till the turn of the conversation enabled me, without being offensive, to remark that, upon the whole, this inquiry must have been pretty trying to him. He darted his arm across the tablecloth, and clutching my hand by the side of my plate, glared fixedly. I was startled. "It must be awfully hard," I stammered, confused by this display of speechless feeling. "It is--hell," he burst out in a muffled voice. 'This movement and these words caused two well-groomed male globe-trotters at a neighbouring table to look up in alarm from their iced pudding. I rose, and we passed into the front gallery for coffee and cigars. 'On little octagon tables candles burned in glass globes; clumps of stiff-leaved plants separated sets of cosy wicker chairs; and between the pairs of columns, whose reddish shafts caught in a long row the sheen from the tall windows, the night, glittering and sombre, seemed to hang like a splendid drapery. The riding lights of ships winked afar like setting stars, and the hills across the roadstead resembled rounded black masses of arrested thunder-clouds. '"I couldn't clear out," Jim began. "The skipper did--that's all very well for him. I couldn't, and I wouldn't. They all got out of it in one way or another, but it wouldn't do for me." 'I listened with concentrated attention, not daring to stir in my chair; I wanted to know--and to this day I don't know, I can only guess. He would be confident and depressed all in the same breath, as if some conviction of innate blamelessness had checked the truth writhing within him at every turn. He began by saying, in the tone in which a man would admit his inability to jump a twenty-foot wall, that he could never go home now; and this declaration recalled to my mind what Brierly had said, "that the old parson in Essex seemed to fancy his sailor son not a little." 'I can't tell you whether Jim knew he was especially "fancied," but the tone of his references to "my Dad" was calculated to give me a notion that the good old rural dean was about the finest man that ever had been worried by the cares of a large family since the beginning of the world. This, though never stated, was implied with an anxiety that there should be no mistake about it, which was really very true and charming, but added a poignant sense of lives far off to the other elements of the story. "He has seen it all in the home papers by this time," said Jim. "I can never face the poor old chap." I did not dare to lift my eyes at this till I heard him add, "I could never explain. He wouldn't understand." Then I looked up. He was smoking reflectively, and after a moment, rousing himself, began to talk again. He discovered at once a desire that I should not confound him with his partners in--in crime, let us call it. He was not one of them; he was altogether of another sort. I gave no sign of dissent. I had no intention, for the sake of barren truth, to rob him of the smallest particle of any saving grace that would come in his way. I didn't know how much of it he believed himself. I didn't know what he was playing up to--if he was playing up to anything at all--and I suspect he did not know either; for it is my belief no man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape from the grim shadow of self-knowledge. I made no sound all the time he was wondering what he had better do after "that stupid inquiry was over." 'Apparently he shared Brierly's contemptuous opinion of these proceedings ordained by law. He would not know where to turn, he confessed, clearly thinking aloud rather than talking to me. Certificate gone, career broken, no money to get away, no work that he could obtain as far as he could see. At home he could perhaps get something; but it meant going to his people for help, and that he would not do. He saw nothing for it but ship before the mast--could get perhaps a quartermaster's billet in some steamer. Would do for a quartermaster. . . . "Do you think you would?" I asked pitilessly. He jumped up, and going to the stone balustrade looked out into the night. In a moment he was back, towering above my chair with his youthful face clouded yet by the pain of a conquered emotion. He had understood very well I did not doubt his ability to steer a ship. In a voice that quavered a bit he asked me why did I say that? I had been "no end kind" to him. I had not even laughed at him when--here he began to mumble--"that mistake, you know--made a confounded ass of myself." I broke in by saying rather warmly that for me such a mistake was not a matter to laugh at. He sat down and drank deliberately some coffee, emptying the small cup to the last drop. "That does not mean I admit for a moment the cap fitted," he declared distinctly. "No?" I said. "No," he affirmed with quiet decision. "Do you know what _you_ would have done? Do you? And you don't think yourself" . . . he gulped something . . . "you don't think yourself a--a--cur?" 'And with this--upon my honour!--he looked up at me inquisitively. It was a question it appears--a bona fide question! However, he didn't wait for an answer. Before I could recover he went on, with his eyes straight before him, as if reading off something written on the body of the night. "It is all in being ready. I wasn't; not--not then. I don't want to excuse myself; but I would like to explain--I would like somebody to understand--somebody--one person at least! You! Why not you?" 'It was solemn, and a little ridiculous too, as they always are, those struggles of an individual trying to save from the fire his idea of what his moral identity should be, this precious notion of a convention, only one of the rules of the game, nothing more, but all the same so terribly effective by its assumption of unlimited power over natural instincts, by the awful penalties of its failure. He began his story quietly enough. On board that Dale Line steamer that had picked up these four floating in a boat upon the discreet sunset glow of the sea, they had been after the first day looked askance upon. The fat skipper told some story, the others had been silent, and at first it had been accepted. You don't cross-examine poor castaways you had the good luck to save, if not from cruel death, then at least from cruel suffering. Afterwards, with time to think it over, it might have struck the officers of the Avondale that there was "something fishy" in the affair; but of course they would keep their doubts to themselves. They had picked up the captain, the mate, and two engineers of the steamer Patna sunk at sea, and that, very properly, was enough for them. I did not ask Jim about the nature of his feelings during the ten days he spent on board. From the way he narrated that part I was at liberty to infer he was partly stunned by the discovery he had made--the discovery about himself--and no doubt was at work trying to explain it away to the only man who was capable of appreciating all its tremendous magnitude. You must understand he did not try to minimise its importance. Of that I am sure; and therein lies his distinction. As to what sensations he experienced when he got ashore and heard the unforeseen conclusion of the tale in which he had taken such a pitiful part, he told me nothing of them, and it is difficult to imagine. 'I wonder whether he felt the ground cut from under his feet? I wonder? But no doubt he managed to get a fresh foothold very soon. He was ashore a whole fortnight waiting in the Sailors' Home, and as there were six or seven men staying there at the time, I had heard of him a little. Their languid opinion seemed to be that, in addition to his other shortcomings, he was a sulky brute. He had passed these days on the verandah, buried in a long chair, and coming out of his place of sepulture only at meal-times or late at night, when he wandered on the quays all by himself, detached from his surroundings, irresolute and silent, like a ghost without a home to haunt. "I don't think I've spoken three words to a living soul in all that time," he said, making me very sorry for him; and directly he added, "One of these fellows would have been sure to blurt out something I had made up my mind not to put up with, and I didn't want a row. No! Not then. I was too--too . . . I had no heart for it." "So that bulkhead held out after all," I remarked cheerfully. "Yes," he murmured, "it held. And yet I swear to you I felt it bulge under my hand." "It's extraordinary what strains old iron will stand sometimes," I said. Thrown back in his seat, his legs stiffly out and arms hanging down, he nodded slightly several times. You could not conceive a sadder spectacle. Suddenly he lifted his head; he sat up; he slapped his thigh. "Ah! what a chance missed! My God! what a chance missed!" he blazed out, but the ring of the last "missed" resembled a cry wrung out by pain. 'He was silent again with a still, far-away look of fierce yearning after that missed distinction, with his nostrils for an instant dilated, sniffing the intoxicating breath of that wasted opportunity. If you think I was either surprised or shocked you do me an injustice in more ways than one! Ah, he was an imaginative beggar! He would give himself away; he would give himself up. I could see in his glance darted into the night all his inner being carried on, projected headlong into the fanciful realm of recklessly heroic aspirations. He had no leisure to regret what he had lost, he was so wholly and naturally concerned for what he had failed to obtain. He was very far away from me who watched him across three feet of space. With every instant he was penetrating deeper into the impossible world of romantic achievements. He got to the heart of it at last! A strange look of beatitude overspread his features, his eyes sparkled in the light of the candle burning between us; he positively smiled! He had penetrated to the very heart--to the very heart. It was an ecstatic smile that your faces--or mine either--will never wear, my dear boys. I whisked him back by saying, "If you had stuck to the ship, you mean!" 'He turned upon me, his eyes suddenly amazed and full of pain, with a bewildered, startled, suffering face, as though he had tumbled down from a star. Neither you nor I will ever look like this on any man. He shuddered profoundly, as if a cold finger-tip had touched his heart. Last of all he sighed. 'I was not in a merciful mood. He provoked one by his contradictory indiscretions. "It is unfortunate you didn't know beforehand!" I said with every unkind intention; but the perfidious shaft fell harmless--dropped at his feet like a spent arrow, as it were, and he did not think of picking it up. Perhaps he had not even seen it. Presently, lolling at ease, he said, "Dash it all! I tell you it bulged. I was holding up my lamp along the angle-iron in the lower deck when a flake of rust as big as the palm of my hand fell off the plate, all of itself." He passed his hand over his forehead. "The thing stirred and jumped off like something alive while I was looking at it." "That made you feel pretty bad," I observed casually. "Do you suppose," he said, "that I was thinking of myself, with a hundred and sixty people at my back, all fast asleep in that fore-'tween-deck alone--and more of them aft; more on the deck--sleeping--knowing nothing about it--three times as many as there were boats for, even if there had been time? I expected to see the iron open out as I stood there and the rush of water going over them as they lay. . . . What could I do--what?" 'I can easily picture him to myself in the peopled gloom of the cavernous place, with the light of the globe-lamp falling on a small portion of the bulkhead that had the weight of the ocean on the other side, and the breathing of unconscious sleepers in his ears. I can see him glaring at the iron, startled by the falling rust, overburdened by the knowledge of an imminent death. This, I gathered, was the second time he had been sent forward by that skipper of his, who, I rather think, wanted to keep him away from the bridge. He told me that his first impulse was to shout and straightway make all those people leap out of sleep into terror; but such an overwhelming sense of his helplessness came over him that he was not able to produce a sound. This is, I suppose, what people mean by the tongue cleaving to the roof of the mouth. "Too dry," was the concise expression he used in reference to this state. Without a sound, then, he scrambled out on deck through the number one hatch. A windsail rigged down there swung against him accidentally, and he remembered that the light touch of the canvas on his face nearly knocked him off the hatchway ladder. 'He confessed that his knees wobbled a good deal as he stood on the foredeck looking at another sleeping crowd. The engines having been stopped by that time, the steam was blowing off. Its deep rumble made the whole night vibrate like a bass string. The ship trembled to it. 'He saw here and there a head lifted off a mat, a vague form uprise in sitting posture, listen sleepily for a moment, sink down again into the billowy confusion of boxes, steam-winches, ventilators. He was aware all these people did not know enough to take intelligent notice of that strange noise. The ship of iron, the men with white faces, all the sights, all the sounds, everything on board to that ignorant and pious multitude was strange alike, and as trustworthy as it would for ever remain incomprehensible. It occurred to him that the fact was fortunate. The idea of it was simply terrible. 'You must remember he believed, as any other man would have done in his place, that the ship would go down at any moment; the bulging, rust-eaten plates that kept back the ocean, fatally must give way, all at once like an undermined dam, and let in a sudden and overwhelming flood. He stood still looking at these recumbent bodies, a doomed man aware of his fate, surveying the silent company of the dead. They _were_ dead! Nothing could save them! There were boats enough for half of them perhaps, but there was no time. No time! No time! It did not seem worth while to open his lips, to stir hand or foot. Before he could shout three words, or make three steps, he would be floundering in a sea whitened awfully by the desperate struggles of human beings, clamorous with the distress of cries for help. There was no help. He imagined what would happen perfectly; he went through it all motionless by the hatchway with the lamp in his hand--he went through it to the very last harrowing detail. I think he went through it again while he was telling me these things he could not tell the court. '"I saw as clearly as I see you now that there was nothing I could do. It seemed to take all life out of my limbs. I thought I might just as well stand where I was and wait. I did not think I had many seconds. . . ." Suddenly the steam ceased blowing off. The noise, he remarked, had been distracting, but the silence at once became intolerably oppressive. '"I thought I would choke before I got drowned," he said. 'He protested he did not think of saving himself. The only distinct thought formed, vanishing, and re-forming in his brain, was: eight hundred people and seven boats; eight hundred people and seven boats. '"Somebody was speaking aloud inside my head," he said a little wildly. "Eight hundred people and seven boats--and no time! Just think of it." He leaned towards me across the little table, and I tried to avoid his stare. "Do you think I was afraid of death?" he asked in a voice very fierce and low. He brought down his open hand with a bang that made the coffee-cups dance. "I am ready to swear I was not--I was not. . . . By God--no!" He hitched himself upright and crossed his arms; his chin fell on his breast. 'The soft clashes of crockery reached us faintly through the high windows. There was a burst of voices, and several men came out in high good-humour into the gallery. They were exchanging jocular reminiscences of the donkeys in Cairo. A pale anxious youth stepping softly on long legs was being chaffed by a strutting and rubicund globe-trotter about his purchases in the bazaar. "No, really--do you think I've been done to that extent?" he inquired very earnest and deliberate. The band moved away, dropping into chairs as they went; matches flared, illuminating for a second faces without the ghost of an expression and the flat glaze of white shirt-fronts; the hum of many conversations animated with the ardour of feasting sounded to me absurd and infinitely remote. '"Some of the crew were sleeping on the number one hatch within reach of my arm," began Jim again. 'You must know they kept Kalashee watch in that ship, all hands sleeping through the night, and only the reliefs of quartermasters and look-out men being called. He was tempted to grip and shake the shoulder of the nearest lascar, but he didn't. Something held his arms down along his sides. He was not afraid--oh no! only he just couldn't--that's all. He was not afraid of death perhaps, but I'll tell you what, he was afraid of the emergency. His confounded imagination had evoked for him all the horrors of panic, the trampling rush, the pitiful screams, boats swamped--all the appalling incidents of a disaster at sea he had ever heard of. He might have been resigned to die but I suspect he wanted to die without added terrors, quietly, in a sort of peaceful trance. A certain readiness to perish is not so very rare, but it is seldom that you meet men whose souls, steeled in the impenetrable armour of resolution, are ready to fight a losing battle to the last; the desire of peace waxes stronger as hope declines, till at last it conquers the very desire of life. Which of us here has not observed this, or maybe experienced something of that feeling in his own person--this extreme weariness of emotions, the vanity of effort, the yearning for rest? Those striving with unreasonable forces know it well,--the shipwrecked castaways in boats, wanderers lost in a desert, men battling against the unthinking might of nature, or the stupid brutality of crowds.' 'How long he stood stock-still by the hatch expecting every moment to feel the ship dip under his feet and the rush of water take him at the back and toss him like a chip, I cannot say. Not very long--two minutes perhaps. A couple of men he could not make out began to converse drowsily, and also, he could not tell where, he detected a curious noise of shuffling feet. Above these faint sounds there was that awful stillness preceding a catastrophe, that trying silence of the moment before the crash; then it came into his head that perhaps he would have time to rush along and cut all the lanyards of the gripes, so that the boats would float as the ship went down. 'The Patna had a long bridge, and all the boats were up there, four on one side and three on the other--the smallest of them on the port-side and nearly abreast of the steering gear. He assured me, with evident anxiety to be believed, that he had been most careful to keep them ready for instant service. He knew his duty. I dare say he was a good enough mate as far as that went. "I always believed in being prepared for the worst," he commented, staring anxiously in my face. I nodded my approval of the sound principle, averting my eyes before the subtle unsoundness of the man. 'He started unsteadily to run. He had to step over legs, avoid stumbling against the heads. Suddenly some one caught hold of his coat from below, and a distressed voice spoke under his elbow. The light of the lamp he carried in his right hand fell upon an upturned dark face whose eyes entreated him together with the voice. He had picked up enough of the language to understand the word water, repeated several times in a tone of insistence, of prayer, almost of despair. He gave a jerk to get away, and felt an arm embrace his leg. '"The beggar clung to me like a drowning man," he said impressively. "Water, water! What water did he mean? What did he know? As calmly as I could I ordered him to let go. He was stopping me, time was pressing, other men began to stir; I wanted time--time to cut the boats adrift. He got hold of my hand now, and I felt that he would begin to shout. It flashed upon me it was enough to start a panic, and I hauled off with my free arm and slung the lamp in his face. The glass jingled, the light went out, but the blow made him let go, and I ran off--I wanted to get at the boats; I wanted to get at the boats. He leaped after me from behind. I turned on him. He would not keep quiet; he tried to shout; I had half throttled him before I made out what he wanted. He wanted some water--water to drink; they were on strict allowance, you know, and he had with him a young boy I had noticed several times. His child was sick--and thirsty. He had caught sight of me as I passed by, and was begging for a little water. That's all. We were under the bridge, in the dark. He kept on snatching at my wrists; there was no getting rid of him. I dashed into my berth, grabbed my water-bottle, and thrust it into his hands. He vanished. I didn't find out till then how much I was in want of a drink myself." He leaned on one elbow with a hand over his eyes. 'I felt a creepy sensation all down my backbone; there was something peculiar in all this. The fingers of the hand that shaded his brow trembled slightly. He broke the short silence. '"These things happen only once to a man and . . . Ah! well! When I got on the bridge at last the beggars were getting one of the boats off the chocks. A boat! I was running up the ladder when a heavy blow fell on my shoulder, just missing my head. It didn't stop me, and the chief engineer--they had got him out of his bunk by then--raised the boat-stretcher again. Somehow I had no mind to be surprised at anything. All this seemed natural--and awful--and awful. I dodged that miserable maniac, lifted him off the deck as though he had been a little child, and he started whispering in my arms: 'Don't! don't! I thought you were one of them niggers.' I flung him away, he skidded along the bridge and knocked the legs from under the little chap--the second. The skipper, busy about the boat, looked round and came at me head down, growling like a wild beast. I flinched no more than a stone. I was as solid standing there as this," he tapped lightly with his knuckles the wall beside his chair. "It was as though I had heard it all, seen it all, gone through it all twenty times already. I wasn't afraid of them. I drew back my fist and he stopped short, muttering-- '"'Ah! it's you. Lend a hand quick.' '"That's what he said. Quick! As if anybody could be quick enough. 'Aren't you going to do something?' I asked. 'Yes. Clear out,' he snarled over his shoulder. '"I don't think I understood then what he meant. The other two had picked themselves up by that time, and they rushed together to the boat. They tramped, they wheezed, they shoved, they cursed the boat, the ship, each other--cursed me. All in mutters. I didn't move, I didn't speak. I watched the slant of the ship. She was as still as if landed on the blocks in a dry dock--only she was like this," He held up his hand, palm under, the tips of the fingers inclined downwards. "Like this," he repeated. "I could see the line of the horizon before me, as clear as a bell, above her stem-head; I could see the water far off there black and sparkling, and still--still as a-pond, deadly still, more still than ever sea was before--more still than I could bear to look at. Have you watched a ship floating head down, checked in sinking by a sheet of old iron too rotten to stand being shored up? Have you? Oh yes, shored up? I thought of that--I thought of every mortal thing; but can you shore up a bulkhead in five minutes--or in fifty for that matter? Where was I going to get men that would go down below? And the timber--the timber! Would you have had the courage to swing the maul for the first blow if you had seen that bulkhead? Don't say you would: you had not seen it; nobody would. Hang it--to do a thing like that you must believe there is a chance, one in a thousand, at least, some ghost of a chance; and you would not have believed. Nobody would have believed. You think me a cur for standing there, but what would you have done? What! You can't tell--nobody can tell. One must have time to turn round. What would you have me do? Where was the kindness in making crazy with fright all those people I could not save single-handed--that nothing could save? Look here! As true as I sit on this chair before you . . ." 'He drew quick breaths at every few words and shot quick glances at my face, as though in his anguish he were watchful of the effect. He was not speaking to me, he was only speaking before me, in a dispute with an invisible personality, an antagonistic and inseparable partner of his existence--another possessor of his soul. These were issues beyond the competency of a court of inquiry: it was a subtle and momentous quarrel as to the true essence of life, and did not want a judge. He wanted an ally, a helper, an accomplice. I felt the risk I ran of being circumvented, blinded, decoyed, bullied, perhaps, into taking a definite part in a dispute impossible of decision if one had to be fair to all the phantoms in possession--to the reputable that had its claims and to the disreputable that had its exigencies. I can't explain to you who haven't seen him and who hear his words only at second hand the mixed nature of my feelings. It seemed to me I was being made to comprehend the Inconceivable--and I know of nothing to compare with the discomfort of such a sensation. I was made to look at the convention that lurks in all truth and on the essential sincerity of falsehood. He appealed to all sides at once--to the side turned perpetually to the light of day, and to that side of us which, like the other hemisphere of the moon, exists stealthily in perpetual darkness, with only a fearful ashy light falling at times on the edge. He swayed me. I own to it, I own up. The occasion was obscure, insignificant--what you will: a lost youngster, one in a million--but then he was one of us; an incident as completely devoid of importance as the flooding of an ant-heap, and yet the mystery of his attitude got hold of me as though he had been an individual in the forefront of his kind, as if the obscure truth involved were momentous enough to affect mankind's conception of itself. . . .' Marlow paused to put new life into his expiring cheroot, seemed to forget all about the story, and abruptly began again. 'My fault of course. One has no business really to get interested. It's a weakness of mine. His was of another kind. My weakness consists in not having a discriminating eye for the incidental--for the externals--no eye for the hod of the rag-picker or the fine linen of the next man. Next man--that's it. I have met so many men,' he pursued, with momentary sadness--'met them too with a certain--certain--impact, let us say; like this fellow, for instance--and in each case all I could see was merely the human being. A confounded democratic quality of vision which may be better than total blindness, but has been of no advantage to me, I can assure you. Men expect one to take into account their fine linen. But I never could get up any enthusiasm about these things. Oh! it's a failing; it's a failing; and then comes a soft evening; a lot of men too indolent for whist--and a story. . . .' He paused again to wait for an encouraging remark, perhaps, but nobody spoke; only the host, as if reluctantly performing a duty, murmured-- 'You are so subtle, Marlow.' 'Who? I?' said Marlow in a low voice. 'Oh no! But _he_ was; and try as I may for the success of this yarn, I am missing innumerable shades--they were so fine, so difficult to render in colourless words. Because he complicated matters by being so simple, too--the simplest poor devil! . . . By Jove! he was amazing. There he sat telling me that just as I saw him before my eyes he wouldn't be afraid to face anything--and believing in it too. I tell you it was fabulously innocent and it was enormous, enormous! I watched him covertly, just as though I had suspected him of an intention to take a jolly good rise out of me. He was confident that, on the square, "on the square, mind!" there was nothing he couldn't meet. Ever since he had been "so high"--"quite a little chap," he had been preparing himself for all the difficulties that can beset one on land and water. He confessed proudly to this kind of foresight. He had been elaborating dangers and defences, expecting the worst, rehearsing his best. He must have led a most exalted existence. Can you fancy it? A succession of adventures, so much glory, such a victorious progress! and the deep sense of his sagacity crowning every day of his inner life. He forgot himself; his eyes shone; and with every word my heart, searched by the light of his absurdity, was growing heavier in my breast. I had no mind to laugh, and lest I should smile I made for myself a stolid face. He gave signs of irritation. '"It is always the unexpected that happens," I said in a propitiatory tone. My obtuseness provoked him into a contemptuous "Pshaw!" I suppose he meant that the unexpected couldn't touch him; nothing less than the unconceivable itself could get over his perfect state of preparation. He had been taken unawares--and he whispered to himself a malediction upon the waters and the firmament, upon the ship, upon the men. Everything had betrayed him! He had been tricked into that sort of high-minded resignation which prevented him lifting as much as his little finger, while these others who had a very clear perception of the actual necessity were tumbling against each other and sweating desperately over that boat business. Something had gone wrong there at the last moment. It appears that in their flurry they had contrived in some mysterious way to get the sliding bolt of the foremost boat-chock jammed tight, and forthwith had gone out of the remnants of their minds over the deadly nature of that accident. It must have been a pretty sight, the fierce industry of these beggars toiling on a motionless ship that floated quietly in the silence of a world asleep, fighting against time for the freeing of that boat, grovelling on all-fours, standing up in despair, tugging, pushing, snarling at each other venomously, ready to kill, ready to weep, and only kept from flying at each other's throats by the fear of death that stood silent behind them like an inflexible and cold-eyed taskmaster. Oh yes! It must have been a pretty sight. He saw it all, he could talk about it with scorn and bitterness; he had a minute knowledge of it by means of some sixth sense, I conclude, because he swore to me he had remained apart without a glance at them and at the boat--without one single glance. And I believe him. I should think he was too busy watching the threatening slant of the ship, the suspended menace discovered in the midst of the most perfect security--fascinated by the sword hanging by a hair over his imaginative head. 'Nothing in the world moved before his eyes, and he could depict to himself without hindrance the sudden swing upwards of the dark sky-line, the sudden tilt up of the vast plain of the sea, the swift still rise, the brutal fling, the grasp of the abyss, the struggle without hope, the starlight closing over his head for ever like the vault of a tomb--the revolt of his young life--the black end. He could! By Jove! who couldn't? And you must remember he was a finished artist in that peculiar way, he was a gifted poor devil with the faculty of swift and forestalling vision. The sights it showed him had turned him into cold stone from the soles of his feet to the nape of his neck; but there was a hot dance of thoughts in his head, a dance of lame, blind, mute thoughts--a whirl of awful cripples. Didn't I tell you he confessed himself before me as though I had the power to bind and to loose? He burrowed deep, deep, in the hope of my absolution, which would have been of no good to him. This was one of those cases which no solemn deception can palliate, where no man can help; where his very Maker seems to abandon a sinner to his own devices. 'He stood on the starboard side of the bridge, as far as he could get from the struggle for the boat, which went on with the agitation of madness and the stealthiness of a conspiracy. The two Malays had meantime remained holding to the wheel. Just picture to yourselves the actors in that, thank God! unique, episode of the sea, four beside themselves with fierce and secret exertions, and three looking on in complete immobility, above the awnings covering the profound ignorance of hundreds of human beings, with their weariness, with their dreams, with their hopes, arrested, held by an invisible hand on the brink of annihilation. For that they were so, makes no doubt to me: given the state of the ship, this was the deadliest possible description of accident that could happen. These beggars by the boat had every reason to go distracted with funk. Frankly, had I been there, I would not have given as much as a counterfeit farthing for the ship's chance to keep above water to the end of each successive second. And still she floated! These sleeping pilgrims were destined to accomplish their whole pilgrimage to the bitterness of some other end. It was as if the Omnipotence whose mercy they confessed had needed their humble testimony on earth for a while longer, and had looked down to make a sign, "Thou shalt not!" to the ocean. Their escape would trouble me as a prodigiously inexplicable event, did I not know how tough old iron can be--as tough sometimes as the spirit of some men we meet now and then, worn to a shadow and breasting the weight of life. Not the least wonder of these twenty minutes, to my mind, is the behaviour of the two helmsmen. They were amongst the native batch of all sorts brought over from Aden to give evidence at the inquiry. One of them, labouring under intense bashfulness, was very young, and with his smooth, yellow, cheery countenance looked even younger than he was. I remember perfectly Brierly asking him, through the interpreter, what he thought of it at the time, and the interpreter, after a short colloquy, turning to the court with an important air-- '"He says he thought nothing." 'The other, with patient blinking eyes, a blue cotton handkerchief, faded with much washing, bound with a smart twist over a lot of grey wisps, his face shrunk into grim hollows, his brown skin made darker by a mesh of wrinkles, explained that he had a knowledge of some evil thing befalling the ship, but there had been no order; he could not remember an order; why should he leave the helm? To some further questions he jerked back his spare shoulders, and declared it never came into his mind then that the white men were about to leave the ship through fear of death. He did not believe it now. There might have been secret reasons. He wagged his old chin knowingly. Aha! secret reasons. He was a man of great experience, and he wanted _that_ white Tuan to know--he turned towards Brierly, who didn't raise his head--that he had acquired a knowledge of many things by serving white men on the sea for a great number of years--and, suddenly, with shaky excitement he poured upon our spellbound attention a lot of queer-sounding names, names of dead-and-gone skippers, names of forgotten country ships, names of familiar and distorted sound, as if the hand of dumb time had been at work on them for ages. They stopped him at last. A silence fell upon the court,--a silence that remained unbroken for at least a minute, and passed gently into a deep murmur. This episode was the sensation of the second day's proceedings--affecting all the audience, affecting everybody except Jim, who was sitting moodily at the end of the first bench, and never looked up at this extraordinary and damning witness that seemed possessed of some mysterious theory of defence. 'So these two lascars stuck to the helm of that ship without steerage-way, where death would have found them if such had been their destiny. The whites did not give them half a glance, had probably forgotten their existence. Assuredly Jim did not remember it. He remembered he could do nothing; he could do nothing, now he was alone. There was nothing to do but to sink with the ship. No use making a disturbance about it. Was there? He waited upstanding, without a sound, stiffened in the idea of some sort of heroic discretion. The first engineer ran cautiously across the bridge to tug at his sleeve. '"Come and help! For God's sake, come and help!" 'He ran back to the boat on the points of his toes, and returned directly to worry at his sleeve, begging and cursing at the same time. '"I believe he would have kissed my hands," said Jim savagely, "and, next moment, he starts foaming and whispering in my face, 'If I had the time I would like to crack your skull for you.' I pushed him away. Suddenly he caught hold of me round the neck. Damn him! I hit him. I hit out without looking. 'Won't you save your own life--you infernal coward?' he sobs. Coward! He called me an infernal coward! Ha! ha! ha! ha! He called me--ha! ha! ha! . . ." 'He had thrown himself back and was shaking with laughter. I had never in my life heard anything so bitter as that noise. It fell like a blight on all the merriment about donkeys, pyramids, bazaars, or what not. Along the whole dim length of the gallery the voices dropped, the pale blotches of faces turned our way with one accord, and the silence became so profound that the clear tinkle of a teaspoon falling on the tesselated floor of the verandah rang out like a tiny and silvery scream. '"You mustn't laugh like this, with all these people about," I remonstrated. "It isn't nice for them, you know." 'He gave no sign of having heard at first, but after a while, with a stare that, missing me altogether, seemed to probe the heart of some awful vision, he muttered carelessly--"Oh! they'll think I am drunk." 'And after that you would have thought from his appearance he would never make a sound again. But--no fear! He could no more stop telling now than he could have stopped living by the mere exertion of his will.'

Chapters 6-8

https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter6-8

Seven and Eight . The authorities allow the inquiry to go ahead with just hearing Jim's account of events. It is impossible to find out now what damaged the ship, but nobody there wants to know this anyway. Whether those attending know it or not, they are drawn by psychological interests. There is the expectation 'of some essential disclosure as to the strength, the power, the horror, of human emotions', but of course 'nothing of the kind could be disclosed'. An official inquiry could not be expected 'to inquire into the state of a man's soul'. . . One of the assessors, Brierly, is described by Marlow as aloof and superior. Marlow also admits to admiring his apparent complacency. He presents a surface 'as hard as granite', but committed suicide barely a week after the inquiry finished. Brierly's mate, Mr Jones, tells Marlow that Brierly charted their position at sea and left a letter of instructions for him and a letter for the ship owners. The narrative deviates further as Jones describes his new captain. After arguing with him, Jones left his ship and is still looking after Brierly's dog. . . The narrative then returns to the inquiry and the last time Brierly spoke to Marlow. At this time, Marlow notes with surprise that Brierly is in a state of irritation about the inquiry and tells Marlow he feels like a fool. He wonders why they are tormenting Jim and he replies he does not know, 'unless it be that he lets you'. Brierly also wonders why Jim cannot see that he is 'done for' now the skipper has fled and tells Marlow he would have done so too. He says he does not care for Jim's sort of courage and will put up 200 rupees if Marlow will give another 100 for Jim to run away. Brierly says that his 'people' know Jim's and will give Marlow 200 rupees now to pass on to Jim. Marlow does not do as he is asked and attends the inquiry the next day instead. On the way out, a man walking with Marlow trips over a dog and calls it a 'wretched cur'. Jim spins around and bars Marlow's way. Jim accuses him of saying something to him, which Marlow denies, and then asks why he has been staring at him; he also asks who is a 'cur' now. Marlow realizes the mistake and points to the dog and Jim flushes with embarrassment. The chapter ends with Marlow inviting Jim to dinner. . . At dinner, in Chapter Seven, Jim relaxes a little and Marlow sees him as being of 'the right sort' and 'one of us'. He appears to be self-controlled until Marlow asks him about the inquiry and Jim clutches his hand and tells him it is hell. He adds that he cannot go home now and face his father as he will have read about the incident by now. Jim is not sure what to do after the inquiry as his certificate has been taken and he also has no money. . . The discussion turns to the events on the Patna and Jim asks Marlow if he knows what he would have done. Jim says it was all about him not being ready and looks ahead as he speaks. He tells Marlow that afterwards, he and the other crew had been picked up by a steamer and had been 'looked askance upon' from that day. Marlow takes pity on him, and then Jim suddenly blazes out, 'what a chance missed'. It is implied that he has missed the chance of being heroic. . . Jim explains that he saw the bulkhead bulge and noticed rust as large as the palm of his hand come off it. He also explains that there were many more times the amount of people on board than there were lifeboats. He confesses his legs wobbled as he stood on the foredeck looking at the sleeping crowd. He believed the ship would go down at any moment and that the rusted ship plates would give way like a dam. Jim saw clearly that he could do nothing about it and this seemed to take the life out of his limbs. He kept thinking of the 800 people and seven boats. He also swears to Marlow that he was not frightened of death. Marlow thinks he was not afraid of death perhaps, but he was afraid of the emergency: Jim's 'confounded imagination' had evoked all the 'horrors of panic, the trampling rush, the pitiful screams ....' . . In Chapter Eight, Marlow describes how he thinks Jim stood 'stock-still' for a couple of minutes. He decided to cut the boats so they would not go down with the ship and tells Marlow he knew his duty. Whilst Jim ran to do this, a beggar stopped him to ask for water. He thought the man would begin shouting and start a panic, and so he hit him with his lamp. He half-throttled him before he realized he wanted water for his sick child. There was confusion in the dark and Jim questioned the skipper if he was going to do anything. He replied, yes, 'clear out'. Jim thought of shoring up the bulkhead, but asks Marlow where would he have got the men to do it and would he have had the courage to swing the maul to strike the first blow. Jim also says he could not save those people singlehandedly. . . Marlow tells his listeners of his mixed emotions and that Jim wanted him to 'comprehend the Inconceivable'. Jim has told him how he has been preparing himself since a child, 'for all the difficulties that can beset one on land and water'. Marlow feels that everything betrayed Jim and he had been tricked into 'that sort of high-minded resignation' which prevented him from doing anything. The other three men saw clearly that they had to release a boat and sweated and struggled to do so. Two Malay men continued to hold on to the wheel. We are told that at the inquiry Brierly asked one of them what he thought about it and he said he thought nothing. On the ship, Jim continued to stand still and one of the engineers asked him to help release the boat. Jim hit him and the engineer called him a coward for not wanting to save his own life. .

Seven and Eight . The events on the Patna are revealed only gradually to the readers in these chapters, but it is evident that Jim continues to torment himself for his inadequacy long after the event. He is the only witness of the four main crewmen who is willing or able to stand and even gains the sympathy of Brierly . He demonstrates a loyalty to the truth and it is as though he wants the chance to explain his actions to clear himself of feelings of guilt. . . The fate of the ship and the people on it has still not been made explicit and the readers are drawn into the narrative web as Marlow deviates from the inquiry, to Brierly's suicide and then on to Jim's 'confession' at dinner. Hints are made to various outcomes - as it is clear the Malay men working on the ship survived to attend the inquiry - and this has the effect of tantalizing the reader to guess about the devastation that may have occurred.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/01.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_0_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 1

chapter 1

{"name": "Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-1", "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.", "analysis": ""}

DESCRIPTION OF FARMER OAK--AN INCIDENT When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun. His Christian name was Gabriel, and on working days he was a young man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good character. On Sundays he was a man of misty views, rather given to postponing, and hampered by his best clothes and umbrella: upon the whole, one who felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle space of Laodicean neutrality which lay between the Communion people of the parish and the drunken section,--that is, he went to church, but yawned privately by the time the congregation reached the Nicene creed, and thought of what there would be for dinner when he meant to be listening to the sermon. Or, to state his character as it stood in the scale of public opinion, when his friends and critics were in tantrums, he was considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased, he was rather a good man; when they were neither, he was a man whose moral colour was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture. Since he lived six times as many working-days as Sundays, Oak's appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own--the mental picture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always dressed in that way. He wore a low-crowned felt hat, spread out at the base by tight jamming upon the head for security in high winds, and a coat like Dr. Johnson's; his lower extremities being encased in ordinary leather leggings and boots emphatically large, affording to each foot a roomy apartment so constructed that any wearer might stand in a river all day long and know nothing of damp--their maker being a conscientious man who endeavoured to compensate for any weakness in his cut by unstinted dimension and solidity. Mr. Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be called a small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to shape and intention, and a small clock as to size. This instrument being several years older than Oak's grandfather, had the peculiarity of going either too fast or not at all. The smaller of its hands, too, occasionally slipped round on the pivot, and thus, though the minutes were told with precision, nobody could be quite certain of the hour they belonged to. The stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied by thumps and shakes, and he escaped any evil consequences from the other two defects by constant comparisons with and observations of the sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the glass of his neighbours' windows, till he could discern the hour marked by the green-faced timekeepers within. It may be mentioned that Oak's fob being difficult of access, by reason of its somewhat high situation in the waistband of his trousers (which also lay at a remote height under his waistcoat), the watch was as a necessity pulled out by throwing the body to one side, compressing the mouth and face to a mere mass of ruddy flesh on account of the exertion required, and drawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket from a well. But some thoughtful persons, who had seen him walking across one of his fields on a certain December morning--sunny and exceedingly mild--might have regarded Gabriel Oak in other aspects than these. In his face one might notice that many of the hues and curves of youth had tarried on to manhood: there even remained in his remoter crannies some relics of the boy. His height and breadth would have been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due consideration. But there is a way some men have, rural and urban alike, for which the mind is more responsible than flesh and sinew: it is a way of curtailing their dimensions by their manner of showing them. And from a quiet modesty that would have become a vestal, which seemed continually to impress upon him that he had no great claim on the world's room, Oak walked unassumingly and with a faintly perceptible bend, yet distinct from a bowing of the shoulders. This may be said to be a defect in an individual if he depends for his valuation more upon his appearance than upon his capacity to wear well, which Oak did not. He had just reached the time of life at which "young" is ceasing to be the prefix of "man" in speaking of one. He was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separated: he had passed the time during which the influence of youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse, and he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united again, in the character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and family. In short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor. The field he was in this morning sloped to a ridge called Norcombe Hill. Through a spur of this hill ran the highway between Emminster and Chalk-Newton. Casually glancing over the hedge, Oak saw coming down the incline before him an ornamental spring waggon, painted yellow and gaily marked, drawn by two horses, a waggoner walking alongside bearing a whip perpendicularly. The waggon was laden with household goods and window plants, and on the apex of the whole sat a woman, young and attractive. Gabriel had not beheld the sight for more than half a minute, when the vehicle was brought to a standstill just beneath his eyes. "The tailboard of the waggon is gone, Miss," said the waggoner. "Then I heard it fall," said the girl, in a soft, though not particularly low voice. "I heard a noise I could not account for when we were coming up the hill." "I'll run back." "Do," she answered. The sensible horses stood--perfectly still, and the waggoner's steps sank fainter and fainter in the distance. The girl on the summit of the load sat motionless, surrounded by tables and chairs with their legs upwards, backed by an oak settle, and ornamented in front by pots of geraniums, myrtles, and cactuses, together with a caged canary--all probably from the windows of the house just vacated. There was also a cat in a willow basket, from the partly-opened lid of which she gazed with half-closed eyes, and affectionately surveyed the small birds around. The handsome girl waited for some time idly in her place, and the only sound heard in the stillness was the hopping of the canary up and down the perches of its prison. Then she looked attentively downwards. It was not at the bird, nor at the cat; it was at an oblong package tied in paper, and lying between them. She turned her head to learn if the waggoner were coming. He was not yet in sight; and her eyes crept back to the package, her thoughts seeming to run upon what was inside it. At length she drew the article into her lap, and untied the paper covering; a small swing looking-glass was disclosed, in which she proceeded to survey herself attentively. She parted her lips and smiled. It was a fine morning, and the sun lighted up to a scarlet glow the crimson jacket she wore, and painted a soft lustre upon her bright face and dark hair. The myrtles, geraniums, and cactuses packed around her were fresh and green, and at such a leafless season they invested the whole concern of horses, waggon, furniture, and girl with a peculiar vernal charm. What possessed her to indulge in such a performance in the sight of the sparrows, blackbirds, and unperceived farmer who were alone its spectators,--whether the smile began as a factitious one, to test her capacity in that art,--nobody knows; it ended certainly in a real smile. She blushed at herself, and seeing her reflection blush, blushed the more. The change from the customary spot and necessary occasion of such an act--from the dressing hour in a bedroom to a time of travelling out of doors--lent to the idle deed a novelty it did not intrinsically possess. The picture was a delicate one. Woman's prescriptive infirmity had stalked into the sunlight, which had clothed it in the freshness of an originality. A cynical inference was irresistible by Gabriel Oak as he regarded the scene, generous though he fain would have been. There was no necessity whatever for her looking in the glass. She did not adjust her hat, or pat her hair, or press a dimple into shape, or do one thing to signify that any such intention had been her motive in taking up the glass. She simply observed herself as a fair product of Nature in the feminine kind, her thoughts seeming to glide into far-off though likely dramas in which men would play a part--vistas of probable triumphs--the smiles being of a phase suggesting that hearts were imagined as lost and won. Still, this was but conjecture, and the whole series of actions was so idly put forth as to make it rash to assert that intention had any part in them at all. The waggoner's steps were heard returning. She put the glass in the paper, and the whole again into its place. When the waggon had passed on, Gabriel withdrew from his point of espial, and descending into the road, followed the vehicle to the turnpike-gate some way beyond the bottom of the hill, where the object of his contemplation now halted for the payment of toll. About twenty steps still remained between him and the gate, when he heard a dispute. It was a difference concerning twopence between the persons with the waggon and the man at the toll-bar. "Mis'ess's niece is upon the top of the things, and she says that's enough that I've offered ye, you great miser, and she won't pay any more." These were the waggoner's words. "Very well; then mis'ess's niece can't pass," said the turnpike-keeper, closing the gate. Oak looked from one to the other of the disputants, and fell into a reverie. There was something in the tone of twopence remarkably insignificant. Threepence had a definite value as money--it was an appreciable infringement on a day's wages, and, as such, a higgling matter; but twopence--"Here," he said, stepping forward and handing twopence to the gatekeeper; "let the young woman pass." He looked up at her then; she heard his words, and looked down. Gabriel's features adhered throughout their form so exactly to the middle line between the beauty of St. John and the ugliness of Judas Iscariot, as represented in a window of the church he attended, that not a single lineament could be selected and called worthy either of distinction or notoriety. The red-jacketed and dark-haired maiden seemed to think so too, for she carelessly glanced over him, and told her man to drive on. She might have looked her thanks to Gabriel on a minute scale, but she did not speak them; more probably she felt none, for in gaining her a passage he had lost her her point, and we know how women take a favour of that kind. The gatekeeper surveyed the retreating vehicle. "That's a handsome maid," he said to Oak. "But she has her faults," said Gabriel. "True, farmer." "And the greatest of them is--well, what it is always." "Beating people down? ay, 'tis so." "O no." "What, then?" Gabriel, perhaps a little piqued by the comely traveller's indifference, glanced back to where he had witnessed her performance over the hedge, and said, "Vanity."

Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-1

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.