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Cymbeline.act 3.scene 7

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 3 scene 7 using the context provided.

Belarius congratulates Guiderius for being most successful in the hunt, and names him as master of the feast. Arviragus and he will play cook and servant. The boys are both weary. Belarius notices Imogen in the cave, and remarks that if she were not eating their food, he would think her a fairy. He next thinks that she is an angel. Imogen explains that she has stolen nothing and was going to leave them money for what she has eaten. Guiderius is not impressed, as gold and silver "turn to dirt" , and is only admired by those "who worship dirty gods" . Imogen tells him that had she not helped herself to the food, she would have died of starvation. She tells them she is going to Milford Haven and gives her name as Fidele, which means 'faithful' in French. She says a relative of hers has just embarked at Milford for Italy. Belarius bids her welcome, asking her not to measure their minds by the "rude" place they live in . Guiderius seems to feel an attraction towards her, saying her would court her if she were a woman. Arviragus welcomes her as a friend. Aside to the audience, she wishes they had been her brothers, for then she would not have been Cymbeline's sole heir, and Posthumus would have been more her financial equal. The boys notice her distress and sympathize with her. Imogen reflects that great men could not surpass the two boys. She would change her sex to be their companion, since Posthumus has proved false. Belarius invites her to tell as much of her story as she wishes, after they have eaten.

----------SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. Rome. A public place Enter two ROMAN SENATORS and TRIBUNES FIRST SENATOR. This is the tenour of the Emperor's writ: That since the common men are now in action 'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall'n-off Britons, that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute commission. Long live Caesar! TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces? SECOND SENATOR. Ay. TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia? FIRST SENATOR. With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch. TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty. Exeunt ----------ACT 3 SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. Rome. A public place Enter two ROMAN SENATORS and TRIBUNES FIRST SENATOR. This is the tenour of the Emperor's writ: That since the common men are now in action 'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall'n-off Britons, that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute commission. Long live Caesar! TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces? SECOND SENATOR. Ay. TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia? FIRST SENATOR. With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch. TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty. Exeunt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 1

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Craft a concise overview of act 4 scene 1 using the context provided.

Cloten, dressed in Posthumus's clothes, is in Wales, near the place where Imogen is supposed to meet Posthumus. He says the clothes fit him well, and thus why should Imogen not prove "fit" for him, too ? He feels that he compares well to Posthumus in youth, looks and strength, and surpasses him in birth and advantages. He predicts that soon he shall have raped Imogen, cut Posthumus's clothes to pieces in front of him, and cut off Posthumus's head. The he plans to send Imogen home to face her father. Cymbeline may be angry with Cloten for treating Imogen roughly, but the Queen will take Cloten's part and make him appear worthy of praise.

----------SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. Wales. Near the cave of BELARIUS Enter CLOTEN alone CLOTEN. I am near to th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapp'd it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? The rather- saving reverence of the word- for 'tis said a woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber- I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not deceive me. Exit ----------ACT 4 SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. Wales. Near the cave of BELARIUS Enter CLOTEN alone CLOTEN. I am near to th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapp'd it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? The rather- saving reverence of the word- for 'tis said a woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber- I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not deceive me. Exit

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 3

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Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 3, utilizing the provided context.

In Cymbeline's palace, the King is anxious over the growing war and his missing daughter. The Queen is pining over the disappearance of her son and has contracted a fever and is delirious. Cymbeline is overwhelmed by these events. His beloved daughter has fled, and there is still no word of her whereabouts. Cloten is missing, and the Queen is dangerously ill. He accuses Pisanio of conspiring and assisting in Imogen's flight, but Pisanio is saved by one of the courtiers who insists that Pisanio is blameless. The Roman troops from Gallia have landed in Britain as well as the reinforcements from Italy. Although the British troops are ready to face the enemy, Cymbeline feels lost, without the support of his Queen and Cloten and Pisanio, in a soliloquy, wonders what has happened to Imogen and Posthumus, who has sent no word about Imogen's supposed death. Cloten's absence also worries Pisanio, but he can do nothing until all his doubts are cleared by time.

----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, LORDS, PISANIO, and attendants CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how 'tis with her. Exit an attendant A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life's in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture. PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant. LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he's true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found. CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [To PISANIO] We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend. LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent. CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz'd with matter. LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you're ready. The want is but to put those pow'rs in motion That long to move. CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let's withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away! Exeunt all but PISANIO PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. 'Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex'd in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o' th' King, or I'll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd. Exit ----------ACT 4 SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, LORDS, PISANIO, and attendants CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how 'tis with her. Exit an attendant A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life's in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture. PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant. LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he's true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found. CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [To PISANIO] We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend. LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent. CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz'd with matter. LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you're ready. The want is but to put those pow'rs in motion That long to move. CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let's withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away! Exeunt all but PISANIO PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. 'Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex'd in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o' th' King, or I'll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd. Exit

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 4

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 4 scene 4, utilizing the provided context.

Guiderius notes that he, his brother, and Belarius are in danger from the Romans. Belarius suggests they retreat higher into the mountains. He says that because of Cloten's killing, they cannot go for protection to the King. If they are caught, they will be tortured and killed. Arviragus thinks that the King will be too busy with the war to look into their origins, but Belarius points out that he is well known in the army, and besides, the King has not deserved their service or love. But Guiderius and Arviragus believe that they should all go to fight in the wars. Guiderius says he and his brother are not known by anyone at court, and Belarius is forgotten and "o'ergrown" , possibly meaning bearded and unrecognizable, or simply grown out of their thoughts. Guiderius and Arviragus ask for Belarius's blessing to go to war. Belarius replies that since they value their young lives so slightly, there is no reason why he should set more value on his old one. He joins them as they go off to fight.

----------SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us. BELARIUS. Let us from it. ARVIRAGUS. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure? GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after. BELARIUS. Sons, We'll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the King's party there's no going. Newness Of Cloten's death- we being not known, not muster'd Among the bands-may drive us to a render Where we have liv'd, and so extort from's that Which we have done, whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture. GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us. ARVIRAGUS. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy'd importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. BELARIUS. O, I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not deserv'd my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promis'd, But to be still hot summer's tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter. GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th' army. I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown, Cannot be questioned. ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I'll thither. What thing is't that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look'd on blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am asham'd To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I'll go! If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I'll take the better care; but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans! ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen. BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I'll lie. Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born. Exeunt ----------ACT 4 SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us. BELARIUS. Let us from it. ARVIRAGUS. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure? GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after. BELARIUS. Sons, We'll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the King's party there's no going. Newness Of Cloten's death- we being not known, not muster'd Among the bands-may drive us to a render Where we have liv'd, and so extort from's that Which we have done, whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture. GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us. ARVIRAGUS. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy'd importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. BELARIUS. O, I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not deserv'd my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promis'd, But to be still hot summer's tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter. GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th' army. I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown, Cannot be questioned. ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I'll thither. What thing is't that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look'd on blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am asham'd To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I'll go! If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I'll take the better care; but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans! ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen. BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I'll lie. Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born. Exeunt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 1

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 1, utilizing the provided context.

In the Roman camp, Posthumus enters with a handkerchief soaked in blood. From his soliloquy, the reader gathers that after Pisanio's report of Imogen's death, Posthumus has been stricken by remorse and wishes that he had not been so hasty in seeking vengeance. He wonders how the gods take away people who have sinned but once, and mildly at that, while allowing sinners who go on sinning to live, feeling remorseful. He wishes he had let Imogen live so that she could repent, and also to give another her another chance at happiness. Posthumus has come with the Roman army, recruited by Lucius from among the gentry. However, he now feels that he cannot take up arms against Imogen's people, and plans to disguise himself as a British peasant and fight on the British side.

----------SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp Enter POSTHUMUS alone, with a bloody handkerchief POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doer's thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th' Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's kingdom. 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I'll fight Against the part I come with; so I'll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o' th' Leonati in me! To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin The fashion- less without and more within. Exit ----------ACT 5 SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp Enter POSTHUMUS alone, with a bloody handkerchief POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doer's thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th' Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's kingdom. 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I'll fight Against the part I come with; so I'll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o' th' Leonati in me! To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin The fashion- less without and more within. Exit

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 2

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for scene 2 based on the provided context.

On the battlefield, there is fierce fighting between the Romans and the British, with Posthumus in disguise. In a skirmish with Iachimo, Posthumus is able to defeat and disarm the former, but leaves him alive. Iachimo feels the burden of guilt and remorse at the way he has wronged a British princess and feels that his guilt has left him so weak that a peasant could overpower him. On the other hand, he also claims that if the rest of the British army were equal to, or better than this rough peasant, then "the odds / Is that we scarce are men and you are gods." As the battle continues, the British army is almost routed, and Cymbeline is taken prisoner. All seems lost when suddenly Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus and Posthumus in disguise, enter. They fight bravely and rescue Cymbeline. After they leave, Lucius, attended by Imogen in boys' clothes, enters with Iachimo. Lucius advises Fidele to save herself, as she is known to run away from the battlefield. Lucius is surprised at the way the fortunes of the British have turned, and advises Iachimo to get reinforcements for a fresh attack, failing which they would have to flee.

----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, IACHIMO and POSTHUMUS. He vanquisheth and disarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves him IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods. Exit The battle continues; the BRITONS fly; CYMBELINE is taken. Then enter to his rescue BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th' advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears. GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight! Re-enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then re-enter LUCIUS and IACHIMO, with IMOGEN LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As war were hoodwink'd. IACHIMO. 'Tis their fresh supplies. LUCIUS. It is a day turn'd strangely. Or betimes Let's reinforce or fly. Exeunt ----------ACT 5 SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, IACHIMO and POSTHUMUS. He vanquisheth and disarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves him IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods. Exit The battle continues; the BRITONS fly; CYMBELINE is taken. Then enter to his rescue BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th' advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears. GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight! Re-enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then re-enter LUCIUS and IACHIMO, with IMOGEN LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As war were hoodwink'd. IACHIMO. 'Tis their fresh supplies. LUCIUS. It is a day turn'd strangely. Or betimes Let's reinforce or fly. Exeunt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 3

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for scene 3 based on the provided context.

In another part of the field, Posthumus is accosted by a British lord who asks him about the progress of the battle. Posthumus recounts that at one stage, the British army was overcome and in disarray, and the soldiers were fleeing down a narrow path leaving the King to the mercy of the enemy. Yet out of nowhere an old man accompanied by two young lads had appeared, and with their words and deeds, instilled such courage in the fleeing Britons that they turned back and fought bravely as lions, freeing the King from the clutches of the enemy. As Posthumus relates the strange story, the listener is amazed at the way the two young men had wrought such a change in the hearts of the fleeing men. Posthumus does not relay his own act of courage in this decisive battle and infers that he only acted with such bravery because he sought death. Now that Britain is victorious, Posthumus decides to rejoin the Italian army so that he may find his end at the hands of his British captors. He is so full of remorse at Imogen's death and his role in it that he wishes to lay down his life. Just then, two British captains enter and find Posthumus who claims to be Roman. He is brought before Cymbeline who delivers him over to a jailer.

----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Another part of the field Enter POSTHUMUS and a Britain LORD LORD. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand? POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. LORD. I did. POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying, Through a strait lane- the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm'd With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length'ned shame. LORD. Where was this lane? POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier- An honest one, I warrant, who deserv'd So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for's country. Athwart the lane He, with two striplings- lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas'd or shame- Made good the passage, cried to those that fled 'Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!' These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many- For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing- with this word 'Stand, stand!' Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew'd; that some turn'd coward But by example- O, a sin in war Damn'd in the first beginners!- gan to look The way that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o' th' hunters. Then began A stop i' th' chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o' th' need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends O'erborne i' th' former wave. Ten chas'd by one Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o' th' field. LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys. POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't, And vent it for a mock'ry? Here is one: 'Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.' LORD. Nay, be not angry, sir. POSTHUMUS. 'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I'll be his friend; For if he'll do as he is made to do, I know he'll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme. LORD. Farewell; you're angry. Exit POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i' th' field and ask 'What news?' of me! To-day how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcasses! took heel to do't, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i' th' war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resum'd again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom's death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which neither here I'll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two BRITISH CAPTAINS and soldiers FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken. 'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th' affront with them. FIRST CAPTAIN. So 'tis reported; But none of 'em can be found. Stand! who's there? POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer'd him. SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th' King. Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman captives. The CAPTAINS present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a gaoler. Exeunt omnes ----------ACT 5 SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Another part of the field Enter POSTHUMUS and a Britain LORD LORD. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand? POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. LORD. I did. POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying, Through a strait lane- the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm'd With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length'ned shame. LORD. Where was this lane? POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier- An honest one, I warrant, who deserv'd So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for's country. Athwart the lane He, with two striplings- lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas'd or shame- Made good the passage, cried to those that fled 'Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!' These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many- For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing- with this word 'Stand, stand!' Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew'd; that some turn'd coward But by example- O, a sin in war Damn'd in the first beginners!- gan to look The way that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o' th' hunters. Then began A stop i' th' chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o' th' need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends O'erborne i' th' former wave. Ten chas'd by one Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o' th' field. LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys. POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't, And vent it for a mock'ry? Here is one: 'Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.' LORD. Nay, be not angry, sir. POSTHUMUS. 'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I'll be his friend; For if he'll do as he is made to do, I know he'll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme. LORD. Farewell; you're angry. Exit POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i' th' field and ask 'What news?' of me! To-day how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcasses! took heel to do't, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i' th' war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resum'd again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom's death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which neither here I'll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two BRITISH CAPTAINS and soldiers FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken. 'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th' affront with them. FIRST CAPTAIN. So 'tis reported; But none of 'em can be found. Stand! who's there? POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer'd him. SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th' King. Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman captives. The CAPTAINS present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a gaoler. Exeunt omnes

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 4

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 5 scene 4 based on the provided context.

Posthumus enters in chains, with his jailers. They leave him alone, whereupon he explains that he welcomes his bondage, as it is for him the way to freedom . He says his conscience is more of a prisoner than his body, and asks the gods to give him the "penitent instrument" to pick this lock, setting him free forever. He feels that volunteering to be put into chains is the best way. He asks the gods to take his life for Imogen's, though "'Tis not so dear" . He falls asleep. Solemn music sounds to signal the scene of Posthumus's dream. A group of spirits, Posthumus's ancestors and dead brothers, gather round him. They beg Jupiter, king of the gods, to intervene and help Posthumus. Jupiter descends on an eagle, and throws a thunderbolt. The spirits fall upon their knees. Jupiter is annoyed with them, but promises that he will uplift Posthumus's fortunes and that Posthumus will be reunited with Imogen. Posthumus awakens, bitterly disappointed that his relatives have vanished. He finds a book on the ground, and hopes that the contents are worthy of the cover. He opens the book and reads a cryptic prophecy. It predicts that when a lion's whelp shall be embraced by "a piece of tender air" , and when branches shall be lopped from a dead cedar , but which shall later revive , then Posthumus shall be happy and Britain shall flourish. Posthumus does not fully understand the prophecy, but feels it bears some likeness to his life, and so keeps it. The jailers return and tell Posthumus that he shall be hanged. He says he is more than ready. The First Gaoler, with mordant humor, comforts him with the news that he needs fear no more tavern bills: he who dies pays all debts. The Gaoler reflects that he has never seen a person who is so eager to be hanged as Posthumus. He wishes that everyone were good, so that there would be no more gaolers or gallows. Though this would deprive him of his present job, he would hope for a better one.

----------SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Britain. A prison Enter POSTHUMUS and two GAOLERS FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol'n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture. SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach. Exeunt GAOLERS POSTHUMUS. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better Than one that's sick o' th' gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cur'd By th' sure physician death, who is the key T' unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is't enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir'd more than constrain'd. To satisfy, If of my freedom 'tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that's not my desire. For Imogen's dear life take mine; and though 'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it. 'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake; You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow'rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I'll speak to thee in silence. [Sleeps] Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, SICILIUS LEONATUS, father to POSTHUMUS, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his WIFE, and mother to POSTHUMUS, with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two young LEONATI, brothers to POSTHUMUS, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle POSTHUMUS round as he lies sleeping SICILIUS. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay'd Attending nature's law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans' father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart. MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus ripp'd, Came crying 'mongst his foes, A thing of pity. SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv'd the praise o' th' world As great Sicilius' heir. FIRST BROTHER. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity? MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, To be exil'd and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen? SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O' th' other's villainy? SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That, striking in our country's cause, Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius' right With honour to maintain. FIRST BROTHER. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform'd. Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn'd The graces for his merits due, Being all to dolours turn'd? SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries. MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries. SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th' shining synod of the rest Against thy deity. BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly. JUPITER descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The GHOSTS fall on their knees JUPITER. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flow'rs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay'd, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [Ascends] SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulpherous to smell; the holy eagle Stoop'd as to foot us. His ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas'd. ALL. Thanks, Jupiter! SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest. [GHOSTS vanish] POSTHUMUS. [Waking] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn, Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness' favour, dream as I have done; Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise. [Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' 'Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I'll keep, if but for sympathy. Re-enter GAOLER GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death? POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago. GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook'd. POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot. GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows. POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow. GAOLER. Your death has eyes in's head, then; I have not seen him so pictur'd. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return to tell one. POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them. GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging's the way of winking. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King. POSTHUMUS. Thou bring'st good news: I am call'd to be made free. GAOLER. I'll be hang'd then. POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and MESSENGER GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't. Exit ----------ACT 5 SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Britain. A prison Enter POSTHUMUS and two GAOLERS FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol'n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture. SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach. Exeunt GAOLERS POSTHUMUS. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better Than one that's sick o' th' gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cur'd By th' sure physician death, who is the key T' unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is't enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir'd more than constrain'd. To satisfy, If of my freedom 'tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that's not my desire. For Imogen's dear life take mine; and though 'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it. 'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake; You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow'rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I'll speak to thee in silence. [Sleeps] Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, SICILIUS LEONATUS, father to POSTHUMUS, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his WIFE, and mother to POSTHUMUS, with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two young LEONATI, brothers to POSTHUMUS, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle POSTHUMUS round as he lies sleeping SICILIUS. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay'd Attending nature's law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans' father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart. MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus ripp'd, Came crying 'mongst his foes, A thing of pity. SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv'd the praise o' th' world As great Sicilius' heir. FIRST BROTHER. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity? MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, To be exil'd and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen? SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O' th' other's villainy? SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That, striking in our country's cause, Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius' right With honour to maintain. FIRST BROTHER. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform'd. Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn'd The graces for his merits due, Being all to dolours turn'd? SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries. MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries. SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th' shining synod of the rest Against thy deity. BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly. JUPITER descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The GHOSTS fall on their knees JUPITER. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flow'rs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay'd, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [Ascends] SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulpherous to smell; the holy eagle Stoop'd as to foot us. His ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas'd. ALL. Thanks, Jupiter! SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest. [GHOSTS vanish] POSTHUMUS. [Waking] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn, Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness' favour, dream as I have done; Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise. [Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' 'Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I'll keep, if but for sympathy. Re-enter GAOLER GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death? POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago. GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook'd. POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot. GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows. POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow. GAOLER. Your death has eyes in's head, then; I have not seen him so pictur'd. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return to tell one. POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them. GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging's the way of winking. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King. POSTHUMUS. Thou bring'st good news: I am call'd to be made free. GAOLER. I'll be hang'd then. POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and MESSENGER GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't. Exit

Cyrano De Bergerac.act 1.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of scene 2 using the context provided.

scene 1|scene 2|scene 3|scene 5|scene 6

Ligniere introduces Christian de Neuvillette to two gentlemen, Cuigy and Brissaille, who comment on his elegant appearance but outmoded clothes. Ligniere explains that his friend has come from Touraine, and Christian adds that he is entering the Guards as a Cadet. When Ligniere grows restless and wants to leave and get another drink, Christian begs him to wait for a little while. Christian, who has fallen in love at first sight with a beautiful lady, wants Ligniere to help him watch for her arrival. He confesses to Ligniere that he also needs help in talking to her, for he does not know how to address a lady with elegance and wit. While the two of them wait, Ragueneau, the patron and pastry cook of actors and poets, enters, wearing his best clothes. Ragueneau, who appears agitated, is looking for Cyrano de Bergerac, who has not yet arrived at the theater. Ragueneau expects there to be a disturbance. Cyrano has forbidden Montfleury to act on the stage for three weeks, but he is cast to play Phaedo in the upcoming performance. In the course of the conversation, information about Cyrano is revealed. He is a poet, swordsman, scientist, and musician, whose character is described as "odd, impetuous, brash, and outlandish. . . proudest of all the thin-skinned swaggerers lovingly spawned by Gascony." Ragueneau then goes on to describe Cyrano's appearance. He usually wears a feathered hat and a cape, held behind by a sword rising like a cock's tail. A huge nose covers much of his face. As Ragueneau talks, Roxane, the beautiful woman that Christian longs to meet, enters her box in the theater. Her beauty creates an immediate stir among the audience. Ligniere tells Christian that her name is Madeleine Robin. He describes her as a sharp-witted orphan and the cousin of Cyrano de Bergerac. Christian watches as a gentleman visits Roxane in her box. Ligniere explains that the gentleman is her admirer, Count de Guiche. Since De Guiche is already married to Cardinal Richelieu's niece, he is trying to arrange a marriage between Roxane and his protege, Viscount de Valvert, a weak, accommodating man. Ligniere knows that De Guiche has ulterior motives and declares that he has written a song exposing the count's crafty designs. Hearing about Viscount de Valvert, Christian wants to go and have a duel with him, wanting to protect Roxane from him. Ligniere, however, restrains him by drawing his attention to Roxane, who seems to watching Christian.

----------SCENE 1--------- The public, arriving by degrees. Troopers, burghers, lackeys, pages, a pickpocket, the doorkeeper, etc., followed by the marquises. Cuigy, Brissaille, the buffet-girl, the violinists, etc. (A confusion of loud voices is heard outside the door. A trooper enters hastily.) THE DOORKEEPER (following him): Hollo! You there! Your money! THE TROOPER: I enter gratis. THE DOORKEEPER: Why? THE TROOPER: Why? I am of the King's Household Cavalry, 'faith! THE DOORKEEPER (to another trooper who enters): And you? SECOND TROOPER: I pay nothing. THE DOORKEEPER: How so? SECOND TROOPER: I am a musketeer. FIRST TROOPER (to the second): The play will not begin till two. The pit is empty. Come, a bout with the foils to pass the time. (They fence with the foils they have brought.) A LACKEY (entering): Pst. . .Flanquin. . .! ANOTHER (already there): Champagne?. . . THE FIRST (showing him cards and dice which he takes from his doublet): See, here be cards and dice. (He seats himself on the floor): Let's play. THE SECOND (doing the same): Good; I am with you, villain! FIRST LACKEY (taking from his pocket a candle-end, which he lights, and sticks on the floor): I made free to provide myself with light at my master's expense! A GUARDSMAN (to a shop-girl who advances): 'Twas prettily done to come before the lights were lit! (He takes her round the waist.) ONE OF THE FENCERS (receiving a thrust): A hit! ONE OF THE CARD-PLAYERS: Clubs! THE GUARDSMAN (following the girl): A kiss! THE SHOP-GIRL (struggling to free herself): They're looking! THE GUARDSMAN (drawing her to a dark corner): No fear! No one can see! A MAN (sitting on the ground with others, who have brought their provisions): By coming early, one can eat in comfort. A BURGHER (conducting his son): Let us sit here, son. A CARD-PLAYER: Triple ace! A MAN (taking a bottle from under his cloak, and also seating himself on the floor): A tippler may well quaff his Burgundy (he drinks): in the Burgundy Hotel! THE BURGHER (to his son): 'Faith! A man might think he had fallen in a bad house here! (He points with his cane to the drunkard): What with topers! (One of the fencers in breaking off, jostles him): brawlers! (He stumbles into the midst of the card-players): gamblers! THE GUARDSMAN (behind him, still teasing the shop-girl): Come, one kiss! THE BURGHER (hurriedly pulling his son away): By all the holies! And this, my boy, is the theater where they played Rotrou erewhile. THE YOUNG MAN: Ay, and Corneille! A TROOP OF PAGES (hand-in-hand, enter dancing the farandole, and singing): Tra' a la, la, la, la, la, la, la, lere. . . THE DOORKEEPER (sternly, to the pages): You pages there, none of your tricks!. . . FIRST PAGE (with an air of wounded dignity): Oh, sir!--such a suspicion!. . . (Briskly, to the second page, the moment the doorkeeper's back is turned): Have you string? THE SECOND: Ay, and a fish-hook with it. FIRST PAGE: We can angle for wigs, then, up there i' th' gallery. A PICKPOCKET (gathering about him some evil-looking youths): Hark ye, young cut-purses, lend an ear, while I give you your first lesson in thieving. SECOND PAGE (calling up to others in the top galleries): You there! Have you peashooters? THIRD PAGE (from above): Ay, have we, and peas withal! (He blows, and peppers them with peas.) THE YOUNG MAN (to his father): What piece do they give us? THE BURGHER: 'Clorise.' THE YOUNG MAN: Who may the author be? THE BURGHER: Master Balthazar Baro. It is a play!. . . (He goes arm-in-arm with his son.) THE PICKPOCKET (to his pupils): Have a care, above all, of the lace knee-ruffles--cut them off! A SPECTATOR (to another, showing him a corner in the gallery): I was up there, the first night of the 'Cid.' THE PICKPOCKET (making with his fingers the gesture of filching): Thus for watches-- THE BURGHER (coming down again with his son): Ah! You shall presently see some renowned actors. . . THE PICKPOCKET (making the gestures of one who pulls something stealthily, with little jerks): Thus for handkerchiefs-- THE BURGHER: Montfleury. . . SOME ONE (shouting from the upper gallery): Light up, below there! THE BURGHER: . . .Bellerose, L'Epy, La Beaupre, Jodelet! A PAGE (in the pit): Here comes the buffet-girl! THE BUFFET-GIRL (taking her place behind the buffet): Oranges, milk, raspberry-water, cedar bitters! (A hubbub outside the door is heard.) A FALSETTO VOICE: Make place, brutes! A LACKEY (astonished): The Marquises!--in the pit?. . . ANOTHER LACKEY: Oh! only for a minute or two! (Enter a band of young marquises.) A MARQUIS (seeing that the hall is half empty): What now! So we make our entrance like a pack of woolen-drapers! Peaceably, without disturbing the folk, or treading on their toes!--Oh, fie! Fie! (Recognizing some other gentlemen who have entered a little before him): Cuigy! Brissaille! (Greetings and embraces.) CUIGY: True to our word!. . .Troth, we are here before the candles are lit. THE MARQUIS: Ay, indeed! Enough! I am of an ill humor. ANOTHER: Nay, nay, Marquis! see, for your consolation, they are coming to light up! ALL THE AUDIENCE (welcoming the entrance of the lighter): Ah!. . . (They form in groups round the lusters as they are lit. Some people have taken their seats in the galleries. Ligniere, a distinguished-looking roue, with disordered shirt-front arm-in-arm with christian de Neuvillette. Christian, who is dressed elegantly, but rather behind the fashion, seems preoccupied, and keeps looking at the boxes.) ----------SCENE 2--------- The same. Christian, Ligniere, then Ragueneau and Le Bret. CUIGY: Ligniere! BRISSAILLE (laughing): Not drunk as yet? LIGNIERE (aside to Christian): I may introduce you? (Christian nods in assent): Baron de Neuvillette. (Bows.) THE AUDIENCE (applauding as the first luster is lighted and drawn up): Ah! CUIGY (to Brissaille, looking at Christian): 'Tis a pretty fellow! FIRST MARQUIS (who has overheard): Pooh! LIGNIERE (introducing them to Christian): My lords De Cuigy. De Brissaille. . . CHRISTIAN (bowing): Delighted!. . . FIRST MARQUIS (to second): He is not ill to look at, but certes, he is not costumed in the latest mode. LIGNIERE (to Cuigy): This gentleman comes from Touraine. CHRISTIAN: Yes, I have scarce been twenty days in Paris; tomorrow I join the Guards, in the Cadets. FIRST MARQUIS (watching the people who are coming into the boxes): There is the wife of the Chief-Justice. THE BUFFET-GIRL: Oranges, milk. . . THE VIOLINISTS (tuning up): La--la-- CUIGY (to Christian, pointing to the hall, which is filling fast): 'Tis crowded. CHRISTIAN: Yes, indeed. FIRST MARQUIS: All the great world! (They recognize and name the different elegantly dressed ladies who enter the boxes, bowing low to them. The ladies send smiles in answer.) SECOND MARQUIS: Madame de Guemenee. CUIGY: Madame de Bois-Dauphin. FIRST MARQUIS: Adored by us all! BRISSAILLE: Madame de Chavigny. . . SECOND MARQUIS: Who sports with our poor hearts!. . . LIGNIERE: Ha! so Monsieur de Corneille has come back from Rouen! THE YOUNG MAN (to his father): Is the Academy here? THE BURGHER: Oh, ay, I see several of them. There is Boudu, Boissat, and Cureau de la Chambre, Porcheres, Colomby, Bourzeys, Bourdon, Arbaud. . .all names that will live! 'Tis fine! FIRST MARQUIS: Attention! Here come our precieuses; Barthenoide, Urimedonte, Cassandace, Felixerie. . . SECOND MARQUIS: Ah! How exquisite their fancy names are! Do you know them all, Marquis? FIRST MARQUIS: Ay, Marquis, I do, every one! LIGNIERE (drawing Christian aside): Friend, I but came here to give you pleasure. The lady comes not. I will betake me again to my pet vice. CHRISTIAN (persuasively): No, no! You, who are ballad-maker to Court and City alike, can tell me better than any who the lady is for whom I die of love. Stay yet awhile. THE FIRST VIOLIN (striking his bow on the desk): Gentlemen violinists! (He raises his bow.) THE BUFFET-GIRL: Macaroons, lemon-drink. . . (The violins begin to play.) CHRISTIAN: Ah! I fear me she is coquettish, and over nice and fastidious! I, who am so poor of wit, how dare I speak to her--how address her? This language that they speak to-day--ay, and write--confounds me; I am but an honest soldier, and timid withal. She has ever her place, there, on the right--the empty box, see you! LIGNIERE (making as if to go): I must go. CHRISTIAN (detaining him): Nay, stay. LIGNIERE: I cannot. D'Assoucy waits me at the tavern, and here one dies of thirst. THE BUFFET-GIRL (passing before him with a tray): Orange drink? LIGNIERE: Ugh! THE BUFFET-GIRL: Milk? LIGNIERE: Pah! THE BUFFET-GIRL: Rivesalte? LIGNIERE: Stay. (To Christian): I will remain awhile.--Let me taste this rivesalte. (He sits by the buffet; the girl pours some out for him.) CRIES (from all the audience, at the entrance of a plump little man, joyously excited): Ah! Ragueneau! LIGNIERE (to Christian): 'Tis the famous tavern-keeper Ragueneau. RAGUENEAU (dressed in the Sunday clothes of a pastry-cook, going up quickly to Ligniere): Sir, have you seen Monsieur de Cyrano? LIGNIERE (introducing him to Christian): The pastry-cook of the actors and the poets! RAGUENEAU (overcome): You do me too great honor. . . LIGNIERE: Nay, hold your peace, Maecenas that you are! RAGUENEAU: True, these gentlemen employ me. . . LIGNIERE: On credit! He is himself a poet of a pretty talent. . . RAGUENEAU: So they tell me. LIGNIERE: --Mad after poetry! RAGUENEAU: 'Tis true that, for a little ode. . . LIGNIERE: You give a tart. . . RAGUENEAU: Oh!--a tartlet! LIGNIERE: Brave fellow! He would fain fain excuse himself! --And for a triolet, now, did you not give in exchange. . . RAGUENEAU: Some little rolls! LIGNIERE (severely): They were milk-rolls! And as for the theater, which you love? RAGUENEAU: Oh! to distraction! LIGNIERE: How pay you your tickets, ha?--with cakes. Your place, to-night, come tell me in my ear, what did it cost you? RAGUENEAU: Four custards, and fifteen cream-puffs. (He looks around on all sides): Monsieur de Cyrano is not here? 'Tis strange. LIGNIERE: Why so? RAGUENEAU: Montfleury plays! LIGNIERE: Ay, 'tis true that that old wine-barrel is to take Phedon's part to-night; but what matter is that to Cyrano? RAGUENEAU: How? Know you not? He has got a hot hate for Montfleury, and so!--has forbid him strictly to show his face on the stage for one whole month. LIGNIERE (drinking his fourth glass): Well? RAGUENEAU: Montfleury will play! CUIGY: He can not hinder that. RAGUENEAU: Oh! oh! that I have come to see! FIRST MARQUIS: Who is this Cyrano? CUIGY: A fellow well skilled in all tricks of fence. SECOND MARQUIS: Is he of noble birth? CUIGY: Ay, noble enough. He is a cadet in the Guards. (Pointing to a gentleman who is going up and down the hall as if searching for some one): But 'tis his friend Le Bret, yonder, who can best tell you. (He calls him): Le Bret! (Le Bret comes towards them): Seek you for De Bergerac? LE BRET: Ay, I am uneasy. . . CUIGY: Is it not true that he is the strangest of men? LE BRET (tenderly): True, that he is the choicest of earthly beings! RAGUENEAU: Poet! CUIGY: Soldier! BRISSAILLE: Philosopher! LE BRET: Musician! LIGNIERE: And of how fantastic a presence! RAGENEAU: Marry, 'twould puzzle even our grim painter Philippe de Champaigne to portray him! Methinks, whimsical, wild, comical as he is, only Jacques Callot, now dead and gone, had succeeded better, and had made of him the maddest fighter of all his visored crew--with his triple-plumed beaver and six-pointed doublet--the sword-point sticking up 'neath his mantle like an insolent cocktail! He's prouder than all the fierce Artabans of whom Gascony has ever been and will ever be the prolific Alma Mater! Above his Toby ruff he carries a nose!--ah, good my lords, what a nose is his! When one sees it one is fain to cry aloud, 'Nay! 'tis too much! He plays a joke on us!' Then one laughs, says 'He will anon take it off.' But no!--Monsieur de Bergerac always keeps it on. LE BRET (throwing back his head): He keeps it on--and cleaves in two any man who dares remark on it! RAGUENEAU (proudly): His sword--'tis one half of the Fates' shears! FIRST MARQUIS (shrugging his shoulders): He will not come! RAGUENEAU: I say he will! and I wager a fowl--a la Ragueneau. THE MARQUIS (laughing): Good! (Murmurs of admiration in hall. Roxane has just appeared in her box. She seats herself in front, the duenna at the back. Christian, who is paying the buffet-girl, does not see her entrance.) SECOND MARQUIS (with little cries of joy): Ah, gentlemen! she is fearfully--terribly--ravishing! FIRST MARQUIS: When one looks at her one thinks of a peach smiling at a strawberry! SECOND MARQUIS: And what freshness! A man approaching her too near might chance to get a bad chill at the heart! CHRISTIAN (raising his head, sees Roxane, and catches Ligniere by the arm): 'Tis she! LIGNIERE: Ah! is it she? CHRISTIAN: Ay, tell me quick--I am afraid. LIGNIERE (tasting his rivesalte in sips): Magdaleine Robin--Roxane, so called! A subtle wit--a precieuse. CHRISTIAN: Woe is me! LIGNIERE: Free. An orphan. The cousin of Cyrano, of whom we were now speaking. (At this moment an elegant nobleman, with blue ribbon across his breast, enters the box, and talks with Roxane, standing.) CHRISTIAN (starting): Who is yonder man? LIGNIERE (who is becoming tipsy, winking at him): Ha! ha! Count de Guiche. Enamored of her. But wedded to the niece of Armand de Richelieu. Would fain marry Roxane to a certain sorry fellow, one Monsieur de Valvert, a viscount--and--accommodating! She will none of that bargain; but De Guiche is powerful, and can persecute the daughter of a plain untitled gentleman. More by token, I myself have exposed this cunning plan of his to the world, in a song which. . .Ho! he must rage at me! The end hit home. . .Listen! (He gets up staggering, and raises his glass, ready to sing.) CHRISTIAN: No. Good-night. LIGNIERE: Where go you? CHRISTIAN: To Monsieur de Valvert! LIGNIERE: Have a care! It is he who will kill you (showing him Roxane by a look): Stay where you are--she is looking at you. CHRISTIAN: It is true! (He stands looking at her. The group of pickpockets seeing him thus, head in air and open-mouthed, draw near to him.) LIGNIERE: 'Tis I who am going. I am athirst! And they expect me--in the taverns! (He goes out, reeling.) LE BRET (who has been all round the hall, coming back to Ragueneau reassured): No sign of Cyrano. RAGUENEAU (incredulously): All the same. . . LE BRET: A hope is left to me--that he has not seen the playbill! THE AUDIENCE: Begin, begin! ----------SCENE 3--------- The same, all but Ligniere. De Guiche, Valvert, then Montfleury. A marquis (watching De Guiche, who comes down from Roxane's box, and crosses the pit surrounded by obsequious noblemen, among them the Viscount de Valvert): He pays a fine court, your De Guiche! ANOTHER: Faugh!. . .Another Gascon! THE FIRST: Ay, but the cold, supple Gascon--that is the stuff success is made of! Believe me, we had best make our bow to him. (They go toward De Guiche.) SECOND MARQUIS: What fine ribbons! How call you the color, Count de Guiche? 'Kiss me, my darling,' or 'Timid Fawn?' DE GUICHE: 'Tis the color called 'Sick Spaniard.' FIRST MARQUIS: 'Faith! The color speaks truth, for, thanks to your valor, things will soon go ill for Spain in Flanders. DE GUICHE: I go on the stage! Will you come? (He goes toward the stage, followed by the marquises and gentlemen. Turning, he calls): Come you Valvert! CHRISTIAN (who is watching and listening, starts on hearing this name): The Viscount! Ah! I will throw full in his face my. . . (He puts his hand in his pocket, and finds there the hand of a pickpocket who is about to rob him. He turns round): Hey? THE PICKPOCKET: Oh! CHRISTIAN (holding him tightly): I was looking for a glove. THE PICKPOCKET (smiling piteously): And you find a hand. (Changing his tone, quickly and in a whisper): Let me but go, and I will deliver you a secret. CHRISTIAN (still holding him): What is it? THE PICKPOCKET: Ligniere. . .he who has just left you. . . CHRISTIAN (same play): Well? THE PICKPOCKET: His life is in peril. A song writ by him has given offense in high places-- and a hundred men--I am of them--are posted to-night. . . CHRISTIAN: A hundred men! By whom posted? THE PICKPOCKET: I may not say--a secret. . . CHRISTIAN (shrugging his shoulders): Oh! THE PICKPOCKET (with great dignity): . . .Of the profession. CHRISTIAN: Where are they posted? THE PICKPOCKET: At the Porte de Nesle. On his way homeward. Warn him. CHRISTIAN (letting go of his wrists): But where can I find him? THE PICKPOCKET: Run round to all the taverns--The Golden Wine Press, the Pine Cone, The Belt that Bursts, The Two Torches, The Three Funnels, and at each leave a word that shall put him on his guard. CHRISTIAN: Good--I fly! Ah, the scoundrels! A hundred men 'gainst one! (Looking lovingly at Roxane): Ah, to leave her!. . . (looking with rage at Valvert): and him!. . .But save Ligniere I must! (He hurries out. De Guiche, the viscount, the marquises, have all disappeared behind the curtain to take their places on the benches placed on the stage. The pit is quite full; the galleries and boxes are also crowded.) THE AUDIENCE: Begin! A BURGHER (whose wig is drawn up on the end of a string by a page in the upper gallery): My wig! CRIES OF DELIGHT: He is bald! Bravo, pages--ha! ha! ha!. . . THE BURGHER (furious, shaking his fist): Young villain! LAUGHTER AND CRIES (beginning very loud, and dying gradually away): Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! (Total silence.) LE BRET (astonished): What means this sudden silence?. . . (A spectator says something to him in a low voice): Is't true? THE SPECTATOR: I have just heard it on good authority. MURMURS (spreading through the hall): Hush! Is it he? No! Ay, I say! In the box with the bars in front! The Cardinal! The Cardinal! The Cardinal! A PAGE: The devil! We shall have to behave ourselves. . . (A knock is heard upon the stage. Every one is motionless. A pause.) THE VOICE OF A MARQUIS (in the silence, behind the curtain): Snuff that candle! ANOTHER MARQUIS (putting his head through the opening in the curtain): A chair! (A chair is passed from hand to hand, over the heads of the spectators. The marquis takes it and disappears, after blowing some kisses to the boxes.) A SPECTATOR: Silence! (Three knocks are heard on the stage. The curtain opens in the centre Tableau. The marquises in insolent attitudes seated on each side of the stage. The scene represents a pastoral landscape. Four little lusters light the stage; the violins play softly.) LE BRET (in a low voice to Ragueneau): Montfleury comes on the scene? RAGUENEAU (also in a low voice): Ay, 'tis he who begins. LE BRET: Cyrano is not here. RAGUENEAU: I have lost my wager. LE BRET: 'Tis all the better! (An air on the drone-pipes is heard, and Montfleury enters, enormously stout, in an Arcadian shepherd's dress, a hat wreathed with roses drooping over one ear, blowing into a ribboned drone pipe.) THE PIT (applauding): Bravo, Montfleury! Montfleury! MONTFLEURY (after bowing low, begins the part of Phedon): 'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu solitaire, Se prescrit a soi-meme un exil volontaire, Et qui, lorsque Zephire a souffle sur les bois. . .' A VOICE (from the middle of the pit): Villain! Did I not forbid you to show your face here for month? (General stupor. Every one turns round. Murmurs.) DIFFERENT VOICES: Hey?--What?--What is't?. . . (The people stand up in the boxes to look.) CUIGY: 'Tis he! LE BRET (terrified): Cyrano! THE VOICE: King of clowns! Leave the stage this instant! ALL THE AUDIENCE (indignantly): Oh! MONTFLEURY: But. . . THE VOICE: Do you dare defy me? DIFFERENT VOICES (from the pit and the boxes): Peace! Enough!--Play on, Montfleury--fear nothing! MONTFLEURY (in a trembling voice): 'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu sol--' THE VOICE (more fiercely): Well! Chief of all the blackguards, must I come and give you a taste of my cane? (A hand holding a cane starts up over the heads of the spectators.) MONTFLEURY (in a voice that trembles more and more): 'Heureux qui. . .' (The cane is shaken.) THE VOICE: Off the stage! THE PIT: Oh! MONTFLEURY (choking): 'Heureux qui loin des cours. . .' CYRANO (appearing suddenly in the pit, standing on a chair, his arms crossed, his beaver cocked fiercely, his mustache bristling, his nose terrible to see): Ah! I shall be angry in a minute!. . . (Sensation.) ----------SCENE 5--------- Cyrano, Le Bret. CYRANO (to Le Bret): Now talk--I listen. (He stands at the buffet, and placing before him first the macaroon): Dinner!. . . (then the grapes): Dessert!. . . (then the glass of water): Wine!. . . (he seats himself): So! And now to table! Ah! I was hungry, friend, nay, ravenous! (eating): You said--? LE BRET: These fops, would-be belligerent, Will, if you heed them only, turn your head!. . . Ask people of good sense if you would know The effect of your fine insolence-- CYRANO (finishing his macaroon): Enormous! LE BRET: The Cardinal. . . CYRANO (radiant): The Cardinal--was there? LE BRET: Must have thought it. . . CYRANO: Original, i' faith! LE BRET: But. . . CYRANO: He's an author. 'Twill not fail to please him That I should mar a brother-author's play. LE BRET: You make too many enemies by far! CYRANO (eating his grapes): How many think you I have made to-night? LE BRET: Forty, no less, not counting ladies. CYRANO: Count! LE BRET: Montfleury first, the bourgeois, then De Guiche, The Viscount, Baro, the Academy. . . CYRANO: Enough! I am o'erjoyed! LE BRET: But these strange ways, Where will they lead you, at the end? Explain Your system--come! CYRANO: I in a labyrinth Was lost--too many different paths to choose; I took. . . LE BRET: Which? CYRANO: Oh! by far the simplest path. . . Decided to be admirable in all! LE BRET (shrugging his shoulders): So be it! But the motive of your hate To Montfleury--come, tell me! CYRANO (rising): This Silenus, Big-bellied, coarse, still deems himself a peril-- A danger to the love of lovely ladies, And, while he sputters out his actor's part, Makes sheep's eyes at their boxes--goggling frog! I hate him since the evening he presumed To raise his eyes to hers. . .Meseemed I saw A slug crawl slavering o'er a flower's petals! LE BRET (stupefied): How now? What? Can it be. . .? CYRANO (laughing bitterly): That I should love?. . . (Changing his tone, gravely): I love. LE BRET: And may I know?. . .You never said. . . CYRANO: Come now, bethink you!. . .The fond hope to be Beloved, e'en by some poor graceless lady, Is, by this nose of mine for aye bereft me; --This lengthy nose which, go where'er I will, Pokes yet a quarter-mile ahead of me; But I may love--and who? 'Tis Fate's decree I love the fairest--how were't otherwise? LE BRET: The fairest?. . . CYRANO: Ay, the fairest of the world, Most brilliant--most refined--most golden-haired! LE BRET: Who is this lady? CYRANO: She's a danger mortal, All unsuspicious--full of charms unconscious, Like a sweet perfumed rose--a snare of nature, Within whose petals Cupid lurks in ambush! He who has seen her smile has known perfection, --Instilling into trifles grace's essence, Divinity in every careless gesture; Not Venus' self can mount her conch blown sea-ward, As she can step into her chaise a porteurs, Nor Dian fleet across the woods spring-flowered, Light as my Lady o'er the stones of Paris!. . . LE BRET: Sapristi! all is clear! CYRANO: As spiderwebs! LE BRET: Your cousin, Madeleine Robin? CYRANO: Roxane! LE BRET: Well, but so much the better! Tell her so! She saw your triumph here this very night! CYRANO: Look well at me--then tell me, with what hope This vile protuberance can inspire my heart! I do not lull me with illusions--yet At times I'm weak: in evening hours dim I enter some fair pleasance, perfumed sweet; With my poor ugly devil of a nose I scent spring's essence--in the silver rays I see some knight--a lady on his arm, And think 'To saunter thus 'neath the moonshine, I were fain to have my lady, too, beside!' Thought soars to ecstasy. . .O sudden fall! --The shadow of my profile on the wall! LE BRET (tenderly): My friend!. . . CYRANO: My friend, at times 'tis hard, 'tis bitter, To feel my loneliness--my own ill-favor. . . LE BRET (taking his hand): You weep? CYRANO: No, never! Think, how vilely suited Adown this nose a tear its passage tracing! I never will, while of myself I'm master, let the divinity of tears--their beauty Be wedded to such common ugly grossness. Nothing more solemn than a tear--sublimer; And I would not by weeping turn to laughter The grave emotion that a tear engenders! LE BRET: Never be sad! What's love?--a chance of Fortune! CYRANO (shaking his head): Look I a Caesar to woo Cleopatra? A Tito to aspire to Berenice? LE BRET: Your courage and your wit!--The little maid Who offered you refreshment even now, Her eyes did not abhor you--you saw well! CYRANO (impressed): True! LE BRET: Well, how then?. . .I saw Roxane herself Was death-pale as she watched the duel. CYRANO: Pale? LE BRET: Her heart, her fancy, are already caught! Put it to th' touch! CYRANO: That she may mock my face? That is the one thing on this earth I fear! THE PORTER (introducing some one to Cyrano): Sir, some one asks for you. . . CYRANO (seeing the duenna): God! her duenna! ----------SCENE 6--------- Cyrano, Le Bret, the duenna. THE DUENNA (with a low bow): I was bid ask you where a certain lady Could see her valiant cousin--but in secret. CYRANO (overwhelmed): See me? THE DUENNA (courtesying): Ay, Sir! She has somewhat to tell. CYRANO: Somewhat?. . . THE DUENNA (still courtesying): Ay, private matters! CYRANO (staggering): Ah, my God! THE DUENNA: To-morrow, at the early blush of dawn, We go to hear mass at St. Roch. CYRANO (leaning against Le Bret): My God! THE DUENNA: After--what place for a few minutes' speech? CYRANO (confused): Where? Ah!. . .but. . .Ah, my God!. . . THE DUENNA: Say! CYRANO: I reflect!. . . THE DUENNA: Where? CYRANO: At--the pastry-house of Ragueneau. THE DUENNA: Where lodges he? CYRANO: The Rue--God!--St. Honore! THE DUENNA (going): Good. Be you there. At seven. CYRANO: Without fail. (The duenna goes out.)

Cyrano De Bergerac.act 2.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of scene 7 using the context provided.

scene 1|scene 2|scene 3|scene 4|scene 5|scene 6|scene 7

Ragueneau and the poets return. Since they have learned that Cyrano was the brave swordsman at the Porte de Nesle, one of the poets wants to write a verse about Cyrano's feat; Cyrano, however, is not interested. Immediately after them enter a group of men from Cyrano's regiment, led by Captain Carbon de Castel Jaloux. They have come to congratulate Cyrano for his heroic fight against one hundred men. Le Bret then announces that a large Parisian crowd has also come out to applaud his deed, and a reporter wants to interview him. Cyrano, however, receives them all coolly. When Le Bret asks his friend about the meeting with Roxane, Cyrano responds by telling him to be quiet. De Guiche arrives and offers Cyrano patronage through Cardinal Richelieu, his rich and powerful uncle. Cyrano is tempted to ask them to support his play, Agrippine, but De Guiche explains that Richelieu always alters a script before he has it produced. Since Cyrano wants no one to touch his play, he refuses the offer of patronage. De Guiche accuses Cyrano of being too proud. Some of the Cadets enter with the feathered hats of the men Cyrano fought at the Porte de Nesle. The sight of the hats causes Cuigy to laugh, as he comments on the probable frustration of the person who hired the attackers. De Guiche then claims responsibility for the attack. He said he wanted to be rid of Ligniere, whom he judges to be a "drunken rhymester." Cyrano then asks De Guiche if he would like to take the hats back to his defeated friends. Feeling insulted, De Guiche warns Cyrano that he is acting like Don Quixote, trying to fight windmills. Cyrano wittily turns the argument on De Guiche, asking him if his men are windmills "who veer with every change of wind". De Guiche warns that the windmills will hurl Cyrano down. Cyrano insists, however, that they will only serve to sweep him up. When De Guiche leaves in a huff, Le Bret is upset that Cyrano has passed up an opportunity to have a famous patron, while making a powerful and influential man his enemy. Cyrano then rants against the system of patronage, saying he refuses to bow to anyone; he wants to be free and independent, not beholden to an important person. He adds that he enjoys making enemies because he can do it without bowing. Le Bret comments that Cyrano's bitterness has probably been caused by his meeting with Roxane. Cyrano sharply silences him, not wanting to discuss his cousin.

----------SCENE 1--------- Ragueneau, pastry-cooks, then Lise. Ragueneau is writing, with an inspired air, at a small table, and counting on his fingers. FIRST PASTRY-COOK (bringing in an elaborate fancy dish): Fruits in nougat! SECOND PASTRY-COOK (bringing another dish): Custard! THIRD PASTRY-COOK (bringing a roast, decorated with feathers): Peacock! FOURTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a batch of cakes on a slab): Rissoles! FIFTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a sort of pie-dish): Beef jelly! RAGUENEAU (ceasing to write, and raising his head): Aurora's silver rays begin to glint e'en now on the copper pans, and thou, O Ragueneau! must perforce stifle in thy breast the God of Song! Anon shall come the hour of the lute!--now 'tis the hour of the oven! (He rises. To a cook): You, make that sauce longer, 'tis too short! THE COOK: How much too short? RAGUENEAU: Three feet. (He passes on farther.) THE COOK: What means he? FIRST PASTRY-COOK (showing a dish to Ragueneau): The tart! SECOND PASTRY-COOK: The pie! RAGUENEAU (before the fire): My muse, retire, lest thy bright eyes be reddened by the fagot's blaze! (To a cook, showing him some loaves): You have put the cleft o' th' loaves in the wrong place; know you not that the coesura should be between the hemistiches? (To another, showing him an unfinished pasty): To this palace of paste you must add the roof. . . (To a young apprentice, who, seated on the ground, is spitting the fowls): And you, as you put on your lengthy spit the modest fowl and the superb turkey, my son, alternate them, as the old Malherbe loved well to alternate his long lines of verse with the short ones; thus shall your roasts, in strophes, turn before the flame! ANOTHER APPRENTICE (also coming up with a tray covered by a napkin): Master, I bethought me erewhile of your tastes, and made this, which will please you, I hope. (He uncovers the tray, and shows a large lyre made of pastry.) RAGUENEAU (enchanted): A lyre! THE APPRENTICE: 'Tis of brioche pastry. RAGUENEAU (touched): With conserved fruits. THE APPRENTICE: The strings, see, are of sugar. RAGUENEAU (giving him a coin): Go, drink my health! (Seeing Lise enter): Hush! My wife. Bustle, pass on, and hide that money! (To Lise, showing her the lyre, with a conscious look): Is it not beautiful? LISE: 'Tis passing silly! (She puts a pile of papers on the counter.) RAGUENEAU: Bags? Good. I thank you. (He looks at them): Heavens! my cherished leaves! The poems of my friends! Torn, dismembered, to make bags for holding biscuits and cakes!. . .Ah, 'tis the old tale again. . .Orpheus and the Bacchantes! LISE (dryly): And am I not free to turn at last to some use the sole thing that your wretched scribblers of halting lines leave behind them by way of payment? RAGUENEAU: Groveling ant!. . .Insult not the divine grasshoppers, the sweet singers! LISE: Before you were the sworn comrade of all that crew, my friend, you did not call your wife ant and Bacchante! RAGUENEAU: To turn fair verse to such a use! LISE: 'Faith, 'tis all it's good for. RAGUENEAU: Pray then, madam, to what use would you degrade prose? ----------SCENE 2--------- The same. Two children, who have just trotted into the shop. RAGUENEAU: What would you, little ones? FIRST CHILD: Three pies. RAGUENEAU (serving them): See, hot and well browned. SECOND CHILD: If it please you, Sir, will you wrap them up for us? RAGUENEAU (aside, distressed): Alas! one of my bags! (To the children): What? Must I wrap them up? (He takes a bag, and just as he is about to put in the pies, he reads): 'Ulysses thus, on leaving fair Penelope. . .' Not that one! (He puts it aside, and takes another, and as he is about to put in the pies, he reads): 'The gold-locked Phoebus. . .' Nay, nor that one!. . . (Same play.) LISE (impatiently): What are you dallying for? RAGUENEAU: Here! here! here (He chooses a third, resignedly): The sonnet to Phillis!. . .but 'tis hard to part with it! LISE: By good luck he has made up his mind at last! (Shrugging her shoulders): Nicodemus! (She mounts on a chair, and begins to range plates on a dresser.) RAGUENEAU (taking advantage of the moment she turns her back, calls back the children, who are already at the door): Hist! children!. . .render me back the sonnet to Phillis, and you shall have six pies instead of three. (The children give him back the bag, seize the cakes quickly, and go out.) RAGUENEAU (smoothing out the paper, begins to declaim): 'Phillis!. . .' On that sweet name a smear of butter! 'Phillis!. . .' (Cyrano enters hurriedly.) ----------SCENE 3--------- Ragueneau, Lise, Cyrano, then the musketeer. CYRANO: What's o'clock? RAGUENEAU (bowing low): Six o'clock. CYRANO (with emotion): In one hour's time! (He paces up and down the shop.) RAGUENEAU (following him): Bravo! I saw. . . CYRANO: Well, what saw you, then? RAGUENEAU: Your combat!. . . CYRANO: Which? RAGUENEAU: That in the Burgundy Hotel, 'faith! CYRANO (contemptuously): Ah!. . .the duel! RAGUENEAU (admiringly): Ay! the duel in verse!. . . LISE: He can talk of naught else! CYRANO: Well! Good! let be! RAGUENEAU (making passes with a spit that he catches up): 'At the envoi's end, I touch!. . .At the envoi's end, I touch!'. . .'Tis fine, fine! (With increasing enthusiasm): 'At the envoi's end--' CYRANO: What hour is it now, Ragueneau? RAGUENEAU (stopping short in the act of thrusting to look at the clock): Five minutes after six!. . .'I touch!' (He straightens himself): . . .Oh! to write a ballade! LISE (to Cyrano, who, as he passes by the counter, has absently shaken hands with her): What's wrong with your hand? CYRANO: Naught; a slight cut. RAGUENEAU: Have you been in some danger? CYRANO: None in the world. LISE (shaking her finger at him): Methinks you speak not the truth in saying that! CYRANO: Did you see my nose quiver when I spoke? 'Faith, it must have been a monstrous lie that should move it! (Changing his tone): I wait some one here. Leave us alone, and disturb us for naught an it were not for crack of doom! RAGUENEAU: But 'tis impossible; my poets are coming. . . LISE (ironically): Oh, ay, for their first meal o' the day! CYRANO: Prythee, take them aside when I shall make you sign to do so. . .What's o'clock? RAGUENEAU: Ten minutes after six. CYRANO (nervously seating himself at Ragueneau's table, and drawing some paper toward him): A pen!. . . RAGUENEAU (giving him the one from behind his ear): Here--a swan's quill. A MUSKETEER (with fierce mustache, enters, and in a stentorian voice): Good-day! (Lise goes up to him quickly.) CYRANO (turning round): Who's that? RAGUENEAU: 'Tis a friend of my wife--a terrible warrior--at least so says he himself. CYRANO (taking up the pen, and motioning Ragueneau away): Hush! (To himself): I will write, fold it, give it her, and fly! (Throws down the pen): Coward!. . .But strike me dead if I dare to speak to her,. . .ay, even one single word! (To Ragueneau): What time is it? RAGUENEAU: A quarter after six!. . . CYRANO (striking his breast): Ay--a single word of all those here! here! But writing, 'tis easier done. . . (He takes up the pen): Go to, I will write it, that love-letter! Oh! I have writ it and rewrit it in my own mind so oft that it lies there ready for pen and ink; and if I lay but my soul by my letter-sheet, 'tis naught to do but to copy from it. (He writes. Through the glass of the door the silhouettes of their figures move uncertainly and hesitatingly.) ----------SCENE 4--------- Ragueneau, Lise, the musketeer. Cyrano at the little table writing. The poets, dressed in black, their stockings ungartered, and covered with mud. LISE (entering, to Ragueneau): Here they come, your mud-bespattered friends! FIRST POET (entering, to Ragueneau): Brother in art!. . . SECOND POET (to Ragueneau, shaking his hands): Dear brother! THIRD POET: High soaring eagle among pastry-cooks! (He sniffs): Marry! it smells good here in your eyrie! FOURTH POET: 'Tis at Phoebus' own rays that thy roasts turn! FIFTH POET: Apollo among master-cooks-- RAGUENEAU (whom they surround and embrace): Ah! how quick a man feels at his ease with them!. . . FIRST POET: We were stayed by the mob; they are crowded all round the Porte de Nesle!. . . SECOND POET: Eight bleeding brigand carcasses strew the pavements there--all slit open with sword-gashes! CYRANO (raising his head a minute): Eight?. . .hold, methought seven. (He goes on writing.) RAGUENEAU (to Cyrano): Know you who might be the hero of the fray? CYRANO (carelessly): Not I. LISE (to the musketeer): And you? Know you? THE MUSKETEER (twirling his mustache): Maybe! CYRANO (writing a little way off:--he is heard murmuring a word from time to time): 'I love thee!' FIRST POET: 'Twas one man, say they all, ay, swear to it, one man who, single-handed, put the whole band to the rout! SECOND POET: 'Twas a strange sight!--pikes and cudgels strewed thick upon the ground. CYRANO (writing): . . .'Thine eyes'. . . THIRD POET: And they were picking up hats all the way to the Quai d'Orfevres! FIRST POET: Sapristi! but he must have been a ferocious. . . CYRANO (same play): . . .'Thy lips'. . . FIRST POET: 'Twas a parlous fearsome giant that was the author of such exploits! CYRANO (same play): . . .'And when I see thee come, I faint for fear.' SECOND POET (filching a cake): What hast rhymed of late, Ragueneau? CYRANO (same play): . . .'Who worships thee'. . . (He stops, just as he is about to sign, and gets up, slipping the letter into his doublet): No need I sign, since I give it her myself. RAGUENEAU (to second poet): I have put a recipe into verse. THIRD POET (seating himself by a plate of cream-puffs): Go to! Let us hear these verses! FOURTH POET (looking at a cake which he has taken): Its cap is all a' one side! (He makes one bite of the top.) FIRST POET: See how this gingerbread woos the famished rhymer with its almond eyes, and its eyebrows of angelica! (He takes it.) SECOND POET: We listen. THIRD POET (squeezing a cream-puff gently): How it laughs! Till its very cream runs over! SECOND POET (biting a bit off the great lyre of pastry): This is the first time in my life that ever I drew any means of nourishing me from the lyre! RAGUENEAU (who has put himself ready for reciting, cleared his throat, settled his cap, struck an attitude): A recipe in verse!. . . SECOND POET (to first, nudging him): You are breakfasting? FIRST POET (to second): And you dining, methinks. RAGUENEAU: How almond tartlets are made. Beat your eggs up, light and quick; Froth them thick; Mingle with them while you beat Juice of lemon, essence fine; Then combine The burst milk of almonds sweet. Circle with a custard paste The slim waist Of your tartlet-molds; the top With a skillful finger print, Nick and dint, Round their edge, then, drop by drop, In its little dainty bed Your cream shed: In the oven place each mold: Reappearing, softly browned, The renowned Almond tartlets you behold! THE POETS (with mouths crammed full): Exquisite! Delicious! A POET (choking): Homph! (They go up, eating.) CYRANO (who has been watching, goes toward Ragueneau): Lulled by your voice, did you see how they were stuffing themselves? RAGUENEAU (in a low voice, smiling): Oh, ay! I see well enough, but I never will seem to look, fearing to distress them; thus I gain a double pleasure when I recite to them my poems; for I leave those poor fellows who have not breakfasted free to eat, even while I gratify my own dearest foible, see you? CYRANO (clapping him on the shoulder): Friend, I like you right well!. . . (Ragueneau goes after his friends. Cyrano follows him with his eyes, then, rather sharply): Ho there! Lise! (Lise, who is talking tenderly to the musketeer, starts, and comes down toward Cyrano): So this fine captain is laying siege to you? LISE (offended): One haughty glance of my eye can conquer any man that should dare venture aught 'gainst my virtue. CYRANO: Pooh! Conquering eyes, methinks, are oft conquered eyes. LISE (choking with anger): But-- CYRANO (incisively): I like Ragueneau well, and so--mark me, Dame Lise--I permit not that he be rendered a laughing-stock by any. . . LISE: But. . . CYRANO (who has raised his voice so as to be heard by the gallant): A word to the wise. . . (He bows to the musketeer, and goes to the doorway to watch, after looking at the clock.) LISE (to the musketeer, who has merely bowed in answer to Cyrano's bow): How now? Is this your courage?. . .Why turn you not a jest on his nose? THE MUSKETEER: On his nose?. . .ay, ay. . .his nose. (He goes quickly farther away; Lise follows him.) CYRANO (from the doorway, signing to Ragueneau to draw the poets away): Hist!. . . RAGUENEAU (showing them the door on the right): We shall be more private there. . . CYRANO (impatiently): Hist! Hist!. . . RAGUENEAU (drawing them farther): To read poetry, 'tis better here. . . FIRST POET (despairingly, with his mouth full): What! leave the cakes?. . . SECOND POET: Never! Let's take them with us! (They all follow Ragueneau in procession, after sweeping all the cakes off the trays.) ----------SCENE 5--------- Cyrano, Roxane, the duenna. CYRANO: Ah! if I see but the faint glimmer of hope, then I draw out my letter! (Roxane, masked, followed by the duenna, appears at the glass pane of the door. He opens quickly): Enter!. . . (Walking up to the duenna): Two words with you, Duenna. THE DUENNA: Four, Sir, an it like you. CYRANO: Are you fond of sweet things? THE DUENNA: Ay, I could eat myself sick on them! CYRANO (catching up some of the paper bags from the counter): Good. See you these two sonnets of Monsieur Beuserade. . . THE DUENNA: Hey? CYRANO: . . .Which I fill for you with cream cakes! THE DUENNA (changing her expression): Ha. CYRANO: What say you to the cake they call a little puff? THE DUENNA: If made with cream, Sir, I love them passing well. CYRANO: Here I plunge six for your eating into the bosom of a poem by Saint Amant! And in these verses of Chapelain I glide a lighter morsel. Stay, love you hot cakes? THE DUENNA: Ay, to the core of my heart! CYRANO (filling her arms with the bags): Pleasure me then; go eat them all in the street. THE DUENNA: But. . . CYRANO (pushing her out): And come not back till the very last crumb be eaten! (He shuts the door, comes down toward Roxane, and, uncovering, stands at a respectful distance from her.) ----------SCENE 6--------- Cyrano, Roxane. CYRANO: Blessed be the moment when you condescend-- Remembering that humbly I exist-- To come to meet me, and to say. . .to tell?. . . ROXANE (who has unmasked): To thank you first of all. That dandy count, Whom you checkmated in brave sword-play Last night,. . .he is the man whom a great lord, Desirous of my favor. . . CYRANO: Ha, De Guiche? ROXANE (casting down her eyes): Sought to impose on me. . .for husband. . . CYRANO: Ay! Husband!--dupe-husband!. . .Husband a la mode! (Bowing): Then I fought, happy chance! sweet lady, not For my ill favor--but your favors fair! ROXANE: Confession next!. . .But, ere I make my shrift, You must be once again that brother-friend With whom I used to play by the lake-side!. . . CYRANO: Ay, you would come each spring to Bergerac! ROXANE: Mind you the reeds you cut to make your swords?. . . CYRANO: While you wove corn-straw plaits for your dolls' hair! ROXANE: Those were the days of games!. . . CYRANO: And blackberries!. . . ROXANE: In those days you did everything I bid!. . . CYRANO: Roxane, in her short frock, was Madeleine. . . ROXANE: Was I fair then? CYRANO: You were not ill to see! ROXANE: Ofttimes, with hands all bloody from a fall, You'd run to me! Then--aping mother-ways-- I, in a voice would-be severe, would chide,-- (She takes his hand): 'What is this scratch, again, that I see here?' (She starts, surprised): Oh! 'Tis too much! What's this? (Cyrano tries to draw away his hand): No, let me see! At your age, fie! Where did you get that scratch? CYRANO: I got it--playing at the Porte de Nesle. ROXANE (seating herself by the table, and dipping her handkerchief in a glass of water): Give here! CYRANO (sitting by her): So soft! so gay maternal-sweet! ROXANE: And tell me, while I wipe away the blood, How many 'gainst you? CYRANO: Oh! A hundred--near. ROXANE: Come, tell me! CYRANO: No, let be. But you, come tell The thing, just now, you dared not. . . ROXANE (keeping his hand): Now, I dare! The scent of those old days emboldens me! Yes, now I dare. Listen. I am in love. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: But with one who knows not. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: Not yet. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: But who, if he knows not, soon shall learn. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: A poor youth who all this time has loved Timidly, from afar, and dares not speak. . . CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: Leave your hand; why, it is fever-hot!-- But I have seen love trembling on his lips. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE (bandaging his hand with her handkerchief): And to think of it! that he by chance-- Yes, cousin, he is of your regiment! CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE (laughing): --Is cadet in your own company! CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: On his brow he bears the genius-stamp; He is proud, noble, young, intrepid, fair. . . CYRANO (rising suddenly, very pale): Fair! ROXANE: Why, what ails you? CYRANO: Nothing; 'tis. . . (He shows his hand, smiling): This scratch! ROXANE: I love him; all is said. But you must know I have only seen him at the Comedy. . . CYRANO: How? You have never spoken? ROXANE: Eyes can speak. CYRANO: How know you then that he. . .? ROXANE: Oh! people talk 'Neath the limes in the Place Royale. . . Gossip's chat Has let me know. . . CYRANO: He is cadet? ROXANE: In the Guards. CYRANO: His name? ROXANE: Baron Christian de Neuvillette. CYRANO: How now?. . .He is not of the Guards! ROXANE: To-day He is not join your ranks, under Captain Carbon de Castel-Jaloux. CYRANO: Ah, how quick, How quick the heart has flown!. . .But, my poor child. . . THE DUENNA (opening the door): The cakes are eaten, Monsieur Bergerac! CYRANO: Then read the verses printed on the bags! (She goes out): . . .My poor child, you who love but flowing words, Bright wit,--what if he be a lout unskilled? ROXANE: No, his bright locks, like D'Urfe's heroes. . . CYRANO: Ah! A well-curled pate, and witless tongue, perchance! ROXANE: Ah no! I guess--I feel--his words are fair! CYRANO: All words are fair that lurk 'neath fair mustache! --Suppose he were a fool!. . . ROXANE (stamping her foot): Then bury me! CYRANO (after a pause): Was it to tell me this you brought me here? I fail to see what use this serves, Madame. ROXANE: Nay, but I felt a terror, here, in the heart, On learning yesterday you were Gascons All of your company. . . CYRANO: And we provoke All beardless sprigs that favor dares admit 'Midst us pure Gascons--(pure! Heaven save the mark! They told you that as well? ROXANE: Ah! Think how I Trembled for him! CYRANO (between his teeth): Not causelessly! ROXANE: But when Last night I saw you,--brave, invincible,-- Punish that dandy, fearless hold your own Against those brutes, I thought--I thought, if he Whom all fear, all--if he would only. . . CYRANO: Good. I will befriend your little Baron. ROXANE: Ah! You'll promise me you will do this for me? I've always held you as a tender friend. CYRANO: Ay, ay. ROXANE: Then you will be his friend? CYRANO: I swear! ROXANE: And he shall fight no duels, promise! CYRANO: None. ROXANE: You are kind, cousin! Now I must be gone. (She puts on her mask and veil quickly; then, absently): You have not told me of your last night's fray. Ah, but it must have been a hero-fight!. . . --Bid him to write. (She sends him a kiss with her fingers): How good you are! CYRANO: Ay! Ay! ROXANE: A hundred men against you? Now, farewell.-- We are great friends? CYRANO: Ay, ay! ROXANE: Oh, bid him write! You'll tell me all one day--A hundred men!-- Ah, brave!. . .How brave! CYRANO (bowing to her): I have fought better since. (She goes out. Cyrano stands motionless, with eyes on the ground. A silence. The door (right) opens. Ragueneau looks in.) ----------SCENE 7--------- Cyrano, Ragueneau, poets, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, a crowd, then De Guiche. RAGUENEAU: Can we come in? CYRANO (without stirring): Yes. . . (Ragueneau signs to his friends, and they come in. At the same time, by door at back, enters Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, in Captain's uniform. He makes gestures of surprise on seeing Cyrano.) CARBON: Here he is! CYRANO (raising his head): Captain!. . . CARBON (delightedly): Our hero! We heard all! Thirty or more Of my cadets are there!. . . CYRANO (shrinking back): But. . . CARBON (trying to draw him away): Come with me! They will not rest until they see you! CYRANO: No! CARBON: They're drinking opposite, at The Bear's Head. CYRANO: I. . . CARBON (going to the door and calling across the street in a voice of thunder): He won't come! The hero's in the sulks! A VOICE (outside): Ah! Sandious! (Tumult outside. Noise of boots and swords is heard approaching.) CARBON (rubbing his hands): They are running 'cross the street! CADETS (entering): Mille dious! Capdedious! Pocapdedious! RAGUENEAU (drawing back startled): Gentlemen, are you all from Gascony? THE CADETS: All! A CADET (to Cyrano): Bravo! CYRANO: Baron! ANOTHER (shaking his hands): Vivat! CYRANO: Baron! THIRD CADET: Come! I must embrace you! CYRANO: Baron! SEVERAL GASCONS: We'll embrace Him, all in turn! CYRANO (not knowing whom to reply to): Baron!. . .Baron!. . .I beg. . . RAGUENEAU: Are you all Barons, Sirs? THE CADETS: Ay, every one! RAGUENEAU: Is it true?. . . FIRST CADET: Ay--why, you could build a tower With nothing but our coronets, my friend! LE BRET (entering, and running up to Cyrano): They're looking for you! Here's a crazy mob Led by the men who followed you last night. . . CYRANO (alarmed): What! Have you told them where to find me? LE BRET (rubbing his hands): Yes! A BURGHER (entering, followed by a group of men): Sir, all the Marais is a-coming here! (Outside the street has filled with people. Chaises a porteurs and carriages have drawn up.) LE BRET (in a low voice, smiling, to Cyrano): And Roxane? CYRANO (quickly): Hush! THE CROWD (calling outside): Cyrano!. . . (A crowd rush into the shop, pushing one another. Acclamations.) RAGUENEAU (standing on a table): Lo! my shop Invaded! They break all! Magnificent! PEOPLE (crowding round Cyrano): My friend!. . .my friend. . . Cyrano: Meseems that yesterday I had not all these friends! LE BRET (delighted): Success! A YOUNG MARQUIS (hurrying up with his hands held out): My friend, Didst thou but know. . . CYRANO: Thou!. . .Marry!. . .thou!. . .Pray when Did we herd swine together, you and I! ANOTHER: I would present you, Sir, to some fair dames Who in my carriage yonder. . . CYRANO (coldly): Ah! and who Will first present you, Sir, to me? LE BRET (astonished): What's wrong? CYRANO: Hush! A MAN OF LETTERS (with writing-board): A few details?. . . CYRANO: No. LE BRET (nudging his elbow): 'Tis Theophrast, Renaudet,. . .of the 'Court Gazette'! CYRANO: Who cares? LE BRET: This paper--but it is of great importance!. . . They say it will be an immense success! A POET (advancing): Sir. . . CYRANO: What, another! THE POET: . . .Pray permit I make A pentacrostic on your name. . . SOME ONE (also advancing): Pray, Sir. . . CYRANO: Enough! Enough! (A movement in the crowd. De Guiche appears, escorted by officers. Cuigy, Brissaille, the officers who went with Cyrano the night before. Cuigy comes rapidly up to Cyrano.) CUIGY (to Cyrano): Here is Monsieur de Guiche? (A murmur--every one makes way): He comes from the Marshal of Gassion! DE GUICHE (bowing to Cyrano): . . .Who would express his admiration, Sir, For your new exploit noised so loud abroad. THE CROWD: Bravo! CYRANO (bowing): The Marshal is a judge of valor. DE GUICHE: He could not have believed the thing, unless These gentlemen had sworn they witnessed it. CUIGY: With our own eyes! LE BRET (aside to Cyrano, who has an absent air): But. . .you. . . CYRANO: Hush! LE BRET: But. . .You suffer? CYRANO (starting): Before this rabble?--I?. . . (He draws himself up, twirls his mustache, and throws back his shoulders): Wait!. . .You shall see! DE GUICHE (to whom Cuigy has spoken in a low voice): In feats of arms, already your career Abounded.--You serve with those crazy pates Of Gascons? CYRANO: Ay, with the Cadets. A CADET (in a terrible voice): With us! DE GUICHE (looking at the cadets, ranged behind Cyrano): Ah!. . .All these gentlemen of haughty mien, Are they the famous?. . . CARBON: Cyrano! CYRANO: Ay, Captain! CARBON: Since all my company's assembled here, Pray favor me,--present them to my lord! CYRANO (making two steps toward De Guiche): My Lord de Guiche, permit that I present-- (pointing to the cadets): The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux! Brawling and swaggering boastfully, The bold Cadets of Gascony! Spouting of Armory, Heraldry, Their veins a-brimming with blood so blue, The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux: Eagle-eye, and spindle-shanks, Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth! Slash-the-rabble and scatter-their-ranks; Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks, With a flaming feather that gayly pranks, Hiding the holes in their hats, forsooth! Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks, Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth! 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk' Are their gentlest sobriquets; With Fame and Glory their soul is drunk! 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk,' In brawl and skirmish they show their spunk, Give rendezvous in broil and fray; 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk' Are their gentlest sobriquets! What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! All jealous lovers are sport for you! O Woman! dear divinity! What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! Whom scowling husbands quake to see. Blow, 'taratara,' and cry 'Cuckoo.' What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! Husbands and lovers are game for you! DE GUICHE (seated with haughty carelessness in an armchair brought quickly by Ragueneau): A poet! 'Tis the fashion of the hour! --Will you be mine? CYRANO: No, Sir,--no man's! DE GUICHE: Last night Your fancy pleased my uncle Richelieu. I'll gladly say a word to him for you. LE BRET (overjoyed): Great Heavens! DE GUICHE: I imagine you have rhymed Five acts, or so? LE BRET (in Cyrano's ear): Your play!--your 'Agrippine!' You'll see it staged at last! DE GUICHE: Take them to him. CYRANO (beginning to be tempted and attracted): In sooth,--I would. . . DE GUICHE: He is a critic skilled: He may correct a line or two, at most. CYRANO (whose face stiffens at once): Impossible! My blood congeals to think That other hand should change a comma's dot. DE GUICHE: But when a verse approves itself to him He pays it dear, good friend. CYRANO: He pays less dear Than I myself; when a verse pleases me I pay myself, and sing it to myself! DE GUICHE: You are proud. CYRANO: Really? You have noticed that? A CADET (entering, with a string of old battered plumed beaver hats, full of holes, slung on his sword): See, Cyrano,--this morning, on the quay What strange bright-feathered game we caught! The hats O' the fugitives. . . CARBON: 'Spolia opima!' ALL (laughing): Ah! ah! ah! CUIGY: He who laid that ambush, 'faith! Must curse and swear! BRISSAILLE: Who was it? DE GUICHE: I myself. (The laughter stops): I charged them--work too dirty for my sword, To punish and chastise a rhymster sot. (Constrained silence.) The CADET (in a low voice, to Cyrano, showing him the beavers): What do with them? They're full of grease!--a stew? CYRANO (taking the sword and, with a salute, dropping the hats at De Guiche's feet): Sir, pray be good enough to render them Back to your friends. DE GUICHE (rising, sharply): My chair there--quick!--I go! (To Cyrano passionately): As to you, sirrah!. . . VOICE (in the street): Porters for my lord De Guiche! DE GUICHE (who has controlled himself--smiling): Have you read 'Don Quixote'? CYRANO: I have! And doff my hat at th' mad knight-errant's name. DE GUICHE: I counsel you to study. . . A PORTER (appearing at back): My lord's chair! DE GUICHE: . . .The windmill chapter! CYRANO (bowing): Chapter the Thirteenth. DE GUICHE: For when one tilts 'gainst windmills--it may chance. . . CYRANO: Tilt I 'gainst those who change with every breeze? DE GUICHE: . . .That windmill sails may sweep you with their arm Down--in the mire!. . . CYRANO: Or upward--to the stars! (De Guiche goes out, and mounts into his chair. The other lords go away whispering together. Le Bret goes to the door with them. The crowd disperses.)

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 11 with the given context.

In an effort to educate the newcomer, the Cadets warn Christian de Neuvillette that he should never mention Cyrano's nose. Christian, however, wants to prove that he is brave. As a result, he interrupts Cyrano as he tells his friends about his fight at the Porte de Nesle. Christian then criticizes Cyrano's nose. Cyrano is immediately incensed at the daring young cadet, but when he discovers that the person interrupting him is the one Roxane loves, he controls himself at every interruption from Christian. Finally, he drives all the cadets out of the room to be alone with Christian. They expect Christian to be murdered by Cyrano. Left alone with Christian, Cyrano introduces himself as the cousin of Roxane. He then explains Roxane's feelings for the handsome cadet. He asks Christian to write a letter to Roxane to express his feelings for her. Christian confesses that he has no verbal skills, especially when he must address a female. Since Cyrano is skilled with words, the two of them work out a plan to jointly woo and win Roxane. Cyrano will provide the words, which the handsome Christian will voice to Roxane. Cyrano then gives Christian the letter he has already composed to her, pretending that he has written it to some imaginary lady. He tells Christian to sign and send the letter as his own. Christian embraces Cyrano with gratitude. When the cadets who have been waiting outside see Christian moving towards Cyrano, they are concerned and push open the door. When they realize that Cyrano is embracing Christian, they jeer at the sight. Lise's musketeer, who has come in with the cadets, insults Cyrano about his nose. Cyrano responds by hitting him.

----------SCENE 8--------- Cyrano, Le Bret, the cadets, who are eating and drinking at the tables right and left. CYRANO (bowing mockingly to those who go out without daring to salute him): Gentlemen. . .Gentlemen. . . LE BRET (coming back, despairingly): Here's a fine coil! CYRANO: Oh! scold away! LE BRET: At least, you will agree That to annihilate each chance of Fate Exaggerates. . . CYRANO: Yes!--I exaggerate! LE BRET (triumphantly): Ah! CYRANO: But for principle--example too,-- I think 'tis well thus to exaggerate. LE BRET: Oh! lay aside that pride of musketeer, Fortune and glory wait you!. . . CYRANO: Ay, and then?. . . Seek a protector, choose a patron out, And like the crawling ivy round a tree That licks the bark to gain the trunk's support, Climb high by creeping ruse instead of force? No, grammercy! What! I, like all the rest Dedicate verse to bankers?--play buffoon In cringing hope to see, at last, a smile Not disapproving, on a patron's lips? Grammercy, no! What! learn to swallow toads? --With frame aweary climbing stairs?--a skin Grown grimed and horny,--here, about the knees? And, acrobat-like, teach my back to bend?-- No, grammercy! Or,--double-faced and sly-- Run with the hare, while hunting with the hounds; And, oily-tongued, to win the oil of praise, Flatter the great man to his very nose? No, grammercy! Steal soft from lap to lap, --A little great man in a circle small, Or navigate, with madrigals for sails, Blown gently windward by old ladies' sighs? No, grammercy! Bribe kindly editors To spread abroad my verses? Grammercy! Or try to be elected as the pope Of tavern-councils held by imbeciles? No, grammercy! Toil to gain reputation By one small sonnet, 'stead of making many? No, grammercy! Or flatter sorry bunglers? Be terrorized by every prating paper? Say ceaselessly, 'Oh, had I but the chance Of a fair notice in the "Mercury"!' Grammercy, no! Grow pale, fear, calculate? Prefer to make a visit to a rhyme? Seek introductions, draw petitions up? No, grammercy! and no! and no again! But--sing? Dream, laugh, go lightly, solitary, free, With eyes that look straight forward--fearless voice! To cock your beaver just the way you choose,-- For 'yes' or 'no' show fight, or turn a rhyme! --To work without one thought of gain or fame, To realize that journey to the moon! Never to pen a line that has not sprung Straight from the heart within. Embracing then Modesty, say to oneself, 'Good my friend, Be thou content with flowers,--fruit,--nay, leaves, But pluck them from no garden but thine own!' And then, if glory come by chance your way, To pay no tribute unto Caesar, none, But keep the merit all your own! In short, Disdaining tendrils of the parasite, To be content, if neither oak nor elm-- Not to mount high, perchance, but mount alone! LE BRET: Alone, an if you will! But not with hand 'Gainst every man! How in the devil's name Have you conceived this lunatic idea, To make foes for yourself at every turn? CYRANO: By dint of seeing you at every turn Make friends,--and fawn upon your frequent friends With mouth wide smiling, slit from ear to ear! I pass, still unsaluted, joyfully, And cry,--What, ho! another enemy? LE BRET: Lunacy! CYRANO: Well, what if it be my vice, My pleasure to displease--to love men hate me! Ah, friend of mine, believe me, I march better 'Neath the cross-fire of glances inimical! How droll the stains one sees on fine-laced doublets, From gall of envy, or the poltroon's drivel! --The enervating friendship which enfolds you Is like an open-laced Italian collar, Floating around your neck in woman's fashion; One is at ease thus,--but less proud the carriage! The forehead, free from mainstay or coercion, Bends here, there, everywhere. But I, embracing Hatred, she lends,--forbidding, stiffly fluted, The ruff's starched folds that hold the head so rigid; Each enemy--another fold--a gopher, Who adds constraint, and adds a ray of glory; For Hatred, like the ruff worn by the Spanish, Grips like a vice, but frames you like a halo! LE BRET (after a silence, taking his arm): Speak proud aloud, and bitter!--In my ear Whisper me simply this,--She loves thee not! CYRANO (vehemently): Hush! (Christian has just entered, and mingled with the cadets, who do not speak to him; he has seated himself at a table, where Lise serves him.) ----------SCENE 9--------- Cyrano, Le Bret, the cadets, Christian de Neuvillette. A CADET (seated at a table, glass in hand): Cyrano! (Cyrano turns round): The story! CYRANO: In its time! (He goes up on Le Bret's arm. They talk in low voices.) THE CADET (rising and coming down): The story of the fray! 'Twill lesson well (He stops before the table where Christian is seated): This timid young apprentice! CHRISTIAN (raising his head): 'Prentice! Who? ANOTHER CADET: This sickly Northern greenhorn! CHRISTIAN: Sickly! FIRST CADET (mockingly): Hark! Monsieur de Neuvillette, this in your ear: There's somewhat here, one no more dares to name, Than to say 'rope' to one whose sire was hanged! CHRISTIAN: What may that be? ANOTHER CADET (in a terrible voice): See here! (He puts his finger three times, mysteriously, on his nose): Do you understand? CHRISTIAN: Oh! 'tis the. . . ANOTHER: Hush! oh, never breathe that word, Unless you'd reckon with him yonder! (He points to Cyrano, who is talking with Le Bret.) ANOTHER (who has meanwhile come up noiselessly to sit on the table--whispering behind him): Hark! He put two snuffling men to death, in rage, For the sole reason they spoke through their nose! ANOTHER (in a hollow voice, darting on all-fours from under the table, where he had crept): And if you would not perish in flower o' youth, --Oh, mention not the fatal cartilage! ANOTHER (clapping him on the shoulder): A word? A gesture! For the indiscreet His handkerchief may prove his winding-sheet! (Silence. All, with crossed arms, look at Christian. He rises and goes over to Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is talking to an officer, and feigns to see nothing.) CHRISTIAN: Captain! CARBON (turning and looking at him from head to foot): Sir! CHRISTIAN: Pray, what skills it best to do To Southerners who swagger?. . . CARBON: Give them proof That one may be a Northerner, yet brave! (He turns his back on him.) CHRISTIAN: I thank you. FIRST CADET (to Cyrano): Now the tale! ALL: The tale! CYRANO (coming toward them): The tale?. . . (All bring their stools up, and group round him, listening eagerly. Christian is astride a chair): Well! I went all alone to meet the band. The moon was shining, clock-like, full i' th' sky, When, suddenly, some careful clockwright passed A cloud of cotton-wool across the case That held this silver watch. And, presto! heigh! The night was inky black, and all the quays Were hidden in the murky dark. Gadsooks! One could see nothing further. . . CHRISTIAN: Than one's nose! (Silence. All slowly rise, looking in terror at Cyrano, who has stopped-- dumfounded. Pause.) CYRANO: Who on God's earth is that? A CADET (whispering): It is a man Who joined to-day. CYRANO (making a step toward Christian): To-day? CARBON (in a low voice): Yes. . .his name is The Baron de Neuvil. . . CYRANO (checking himself): Good! It is well. . . (He turns pale, flushes, makes as if to fall on Christian): I. . . (He controls himself): What said I?. . . (With a burst of rage): MORDIOUS!. . . (Then continues calmly): That it was dark. (Astonishment. The cadets reseat themselves, staring at him): On I went, thinking, 'For a knavish cause I may provoke some great man, some great prince, Who certainly could break'. . . CHRISTIAN: My nose!. . . (Every one starts up. Christian balances on his chair.) CYRANO (in a choked voice): . . .'My teeth! Who would break my teeth, and I, imprudent-like, Was poking. . .' CHRISTIAN: My nose!. . . CYRANO: 'My finger,. . .in the crack Between the tree and bark! He may prove strong And rap me. . .' CHRISTIAN: Over the nose. . . CYRANO (wiping his forehead): . . .'O' th' knuckles! Ay,' But I cried, 'Forward, Gascon! Duty calls! On, Cyrano!' And thus I ventured on. . . When, from the shadow, came. . . CHRISTIAN: A crack o' th' nose. CYRANO: I parry it--find myself. . . CHRISTIAN: Nose to nose. . . CYRANO (bounding on to him): Heaven and earth! (All the Gascons leap up to see, but when he is close to Christian he controls himself and continues): . . .With a hundred brawling sots, Who stank. . . CHRISTIAN: A noseful. . . CYRANO (white, but smiling): Onions, brandy-cups! I leapt out, head well down. . . CHRISTIAN: Nosing the wind! CYRANO: I charge!--gore two, impale one--run him through, One aims at me--Paf! and I parry. . . CHRISTIAN: Pif! CYRANO (bursting out): Great God! Out! all of you! (The cadets rush to the doors.) FIRST CADET: The tiger wakes! CYRANO: Every man, out! Leave me alone with him! SECOND CADET: We shall find him minced fine, minced into hash In a big pasty! RAGUENEAU: I am turning pale, And curl up, like a napkin, limp and white! CARBON: Let us be gone. ANOTHER: He will not leave a crumb! ANOTHER: I die of fright to think what will pass here! ANOTHER (shutting door right): Something too horrible! (All have gone out by different doors, some by the staircase. Cyrano and Christian are face to face, looking at each other for a moment.) ----------SCENE 10--------- Cyrano, Christian. CYRANO: Embrace me now! CHRISTIAN: Sir. . . CYRANO: You are brave. CHRISTIAN: Oh! but. . . CYRANO: Nay, I insist. CHRISTIAN: Pray tell me. . . CYRANO: Come, embrace! I am her brother. CHRISTIAN: Whose brother? CYRANO: Hers i' faith! Roxane's! CHRISTIAN (rushing up to him): O heavens! Her brother. . .? CYRANO: Cousin--brother!. . .the same thing! CHRISTIAN: And she has told you. . .? CYRANO: All! CHRISTIAN: She loves me? say! CYRANO: Maybe! CHRISTIAN (taking his hands): How glad I am to meet you, Sir! CYRANO: That may be called a sudden sentiment! CHRISTIAN: I ask your pardon. . . CYRANO (looking at him, with his hand on his shoulder): True, he's fair, the villain! CHRISTIAN: Ah, Sir! If you but knew my admiration!. . . CYRANO: But all those noses?. . . CHRISTIAN: Oh! I take them back! CYRANO: Roxane expects a letter. CHRISTIAN: Woe the day! CYRANO: How? CHRISTIAN: I am lost if I but ope my lips! CYRANO: Why so? CHRISTIAN: I am a fool--could die for shame! CYRANO: None is a fool who knows himself a fool. And you did not attack me like a fool. CHRISTIAN: Bah! One finds battle-cry to lead th' assault! I have a certain military wit, But, before women, can but hold my tongue. Their eyes! True, when I pass, their eyes are kind. . . CYRANO: And, when you stay, their hearts, methinks, are kinder? CHRISTIAN: No! for I am one of those men--tongue-tied, I know it--who can never tell their love. CYRANO: And I, meseems, had Nature been more kind, More careful, when she fashioned me,--had been One of those men who well could speak their love! CHRISTIAN: Oh, to express one's thoughts with facile grace!. . . CYRANO: . . .To be a musketeer, with handsome face! CHRISTIAN: Roxane is precieuse. I'm sure to prove A disappointment to her! CYRANO (looking at him): Had I but Such an interpreter to speak my soul! CHRISTIAN (with despair): Eloquence! Where to find it? CYRANO (abruptly): That I lend, If you lend me your handsome victor-charms; Blended, we make a hero of romance! CHRISTIAN: How so? CYRANO: Think you you can repeat what things I daily teach your tongue? CHRISTIAN: What do you mean? CYRANO: Roxane shall never have a disillusion! Say, wilt thou that we woo her, double-handed? Wilt thou that we two woo her, both together? Feel'st thou, passing from my leather doublet, Through thy laced doublet, all my soul inspiring? CHRISTIAN: But, Cyrano!. . . CYRANO: Will you, I say? CHRISTIAN: I fear! CYRANO: Since, by yourself, you fear to chill her heart, Will you--to kindle all her heart to flame-- Wed into one my phrases and your lips? CHRISTIAN: Your eyes flash! CYRANO: Will you? CHRISTIAN: Will it please you so? --Give you such pleasure? CYRANO (madly): It!. . . (Then calmly, business-like): It would amuse me! It is an enterprise to tempt a poet. Will you complete me, and let me complete you? You march victorious,--I go in your shadow; Let me be wit for you, be you my beauty! CHRISTIAN: The letter, that she waits for even now! I never can. . . CYRANO (taking out the letter he had written): See! Here it is--your letter! CHRISTIAN: What? CYRANO: Take it! Look, it wants but the address. CHRISTIAN: But I. . . CYRANO: Fear nothing. Send it. It will suit. CHRISTIAN: But have you. . .? CYRANO: Oh! We have our pockets full, We poets, of love-letters, writ to Chloes, Daphnes--creations of our noddle-heads. Our lady-loves,--phantasms of our brains, --Dream-fancies blown into soap-bubbles! Come! Take it, and change feigned love-words into true; I breathed my sighs and moans haphazard-wise; Call all these wandering love-birds home to nest. You'll see that I was in these lettered lines, --Eloquent all the more, the less sincere! --Take it, and make an end! CHRISTIAN: Were it not well To change some words? Written haphazard-wise, Will it fit Roxane? CYRANO: 'Twill fit like a glove! CHRISTIAN: But. . . CYRANO: Ah, credulity of love! Roxane Will think each word inspired by herself! CHRISTIAN: My friend! (He throws himself into Cyrano's arms. They remain thus.) ----------SCENE 11--------- Cyrano, Christian, the Gascons, the musketeer, Lise. A CADET (half opening the door): Naught here!. . .The silence of the grave! I dare not look. . . (He puts his head in): Why?. . . ALL THE CADETS (entering, and seeing Cyrano and Christian embracing): Oh!. . . A CADET: This passes all! (Consternation.) THE MUSKETEER (mockingly): Ho, ho!. . . CARBON: Our demon has become a saint? Struck on one nostril--lo! he turns the other! MUSKETEER: Then we may speak about his nose, henceforth!. . . (Calling to Lise, boastfully): --Ah, Lise, see here! (Sniffing ostentatiously): O heavens!. . .what a stink!. . . (Going up to Cyrano): You, sir, without a doubt have sniffed it up! --What is the smell I notice here? CYRANO (cuffing his head): Clove-heads. (General delight. The cadets have found the old Cyrano again! They turn somersaults.) Curtain.

Cyrano De Bergerac.act 3.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 9 with the given context.

scene 1|scene 2|scene 3|scene 4|scene 5|scene 6|scene 7|scene 8|scene 9

The monk is looking for Roxane's house, but Cyrano coolly and cleverly misdirects him. The monk blesses Cyrano and goes merrily on his way. Christian reminds Cyrano to ask Roxane for a kiss once again. Although the audience realizes that the embrace will be painful for Cyrano, he sees the inevitability of these two attractive young people coming together. He also knows that his words have made their coming together a reality.

----------SCENE 1--------- Ragueneau, the duenna. Then Roxane, Cyrano, and two pages. RAGUENEAU: --And then, off she went, with a musketeer! Deserted and ruined too, I would make an end of all, and so hanged myself. My last breath was drawn:-- then in comes Monsieur de Bergerac! He cuts me down, and begs his cousin to take me for her steward. THE DUENNA: Well, but how came it about that you were thus ruined? RAGUENEAU: Oh! Lise loved the warriors, and I loved the poets! What cakes there were that Apollo chanced to leave were quickly snapped up by Mars. Thus ruin was not long a-coming. THE DUENNA (rising, and calling up to the open window): Roxane, are you ready? They wait for us! ROXANE'S VOICE (from the window): I will but put me on a cloak! THE DUENNA (to Ragueneau, showing him the door opposite): They wait us there opposite, at Clomire's house. She receives them all there to-day--the precieuses, the poets; they read a discourse on the Tender Passion. RAGUENEAU: The Tender Passion? THE DUENNA (in a mincing voice): Ay, indeed! (Calling up to the window): Roxane, an you come not down quickly, we shall miss the discourse on the Tender Passion! ROXANE'S VOICE: I come! I come! (A sound of stringed instruments approaching.) CYRANO'S VOICE (behind the scenes, singing): La, la, la, la! THE DUENNA (surprised): They serenade us? CYRANO (followed by two pages with arch-lutes): I tell you they are demi-semi-quavers, demi-semi-fool! FIRST PAGE (ironically): You know then, Sir, to distinguish between semi-quavers and demi-semi- quavers? CYRANO: Is not every disciple of Gassendi a musician? THE PAGE (playing and singing): La, la! CYRANO (snatching the lute from him, and going on with the phrase): In proof of which, I can continue! La, la, la, la! ROXANE (appearing on the balcony): What? 'Tis you? CYRANO (going on with the air, and singing to it): 'Tis I, who come to serenade your lilies, and pay my devoir to your ro-o- oses! ROXANE: I am coming down! (She leaves the balcony.) THE DUENNA (pointing to the pages): How come these two virtuosi here? CYRANO: 'Tis for a wager I won of D'Assoucy. We were disputing a nice point in grammar; contradictions raged hotly--''Tis so!' 'Nay, 'tis so!' when suddenly he shows me these two long-shanks, whom he takes about with him as an escort, and who are skillful in scratching lute-strings with their skinny claws! 'I will wager you a day's music,' says he!--And lost it! Thus, see you, till Phoebus' chariot starts once again, these lute-twangers are at my heels, seeing all I do, hearing all I say, and accompanying all with melody. 'Twas pleasant at the first, but i' faith, I begin to weary of it already! (To the musicians): Ho there! go serenade Montfleury for me! Play a dance to him! (The pages go toward the door. To the duenna): I have come, as is my wont, nightly, to ask Roxane whether. . . (To the pages, who are going out): Play a long time,--and play out of tune! (To the duenna): . . .Whether her soul's elected is ever the same, ever faultless! ROXANE (coming out of the house): Ah! How handsome he is, how brilliant a wit! And--how well I love him! CYRANO (smiling): Christian has so brilliant a wit? ROXANE: Brighter than even your own, cousin! CYRANO: Be it so, with all my heart! ROXANE: Ah! methinks 'twere impossible that there could breathe a man on this earth skilled to say as sweetly as he all the pretty nothings that mean so much-- that mean all! At times his mind seems far away, the Muse says naught--and then, presto! he speaks--bewitchingly! enchantingly! CYRANO (incredulously): No, no! ROXANE: Fie! That is ill said! But lo! men are ever thus! Because he is fair to see, you would have it that he must be dull of speech. CYRANO: He hath an eloquent tongue in telling his love? ROXANE: In telling his love? why, 'tis not simple telling, 'tis dissertation, 'tis analysis! CYRANO: How is he with the pen? ROXANE: Still better! Listen,--here:-- (Reciting): 'The more of my poor heart you take The larger grows my heart!' (Triumphantly to Cyrano): How like you those lines? CYRANO: Pooh! ROXANE: And thus it goes on. . . 'And, since some target I must show For Cupid's cruel dart, Oh, if mine own you deign to keep, Then give me your sweet heart!' CYRANO: Lord! first he has too much, then anon not enough! How much heart does the fellow want? ROXANE: You would vex a saint!. . .But 'tis your jealousy. CYRANO (starting): What mean you? ROXANE: Ay, your poet's jealousy! Hark now, if this again be not tender-sweet?-- 'My heart to yours sounds but one cry: If kisses fast could flee By letter, then with your sweet lips My letters read should be! If kisses could be writ with ink, If kisses fast could flee!' CYRANO (smiling approvingly in spite of himself): Ha! those last lines are,--hm!. . .hm!. . . (Correcting himself--contemptuously): --They are paltry enough! ROXANE: And this. . . CYRANO (enchanted): Then you have his letters by heart? ROXANE: Every one of them! CYRANO: By all oaths that can be sworn,--'tis flattering! ROXANE: They are the lines of a master! CYRANO (modestly): Come, nay. . .a master?. . . ROXANE: Ay, I say it--a master! CYRANO: Good--be it so. THE DUENNA (coming down quickly): Here comes Monsieur de Guiche! (To Cyrano, pushing him toward the house): In with you! 'twere best he see you not; it might perchance put him on the scent. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano): Ay, of my own dear secret! He loves me, and is powerful, and, if he knew, then all were lost! Marry! he could well deal a deathblow to my love! CYRANO (entering the house): Good! good! (De Guiche appears.) ----------SCENE 2--------- Roxane, De Guiche, the duenna standing a little way off. ROXANE (courtesying to De Guiche): I was going out. DE GUICHE: I come to take my leave. ROXANE: Whither go you? DE GUICHE: To the war. ROXANE: Ah! DE GUICHE: Ay, to-night. ROXANE: Oh! DE GUICHE: I am ordered away. We are to besiege Arras. ROXANE: Ah--to besiege?. . . DE GUICHE: Ay. My going moves you not, meseems. ROXANE: Nay. . . DE GUICHE: I am grieved to the core of the heart. Shall I again behold you?. . .When? I know not. Heard you that I am named commander?. . . ROXANE (indifferently): Bravo! DE GUICHE: Of the Guards regiment. ROXANE (startled): What! the Guards? DE GUICHE: Ay, where serves your cousin, the swaggering boaster. I will find a way to revenge myself on him at Arras. ROXANE (choking): What mean you? The Guards go to Arras? DE GUICHE (laughing): Bethink you, is it not my own regiment? ROXANE (falling seated on the bench--aside): Christian! DE GUICHE: What ails you? ROXANE (moved deeply): Oh--I am in despair! The man one loves!--at the war! DE GUICHE (surprised and delighted): You say such sweet words to me! 'Tis the first time!--and just when I must quit you! ROXANE (collected, and fanning herself): Thus,--you would fain revenge your grudge against my cousin? DE GUICHE: My fair lady is on his side? ROXANE: Nay,--against him! DE GUICHE: Do you see him often? ROXANE: But very rarely. DE GUICHE: He is ever to be met now in company with one of the cadets,. . .one New-- villen--viller-- ROXANE: Of high stature? DE GUICHE: Fair-haired! ROXANE: Ay, a red-headed fellow! DE GUICHE: Handsome!. . . ROXANE: Tut! DE GUICHE: But dull-witted. ROXANE: One would think so, to look at him! (Changing her tone): How mean you to play your revenge on Cyrano? Perchance you think to put him i' the thick of the shots? Nay, believe me, that were a poor vengeance--he would love such a post better than aught else! I know the way to wound his pride far more keenly! DE GUICHE: What then? Tell. . . ROXANE: If, when the regiment march to Arras, he were left here with his beloved boon companions, the Cadets, to sit with crossed arms so long as the war lasted! There is your method, would you enrage a man of his kind; cheat him of his chance of mortal danger, and you punish him right fiercely. DE GUICHE (coming nearer): O woman! woman! Who but a woman had e'er devised so subtle a trick? ROXANE: See you not how he will eat out his heart, while his friends gnaw their thick fists for that they are deprived of the battle? So are you best avenged. DE GUICHE: You love me, then, a little? (She smiles): I would fain--seeing you thus espouse my cause, Roxane--believe it a proof of love! ROXANE: 'Tis a proof of love! DE GUICHE (showing some sealed papers): Here are the marching orders; they will be sent instantly to each company-- except-- (He detaches one): --This one! 'Tis that of the Cadets. (He puts it in his pocket): This I keep. (Laughing): Ha! ha! ha! Cyrano! His love of battle!. . .So you can play tricks on people?. . .you, of all ladies! ROXANE: Sometimes! DE GUICHE (coming close to her): Oh! how I love you!--to distraction! Listen! To-night--true, I ought to start--but--how leave you now that I feel your heart is touched! Hard by, in the Rue d'Orleans, is a convent founded by Father Athanasius, the syndic of the Capuchins. True that no layman may enter--but--I can settle that with the good Fathers! Their habit sleeves are wide enough to hide me in. 'Tis they who serve Richelieu's private chapel: and from respect to the uncle, fear the nephew. All will deem me gone. I will come to you, masked. Give me leave to wait till tomorrow, sweet Lady Fanciful! ROXANE: But, of this be rumored, your glory. . . DE GUICHE: Bah! ROXANE: But the siege--Arras. . . DE GUICHE: 'Twill take its chance. Grant but permission. ROXANE: No! DE GUICHE: Give me leave! ROXANE (tenderly): It were my duty to forbid you! DE GUICHE: Ah! ROXANE: You must go! (Aside): Christian stays here. (Aloud): I would have you heroic--Antoine! DE GUICHE: O heavenly word! You love, then, him?. . . ROXANE: . . .For whom I trembled. DE GUICHE (in an ecstasy): Ah! I go then! (He kisses her hand): Are you content? ROXANE: Yes, my friend! (He goes out.) THE DUENNA (making behind his back a mocking courtesy): Yes, my friend! ROXANE (to the duenna): Not a word of what I have done. Cyrano would never pardon me for stealing his fighting from him! (She calls toward the house): Cousin! ----------SCENE 3--------- Roxane, The duenna, Cyrano. ROXANE: We are going to Clomire's house. (She points to the door opposite): Alcandre and Lysimon are to discourse! THE DUENNA (putting her little finger in her ear): Yes! But my little finger tells me we shall miss them. CYRANO: 'Twere a pity to miss such apes! (They have come to Clomire's door.) THE DUENNA: Oh, see! The knocker is muffled up! (Speaking to the knocker): So they have gagged that metal tongue of yours, little noisy one, lest it should disturb the fine orators! (She lifts it carefully and knocks with precaution.) ROXANE (seeing that the door opens): Let us enter! (On the threshold, to Cyrano): If Christian comes, as I feel sure he will, bid him wait for me! CYRANO (quickly, as she is going in): Listen! (She turns): What mean you to question him on, as is your wont, to-night? ROXANE: Oh-- CYRANO (eagerly): Well, say. ROXANE: But you will be mute? CYRANO: Mute as a fish. ROXANE: I shall not question him at all, but say: Give rein to your fancy! Prepare not your speeches,--but speak the thoughts as they come! Speak to me of love, and speak splendidly! CYRANO (smiling): Very good! ROXANE: But secret!. . . CYRANO: Secret. ROXANE: Not a word! (She enters and shuts the door.) CYRANO (when the door is shut, bowing to her): A thousand thanks! (The door opens again, and Roxane puts her head out.) ROXANE: Lest he prepare himself! CYRANO: The devil!--no, no! BOTH TOGETHER: Secret. (The door shuts.) CYRANO (calling): Christian! ----------SCENE 4--------- Cyrano, Christian. CYRANO: I know all that is needful. Here's occasion For you to deck yourself with glory. Come, Lose no time; put away those sulky looks, Come to your house with me, I'll teach you. . . CHRISTIAN: No! CYRANO: Why? CHRISTIAN: I will wait for Roxane here. CYRANO: How? Crazy? Come quick with me and learn. . . CHRISTIAN: No, no! I say. I am aweary of these borrowed letters, --Borrowed love-makings! Thus to act a part, And tremble all the time!--'Twas well enough At the beginning!--Now I know she loves! I fear no longer!--I will speak myself. CYRANO: Mercy! CHRISTIAN: And how know you I cannot speak?-- I am not such a fool when all is said! I've by your lessons profited. You'll see I shall know how to speak alone! The devil! I know at least to clasp her in my arms! (Seeing Roxane come out from Clomire's house): --It is she! Cyrano, no!--Leave me not! CYRANO (bowing): Speak for yourself, my friend, and take your chance. (He disappears behind the garden wall.) ----------SCENE 5--------- Christian, Roxane, the duenna. ROXANE (coming out of Clomire's house, with a company of friends, whom she leaves. Bows and good-byes): Barthenoide!--Alcandre!--Gremione!-- THE DUENNA (bitterly disappointed): We've missed the speech upon the Tender Passion! (Goes into Roxane's house.) ROXANE (still bowing): Urimedonte--adieu! (All bow to Roxane and to each other, and then separate, going up different streets. Roxane suddenly seeing Christian): You! (She goes to him): Evening falls. Let's sit. Speak on. I listen. CHRISTIAN (sits by her on the bench. A silence): Oh! I love you! ROXANE (shutting her eyes): Ay, speak to me of love. CHRISTIAN: I love thee! ROXANE: That's The theme! But vary it. CHRISTIAN: I. . . ROXANE: Vary it! CHRISTIAN: I love you so! ROXANE: Oh! without doubt!--and then?. . . CHRISTIAN: And then--I should be--oh!--so glad--so glad If you would love me!--Roxane, tell me so! ROXANE (with a little grimace): I hoped for cream,--you give me gruel! Say How love possesses you? CHRISTIAN: Oh utterly! ROXANE: Come, come!. . .unknot those tangled sentiments! CHRISTIAN: Your throat I'd kiss it! ROXANE: Christian! CHRISTIAN: I love thee! ROXANE (half-rising): Again! CHRISTIAN (eagerly, detaining her): No, no! I love thee not! ROXANE (reseating herself): 'Tis well! CHRISTIAN: But I adore thee! ROXANE (rising, and going further off): Oh! CHRISTIAN: I am grown stupid! ROXANE (dryly): And that displeases me, almost as much As 'twould displease me if you grew ill-favored. CHRISTIAN: But. . . ROXANE: Rally your poor eloquence that's flown! CHRISTIAN: I. . . ROXANE: Yes, you love me, that I know. Adieu. (She goes toward her house.) CHRISTIAN: Oh, go not yet! I'd tell you-- ROXANE (opening the door): You adore me? I've heard it very oft. No!--Go away! CHRISTIAN: But I would fain. . . (She shuts the door in his face.) CYRANO (who has re-entered unseen): I' faith! It is successful! ----------SCENE 6--------- Christian, Cyrano, two pages. CHRISTIAN: Come to my aid! CYRANO: Not I! CHRISTIAN: But I shall die, Unless at once I win back her fair favor. CYRANO: And how can I, at once, i' th' devil's name, Lesson you in. . . CHRISTIAN (seizing his arm): Oh, she is there! (The window of the balcony is now lighted up.) CYRANO (moved): Her window! CHRISTIAN: Oh! I shall die! CYRANO: Speak lower! CHRISTIAN (in a whisper): I shall die! CYRANO: The night is dark. . . CHRISTIAN: Well! CYRANO: All can be repaired. Although you merit not. Stand there, poor wretch! Fronting the balcony! I'll go beneath And prompt your words to you. . . CHRISTIAN: But. . . CYRANO: Hold your tongue! THE PAGES (reappearing at back--to Cyrano): Ho! CYRANO: Hush! (He signs to them to speak softly.) FIRST PAGE (in a low voice): We've played the serenade you bade To Montfleury! CYRANO (quickly, in a low voice): Go! lurk in ambush there, One at this street corner, and one at that; And if a passer-by should here intrude, Play you a tune! SECOND PAGE: What tune, Sir Gassendist? CYRANO: Gay, if a woman comes,--for a man, sad! (The pages disappear, one at each street corner. To Christian): Call her! CHRISTIAN: Roxane! CYRANO (picking up stones and throwing them at the window): Some pebbles! wait awhile! ROXANE (half-opening the casement): Who calls me? CHRISTIAN: I! ROXANE: Who's that? CHRISTIAN: Christian! ROXANE (disdainfully): Oh! you? CHRISTIAN: I would speak with you. CYRANO (under the balcony--to Christian): Good. Speak soft and low. ROXANE: No, you speak stupidly! CHRISTIAN: Oh, pity me! ROXANE: No! you love me no more! CHRISTIAN (prompted by Cyrano): You say--Great Heaven! I love no more?--when--I--love more and more! ROXANE (who was about to shut the casement, pausing): Hold! 'tis a trifle better! ay, a trifle! CHRISTIAN (same play): Love grew apace, rocked by the anxious beating. . . Of this poor heart, which the cruel wanton boy. . . Took for a cradle! ROXANE (coming out on to the balcony): That is better! But An if you deem that Cupid be so cruel You should have stifled baby-love in's cradle! CHRISTIAN (same play): Ah, Madame, I assayed, but all in vain This. . .new-born babe is a young. . .Hercules! ROXANE: Still better! CHRISTIAN (same play): Thus he strangled in my heart The. . .serpents twain, of. . .Pride. . .and Doubt! ROXANE (leaning over the balcony): Well said! --But why so faltering? Has mental palsy Seized on your faculty imaginative? CYRANO (drawing Christian under the balcony, and slipping into his place): Give place! This waxes critical!. . . ROXANE: To-day. . . Your words are hesitating. CYRANO (imitating Christian--in a whisper): Night has come. . . In the dusk they grope their way to find your ear. ROXANE: But my words find no such impediment. CYRANO: They find their way at once? Small wonder that! For 'tis within my heart they find their home; Bethink how large my heart, how small your ear! And,--from fair heights descending, words fall fast, But mine must mount, Madame, and that takes time! ROXANE: Meseems that your last words have learned to climb. CYRANO: With practice such gymnastic grows less hard! ROXANE: In truth, I seem to speak from distant heights! CYRANO: True, far above; at such a height 'twere death If a hard word from you fell on my heart. ROXANE (moving): I will come down. . . CYRANO (hastily): No! ROXANE (showing him the bench under the balcony): Mount then on the bench! CYRANO (starting back alarmed): No! ROXANE: How, you will not? CYRANO (more and more moved): Stay awhile! 'Tis sweet,. . . The rare occasion, when our hearts can speak Our selves unseen, unseeing! ROXANE: Why--unseen? CYRANO: Ay, it is sweet! Half hidden,--half revealed-- You see the dark folds of my shrouding cloak, And I, the glimmering whiteness of your dress: I but a shadow--you a radiance fair! Know you what such a moment holds for me? If ever I were eloquent. . . ROXANE: You were! CYRANO: Yet never till to-night my speech has sprung Straight from my heart as now it springs. ROXANE: Why not? CYRANO: Till now I spoke haphazard. . . ROXANE: What? CYRANO: Your eyes Have beams that turn men dizzy!--But to-night Methinks I shall find speech for the first time! ROXANE: 'Tis true, your voice rings with a tone that's new. CYRANO (coming nearer, passionately): Ay, a new tone! In the tender, sheltering dusk I dare to be myself for once,--at last! (He stops, falters): What say I? I know not!--Oh, pardon me-- It thrills me,--'tis so sweet, so novel. . . ROXANE: How? So novel? CYRANO (off his balance, trying to find the thread of his sentence): Ay,--to be at last sincere; Till now, my chilled heart, fearing to be mocked. . . ROXANE: Mocked, and for what? CYRANO: For its mad beating!--Ay, My heart has clothed itself with witty words, To shroud itself from curious eyes:--impelled At times to aim at a star, I stay my hand, And, fearing ridicule,--cull a wild flower! ROXANE: A wild flower's sweet. CYRANO: Ay, but to-night--the star! ROXANE: Oh! never have you spoken thus before! CYRANO: If, leaving Cupid's arrows, quivers, torches, We turned to seek for sweeter--fresher things! Instead of sipping in a pygmy glass Dull fashionable waters,--did we try How the soul slakes its thirst in fearless draught By drinking from the river's flooding brim! ROXANE: But wit?. . . CYRANO: If I have used it to arrest you At the first starting,--now, 'twould be an outrage, An insult--to the perfumed Night--to Nature-- To speak fine words that garnish vain love-letters! Look up but at her stars! The quiet Heaven Will ease our hearts of all things artificial; I fear lest, 'midst the alchemy we're skilled in The truth of sentiment dissolve and vanish,-- The soul exhausted by these empty pastimes, The gain of fine things be the loss of all things! ROXANE: But wit? I say. . . CYRANO: In love 'tis crime,--'tis hateful! Turning frank loving into subtle fencing! At last the moment comes, inevitable,-- --Oh, woe for those who never know that moment! When feeling love exists in us, ennobling, Each well-weighed word is futile and soul-saddening! ROXANE: Well, if that moment's come for us--suppose it! What words would serve you? CYRANO: All, all, all, whatever That came to me, e'en as they came, I'd fling them In a wild cluster, not a careful bouquet. I love thee! I am mad! I love, I stifle! Thy name is in my heart as in a sheep-bell, And as I ever tremble, thinking of thee, Ever the bell shakes, ever thy name ringeth! All things of thine I mind, for I love all things; I know that last year on the twelfth of May-month, To walk abroad, one day you changed your hair-plaits! I am so used to take your hair for daylight That,--like as when the eye stares on the sun's disk, One sees long after a red blot on all things-- So, when I quit thy beams, my dazzled vision Sees upon all things a blonde stain imprinted. ROXANE (agitated): Why, this is love indeed!. . . CYRANO: Ay, true, the feeling Which fills me, terrible and jealous, truly Love,--which is ever sad amid its transports! Love,--and yet, strangely, not a selfish passion! I for your joy would gladly lay mine own down, --E'en though you never were to know it,--never! --If but at times I might--far off and lonely,-- Hear some gay echo of the joy I bought you! Each glance of thine awakes in me a virtue,-- A novel, unknown valor. Dost begin, sweet, To understand? So late, dost understand me? Feel'st thou my soul, here, through the darkness mounting? Too fair the night! Too fair, too fair the moment! That I should speak thus, and that you should hearken! Too fair! In moments when my hopes rose proudest, I never hoped such guerdon. Naught is left me But to die now! Have words of mine the power To make you tremble,--throned there in the branches? Ay, like a leaf among the leaves, you tremble! You tremble! For I feel,--an if you will it, Or will it not,--your hand's beloved trembling Thrill through the branches, down your sprays of jasmine! (He kisses passionately one of the hanging tendrils.) ROXANE: Ay! I am trembling, weeping!--I am thine! Thou hast conquered all of me! CYRANO: Then let death come! 'Tis I, 'tis I myself, who conquered thee! One thing, but one, I dare to ask-- CHRISTIAN (under the balcony): A kiss! ROXANE (drawing back): What? CYRANO: Oh! ROXANE: You ask. . .? CYRANO: I. . . (To Christian, whispering): Fool! you go too quick! CHRISTIAN: Since she is moved thus--I will profit by it! CYRANO (to Roxane): My words sprang thoughtlessly, but now I see-- Shame on me!--I was too presumptuous. ROXANE (a little chilled): How quickly you withdraw. CYRANO: Yes, I withdraw Without withdrawing! Hurt I modesty? If so--the kiss I asked--oh, grant it not. CHRISTIAN (to Cyrano, pulling him by his cloak): Why? CYRANO: Silence, Christian! Hush! ROXANE (leaning over): What whisper you? CYRANO: I chid myself for my too bold advances; Said, 'Silence, Christian!' (The lutes begin to play): Hark! Wait awhile,. . . Steps come! (Roxane shuts the window. Cyrano listens to the lutes, one of which plays a merry, the other a melancholy, tune): Why, they play sad--then gay--then sad! What? Neither man nor woman?--oh! a monk! (Enter a capuchin friar, with a lantern. He goes from house to house, looking at every door.) ----------SCENE 7--------- Cyrano, Christian, a capuchin friar. CYRANO (to the friar): What do you, playing at Diogenes? THE FRIAR: I seek the house of Madame. . . CHRISTIAN: Oh! plague take him! THE FRIAR: Madeleine Robin. . . CHRISTIAN: What would he?. . . CYRANO (pointing to a street at the back): This way! Straight on. . . THE FRIAR I thank you, and, in your intention Will tell my rosary to its last bead. (He goes out.) CYRANO: Good luck! My blessings rest upon your cowl! (He goes back to Christian.) ----------SCENE 8--------- Cyrano, Christian. CHRISTIAN: Oh! win for me that kiss. . . CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: Soon or late!. . . CYRANO: 'Tis true! The moment of intoxication-- Of madness,--when your mouths are sure to meet Thanks to your fair mustache--and her rose lips! (To himself): I'd fainer it should come thanks to. . . (A sound of shutters reopening. Christian goes in again under the balcony.) ----------SCENE 9--------- Cyrano, Christian, Roxane. ROXANE (coming out on the balcony): Still there? We spoke of a. . . CYRANO: A kiss! The word is sweet. I see not why your lip should shrink from it; If the word burns it,--what would the kiss do? Oh! let it not your bashfulness affright; Have you not, all this time, insensibly, Left badinage aside, and unalarmed Glided from smile to sigh,--from sigh to weeping? Glide gently, imperceptibly, still onward-- From tear to kiss,--a moment's thrill!--a heartbeat! ROXANE: Hush! hush! CYRANO: A kiss, when all is said,--what is it? An oath that's ratified,--a sealed promise, A heart's avowal claiming confirmation,-- A rose-dot on the 'i' of 'adoration,'-- A secret that to mouth, not ear, is whispered,-- Brush of a bee's wing, that makes time eternal,-- Communion perfumed like the spring's wild flowers,-- The heart's relieving in the heart's outbreathing, When to the lips the soul's flood rises, brimming! ROXANE: Hush! hush! CYRANO: A kiss, Madame, is honorable: The Queen of France, to a most favored lord Did grant a kiss--the Queen herself! ROXANE: What then? CYRANO (speaking more warmly): Buckingham suffered dumbly,--so have I,-- Adored his Queen, as loyally as I,-- Was sad, but faithful,--so am I. . . ROXANE: And you Are fair as Buckingham! CYRANO (aside--suddenly cooled): True,--I forgot! ROXANE: Must I then bid thee mount to cull this flower? CYRANO (pushing Christian toward the balcony): Mount! ROXANE: This heart-breathing!. . . CYRANO: Mount! ROXANE: This brush of bee's wing!. . . CYRANO: Mount! CHRISTIAN (hesitating): But I feel now, as though 'twere ill done! ROXANE: This moment infinite!. . . CYRANO (still pushing him): Come, blockhead, mount! (Christian springs forward, and by means of the bench, the branches, and the pillars, climbs to the balcony and strides over it.) CHRISTIAN: Ah, Roxane! (He takes her in his arms, and bends over her lips.) CYRANO: Aie! Strange pain that wrings my heart! The kiss, love's feast, so near! I, Lazarus, Lie at the gate in darkness. Yet to me Falls still a crumb or two from the rich man's board-- Ay, 'tis my heart receives thee, Roxane--mine! For on the lips you press you kiss as well The words I spoke just now!--my words--my words! (The lutes play): A sad air,--a gay air: the monk! (He begins to run as if he came from a long way off, and cries out): Hola! ROXANE: Who is it? CYRANO: I--I was but passing by. . . Is Christian there? CHRISTIAN (astonished): Cyrano! ROXANE: Good-day, cousin! CYRANO: Cousin, good-day! ROXANE: I'm coming! (She disappears into the house. At the back re-enter the friar.) CHRISTIAN (seeing him): Back again! (He follows Roxane.)

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of scene 12 using the context provided.

While Cyrano sits on the rail of the balcony waiting to divert De Guiche, the lutes begin to play a sinister and mournful tune. When De Guiche arrives in mask, Cyrano swings down and lands between him and the door, pretending to be a lunatic who has fallen from the moon. He keeps De Guiche engaged with his chatter about "six ways to violate the virgin sky" and get to the moon. Throughout this dialogue Cyrano speaks with a Gascon accent and keeps his nose concealed with the brim of his hat in order to hide his identity from De Guiche. When the newly married Roxane and Christian emerge from the house, De Guiche grasps the situation. He acknowledges Roxane's cleverness and Cyrano's powers of invention in keeping him occupied. Wanting revenge, however, De Guiche orders that all the cadets must join the regiment and leave for Arras immediately. The distraught Roxane begs Cyrano to ensure Christian's safety, comfort and fidelity. She also asks for regular letters, which Cyrano promises.

----------SCENE 10--------- Cyrano, Christian, Roxane, the friar, Ragueneau. THE FRIAR: 'Tis here,--I'm sure of it--Madame Madeleine Robin. CYRANO: Why, you said Ro-LIN. THE FRIAR: No, not I. B,I,N,BIN! ROXANE (appearing on the threshold, followed by Ragueneau, who carries a lantern, and Christian): What is't? THE FRIAR: A letter. CHRISTIAN: What? THE FRIAR (to Roxane): Oh, it can boot but a holy business! 'Tis from a worthy lord. . . ROXANE (to Christian): De Guiche! CHRISTIAN: He dares. . . ROXANE: Oh, he will not importune me forever! (Unsealing the letter): I love you,--therefore-- (She reads in a low voice by the aid of Ragueneau's lantern): 'Lady, The drums beat; My regiment buckles its harness on And starts; but I,--they deem me gone before-- But I stay. I have dared to disobey Your mandate. I am here in convent walls. I come to you to-night. By this poor monk-- A simple fool who knows not what he bears-- I send this missive to apprise your ear. Your lips erewhile have smiled on me, too sweet: I go not ere I've seen them once again! I would be private; send each soul away, Receive alone him,--whose great boldness you Have deigned, I hope, to pardon, ere he asks,-- He who is ever your--et cetera.' (To the monk): Father, this is the matter of the letter:-- (All come near her, and she reads aloud): 'Lady, The Cardinal's wish is law; albeit It be to you unwelcome. For this cause I send these lines--to your fair ear addressed-- By a holy man, discreet, intelligent: It is our will that you receive from him, In your own house, the marriage (She turns the page): benediction Straightway, this night. Unknown to all the world Christian becomes your husband. Him we send. He is abhorrent to your choice. Let be. Resign yourself, and this obedience Will be by Heaven well recompensed. Receive, Fair lady, all assurance of respect, From him who ever was, and still remains, Your humble and obliged--et cetera.' THE FRIAR (with great delight): O worthy lord! I knew naught was to fear; It could be but holy business! ROXANE (to Christian, in a low voice): Am I not apt at reading letters? CHRISTIAN: Hum! ROXANE (aloud, with despair): But this is horrible! THE FRIAR (who has turned his lantern on Cyrano): 'Tis you? CHRISTIAN: 'Tis I! THE FRIAR (turning the light on to him, and as if a doubt struck him on seeing his beauty): But. . . ROXANE (quickly): I have overlooked the postscript--see:-- 'Give twenty pistoles for the Convent.' THE FRIAR: . . .Oh! Most worthy lord! (To Roxane): Submit you? ROXANE (with a martyr's look): I submit! (While Ragueneau opens the door, and Christian invites the friar to enter, she whispers to Cyrano): Oh, keep De Guiche at bay! He will be here! Let him not enter till. . . CYRANO: I understand! (To the friar): What time need you to tie the marriage-knot? THE FRIAR: A quarter of an hour. CYRANO (pushing them all toward the house): Go! I stay. ROXANE (to Christian): Come!. . . (They enter.) CYRANO: Now, how to detain De Guiche so long? (He jumps on the bench, climbs to the balcony by the wall): Come!. . .up I go!. . .I have my plan!. . . (The lutes begin to play a very sad air): What, ho! (The tremolo grows more and more weird): It is a man! ay! 'tis a man this time! (He is on the balcony, pulls his hat over his eyes, takes off his sword, wraps himself in his cloak, then leans over): 'Tis not too high! (He strides across the balcony, and drawing to him a long branch of one of the trees that are by the garden wall, he hangs on to it with both hands, ready to let himself fall): I'll shake this atmosphere! ----------SCENE 11--------- Cyrano, De Guiche. DE GUICHE (who enters, masked, feeling his way in the dark): What can that cursed Friar be about? CYRANO: The devil!. . .If he knows my voice! (Letting go with one hand, he pretends to turn an invisible key. Solemnly): Cric! Crac! Assume thou, Cyrano, to serve the turn, The accent of thy native Bergerac!. . . DE GUICHE (looking at the house): 'Tis there. I see dim,--this mask hinders me! (He is about to enter, when Cyrano leaps from the balcony, holding on to the branch, which bends, dropping him between the door and De Guiche; he pretends to fall heavily, as from a great height, and lies flat on the ground, motionless, as if stunned. De Guiche starts back): What's this? (When he looks up, the branch has sprung back into its place. He sees only the sky, and is lost in amazement): Where fell that man from? CYRANO (sitting up, and speaking with a Gascon accent): From the moon! DE GUICHE: From?. . . CYRANO (in a dreamy voice): What's o'clock? DE GUICHE: He's lost his mind, for sure! CYRANO: What hour? What country this? What month? What day? DE GUICHE: But. . . CYRANO: I am stupefied! DE GUICHE: Sir! CYRANO: Like a bomb I fell from the moon! DE GUICHE (impatiently): Come now! CYRANO (rising, in a terrible voice): I say,--the moon! DE GUICHE (recoiling): Good, good! let it be so!. . .He's raving mad! CYRANO (walking up to him): I say from the moon! I mean no metaphor!. . . DE GUICHE: But. . . CYRANO: Was't a hundred years--a minute, since? --I cannot guess what time that fall embraced!-- That I was in that saffron-colored ball? DE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders): Good! let me pass! CYRANO (intercepting him): Where am I? Tell the truth! Fear not to tell! Oh, spare me not! Where? where? Have I fallen like a shooting star? DE GUICHE: Morbleu! CYRANO: The fall was lightning-quick! no time to choose Where I should fall--I know not where it be! Oh, tell me! Is it on a moon or earth, that my posterior weight has landed me? DE GUICHE: I tell you, Sir. . . CYRANO (with a screech of terror, which makes De Guiche start back): No? Can it be? I'm on A planet where men have black faces? DE GUICHE (putting a hand to his face): What? CYRANO (feigning great alarm): Am I in Africa? A native you? DE GUICHE (who has remembered his mask): This mask of mine. . . CYRANO (pretending to be reassured): In Venice? ha!--or Rome? DE GUICHE (trying to pass): A lady waits. . CYRANO (quite reassured): Oh-ho! I am in Paris! DE GUICHE (smiling in spite of himself): The fool is comical! CYRANO: You laugh? DE GUICHE: I laugh, But would get by! CYRANO (beaming with joy): I have shot back to Paris! (Quite at ease, laughing, dusting himself, bowing): Come--pardon me--by the last water-spout, Covered with ether,--accident of travel! My eyes still full of star-dust, and my spurs Encumbered by the planets' filaments! (Picking something off his sleeve): Ha! on my doublet?--ah, a comet's hair!. . . (He puffs as if to blow it away.) DE GUICHE (beside himself): Sir!. . . CYRANO (just as he is about to pass, holds out his leg as if to show him something and stops him): In my leg--the calf--there is a tooth Of the Great Bear, and, passing Neptune close, I would avoid his trident's point, and fell, Thus sitting, plump, right in the Scales! My weight Is marked, still registered, up there in heaven! (Hurriedly preventing De Guiche from passing, and detaining him by the button of his doublet): I swear to you that if you squeezed my nose It would spout milk! DE GUICHE: Milk? CYRANO: From the Milky Way! DE GUICHE: Oh, go to hell! CYRANO (crossing his arms): I fall, Sir, out of heaven! Now, would you credit it, that as I fell I saw that Sirius wears a nightcap? True! (Confidentially): The other Bear is still too small to bite. (Laughing): I went through the Lyre, but I snapped a cord; (Grandiloquent): I mean to write the whole thing in a book; The small gold stars, that, wrapped up in my cloak, I carried safe away at no small risks, Will serve for asterisks i' the printed page! DE GUICHE: Come, make an end! I want. . . CYRANO: Oh-ho! You are sly! DE GUICHE: Sir! CYRANO: You would worm all out of me!--the way The moon is made, and if men breathe and live In its rotund cucurbita? DE GUICHE (angrily): No, no! I want. . . CYRANO: Ha, ha!--to know how I got up? Hark, it was by a method all my own. DE GUICHE (wearied): He's mad! CYRANO(contemptuously): No! not for me the stupid eagle Of Regiomontanus, nor the timid Pigeon of Archytas--neither of those! DE GUICHE: Ay, 'tis a fool! But 'tis a learned fool! CYRANO: No imitator I of other men! (De Guiche has succeeded in getting by, and goes toward Roxane's door. Cyrano follows him, ready to stop him by force): Six novel methods, all, this brain invented! DE GUICHE (turning round): Six? CYRANO (volubly): First, with body naked as your hand, Festooned about with crystal flacons, full O' th' tears the early morning dew distils; My body to the sun's fierce rays exposed To let it suck me up, as 't sucks the dew! DE GUICHE (surprised, making one step toward Cyrano): Ah! that makes one! CYRANO (stepping back, and enticing him further away): And then, the second way, To generate wind--for my impetus-- To rarefy air, in a cedar case, By mirrors placed icosahedron-wise. DE GUICHE (making another step): Two! CYRANO (still stepping backward): Or--for I have some mechanic skill-- To make a grasshopper, with springs of steel, And launch myself by quick succeeding fires Saltpeter-fed to the stars' pastures blue! DE GUICHE (unconsciously following him and counting on his fingers): Three! CYRANO: Or (since fumes have property to mount)-- To charge a globe with fumes, sufficiently To carry me aloft! DE GUICHE (same play, more and more astonished): Well, that makes four! CYRANO: Or smear myself with marrow from a bull, Since, at the lowest point of Zodiac, Phoebus well loves to suck that marrow up! DE GUICHE (amazed): Five! CYRANO (who, while speaking, had drawn him to the other side of the square near a bench): Sitting on an iron platform--thence To throw a magnet in the air. This is A method well conceived--the magnet flown, Infallibly the iron will pursue: Then quick! relaunch your magnet, and you thus Can mount and mount unmeasured distances! DE GUICHE: Here are six excellent expedients! Which of the six chose you? CYRANO: Why, none!--a seventh! DE GUICHE: Astonishing! What was it? CYRANO: I'll recount. DE GUICHE: This wild eccentric becomes interesting! CYRANO (making a noise like the waves, with weird gestures): Houuh! Houuh! DE GUICHE: Well. CYRANO: You have guessed? DE GUICHE: Not I! CYRANO: The tide! I' th' witching hour when the moon woos the wave, I laid me, fresh from a sea-bath, on the shore-- And, failing not to put head foremost--for The hair holds the sea-water in its mesh-- I rose in air, straight! straight! like angel's flight, And mounted, mounted, gently, effortless,. . . When lo! a sudden shock! Then. . . DE GUICHE (overcome by curiosity, sitting down on the bench): Then? CYRANO: Oh! then. . . (Suddenly returning to his natural voice): The quarter's gone--I'll hinder you no more: The marriage-vows are made. DE GUICHE (springing up): What? Am I mad? That voice? (The house-door opens. Lackeys appear carrying lighted candelabra. Light. Cyrano gracefully uncovers): That nose--Cyrano? CYRANO (bowing): Cyrano. While we were chatting, they have plighted troth. DE GUICHE: Who? (He turns round. Tableau. Behind the lackeys appear Roxane and Christian, holding each other by the hand. The friar follows them, smiling. Ragueneau also holds a candlestick. The duenna closes the rear, bewildered, having made a hasty toilet): Heavens! ----------SCENE 12--------- The same. Roxane, Christian, the friar, Ragueneau, lackeys, the duenna. DE GUICHE (to Roxane): You? (Recognizing Christian, in amazement): He? (Bowing, with admiration, to Roxane): Cunningly contrived! (To Cyrano): My compliments--Sir Apparatus-maker! Your story would arrest at Peter's gate Saints eager for their Paradise! Note well The details. 'Faith! They'd make a stirring book! CYRANO (bowing): I shall not fail to follow your advice. THE FRIAR (showing with satisfaction the two lovers to De Guiche): A handsome couple, son, made one by you! DE GUICHE (with a freezing look): Ay! (To Roxane): Bid your bridegroom, Madame, fond farewell. ROXANE: Why so? DE GUICHE (to Christian): Even now the regiment departs. Join it! ROXANE: It goes to battle? DE GUICHE: Without doubt. ROXANE: But the Cadets go not? DE GUICHE: Oh ay! they go. (Drawing out the paper he had put in his pocket): Here is the order. (To Christian): Baron, bear it, quick! ROXANE (throwing herself in Christian's arms): Christian! DE GUICHE (sneeringly to Cyrano): The wedding-night is far, methinks! CYRANO (aside): He thinks to give me pain of death by this! CHRISTIAN (to Roxane): Oh! once again! Your lips! CYRANO: Come, come, enough! CHRISTIAN (still kissing Roxane): --'Tis hard to leave her, you know not. . . CYRANO (trying to draw him away): I know. (Sound of drums beating a march in the distance.) DE GUICHE: The regiment starts! ROXANE (To Cyrano, holding back Christian, whom Cyrano is drawing away): Oh!--I trust him you! Promise me that no risks shall put his life In danger! CYRANO: I will try my best, but promise. . . That I cannot! ROXANE: But swear he shall be prudent? CYRANO: Again, I'll do my best, but. . . ROXANE: In the siege Let him not suffer! CYRANO: All that man can do, I. . . ROXANE: That he shall be faithful! CYRANO: Doubtless, but. . . ROXANE: That he will write oft? CYRANO (pausing): That, I promise you! Curtain.

Cyrano De Bergerac.act 4.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 4 with the given context.

scene 13|scene 2|scene 3|scene 4|scene 5|scene 6

De Guiche enters and the cadets ignore him, for they do not want him to see their misery. Carbon and De Guiche greet each other and are pleased to see that each of them is reduced to skin and bone, proof that no one is escaping the suffering and misery. De Guiche, however, complains that Carbon's cadets hold him in contempt because he is a courtier and not a typical ragged Gascon. He goes on to claim his own great courage, as shown the day before in attacking the troops of Count de Bucquoi at Bapaume. The perceptive and clever Cyrano interrupts to ask about the white scarf of an officer that is in his possession. It belongs to De Guiche. He was wearing it at the attack the day before. When things started going badly, De Guiche removed the white scarf and threw it on the ground, hoping the enemy would not recognize him as an officer and take him captive. Seeing the act of De Guiche's cowardice, Cyrano picked up the scarf and now produces it, embarrassing De Guiche and proving that he is not courageous as he claimed. De Guiche tries to convince everyone that he dropped the scarf so that he could flee and regroup his men for another attack. No one believes him. De Guiche takes the scarf and waves it to a Spanish spy, who is waiting some distance away. This double agent is now to inform the Spaniards to attack the cadet's post in order to draw attention away from the French Marshall, who has gone to Dourlens to find some food for himself and his troops. By placing Cyrano and the cadets in the enemy line of fire, De Guiche is being vindictive towards them, as well as trying to protect the marshal on his return. As the cadets prepare to fight, Cyrano grows excited over the thought of battle. Christian, however, is stunned and wants to take time to write a farewell letter to Roxane. Cyrano has already prepared one, which he gives to Christian to read. The letter explains that dying is not nearly so difficult as never seeing Roxane again. As he reads, Christian is startled to see Cyrano's tears on letter. Cyrano explains that the words were so beautiful that they brought tears to his eyes. Suddenly a carriage is announced. De Guiche thinks it might be the king, and the cadets line up and bow in expectation. Instead of royalty, it is Roxane. Her appearance stuns everyone completely.

----------SCENE 13--------- Christian, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, Le Bret, the cadets, then Cyrano. LE BRET: 'Tis terrible. CARBON: Not a morsel left. LE BRET: Mordioux! CARBON (making a sign that he should speak lower): Curse under your breath. You will awake them. (To the cadets): Hush! Sleep on. (To Le Bret): He who sleeps, dines! LE BRET: But that is sorry comfort for the sleepless!. . . What starvation! (Firing is heard in the distance.) CARBON: Oh, plague take their firing! 'Twill wake my sons. (To the cadets, who lift up their heads): Sleep on! (Firing is again heard, nearer this time.) A CADET (moving): The devil!. . .Again. CARBON: 'Tis nothing! 'Tis Cyrano coming back! (Those who have lifted up their heads prepare to sleep again.) A SENTINEL (from without): Ventrebieu! Who goes there? THE VOICE Of CYRANO: Bergerac. The SENTINEL (who is on the redoubt): Ventrebieu! Who goes there? CYRANO (appearing at the top): Bergerac, idiot! (He comes down; Le Bret advances anxiously to meet him.) LE BRET: Heavens! CYRANO (making signs that he should not awake the others): Hush! LE BRET: Wounded? CYRANO: Oh! you know it has become their custom to shoot at me every morning and to miss me. LE BRET: This passes all! To take letters at each day's dawn. To risk. . . CYRANO (stopping before Christian): I promised he should write often. (He looks at him): He sleeps. How pale he is! But how handsome still, despite his sufferings. If his poor little lady-love knew that he is dying of hunger. . . LE BRET: Get you quick to bed. CYRANO: Nay, never scold, Le Bret. I ran but little risk. I have found me a spot to pass the Spanish lines, where each night they lie drunk. LE BRET: You should try to bring us back provision. CYRANO: A man must carry no weight who would get by there! But there will be surprise for us this night. The French will eat or die. . .if I mistake not! LE BRET: Oh!. . .tell me!. . . CYRANO: Nay, not yet. I am not certain. . .You will see! CARBON: It is disgraceful that we should starve while we're besieging! LE BRET: Alas, how full of complication is this siege of Arras! To think that while we are besieging, we should ourselves be caught in a trap and besieged by the Cardinal Infante of Spain. CYRANO: It were well done if he should be besieged in his turn. LE BRET: I am in earnest. CYRANO: Oh! indeed! LE BRET: To think you risk a life so precious. . .for the sake of a letter. . .Thankless one. (Seeing him turning to enter the tent): Where are you going? CYRANO: I am going to write another. (He enters the tent and disappears.) ----------SCENE 2--------- The same, all but Cyrano. The day is breaking in a rosy light. The town of Arras is golden in the horizon. The report of cannon is heard in the distance, followed immediately by the beating of drums far away to the left. Other drums are heard much nearer. Sounds of stirring in the camp. Voices of officers in the distance. CARBON (sighing): The reveille! (The cadets move and stretch themselves): Nourishing sleep! Thou art at an end!. . .I know well what will be their first cry! A CADET (sitting up): I am so hungry! ANOTHER: I am dying of hunger. TOGETHER: Oh! CARBON: Up with you! THIRD CADET: --Cannot move a limb. FOURTH CADET: Nor can I. THE FIRST (looking at himself in a bit of armor): My tongue is yellow. The air at this season of the year is hard to digest. ANOTHER: My coronet for a bit of Chester! ANOTHER: If none can furnish to my gaster wherewith to make a pint of chyle, I shall retire to my tent--like Achilles! ANOTHER: Oh! something! were it but a crust! CARBON (going to the tent and calling softly): Cyrano! ALL THE CADETS: We are dying! CARBON (continuing to speak under his breath at the opening of the tent): Come to my aid, you, who have the art of quick retort and gay jest. Come, hearten them up. SECOND CADET (rushing toward another who is munching something): What are you crunching there? FIRST CADET: Cannon-wads soaked in axle-grease! 'Tis poor hunting round about Arras! A CADET (entering): I have been after game. ANOTHER (following him): And I after fish. ALL (rushing to the two newcomers): Well! what have you brought?--a pheasant?--a carp?--Come, show us quick! THE ANGLER: A gudgeon! THE SPORTSMAN: A sparrow! ALL TOGETHER (beside themselves): 'Tis more than can be borne! We will mutiny! CARBON: Cyrano! Come to my help. (The daylight has now come.) ----------SCENE 3--------- The SAME. Cyrano. CYRANO (appearing from the tent, very calm, with a pen stuck behind his ear and a book in his hand): What is wrong? (Silence. To the first cadet): Why drag you your legs so sorrowfully? THE CADET: I have something in my heels which weighs them down. CYRANO: And what may that be? THE CADET: My stomach! CYRANO: So have I, 'faith! THE CADET: It must be in your way? CYRANO: Nay, I am all the taller. A THIRD: My stomach's hollow. CYRANO: 'Faith, 'twill make a fine drum to sound the assault. ANOTHER: I have a ringing in my ears. CYRANO: No, no, 'tis false; a hungry stomach has no ears. ANOTHER: Oh, to eat something--something oily! CYRANO (pulling off the cadet's helmet and holding it out to him): Behold your salad! ANOTHER: What, in God's name, can we devour? CYRANO (throwing him the book which he is carrying): The 'Iliad'. ANOTHER: The first minister in Paris has his four meals a day! CYRANO: 'Twere courteous an he sent you a few partridges! THE SAME: And why not? with wine, too! CYRANO: A little Burgundy. Richelieu, s'il vous plait! THE SAME: He could send it by one of his friars. CYRANO: Ay! by His Eminence Joseph himself. ANOTHER: I am as ravenous as an ogre! CYRANO: Eat your patience, then. THE FIRST CADET (shrugging his shoulders): Always your pointed word! CYRANO: Ay, pointed words! I would fain die thus, some soft summer eve, Making a pointed word for a good cause. --To make a soldier's end by soldier's sword, Wielded by some brave adversary--die On blood-stained turf, not on a fever-bed, A point upon my lips, a point within my heart. CRIES FROM ALL: I'm hungry! CYRANO (crossing his arms): All your thoughts of meat and drink! Bertrand the fifer!--you were shepherd once,-- Draw from its double leathern case your fife, Play to these greedy, guzzling soldiers. Play Old country airs with plaintive rhythm recurring, Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear home-voices, Each note of which calls like a little sister, Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smoke-wreaths Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets, Their music strikes the ear like Gascon patois!. . . (The old man seats himself, and gets his flute ready): Your flute was now a warrior in durance; But on its stem your fingers are a-dancing A bird-like minuet! O flute! Remember That flutes were made of reeds first, not laburnum; Make us a music pastoral days recalling-- The soul-time of your youth, in country pastures!. . . (The old man begins to play the airs of Languedoc): Hark to the music, Gascons!. . .'Tis no longer The piercing fife of camp--but 'neath his fingers The flute of the woods! No more the call to combat, 'Tis now the love-song of the wandering goat-herds!. . . Hark!. . .'tis the valley, the wet landes, the forest, The sunburnt shepherd-boy with scarlet beret, The dusk of evening on the Dordogne river,-- 'Tis Gascony! Hark, Gascons, to the music! (The cadets sit with bowed heads; their eyes have a far-off look as if dreaming, and they surreptitiously wipe away their tears with their cuffs and the corner of their cloaks.) CARBON (to Cyrano in a whisper): But you make them weep! CYRANO: Ay, for homesickness. A nobler pain than hunger,--'tis of the soul, not of the body! I am well pleased to see their pain change its viscera. Heart-ache is better than stomach-ache. CARBON: But you weaken their courage by playing thus on their heart-strings! CYRANO (making a sign to a drummer to approach): Not I. The hero that sleeps in Gascon blood is ever ready to awake in them. 'Twould suffice. . . (He makes a signal; the drum beats.) ALL THE CADETS (stand up and rush to take arms): What? What is it? CYRANO (smiling): You see! One roll of the drum is enough! Good-by dreams, regrets, native land, love. . .All that the pipe called forth the drum has chased away! A CADET (looking toward the back of the stage): Ho! here comes Monsieur de Guiche. ALL THE CADETS (muttering): Ugh!. . .Ugh!. . . CYRANO (smiling): A flattering welcome! A CADET: We are sick to death of him! ANOTHER CADET: --With his lace collar over his armor, playing the fine gentleman! ANOTHER: As if one wore linen over steel! THE FIRST: It were good for a bandage had he boils on his neck. THE SECOND: Another plotting courtier! ANOTHER CADET: His uncle's own nephew! CARBON: For all that--a Gascon. THE FIRST: Ay, false Gascon!. . .trust him not. . . Gascons should ever be crack-brained. . . Naught more dangerous than a rational Gascon. LE BRET: How pale he is! ANOTHER: Oh! he is hungry, just like us poor devils; but under his cuirass, with its fine gilt nails, his stomach-ache glitters brave in the sun. CYRANO (hurriedly): Let us not seem to suffer either! Out with your cards, pipes, and dice. . . (All begin spreading out the games on the drums, the stools, the ground, and on their cloaks, and light long pipes): And I shall read Descartes. (He walks up and down, reading a little book which he has drawn from his pocket. Tableau. Enter De Guiche. All appear absorbed and happy. He is very pale. He goes up to Carbon.) ----------SCENE 4--------- The same. De Guiche. DE GUICHE (to Carbon): Good-day! (They examine each other. Aside, with satisfaction): He's green. CARBON (aside): He has nothing left but eyes. DE GUICHE (looking at the cadets): Here are the rebels! Ay, Sirs, on all sides I hear that in your ranks you scoff at me; That the Cadets, these loutish, mountain-bred, Poor country squires, and barons of Perigord, Scarce find for me--their Colonel--a disdain Sufficient! call me plotter, wily courtier! It does not please their mightiness to see A point-lace collar on my steel cuirass,-- And they enrage, because a man, in sooth, May be no ragged-robin, yet a Gascon! (Silence. All smoke and play): Shall I command your Captain punish you? No. CARBON: I am free, moreover,--will not punish-- DE GUICHE: Ah! CARBON: I have paid my company--'tis mine. I bow but to headquarters. DE GUICHE: So?--in faith! That will suffice. (Addressing himself to the cadets): I can despise your taunts 'Tis well known how I bear me in the war; At Bapaume, yesterday, they saw the rage With which I beat back the Count of Bucquoi; Assembling my own men, I fell on his, And charged three separate times! CYRANO (without lifting his eyes from his book): And your white scarf? DE GUICHE (surprised and gratified): You know that detail?. . .Troth! It happened thus: While caracoling to recall the troops For the third charge, a band of fugitives Bore me with them, close by the hostile ranks: I was in peril--capture, sudden death!-- When I thought of the good expedient To loosen and let fall the scarf which told My military rank; thus I contrived --Without attention waked--to leave the foes, And suddenly returning, reinforced With my own men, to scatter them! And now, --What say you, Sir? (The cadets pretend not to be listening, but the cards and the dice-boxes remain suspended in their hands, the smoke of their pipes in their cheeks. They wait.) CYRANO: I say, that Henri Quatre Had not, by any dangerous odds, been forced To strip himself of his white helmet plume. (Silent delight. The cards fall, the dice rattle. The smoke is puffed.) DE GUICHE: The ruse succeeded, though! (Same suspension of play, etc.) CYRANO: Oh, may be! But One does not lightly abdicate the honor To serve as target to the enemy (Cards, dice, fall again, and the cadets smoke with evident delight): Had I been present when your scarf fell low, --Our courage, Sir, is of a different sort-- I would have picked it up and put it on. DE GUICHE: Oh, ay! Another Gascon boast! CYRANO: A boast? Lend it to me. I pledge myself, to-night, --With it across my breast,--to lead th' assault. DE GUICHE: Another Gascon vaunt! You know the scarf Lies with the enemy, upon the brink Of the stream,. . .the place is riddled now with shot,-- No one can fetch it hither! CYRANO (drawing the scarf from his pocket, and holding it out to him): Here it is. (Silence. The cadets stifle their laughter in their cards and dice-boxes. De Guiche turns and looks at them; they instantly become grave, and set to play. One of them whistles indifferently the air just played by the fifer.) DE GUICHE (taking the scarf): I thank you. It will now enable me To make a signal,--that I had forborne To make--till now. (He goes to the rampart, climbs it, and waves the scarf thrice.) ALL: What's that? THE SENTINEL (from the top of the rampart): See you yon man Down there, who runs?. . . DE GUICHE (descending): 'Tis a false Spanish spy Who is extremely useful to my ends. The news he carries to the enemy Are those I prompt him with--so, in a word, We have an influence on their decisions! CYRANO: Scoundrel! DE GUICHE (carelessly knotting on his scarf): 'Tis opportune. What were we saying? Ah! I have news for you. Last evening --To victual us--the Marshal did attempt A final effort:--secretly he went To Dourlens, where the King's provisions be. But--to return to camp more easily-- He took with him a goodly force of troops. Those who attacked us now would have fine sport! Half of the army's absent from the camp! CARBON: Ay, if the Spaniards knew, 'twere ill for us, But they know nothing of it? DE GUICHE: Oh! they know. They will attack us. CARBON: Ah! DE GUICHE: For my false spy Came to warn me of their attack. He said, 'I can decide the point for their assault; Where would you have it? I will tell them 'tis The least defended--they'll attempt you there.' I answered, 'Good. Go out of camp, but watch My signal. Choose the point from whence it comes.' CARBON (to cadets): Make ready! (All rise; sounds of swords and belts being buckled.) DE GUICHE: 'Twill be in an hour. FIRST CADET: Good!. . . (They all sit down again and take up their games.) DE GUICHE (to Carbon): Time must be gained. The Marshal will return. CARBON: How gain it? DE GUICHE: You will all be good enough To let yourselves to be killed. CYRANO: Vengeance! oho! DE GUICHE: I do not say that, if I loved you well, I had chosen you and yours,--but, as things stand,-- Your courage yielding to no corps the palm-- I serve my King, and serve my grudge as well. CYRANO: Permit that I express my gratitude. . . DE GUICHE: I know you love to fight against five score; You will not now complain of paltry odds. (He goes up with Carbon.) CYRANO (to the cadets): We shall add to the Gascon coat of arms, With its six bars of blue and gold, one more-- The blood-red bar that was a-missing there! (De Guiche speaks in a low voice with Carbon at the back. Orders are given. Preparations go forward. Cyrano goes up to Christian, who stands with crossed arms.) CYRANO (putting his hand on Christian's shoulder): Christian! CHRISTIAN (shaking his head): Roxane! CYRANO: Alas! CHRISTIAN: At least, I'd send My heart's farewell to her in a fair letter!. . . CYRANO: I had suspicion it would be to-day, (He draws a letter out of his doublet): And had already writ. . . CHRISTIAN: Show! CYRANO: Will you. . .? CHRISTIAN (taking the letter): Ay! (He opens and reads it): Hold! CYRANO: What? CHRISTIAN: This little spot! CYRANO (taking the letter, with an innocent look): A spot? CHRISTIAN: A tear! CYRANO: Poets, at last,--by dint of counterfeiting-- Take counterfeit for true--that is the charm! This farewell letter,--it was passing sad, I wept myself in writing it! CHRISTIAN: Wept? why? CYRANO: Oh!. . .death itself is hardly terrible,. . . --But, ne'er to see her more! That is death's sting! --For. . .I shall never. . . (Christian looks at him): We shall. . . (Quickly): I mean, you. . . CHRISTIAN (snatching the letter from him): Give me that letter! (A rumor, far off in the camp.) VOICE Of SENTINEL: Who goes there? Halloo! (Shots--voices--carriage-bells.) CARBON: What is it? A SENTINEL (on the rampart): 'Tis a carriage! (All rush to see.) CRIES: In the camp? It enters!--It comes from the enemy! --Fire!--No!--The coachman cries!--What does he say? --'On the King's service!' (Everyone is on the rampart, staring. The bells come nearer.) DE GUICHE: The King's service? How? (All descend and draw up in line.) CARBON: Uncover, all! DE GUICHE: The King's! Draw up in line! Let him describe his curve as it befits! (The carriage enters at full speed covered with dust and mud. The curtains are drawn close. Two lackeys behind. It is pulled up suddenly.) CARBON: Beat a salute! (A roll of drums. The cadets uncover.) DE GUICHE: Lower the carriage-steps! (Two cadets rush forward. The door opens.) ROXANE (jumping down from the carriage): Good-day! (All are bowing to the ground, but at the sound of a woman's voice every head is instantly raised.) ----------SCENE 5--------- The same. Roxane. DE GUICHE: On the King's service! You? ROXANE: Ay,--King Love's! What other king? CYRANO: Great God! CHRISTIAN (rushing forward): Why have you come? ROXANE: This siege--'tis too long! CHRISTIAN: But why?. . . ROXANE: I will tell you all! CYRANO (who, at the sound of her voice, has stood still, rooted to the ground, afraid to raise his eyes): My God! dare I look at her? DE GUICHE: You cannot remain here! ROXANE (merrily): But I say yes! Who will push a drum hither for me? (She seats herself on the drum they roll forward): So! I thank you. (She laughs): My carriage was fired at (proudly): by the patrol! Look! would you not think 'twas made of a pumpkin, like Cinderella's chariot in the tale,--and the footmen out of rats? (Sending a kiss with her lips to Christian): Good-morrow! (Examining them all): You look not merry, any of you! Ah! know you that 'tis a long road to get to Arras? (Seeing Cyrano): Cousin, delighted! CYRANO (coming up to her): But how, in Heaven's name?. . . ROXANE: How found I the way to the army? It was simple enough, for I had but to pass on and on, as far as I saw the country laid waste. Ah, what horrors were there! Had I not seen, then I could never have believed it! Well, gentlemen, if such be the service of your King, I would fainer serve mine! CYRANO: But 'tis sheer madness! Where in the fiend's name did you get through? ROXANE: Where? Through the Spanish lines. FIRST CADET: --For subtle craft, give me a woman! DE GUICHE: But how did you pass through their lines? LE BRET: Faith! that must have been a hard matter!. . . ROXANE: None too hard. I but drove quietly forward in my carriage, and when some hidalgo of haughty mien would have stayed me, lo! I showed at the window my sweetest smile, and these Senors being (with no disrespect to you) the most gallant gentlemen in the world,--I passed on! CARBON: True, that smile is a passport! But you must have been asked frequently to give an account of where you were going, Madame? ROXANE: Yes, frequently. Then I would answer, 'I go to see my lover.' At that word the very fiercest Spaniard of them all would gravely shut the carriage-door, and, with a gesture that a king might envy, make signal to his men to lower the muskets leveled at me;--then, with melancholy but withal very graceful dignity--his beaver held to the wind that the plumes might flutter bravely, he would bow low, saying to me, 'Pass on, Senorita!' CHRISTIAN: But, Roxane. . . ROXANE: Forgive me that I said, 'my lover!' But bethink you, had I said 'my husband,' not one of them had let me pass! CHRISTIAN: But. . . ROXANE: What ails you? DE GUICHE: You must leave this place! ROXANE: I? CYRANO: And that instantly! LE BRET: No time to lose. CHRISTIAN: Indeed, you must. ROXANE: But wherefore must I? CHRISTIAN (embarrassed): 'Tis that. . . CYRANO (the same): --In three quarters of an hour. . . DE GUICHE (the same): --Or for. . . CARBON (the same): It were best. . . LE BRET (the same): You might. . . ROXANE: You are going to fight?--I stay here. ALL: No, no! ROXANE: He is my husband! (She throws herself into Christian's arms): They shall kill us both together! CHRISTIAN: Why do you look at me thus? ROXANE: I will tell you why! DE GUICHE (in despair): 'Tis a post of mortal danger! ROXANE (turning round): Mortal danger! CYRANO: Proof enough, that he has put us here! ROXANE (to De Guiche): So, Sir, you would have made a widow of me? DE GUICHE: Nay, on my oath. . . ROXANE: I will not go! I am reckless now, and I shall not stir from here!--Besides, 'tis amusing! CYRANO: Oh-ho! So our precieuse is a heroine! ROXANE: Monsieur de Bergerac, I am your cousin. A CADET: We will defend you well! ROXANE (more and more excited): I have no fear of that, my friends! ANOTHER (in ecstasy): The whole camp smells sweet of orris-root! ROXANE: And, by good luck, I have chosen a hat that will suit well with the battlefield! (Looking at De Guiche): But were it not wisest that the Count retire? They may begin the attack. DE GUICHE: That is not to be brooked! I go to inspect the cannon, and shall return. You have still time--think better of it! ROXANE: Never! (De Guiche goes out.) ----------SCENE 6--------- The same, all but De Guiche. CHRISTIAN (entreatingly): Roxane! ROXANE: No! FIRST CADET (to the others): She stays! ALL (hurrying, hustling each other, tidying themselves): A comb!--Soap!--My uniform is torn!--A needle!--A ribbon!--Lend your mirror!--My cuffs!--Your curling-iron!--A razor!. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano, who still pleads with her): No! Naught shall make me stir from this spot! CARBON (who, like the others, has been buckling, dusting, brushing his hat, settling his plume, and drawing on his cuffs, advances to Roxane, and ceremoniously): It is perchance more seemly, since things are thus, that I present to you some of these gentlemen who are about to have the honor of dying before your eyes. (Roxane bows, and stands leaning on Christian's arm, while Carbon introduces the cadets to her): Baron de Peyrescous de Colignac! THE CADET (with a low reverence): Madame. . . CARBON (continuing): Baron de Casterac de Cahuzac,--Vidame de Malgouyre Estressac Lesbas d'Escarabiot, Chevalier d'Antignac-Juzet, Baron Hillot de Blagnac-Salechan de Castel Crabioules. . . ROXANE: But how many names have you each? BARON HILLOT: Scores! CARBON (to Roxane): Pray, upon the hand that holds your kerchief. ROXANE (opens her hand, and the handkerchief falls): Why? (The whole company start forward to pick it up.) CARBON (quickly raising it): My company had no flag. But now, by my faith, they will have the fairest in all the camp! ROXANE (smiling): 'Tis somewhat small. CARBON (tying the handkerchief on the staff of his lance): But--'tis of lace! A CADET (to the rest): I could die happy, having seen so sweet a face, if I had something in my stomach--were it but a nut! CARBON (who has overheard, indignantly): Shame on you! What, talk of eating when a lovely woman!. . . ROXANE: But your camp air is keen; I myself am famished. Pasties, cold fricassee, old wines--there is my bill of fare? Pray bring it all here. (Consternation.) A CADET: All that? ANOTHER: But where on earth find it? ROXANE (quietly): In my carriage. ALL: How? ROXANE: Now serve up--carve! Look a little closer at my coachman, gentlemen, and you will recognize a man most welcome. All the sauces can be sent to table hot, if we will! THE CADETS (rushing pellmell to the carriage): 'Tis Ragueneau! (Acclamations): Oh, oh! ROXANE (looking after them): Poor fellows! CYRANO (kissing her hand): Kind fairy! RAGUENEAU (standing on the box like a quack doctor at a fair): Gentlemen!. . . (General delight.) THE CADETS: Bravo! bravo! RAGUENEAU: . . .The Spaniards, gazing on a lady so dainty fair, overlooked the fare so dainty!. . . (Applause.) CYRANO (in a whisper to Christian): Hark, Christian! RAGUENEAU: . . .And, occupied with gallantry, perceived not-- (His draws a plate from under the seat, and holds it up): --The galantine!. . . (Applause. The galantine passes from hand to hand.) CYRANO (still whispering to Christian): Prythee, one word! RAGUENEAU: And Venus so attracted their eyes that Diana could secretly pass by with-- (He holds up a shoulder of mutton): --her fawn! (Enthusiasm. Twenty hands are held out to seize the shoulder of mutton.) CYRANO (in a low whisper to Christian): I must speak to you! ROXANE (to the cadets, who come down, their arms laden with food): Put it all on the ground! (She lays all out on the grass, aided by the two imperturbable lackeys who were behind the carriage.) ROXANE (to Christian, just as Cyrano is drawing him apart): Come, make yourself of use! (Christian comes to help her. Cyrano's uneasiness increases.) RAGUENEAU: Truffled peacock! FIRST CADET (radiant, coming down, cutting a big slice of ham): By the mass! We shall not brave the last hazard without having had a gullet-full!-- (quickly correcting himself on seeing Roxane): --Pardon! A Balthazar feast! RAGUENEAU (throwing down the carriage cushions): The cushions are stuffed with ortolans! (Hubbub. They tear open and turn out the contents of the cushions. Bursts of laughter--merriment.) THIRD CADET: Ah! Viedaze! RAGUENEAU (throwing down to the cadets bottles of red wine): Flasks of rubies!-- (and white wine): --Flasks of topaz! ROXANE (throwing a folded tablecloth at Cyrano's head): Unfold me that napkin!--Come, come! be nimble! RAGUENEAU (waving a lantern): Each of the carriage-lamps is a little larder! CYRANO (in a low voice to Christian, as they arrange the cloth together): I must speak with you ere you speak to her. RAGUENEAU: My whip-handle is an Arles sausage! ROXANE (pouring out wine, helping): Since we are to die, let the rest of the army shift for itself. All for the Gascons! And mark! if De Guiche comes, let no one invite him! (Going from one to the other): There! there! You have time enough! Do not eat too fast!--Drink a little.- -Why are you crying? FIRST CADET: It is all so good!. . . ROXANE: Tut!--Red or white?--Some bread for Monsieur de Carbon!--a knife! Pass your plate!--a little of the crust? Some more? Let me help you!--Some champagne?- -A wing? CYRANO (who follows her, his arms laden with dishes, helping her to wait on everybody): How I worship her! ROXANE (going up to Christian): What will you? CHRISTIAN: Nothing. ROXANE: Nay, nay, take this biscuit, steeped in muscat; come!. . .but two drops! CHRISTIAN (trying to detain her): Oh! tell me why you came? ROXANE: Wait; my first duty is to these poor fellows.--Hush! In a few minutes. . . LE BRET (who had gone up to pass a loaf on the end of a lance to the sentry on the rampart): De Guiche! CYRANO: Quick! hide flasks, plates, pie-dishes, game-baskets! Hurry!--Let us all look unconscious! (To Ragueneau): Up on your seat!--Is everything covered up? (In an instant all has been pushed into the tents, or hidden under doublets, cloaks, and beavers. De Guiche enters hurriedly--stops suddenly, sniffing the air. Silence.)

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 8, utilizing the provided context.

Roxane now reveals to Christian that it was his beautifully written letters that made her risk her life and come to the front to see him. She claims that she was so overwhelmed by feelings for him that she had to come. She also asks Christian's forgiveness for at first loving him only for his looks. Because of the letters, her love for him has become spiritual, and she has no further thoughts of his appearance. Christian is upset by this confession, making Roxane think that he cannot comprehend her love. As a result, she assures him that she would love him even if he were ugly, a confession that upsets Christian even more. He reacts by sending her away to cheer up the cadets in their last moments. He rushes away to speak with Cyrano. Christian desolately tells Cyrano that because of the letters Roxane now loves only his soul, which really means that she loves Cyrano. He encourages Cyrano to confess his love to her since she has said she would love Christian even if he were ugly. He further reasons that Roxane must be told the truth about the letters. Then she can decide whom she really loves. Christian next leaves to summon Roxane. Cyrano will be left alone to explain to her what has transpired. When Roxane arrives, she tells Cyrano that Christian seemed to doubt that she would love him even if he were physically ugly. Cyrano is then on the point of making his confession when Le Bret interrupts. He tells them that Christian has been seriously wounded by the first shot fired in the battle. When the dying Christian is carried on stage, Cyrano goes to him and tries to convince him that Roxane truly loves him. When Roxane goes to him, she finds a letter addressed to her in his pocket, the one that Cyrano has written and given to Christian. Roxane carefully reads the letter, which is now covered with blood, as well as with the tears of Cyrano. The death of Christian is a cruel irony for both Roxane and Cyrano. She has lost her new husband without ever being able to consummate the marriage. Cyrano has lost hope of ever being able to win Roxane for himself. He knows that he will now never be able to tell her of his love. She must also always believe that Christian had a fine mind as evidenced by the letters that he wrote to her. While the firing continues outside, Cyrano asks Ragueneau to get the carriage ready to take Roxane away. De Guiche enters battled- strained, and Cyrano hands over the care of Roxane to him since he has proven his valor for her. Cyrano goes out to fight and avenge the death of Christian and the loss of his happiness. Never again will he be able to express his feelings for Roxane, even in disguise.

----------SCENE 7--------- The same. De Guiche. DE GUICHE: It smells good here. A CADET (humming): Lo! Lo-lo! DE GUICHE (looking at him): What is the matter?--You are very red. THE CADET: The matter?--Nothing!--'Tis my blood--boiling at the thought of the coming battle! ANOTHER: Poum, poum--poum. . . DE GUICHE (turning round): What's that? THE CADET (slightly drunk): Nothing!. . .'Tis a song!--a little. . . DE GUICHE: You are merry, my friend! THE CADET: The approach of danger is intoxicating! DE GUICHE (calling Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, to give him an order): Captain! I. . . (He stops short on seeing him): Plague take me! but you look bravely, too! CARBON (crimson in the face, hiding a bottle behind his back, with an evasive movement): Oh!. . . DE GUICHE: I have one cannon left, and have had it carried there-- (he points behind the scenes): --in that corner. . .Your men can use it in case of need. A CADET (reeling slightly): Charming attention! ANOTHER (with a gracious smile): Kind solicitude! DE GUICHE: How? they are all gone crazy? (Drily): As you are not used to cannon, beware of the recoil. FIRST CADET: Pooh! DE GUICHE (furious, going up to him): But. . . THE CADET: Gascon cannons never recoil! DE GUICHE (taking him by the arm and shaking him): You are tipsy!--but what with? THE CADET (grandiloquently): --With the smell of powder! DE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders and pushing him away, then going quickly to Roxane): Briefly, Madame, what decision do you deign to take? ROXANE: I stay here. DE GUICHE: You must fly! ROXANE: No! I will stay. DE GUICHE: Since things are thus, give me a musket, one of you! CARBON: Wherefore? DE GUICHE: Because I too--mean to remain. CYRANO: At last! This is true valor, Sir! FIRST CADET: Then you are Gascon after all, spite of your lace collar? ROXANE: What is all this? DE GUICHE: I leave no woman in peril. SECOND CADET (to the first): Hark you! Think you not we might give him something to eat? (All the viands reappear as if by magic.) DE GUICHE (whose eyes sparkle): Victuals! THE THIRD CADET: Yes, you'll see them coming from under every coat! DE GUICHE (controlling himself, haughtily): Do you think I will eat your leavings? CYRANO (saluting him): You make progress. DE GUICHE (proudly, with a light touch of accent on the word 'breaking'): I will fight without br-r-eaking my fast! FIRST CADET (with wild delight): Br-r-r-eaking! He has got the accent! DE GUICHE (laughing): I? THE CADET: 'Tis a Gascon! (All begin to dance.) CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX (who had disappeared behind the rampart, reappearing on the ridge): I have drawn my pikemen up in line. They are a resolute troop. (He points to a row of pikes, the tops of which are seen over the ridge.) DE GUICHE (bowing to Roxane): Will you accept my hand, and accompany me while I review them? (She takes it, and they go up toward the rampart. All uncover and follow them.) CHRISTIAN (going to Cyrano, eagerly): Tell me quickly! (As Roxane appears on the ridge, the tops of the lances disappear, lowered for the salute, and a shout is raised. She bows.) THE PIKEMEN (outside): Vivat! CHRISTIAN: What is this secret? CYRANO: If Roxane should. . . CHRISTIAN: Should?. . . CYRANO: Speak of the letters?. . . CHRISTIAN: Yes, I know!. . . CYRANO: Do not spoil all by seeming surprised. . . CHRISTIAN: At what? CYRANO: I must explain to you!. . .Oh! 'tis no great matter--I but thought of it to- day on seeing her. You have. . . CHRISTIAN: Tell quickly! CYRANO: You have. . .written to her oftener than you think. . . CHRISTIAN: How so? CYRANO: Thus, 'faith! I had taken it in hand to express your flame for you!. . .At times I wrote without saying, 'I am writing!' CHRISTIAN: Ah!. . . CYRANO: 'Tis simple enough! CHRISTIAN: But how did you contrive, since we have been cut off, thus. . .to?. . . CYRANO: . . .Oh! before dawn. . .I was able to get through. . . CHRISTIAN (folding his arms): That was simple, too? And how oft, pray you, have I written?. . .Twice in the week?. . .Three times?. . .Four?. . . CYRANO: More often still. CHRISTIAN: What! Every day? CYRANO: Yes, every day,--twice. CHRISTIAN (violently): And that became so mad a joy for you, that you braved death. . . CYRANO (seeing Roxane returning): Hush! Not before her! (He goes hurriedly into his tent.) ----------SCENE 8--------- Roxane, Christian. In the distance cadets coming and going. Carbon and De Guiche give orders. ROXANE (running up to Christian): Ah, Christian, at last!. . . CHRISTIAN (taking her hands): Now tell me why-- Why, by these fearful paths so perilous-- Across these ranks of ribald soldiery, You have come? ROXANE: Love, your letters brought me here! CHRISTIAN: What say you? ROXANE: 'Tis your fault if I ran risks! Your letters turned my head! Ah! all this month, How many!--and the last one ever bettered The one that went before! CHRISTIAN: What!--for a few Inconsequent love-letters! ROXANE: Hold your peace! Ah! you cannot conceive it! Ever since That night, when, in a voice all new to me, Under my window you revealed your soul-- Ah! ever since I have adored you! Now Your letters all this whole month long!--meseemed As if I heard that voice so tender, true, Sheltering, close! Thy fault, I say! It drew me, The voice o' th' night! Oh! wise Penelope Would ne'er have stayed to broider on her hearthstone, If her Ulysses could have writ such letters! But would have cast away her silken bobbins, And fled to join him, mad for love as Helen! CHRISTIAN: But. . . ROXANE: I read, read again--grew faint for love; I was thine utterly. Each separate page Was like a fluttering flower-petal, loosed From your own soul, and wafted thus to mine. Imprinted in each burning word was love Sincere, all-powerful. . . CHRISTIAN: A love sincere! Can that be felt, Roxane! ROXANE: Ay, that it can! CHRISTIAN: You come. . .? ROXANE: O, Christian, my true lord, I come-- (Were I to throw myself, here, at your knees, You would raise me--but 'tis my soul I lay At your feet--you can raise it nevermore!) --I come to crave your pardon. (Ay, 'tis time To sue for pardon, now that death may come!) For the insult done to you when, frivolous, At first I loved you only for your face! CHRISTIAN (horror-stricken): Roxane! ROXANE: And later, love--less frivolous-- Like a bird that spreads its wings, but can not fly-- Arrested by your beauty, by your soul Drawn close--I loved for both at once! CHRISTIAN: And now? ROXANE: Ah! you yourself have triumphed o'er yourself, And now, I love you only for your soul! CHRISTIAN (stepping backward): Roxane! ROXANE: Be happy. To be loved for beauty-- A poor disguise that time so soon wears threadbare-- Must be to noble souls--to souls aspiring-- A torture. Your dear thoughts have now effaced That beauty that so won me at the outset. Now I see clearer--and I no more see it! CHRISTIAN: Oh!. . . ROXANE: You are doubtful of such victory? CHRISTIAN (pained): Roxane! ROXANE: I see you cannot yet believe it. Such love. . .? CHRISTIAN: I do not ask such love as that! I would be loved more simply; for. . . ROXANE: For that Which they have all in turns loved in thee?-- Shame! Oh! be loved henceforth in a better way! CHRISTIAN: No! the first love was best! ROXANE: Ah! how you err! 'Tis now that I love best--love well! 'Tis that Which is thy true self, see!--that I adore! Were your brilliance dimmed. . . CHRISTIAN: Hush! ROXANE: I should love still! Ay, if your beauty should to-day depart. . . CHRISTIAN: Say not so! ROXANE: Ay, I say it! CHRISTIAN: Ugly? How? ROXANE: Ugly! I swear I'd love you still! CHRISTIAN: My God! ROXANE: Are you content at last? CHRISTIAN (in a choked voice): Ay!. . . ROXANE: What is wrong? CHRISTIAN (gently pushing her away): Nothing. . .I have two words to say:--one second. . . ROXANE: But?. . . CHRISTIAN (pointing to the cadets): Those poor fellows, shortly doomed to death,-- My love deprives them of the sight of you: Go,--speak to them--smile on them ere they die! ROXANE (deeply affected): Dear Christian!. . . (She goes up to the cadets, who respectfully crowd round her.) ----------SCENE 9--------- Christian, Cyrano. At back Roxane talking to Carbon and some cadets. CHRISTIAN (calling toward Cyrano's tent): Cyrano! CYRANO (reappearing, fully armed): What? Why so pale? CHRISTIAN: She does not love me! CYRANO: What? CHRISTIAN: 'Tis you she loves! CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: --For she loves me only for my soul! CYRANO: Truly? CHRISTIAN: Yes! Thus--you see, that soul is you,. . . Therefore, 'tis you she loves!--And you--love her! CYRANO: I? CHRISTIAN: Oh, I know it! CYRANO: Ay, 'tis true! CHRISTIAN: You love To madness! CYRANO: Ay! and worse! CHRISTIAN: Then tell her so! CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: And why not? CYRANO: Look at my face!--be answered! CHRISTIAN: She'd love me--were I ugly. CYRANO: Said she so? CHRISTIAN: Ay! in those words! CYRANO: I'm glad she told you that! But pooh!--believe it not! I am well pleased She thought to tell you. Take it not for truth. Never grow ugly:--she'd reproach me then! CHRISTIAN: That I intend discovering! CYRANO: No! I beg! CHRISTIAN: Ay! she shall choose between us!--Tell her all! CYRANO: No! no! I will not have it! Spare me this! CHRISTIAN: Because my face is haply fair, shall I Destroy your happiness? 'Twere too unjust! CYRANO: And I,--because by Nature's freak I have The gift to say--all that perchance you feel. Shall I be fatal to your happiness? CHRISTIAN: Tell all! CYRANO: It is ill done to tempt me thus! CHRISTIAN: Too long I've borne about within myself A rival to myself--I'll make an end! CYRANO: Christian! CHRISTIAN: Our union, without witness--secret-- Clandestine--can be easily dissolved If we survive. CYRANO: My God!--he still persists! CHRISTIAN: I will be loved myself--or not at all! --I'll go see what they do--there, at the end Of the post: speak to her, and then let her choose One of us two! CYRANO: It will be you. CHRISTIAN: Pray God! (He calls): Roxane! CYRANO: No! no! ROXANE (coming up quickly): What? CHRISTIAN: Cyrano has things Important for your ear. . . (She hastens to Cyrano. Christian goes out.) ----------SCENE 10--------- Roxane, Cyrano. Then Le Bret, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, Ragueneau, De Guiche, etc. ROXANE: Important, how? CYRANO (in despair. to Roxane): He's gone! 'Tis naught!--Oh, you know how he sees Importance in a trifle! ROXANE (warmly): Did he doubt Of what I said?--Ah, yes, I saw he doubted! CYRANO (taking her hand): But are you sure you told him all the truth? ROXANE: Yes, I would love him were he. . . (She hesitates.) CYRANO: Does that word Embarrass you before my face, Roxane? ROXANE: I. . . CYRANO (smiling sadly): 'Twill not hurt me! Say it! If he were Ugly!. . . ROXANE: Yes, ugly! (Musket report outside): Hark! I hear a shot! CYRANO (ardently): Hideous! ROXANE: Hideous! yes! CYRANO: Disfigured. ROXANE: Ay! CYRANO: Grotesque? ROXANE: He could not be grotesque to me! CYRANO: You'd love the same?. . . ROXANE: The same--nay, even more! CYRANO (losing command over himself--aside): My God! it's true, perchance, love waits me there! (To Roxane): I. . .Roxane. . .listen. . . LE BRET (entering hurriedly--to Cyrano): Cyrano! CYRANO (turning round): What? LE BRET: Hush! (He whispers something to him.) CYRANO (letting go Roxane's hand and exclaiming): Ah, God! ROXANE: What is it? CYRANO (to himself--stunned): All is over now. (Renewed reports.) ROXANE: What is the matter? Hark! another shot! (She goes up to look outside.) CYRANO: It is too late, now I can never tell! ROXANE (trying to rush out): What has chanced? CYRANO (rushing to stop her): Nothing! (Some cadets enter, trying to hide something they are carrying, and close round it to prevent Roxane approaching.) ROXANE: And those men? (Cyrano draws her away): What were you just about to say before. . .? CYRANO: What was I saying? Nothing now, I swear! (Solemnly): I swear that Christian's soul, his nature, were. . . (Hastily correcting himself): Nay, that they are, the noblest, greatest. . . ROXANE: Were? (With a loud scream): Oh! (She rushes up, pushing every one aside.) CYRANO: All is over now! ROXANE (seeing Christian lying on the ground, wrapped in his cloak): O Christian! LE BRET (to Cyrano): Struck by first shot of the enemy! (Roxane flings herself down by Christian. Fresh reports of cannon--clash of arms--clamor--beating of drums.) CARBON (with sword in the air): O come! Your muskets. (Followed by the cadets, he passes to the other side of the ramparts.) ROXANE: Christian! THE VOICE OF CARBON (from the other side): Ho! make haste! ROXANE: Christian! CARBON: FORM LINE! ROXANE: Christian! CARBON: HANDLE YOUR MATCH! (Ragueneau rushes up, bringing water in a helmet.) CHRISTIAN (in a dying voice): Roxane! CYRANO (quickly, whispering into Christian's ear, while Roxane distractedly tears a piece of linen from his breast, which she dips into the water, trying to stanch the bleeding): I told her all. She loves you still. (Christian closes his eyes.) ROXANE: How, my sweet love? CARBON: DRAW RAMRODS! ROXANE (to Cyrano): He is not dead? CARBON: OPEN YOUR CHARGES WITH YOUR TEETH! ROXANE: His cheek Grows cold against my own! CARBON: READY! PRESENT! ROXANE (seeing a letter in Christian's doublet): A letter!. . . 'Tis for me! (She opens it.) CYRANO (aside): My letter! CARBON: FIRE! (Musket reports--shouts--noise of battle.) CYRANO (trying to disengage his hand, which Roxane on her knees is holding): But, Roxane, hark, they fight! ROXANE (detaining him): Stay yet awhile. For he is dead. You knew him, you alone. (Weeping quietly): Ah, was not his a beauteous soul, a soul Wondrous! CYRANO (standing up--bareheaded): Ay, Roxane. ROXANE: An inspired poet? CYRANO: Ay, Roxane. ROXANE: And a mind sublime? CYRANO: Oh, yes! ROXANE: A heart too deep for common minds to plumb, A spirit subtle, charming? CYRANO (firmly): Ay, Roxane. ROXANE (flinging herself on the dead body): Dead, my love! CYRANO (aside--drawing his sword): Ay, and let me die to-day, Since, all unconscious, she mourns me--in him! (Sounds of trumpets in the distance.) DE GUICHE (appearing on the ramparts--bareheaded--with a wound on his forehead--in a voice of thunder): It is the signal! Trumpet flourishes! The French bring the provisions into camp! Hold but the place awhile! ROXANE: See, there is blood Upon the letter--tears! A VOICE (outside--shouting): Surrender! VOICE OF CADETS: No! RAGUENEAU (standing on the top of his carriage, watches the battle over the edge of the ramparts): The danger's ever greater! CYRANO (to De Guiche--pointing to Roxane): I will charge! Take her away! ROXANE (kissing the letter--in a half-extinguished voice): O God! his tears! his blood!. . . RAGUENEAU (jumping down from the carriage and rushing toward her): She's swooned away! DE GUICHE (on the rampart--to the cadets--with fury): Stand fast! A VOICE (outside): Lay down your arms! THE CADETS: No! CYRANO (to De Guiche): Now that you have proved your valor, Sir, (Pointing to Roxane): Fly, and save her! DE GUICHE (rushing to Roxane, and carrying her away in his arms): So be it! Gain but time, The victory's ours! CYRANO: Good. (Calling out to Roxane, whom De Guiche, aided by Ragueneau, is bearing away in a fainting condition): Farewell, Roxane! (Tumult. Shouts. Cadets reappear, wounded, falling on the scene. Cyrano, rushing to the battle, is stopped by Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is streaming with blood.) CARBON: We are breaking! I am wounded--wounded twice! CYRANO (shouting to the Gascons): GASCONS! HO, GASCONS! NEVER TURN YOUR BACKS! (To Carbon, whom he is supporting): Have no fear! I have two deaths to avenge: My friend who's slain;--and my dead happiness! (They come down, Cyrano brandishing the lance to which is attached Roxane's handkerchief): Float there! laced kerchief broidered with her name! (He sticks it in the ground and shouts to the cadets): FALL ON THEM, GASCONS! CRUSH THEM! (To the fifer): Fifer, play! (The fife plays. The wounded try to rise. Some cadets, falling one over the other down the slope, group themselves round Cyrano and the little flag. The carriage is crowded with men inside and outside, and, bristling with arquebuses, is turned into a fortress.) A CADET (appearing on the crest, beaten backward, but still fighting, cries): They're climbing the redoubt! (and falls dead.) CYRANO: Let us salute them! (The rampart is covered instantly by a formidable row of enemies. The standards of the Imperialists are raised): Fire! (General discharge.) A CRY IN THE ENEMY'S RANKS: Fire! (A deadly answering volley. The cadets fall on all sides.) A SPANISH OFFICER (uncovering): Who are these men who rush on death? CYRANO (reciting, erect, amid a storm of bullets): The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux! Brawling, swaggering boastfully, (He rushes forward, followed by a few survivors): The bold Cadets. . . (His voice is drowned in the battle.) Curtain.

Cyrano De Bergerac.act 5.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 5, utilizing the provided context.

Cyrano approaches, supporting himself with a cane. Although his hat conceals his face, it is obvious that he is pale and weak. Roxane, however, is so absorbed in her work on the tapestry that she does not turn to greet Cyrano; instead, she rebukes him for being late. He responds by saying that he had a visitor, whom he sent away in order to come and visit her. Before falling silent, he hints that he may have to leave early. Sister Marthe, one of the nuns whom Cyrano usually teases, passes by. Cyrano, trying to act normally, calls to her. She is startled by his ill appearance and wants to go and bring him some soup. Cyrano is not worried about himself, but Roxane; he warns the nun not to alarm Roxane about him. He does, however, ask the nun to pray for him. He also states that he will never see Roxane's tapestry finished. He also notices the read autumn leaves as they fall gracefully before him. Roxane wants to hear the news of the Parisian society. For a while, Cyrano rattles off the mundane daily events; but he soon faints from exhaustion. Roxane rushes to him. When he regains consciousness, he pretends it is an effect of a wound he received at Arras, many years ago. Roxane comments about how she was also wounded in Arras and points to the farewell letter over her heart. Cyrano asks her to see the letter, which he recites fluently and beautifully in a voice like the one he had used under Roxane's window. Since it is obvious that Cyrano is not really reading the words, but knows them by heart, she realizes that he is the one who had written the letters on Christian's behalf. She now knows that she has really loved Cyrano, not Christian. When Roxane confronts Cyrano about the deception, he denies it. Before she can discuss it further, Le Bret and Ragueneau enter. They blurt out that Cyrano will kill himself by exertion. Roxane now understands his faintness and demands to know what has happened. Cyrano explains the attack on him and shows her his bandages. He bemoans the irony of fate, which has prevented him from dying a noble death from a sword. He adds that both his life and death have been failures. Roxane states that she is sorry that she is the cause of his unhappiness. Cyrano, however, assures her that he is grateful for her friendship. Cyrano turns to Ragueneau to talk about literature. Ragueneau accuses Moliere of plagiarizing a scene from Cyrano's writing. Cyrano does not seem to mind. He says that he has always provided words and ideas for others. It is an obvious reference to what he did for Christian. Knowing that his death is fast approaching, Cyrano compares his love for Roxane to the love between the beauty and the beast. He then asks Roxane to mourn for him as she had for Christian. He finally stands up, sword in hand, to face his end nobly. He dies, proud of the integrity he has shown in life.

----------SCENE 1--------- Mother Marguerite, Sister Martha, Sister Claire, other sisters. SISTER MARTHA (to Mother Marguerite): Sister Claire glanced in the mirror, once--nay, twice, to see if her coif suited. MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Claire): 'Tis not well. SISTER CLAIRE: But I saw Sister Martha take a plum Out of the tart. MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Martha): That was ill done, my sister. SISTER CLAIRE: A little glance! SISTER MARTHA: And such a little plum! MOTHER MARGUERITE: I shall tell this to Monsieur Cyrano. SISTER CLAIRE: Nay, prithee do not!--he will mock! SISTER MARTHA: He'll say we nuns are vain! SISTER CLAIRE: And greedy! MOTHER MARGUERITE (smiling): Ay, and kind! SISTER CLAIRE: Is it not true, pray, Mother Marguerite, That he has come, each week, on Saturday For ten years, to the convent? MOTHER MARGUERITE: Ay! and more! Ever since--fourteen years ago--the day His cousin brought here, 'midst our woolen coifs, The worldly mourning of her widow's veil, Like a blackbird's wing among the convent doves! SISTER MARTHA: He only has the skill to turn her mind From grief--unsoftened yet by Time--unhealed! ALL THE SISTERS: He is so droll!--It's cheerful when he comes!-- He teases us!--But we all like him well!-- --We make him pasties of angelica! SISTER MARTHA: But, he is not a faithful Catholic! SISTER CLAIRE: We will convert him! THE SISTERS: Yes! Yes! MOTHER MARGUERITE: I forbid, My daughters, you attempt that subject. Nay, Weary him not--he might less oft come here! SISTER MARTHA: But. . .God. . . MOTHER MARGUERITE: Nay, never fear! God knows him well! SISTER MARTHA: But--every Saturday, when he arrives, He tells me, 'Sister, I eat meat on Friday!' MOTHER MARGUERITE: Ah! says he so? Well, the last time he came Food had not passed his lips for two whole days! SISTER MARTHA: Mother! MOTHER MARGUERITE: He's poor. SISTER MARTHA: Who told you so, dear Mother? MOTHER MARGUERITE: Monsieur Le Bret. SISTER MARTHA: None help him? MOTHER MARGUERITE: He permits not. (In an alley at the back Roxane appears, dressed in black, with a widow's coif and veil. De Guiche, imposing-looking and visibly aged, walks by her side. They saunter slowly. Mother Marguerite rises): 'Tis time we go in; Madame Madeleine Walks in the garden with a visitor. SISTER MARTHA (to Sister Claire, in a low voice): The Marshal of Grammont? SISTER CLAIRE (looking at him): 'Tis he, I think. SISTER MARTHA: 'Tis many months now since he came to see her. THE SISTERS: He is so busy!--The Court,--the camp!. . . SISTER CLAIRE: The world! (They go out. De Guiche and Roxane come forward in silence, and stop close to the embroidery frame.) ----------SCENE 2--------- Roxane; the Duke de Grammont, formerly Count de Guiche. Then Le Bret and Ragueneau. THE DUKE: And you stay here still--ever vainly fair, Ever in weeds? ROXANE: Ever. THE DUKE: Still faithful? ROXANE: Still. THE DUKE (after a pause): Am I forgiven? ROXANE: Ay, since I am here. (Another pause.) THE DUKE: His was a soul, you say?. . . ROXANE: Ah!--when you knew him! THE DUKE: Ah, may be!. . .I, perchance, too little knew him! . . .And his last letter, ever next your heart? ROXANE: Hung from this chain, a gentle scapulary. THE DUKE: And, dead, you love him still? ROXANE: At times,--meseems He is but partly dead--our hearts still speak, As if his love, still living, wrapped me round! THE DUKE (after another pause): Cyrano comes to see you? ROXANE: Often, ay. Dear, kind old friend! We call him my 'Gazette.' He never fails to come: beneath this tree They place his chair, if it be fine:--I wait, I broider;--the clock strikes;--at the last stroke I hear,--for now I never turn to look-- Too sure to hear his cane tap down the steps; He seats himself:--with gentle raillery He mocks my tapestry that's never done; He tells me all the gossip of the week. . . (Le Bret appears on the steps): Why, here's Le Bret! (Le Bret descends): How goes it with our friend? LE BRET: Ill!--very ill. THE DUKE: How? ROXANE (to the Duke): He exaggerates! LE BRET: All that I prophesied: desertion, want!. . . His letters now make him fresh enemies!-- Attacking the sham nobles, sham devout, Sham brave,--the thieving authors,--all the world! ROXANE: Ah! but his sword still holds them all in check; None get the better of him. THE DUKE (shaking his head): Time will show! LE BRET: Ah, but I fear for him--not man's attack,-- Solitude--hunger--cold December days, That wolf-like steal into his chamber drear:-- Lo! the assassins that I fear for him! Each day he tightens by one hole his belt: That poor nose--tinted like old ivory: He has retained one shabby suit of serge. THE DUKE: Ay, there is one who has no prize of Fortune!-- Yet is not to be pitied! LE BRET (with a bitter smile): My Lord Marshal!. . . THE DUKE: Pity him not! He has lived out his vows, Free in his thoughts, as in his actions free! LE BRET (in the same tone): My Lord!. . . THE DUKE (haughtily): True! I have all, and he has naught;. . . Yet I were proud to take his hand! (Bowing to Roxane): Adieu! ROXANE: I go with you. (The Duke bows to Le Bret, and goes with Roxane toward the steps.) THE DUKE (pausing, while she goes up): Ay, true,--I envy him. Look you, when life is brimful of success --Though the past hold no action foul--one feels A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest; And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame, The Duke's furred mantles trail within their folds A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets, A rustle--scarce a whisper--like as when, Mounting the terrace steps, by your mourning robe Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves. ROXANE (ironically): You are pensive? THE DUKE: True! I am! (As he is going out, suddenly): Monsieur Le Bret! (To Roxane): A word, with your permission? (He goes to Le Bret, and in a low voice): True, that none Dare to attack your friend;--but many hate him; Yesterday, at the Queen's card-play, 'twas said 'That Cyrano may die--by accident!' Let him stay in--be prudent! LE BRET (raising his arms to heaven): Prudent! He!. . . He's coming here. I'll warn him--but!. . . ROXANE (who has stayed on the steps, to a sister who comes toward her): What is it? THE SISTER: Ragueneau would see you, Madame. ROXANE: Let him come. (To the Duke and Le Bret): He comes to tell his troubles. Having been An author (save the mark!)--poor fellow--now By turns he's singer. . . LE BRET: Bathing-man. . . ROXANE: Then actor. . . LE BRET: Beadle. . . ROXANE: Wig-maker. . . LE BRET: Teacher of the lute. . . ROXANE: What will he be to-day, by chance? RAGUENEAU (entering hurriedly): Ah! Madame! (He sees Le Bret): Ah! you here, Sir! ROXANE (smiling): Tell all your miseries To him; I will return anon. RAGUENEAU: But, Madame. . . (Roxane goes out with the Duke. Ragueneau goes toward Le Bret.) ----------SCENE 3--------- Le Bret, Ragueneau. RAGUENEAU: Since you are here, 'tis best she should not know! I was going to your friend just now--was but A few steps from the house, when I saw him Go out. I hurried to him. Saw him turn The corner. . .suddenly, from out a window Where he was passing--was it chance?. . .may be! A lackey let fall a large piece of wood. LE BRET: Cowards! O Cyrano! RAGUENEAU: I ran--I saw. . . LE BRET: 'Tis hideous! RAGUENEAU: Saw our poet, Sir--our friend-- Struck to the ground--a large wound in his head! LE BRET: He's dead? RAGUENEAU: No--but--I bore him to his room. . . Ah! his room! What a thing to see!--that garret! LE BRET: He suffers? RAGUENEAU: No, his consciousness has flown. LE BRET: Saw you a doctor? RAGUENEAU: One was kind--he came. LE BRET: My poor Cyrano!--We must not tell this To Roxane suddenly.--What said this leech?-- RAGUENEAU: Said,--what, I know not--fever, meningitis!-- Ah! could you see him--all his head bound up!-- But let us haste!--There's no one by his bed!-- And if he try to rise, Sir, he might die! LE BRET (dragging him toward the right): Come! Through the chapel! 'Tis the quickest way! ROXANE (appearing on the steps, and seeing Le Bret go away by the colonnade leading to the chapel door): Monsieur le Bret! (Le Bret and Ragueneau disappear without answering): Le Bret goes--when I call! 'Tis some new trouble of good Ragueneau's. (She descends the steps.) ----------SCENE 4--------- Roxane alone. Two sisters, for a moment. ROXANE: Ah! what a beauty in September's close! My sorrow's eased. April's joy dazzled it, But autumn wins it with her dying calm. (She seats herself at the embroidery frame. Two sisters come out of the house, and bring a large armchair under the tree): There comes the famous armchair where he sits, Dear faithful friend! SISTER MARTHA: It is the parlor's best! ROXANE: Thanks, sister. (The sisters go): He'll be here now. (She seats herself. A clock strikes): The hour strikes. --My silks?--Why, now, the hour's struck! How strange To be behind his time, at last, to-day! Perhaps the portress--where's my thimble?. . . Here!--Is preaching to him. (A pause): Yes, she must be preaching! Surely he must come soon!--Ah, a dead leaf!-- (She brushes off the leaf from her work): Nothing, besides, could--scissors?--In my bag! --Could hinder him. . . A SISTER (coming to the steps): Monsieur de Bergerac. ----------SCENE 5--------- Roxane, Cyrano and, for a moment, Sister Martha. ROXANE (without turning round): What was I saying?. . . (She embroiders. Cyrano, very pale, his hat pulled down over his eyes, appears. The sister who had announced him retires. He descends the steps slowly, with a visible difficulty in holding himself upright, bearing heavily on his cane. Roxane still works at her tapestry): Time has dimmed the tints. . . How harmonize them now? (To Cyrano, with playful reproach): For the first time Late!--For the first time, all these fourteen years! CYRANO (who has succeeded in reaching the chair, and has seated himself--in a lively voice, which is in great contrast with his pale face): Ay! It is villainous! I raged--was stayed. . . ROXANE: By?. . . CYRANO: By a bold, unwelcome visitor. ROXANE (absently, working): Some creditor? CYRANO: Ay, cousin,--the last creditor Who has a debt to claim from me. ROXANE: And you Have paid it? CYRANO: No, not yet! I put it off; --Said, 'Cry you mercy; this is Saturday, When I have get a standing rendezvous That naught defers. Call in an hour's time!' ROXANE (carelessly): Oh, well, a creditor can always wait! I shall not let you go ere twilight falls. CYRANO: Haply, perforce, I quit you ere it falls! (He shuts his eyes, and is silent for a moment. Sister Martha crosses the park from the chapel to the flight of steps. Roxane, seeing her, signs to her to approach.) ROXANE (to Cyrano): How now? You have not teased the Sister? CYRANO (hastily opening his eyes): True! (In a comically loud voice): Sister! come here! (The sister glides up to him): Ha! ha! What? Those bright eyes Bent ever on the ground? SISTER MARTHA (who makes a movement of astonishment on seeing his face): Oh! CYRANO (in a whisper, pointing to Roxane): Hush! 'tis naught!-- (Loudly, in a blustering voice): I broke fast yesterday! SISTER MARTHA (aside): I know, I know! That's how he is so pale! Come presently To the refectory, I'll make you drink A famous bowl of soup. . .You'll come? CYRANO: Ay, ay! SISTER MARTHA: There, see! You are more reasonable to-day! ROXANE (who hears them whispering): The Sister would convert you? SISTER MARTHA: Nay, not I! CYRANO: Hold! but it's true! You preach to me no more, You, once so glib with holy words! I am Astonished!. . . (With burlesque fury): Stay, I will surprise you too! Hark! I permit you. . . (He pretends to be seeking for something to tease her with, and to have found it): . . .It is something new!-- To--pray for me, to-night, at chapel-time! ROXANE: Oh! oh! CYRANO (laughing): Good Sister Martha is struck dumb! SISTER MARTHA (gently): I did not wait your leave to pray for you. (She goes out.) CYRANO (turning to Roxane, who is still bending over her work): That tapestry! Beshrew me if my eyes Will ever see it finished! ROXANE: I was sure To hear that well-known jest! (A light breeze causes the leaves to fall.) CYRANO: The autumn leaves! ROXANE (lifting her head, and looking down the distant alley): Soft golden brown, like a Venetian's hair. --See how they fall! CYRANO: Ay, see how brave they fall, In their last journey downward from the bough, To rot within the clay; yet, lovely still, Hiding the horror of the last decay, With all the wayward grace of careless flight! ROXANE: What, melancholy--you? CYRANO (collecting himself): Nay, nay, Roxane! ROXANE: Then let the dead leaves fall the way they will. . . And chat. What, have you nothing new to tell, My Court Gazette? CYRANO: Listen. ROXANE: Ah! CYRANO (growing whiter and whiter): Saturday The nineteenth: having eaten to excess Of pear-conserve, the King felt feverish; The lancet quelled this treasonable revolt, And the august pulse beats at normal pace. At the Queen's ball on Sunday thirty score Of best white waxen tapers were consumed. Our troops, they say, have chased the Austrians. Four sorcerers were hanged. The little dog Of Madame d'Athis took a dose. . . ROXANE: I bid You hold your tongue, Monsieur de Bergerac! CYRANO: Monday--not much--Claire changed protector. ROXANE: Oh! CYRANO (whose face changes more and more): Tuesday, the Court repaired to Fontainebleau. Wednesday, the Montglat said to Comte de Fiesque. . . No! Thursday--Mancini, Queen of France! (almost!) Friday, the Monglat to Count Fiesque said--'Yes!' And Saturday the twenty-sixth. . . (He closes his eyes. His head falls forward. Silence.) ROXANE (surprised at his voice ceasing, turns round, looks at him, and rising, terrified): He swoons! (She runs toward him crying): Cyrano! CYRANO (opening his eyes, in an unconcerned voice): What is this? (He sees Roxane bending over him, and, hastily pressing his hat on his head, and shrinking back in his chair): Nay, on my word 'Tis nothing! Let me be! ROXANE: But. . . CYRANO: That old wound Of Arras, sometimes,--as you know. . . ROXANE: Dear friend! CYRANO: 'Tis nothing, 'twill pass soon; (He smiles with an effort): See!--it has passed! ROXANE: Each of us has his wound; ay, I have mine,-- Never healed up--not healed yet, my old wound! (She puts her hand on her breast): 'Tis here, beneath this letter brown with age, All stained with tear-drops, and still stained with blood. (Twilight begins to fall.) CYRANO: His letter! Ah! you promised me one day That I should read it. ROXANE: What would you?--His letter? CYRANO: Yes, I would fain,--to-day. . . ROXANE (giving the bag hung at her neck): See! here it is! CYRANO (taking it): Have I your leave to open? ROXANE: Open--read! (She comes back to her tapestry frame, folds it up, sorts her wools.) CYRANO (reading): 'Roxane, adieu! I soon must die! This very night, beloved; and I Feel my soul heavy with love untold. I die! No more, as in days of old, My loving, longing eyes will feast On your least gesture--ay, the least! I mind me the way you touch your cheek With your finger, softly, as you speak! Ah me! I know that gesture well! My heart cries out!--I cry "Farewell"!' ROXANE: But how you read that letter! One would think. . . CYRANO (continuing to read): 'My life, my love, my jewel, my sweet, My heart has been yours in every beat!' (The shades of evening fall imperceptibly.) ROXANE: You read in such a voice--so strange--and yet-- It is not the first time I hear that voice! (She comes nearer very softly, without his perceiving it, passes behind his chair, and, noiselessly leaning over him, looks at the letter. The darkness deepens.) CYRANO: 'Here, dying, and there, in the land on high, I am he who loved, who loves you,--I. . .' ROXANE (putting her hand on his shoulder): How can you read? It is too dark to see! (He starts, turns, sees her close to him. Suddenly alarmed, he holds his head down. Then in the dusk, which has now completely enfolded them, she says, very slowly, with clasped hands): And, fourteen years long, he has played this part Of the kind old friend who comes to laugh and chat. CYRANO: Roxane! ROXANE: 'Twas you! CYRANO: No, never; Roxane, no! ROXANE: I should have guessed, each time he said my name! CYRANO: No, it was not I! ROXANE: It was you! CYRANO: I swear! ROXANE: I see through all the generous counterfeit-- The letters--you! CYRANO: No. ROXANE: The sweet, mad love-words! You! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: The voice that thrilled the night--you, you! CYRANO: I swear you err. ROXANE: The soul--it was your soul! CYRANO: I loved you not. ROXANE: You loved me not? CYRANO: 'Twas he! ROXANE: You loved me! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: See! how you falter now! CYRANO: No, my sweet love, I never loved you! ROXANE: Ah! Things dead, long dead, see! how they rise again! --Why, why keep silence all these fourteen years, When, on this letter, which he never wrote, The tears were your tears? CYRANO (holding out the letter to her): The bloodstains were his. ROXANE: Why, then, that noble silence,--kept so long-- Broken to-day for the first time--why? CYRANO: Why?. . . (Le Bret and Ragueneau enter running.) ----------SCENE 6--------- The same. Le Bret and Ragueneau. LE BRET: What madness! Here? I knew it well! CYRANO (smiling and sitting up): What now? LE BRET: He has brought his death by coming, Madame. ROXANE: God! Ah, then! that faintness of a moment since. . .? CYRANO: Why, true! It interrupted the 'Gazette:' . . .Saturday, twenty-sixth, at dinner-time, Assassination of De Bergerac. (He takes off his hat; they see his head bandaged.) ROXANE: What says he? Cyrano!--His head all bound! Ah, what has chanced? How?--Who?. . . CYRANO: 'To be struck down, Pierced by sword i' the heart, from a hero's hand!' That I had dreamed. O mockery of Fate! --Killed, I! of all men--in an ambuscade! Struck from behind, and by a lackey's hand! 'Tis very well. I am foiled, foiled in all, Even in my death. RAGUENEAU: Ah, Monsieur!. . . CYRANO (holding out his hand to him): Ragueneau, Weep not so bitterly!. . .What do you now, Old comrade? RAGUENEAU (amid his tears): Trim the lights for Moliere's stage. CYRANO: Moliere! RAGUENEAU: Yes; but I shall leave to-morrow. I cannot bear it!--Yesterday, they played 'Scapin'--I saw he'd thieved a scene from you! LE BRET: What! a whole scene? RAGUENEAU: Oh, yes, indeed, Monsieur, The famous one, 'Que Diable allait-il faire?' LE BRET: Moliere has stolen that? CYRANO: Tut! He did well!. . . (to Ragueneau): How went the scene? It told--I think it told? RAGUENEAU (sobbing): Ah! how they laughed! CYRANO: Look you, it was my life To be the prompter every one forgets! (To Roxane): That night when 'neath your window Christian spoke --Under your balcony, you remember? Well! There was the allegory of my whole life: I, in the shadow, at the ladder's foot, While others lightly mount to Love and Fame! Just! very just! Here on the threshold drear Of death, I pay my tribute with the rest, To Moliere's genius,--Christian's fair face! (The chapel-bell chimes. The nuns are seen passing down the alley at the back, to say their office): Let them go pray, go pray, when the bell rings! ROXANE (rising and calling): Sister! Sister! CYRANO (holding her fast): Call no one. Leave me not; When you come back, I should be gone for aye. (The nuns have all entered the chapel. The organ sounds): I was somewhat fain for music--hark! 'tis come. ROXANE: Live, for I love you! CYRANO: No, In fairy tales When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast-- But I remain the same, up to the last! ROXANE: I have marred your life--I, I! CYRANO: You blessed my life! Never on me had rested woman's love. My mother even could not find me fair: I had no sister; and, when grown a man, I feared the mistress who would mock at me. But I have had your friendship--grace to you A woman's charm has passed across my path. LE BRET (pointing to the moon, which is seen between the trees): Your other lady-love is come. CYRANO (smiling): I see. ROXANE: I loved but once, yet twice I lose my love! CYRANO: Hark you, Le Bret! I soon shall reach the moon. To-night, alone, with no projectile's aid!. . . LE BRET: What are you saying? CYRANO: I tell you, it is there, There, that they send me for my Paradise, There I shall find at last the souls I love, In exile,--Galileo--Socrates! LE BRET (rebelliously): No, no! It is too clumsy, too unjust! So great a heart! So great a poet! Die Like this? what, die. . .? CYRANO: Hark to Le Bret, who scolds! LE BRET (weeping): Dear friend. . . CYRANO (starting up, his eyes wild): What ho! Cadets of Gascony! The elemental mass--ah yes! The hic. . . LE BRET: His science still--he raves! CYRANO: Copernicus Said. . . ROXANE: Oh! CYRANO: Mais que diable allait-il faire, Mais que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere?. . . Philosopher, metaphysician, Rhymer, brawler, and musician, Famed for his lunar expedition, And the unnumbered duels he fought,-- And lover also,--by interposition!-- Here lies Hercule Savinien De Cyrano de Bergerac, Who was everything, yet was naught. I cry you pardon, but I may not stay; See, the moon-ray that comes to call me hence! (He has fallen back in his chair; the sobs of Roxane recall him to reality; he looks long at her, and, touching her veil): I would not bid you mourn less faithfully That good, brave Christian: I would only ask That when my body shall be cold in clay You wear those sable mourning weeds for two, And mourn awhile for me, in mourning him. ROXANE: I swear it you!. . . CYRANO (shivering violently, then suddenly rising): Not there! what, seated?--no! (They spring toward him): Let no one hold me up-- (He props himself against the tree): Only the tree! (Silence): It comes. E'en now my feet have turned to stone, My hands are gloved with lead! (He stands erect): But since Death comes, I meet him still afoot, (He draws his sword): And sword in hand! LE BRET: Cyrano! ROXANE (half fainting): Cyrano! (All shrink back in terror.) CYRANO: Why, I well believe He dares to mock my nose? Ho! insolent! (He raises his sword): What say you? It is useless? Ay, I know But who fights ever hoping for success? I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest! You there, who are you!--You are thousands! Ah! I know you now, old enemies of mine! Falsehood! (He strikes in air with his sword): Have at you! Ha! and Compromise! Prejudice, Treachery!. . . (He strikes): Surrender, I? Parley? No, never! You too, Folly,--you? I know that you will lay me low at last; Let be! Yet I fall fighting, fighting still! (He makes passes in the air, and stops, breathless): You strip from me the laurel and the rose! Take all! Despite you there is yet one thing I hold against you all, and when, to-night, I enter Christ's fair courts, and, lowly bowed, Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue, One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch, I bear away despite you. (He springs forward, his sword raised; it falls from his hand; he staggers, falls back into the arms of Le Bret and Ragueneau.) ROXANE (bending and kissing his forehead): 'Tis?. . . CYRANO (opening his eyes, recognizing her, and smiling): MY PANACHE. Curtain.

Cyrano de Bergerac.act 1.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 1 scenes 2-3 with the given context.

act 1 scene 1|act 1 scenes 2-3

Christian is introduced in Scene 2 by the poet, Ligniere. The poet/baker, Ragueneau, enters dressed in his Sunday best, and talks with Ligniere. He asks about Cyrano, who has forbidden Montfleury to act, but who has not yet appeared. Ragueneau describes Cyrano's nose as well as his reputation as a swordsman. When Roxane enters the theater, Ligniere tells Christian, who has fallen in love with her without knowing her identity, who the lady is. He also tells Christian that De Guiche, who is married to Richelieu's niece and is very powerful, wants Roxane to marry a complaisant courtier, Valvert, so that De Guiche can make her his own mistress. In Ligniere's opinion, Christian hasn't a chance with the lady. After Ligniere leaves the theater, Christian learns from a pickpocket that Ligniere has written a poem that has offended some powerful person. This highly placed man plans to have the poet killed and has hired a hundred armed men to waylay Ligniere on his way home. Christian goes off to find Ligniere and warn him. Montfleury goes onto the stage and begins his first speech, the prologue of the play, but he is interrupted by the voice of Cyrano telling him to stop. He makes several attempts to continue his speech, but is interrupted by Cyrano each time.

----------ACT 1 SCENE 1--------- The public, arriving by degrees. Troopers, burghers, lackeys, pages, a pickpocket, the doorkeeper, etc., followed by the marquises. Cuigy, Brissaille, the buffet-girl, the violinists, etc. (A confusion of loud voices is heard outside the door. A trooper enters hastily.) THE DOORKEEPER (following him): Hollo! You there! Your money! THE TROOPER: I enter gratis. THE DOORKEEPER: Why? THE TROOPER: Why? I am of the King's Household Cavalry, 'faith! THE DOORKEEPER (to another trooper who enters): And you? SECOND TROOPER: I pay nothing. THE DOORKEEPER: How so? SECOND TROOPER: I am a musketeer. FIRST TROOPER (to the second): The play will not begin till two. The pit is empty. Come, a bout with the foils to pass the time. (They fence with the foils they have brought.) A LACKEY (entering): Pst. . .Flanquin. . .! ANOTHER (already there): Champagne?. . . THE FIRST (showing him cards and dice which he takes from his doublet): See, here be cards and dice. (He seats himself on the floor): Let's play. THE SECOND (doing the same): Good; I am with you, villain! FIRST LACKEY (taking from his pocket a candle-end, which he lights, and sticks on the floor): I made free to provide myself with light at my master's expense! A GUARDSMAN (to a shop-girl who advances): 'Twas prettily done to come before the lights were lit! (He takes her round the waist.) ONE OF THE FENCERS (receiving a thrust): A hit! ONE OF THE CARD-PLAYERS: Clubs! THE GUARDSMAN (following the girl): A kiss! THE SHOP-GIRL (struggling to free herself): They're looking! THE GUARDSMAN (drawing her to a dark corner): No fear! No one can see! A MAN (sitting on the ground with others, who have brought their provisions): By coming early, one can eat in comfort. A BURGHER (conducting his son): Let us sit here, son. A CARD-PLAYER: Triple ace! A MAN (taking a bottle from under his cloak, and also seating himself on the floor): A tippler may well quaff his Burgundy (he drinks): in the Burgundy Hotel! THE BURGHER (to his son): 'Faith! A man might think he had fallen in a bad house here! (He points with his cane to the drunkard): What with topers! (One of the fencers in breaking off, jostles him): brawlers! (He stumbles into the midst of the card-players): gamblers! THE GUARDSMAN (behind him, still teasing the shop-girl): Come, one kiss! THE BURGHER (hurriedly pulling his son away): By all the holies! And this, my boy, is the theater where they played Rotrou erewhile. THE YOUNG MAN: Ay, and Corneille! A TROOP OF PAGES (hand-in-hand, enter dancing the farandole, and singing): Tra' a la, la, la, la, la, la, la, lere. . . THE DOORKEEPER (sternly, to the pages): You pages there, none of your tricks!. . . FIRST PAGE (with an air of wounded dignity): Oh, sir!--such a suspicion!. . . (Briskly, to the second page, the moment the doorkeeper's back is turned): Have you string? THE SECOND: Ay, and a fish-hook with it. FIRST PAGE: We can angle for wigs, then, up there i' th' gallery. A PICKPOCKET (gathering about him some evil-looking youths): Hark ye, young cut-purses, lend an ear, while I give you your first lesson in thieving. SECOND PAGE (calling up to others in the top galleries): You there! Have you peashooters? THIRD PAGE (from above): Ay, have we, and peas withal! (He blows, and peppers them with peas.) THE YOUNG MAN (to his father): What piece do they give us? THE BURGHER: 'Clorise.' THE YOUNG MAN: Who may the author be? THE BURGHER: Master Balthazar Baro. It is a play!. . . (He goes arm-in-arm with his son.) THE PICKPOCKET (to his pupils): Have a care, above all, of the lace knee-ruffles--cut them off! A SPECTATOR (to another, showing him a corner in the gallery): I was up there, the first night of the 'Cid.' THE PICKPOCKET (making with his fingers the gesture of filching): Thus for watches-- THE BURGHER (coming down again with his son): Ah! You shall presently see some renowned actors. . . THE PICKPOCKET (making the gestures of one who pulls something stealthily, with little jerks): Thus for handkerchiefs-- THE BURGHER: Montfleury. . . SOME ONE (shouting from the upper gallery): Light up, below there! THE BURGHER: . . .Bellerose, L'Epy, La Beaupre, Jodelet! A PAGE (in the pit): Here comes the buffet-girl! THE BUFFET-GIRL (taking her place behind the buffet): Oranges, milk, raspberry-water, cedar bitters! (A hubbub outside the door is heard.) A FALSETTO VOICE: Make place, brutes! A LACKEY (astonished): The Marquises!--in the pit?. . . ANOTHER LACKEY: Oh! only for a minute or two! (Enter a band of young marquises.) A MARQUIS (seeing that the hall is half empty): What now! So we make our entrance like a pack of woolen-drapers! Peaceably, without disturbing the folk, or treading on their toes!--Oh, fie! Fie! (Recognizing some other gentlemen who have entered a little before him): Cuigy! Brissaille! (Greetings and embraces.) CUIGY: True to our word!. . .Troth, we are here before the candles are lit. THE MARQUIS: Ay, indeed! Enough! I am of an ill humor. ANOTHER: Nay, nay, Marquis! see, for your consolation, they are coming to light up! ALL THE AUDIENCE (welcoming the entrance of the lighter): Ah!. . . (They form in groups round the lusters as they are lit. Some people have taken their seats in the galleries. Ligniere, a distinguished-looking roue, with disordered shirt-front arm-in-arm with christian de Neuvillette. Christian, who is dressed elegantly, but rather behind the fashion, seems preoccupied, and keeps looking at the boxes.) ----------ACT 1 SCENES 2-3--------- The same. Christian, Ligniere, then Ragueneau and Le Bret. CUIGY: Ligniere! BRISSAILLE (laughing): Not drunk as yet? LIGNIERE (aside to Christian): I may introduce you? (Christian nods in assent): Baron de Neuvillette. (Bows.) THE AUDIENCE (applauding as the first luster is lighted and drawn up): Ah! CUIGY (to Brissaille, looking at Christian): 'Tis a pretty fellow! FIRST MARQUIS (who has overheard): Pooh! LIGNIERE (introducing them to Christian): My lords De Cuigy. De Brissaille. . . CHRISTIAN (bowing): Delighted!. . . FIRST MARQUIS (to second): He is not ill to look at, but certes, he is not costumed in the latest mode. LIGNIERE (to Cuigy): This gentleman comes from Touraine. CHRISTIAN: Yes, I have scarce been twenty days in Paris; tomorrow I join the Guards, in the Cadets. FIRST MARQUIS (watching the people who are coming into the boxes): There is the wife of the Chief-Justice. THE BUFFET-GIRL: Oranges, milk. . . THE VIOLINISTS (tuning up): La--la-- CUIGY (to Christian, pointing to the hall, which is filling fast): 'Tis crowded. CHRISTIAN: Yes, indeed. FIRST MARQUIS: All the great world! (They recognize and name the different elegantly dressed ladies who enter the boxes, bowing low to them. The ladies send smiles in answer.) SECOND MARQUIS: Madame de Guemenee. CUIGY: Madame de Bois-Dauphin. FIRST MARQUIS: Adored by us all! BRISSAILLE: Madame de Chavigny. . . SECOND MARQUIS: Who sports with our poor hearts!. . . LIGNIERE: Ha! so Monsieur de Corneille has come back from Rouen! THE YOUNG MAN (to his father): Is the Academy here? THE BURGHER: Oh, ay, I see several of them. There is Boudu, Boissat, and Cureau de la Chambre, Porcheres, Colomby, Bourzeys, Bourdon, Arbaud. . .all names that will live! 'Tis fine! FIRST MARQUIS: Attention! Here come our precieuses; Barthenoide, Urimedonte, Cassandace, Felixerie. . . SECOND MARQUIS: Ah! How exquisite their fancy names are! Do you know them all, Marquis? FIRST MARQUIS: Ay, Marquis, I do, every one! LIGNIERE (drawing Christian aside): Friend, I but came here to give you pleasure. The lady comes not. I will betake me again to my pet vice. CHRISTIAN (persuasively): No, no! You, who are ballad-maker to Court and City alike, can tell me better than any who the lady is for whom I die of love. Stay yet awhile. THE FIRST VIOLIN (striking his bow on the desk): Gentlemen violinists! (He raises his bow.) THE BUFFET-GIRL: Macaroons, lemon-drink. . . (The violins begin to play.) CHRISTIAN: Ah! I fear me she is coquettish, and over nice and fastidious! I, who am so poor of wit, how dare I speak to her--how address her? This language that they speak to-day--ay, and write--confounds me; I am but an honest soldier, and timid withal. She has ever her place, there, on the right--the empty box, see you! LIGNIERE (making as if to go): I must go. CHRISTIAN (detaining him): Nay, stay. LIGNIERE: I cannot. D'Assoucy waits me at the tavern, and here one dies of thirst. THE BUFFET-GIRL (passing before him with a tray): Orange drink? LIGNIERE: Ugh! THE BUFFET-GIRL: Milk? LIGNIERE: Pah! THE BUFFET-GIRL: Rivesalte? LIGNIERE: Stay. (To Christian): I will remain awhile.--Let me taste this rivesalte. (He sits by the buffet; the girl pours some out for him.) CRIES (from all the audience, at the entrance of a plump little man, joyously excited): Ah! Ragueneau! LIGNIERE (to Christian): 'Tis the famous tavern-keeper Ragueneau. RAGUENEAU (dressed in the Sunday clothes of a pastry-cook, going up quickly to Ligniere): Sir, have you seen Monsieur de Cyrano? LIGNIERE (introducing him to Christian): The pastry-cook of the actors and the poets! RAGUENEAU (overcome): You do me too great honor. . . LIGNIERE: Nay, hold your peace, Maecenas that you are! RAGUENEAU: True, these gentlemen employ me. . . LIGNIERE: On credit! He is himself a poet of a pretty talent. . . RAGUENEAU: So they tell me. LIGNIERE: --Mad after poetry! RAGUENEAU: 'Tis true that, for a little ode. . . LIGNIERE: You give a tart. . . RAGUENEAU: Oh!--a tartlet! LIGNIERE: Brave fellow! He would fain fain excuse himself! --And for a triolet, now, did you not give in exchange. . . RAGUENEAU: Some little rolls! LIGNIERE (severely): They were milk-rolls! And as for the theater, which you love? RAGUENEAU: Oh! to distraction! LIGNIERE: How pay you your tickets, ha?--with cakes. Your place, to-night, come tell me in my ear, what did it cost you? RAGUENEAU: Four custards, and fifteen cream-puffs. (He looks around on all sides): Monsieur de Cyrano is not here? 'Tis strange. LIGNIERE: Why so? RAGUENEAU: Montfleury plays! LIGNIERE: Ay, 'tis true that that old wine-barrel is to take Phedon's part to-night; but what matter is that to Cyrano? RAGUENEAU: How? Know you not? He has got a hot hate for Montfleury, and so!--has forbid him strictly to show his face on the stage for one whole month. LIGNIERE (drinking his fourth glass): Well? RAGUENEAU: Montfleury will play! CUIGY: He can not hinder that. RAGUENEAU: Oh! oh! that I have come to see! FIRST MARQUIS: Who is this Cyrano? CUIGY: A fellow well skilled in all tricks of fence. SECOND MARQUIS: Is he of noble birth? CUIGY: Ay, noble enough. He is a cadet in the Guards. (Pointing to a gentleman who is going up and down the hall as if searching for some one): But 'tis his friend Le Bret, yonder, who can best tell you. (He calls him): Le Bret! (Le Bret comes towards them): Seek you for De Bergerac? LE BRET: Ay, I am uneasy. . . CUIGY: Is it not true that he is the strangest of men? LE BRET (tenderly): True, that he is the choicest of earthly beings! RAGUENEAU: Poet! CUIGY: Soldier! BRISSAILLE: Philosopher! LE BRET: Musician! LIGNIERE: And of how fantastic a presence! RAGENEAU: Marry, 'twould puzzle even our grim painter Philippe de Champaigne to portray him! Methinks, whimsical, wild, comical as he is, only Jacques Callot, now dead and gone, had succeeded better, and had made of him the maddest fighter of all his visored crew--with his triple-plumed beaver and six-pointed doublet--the sword-point sticking up 'neath his mantle like an insolent cocktail! He's prouder than all the fierce Artabans of whom Gascony has ever been and will ever be the prolific Alma Mater! Above his Toby ruff he carries a nose!--ah, good my lords, what a nose is his! When one sees it one is fain to cry aloud, 'Nay! 'tis too much! He plays a joke on us!' Then one laughs, says 'He will anon take it off.' But no!--Monsieur de Bergerac always keeps it on. LE BRET (throwing back his head): He keeps it on--and cleaves in two any man who dares remark on it! RAGUENEAU (proudly): His sword--'tis one half of the Fates' shears! FIRST MARQUIS (shrugging his shoulders): He will not come! RAGUENEAU: I say he will! and I wager a fowl--a la Ragueneau. THE MARQUIS (laughing): Good! (Murmurs of admiration in hall. Roxane has just appeared in her box. She seats herself in front, the duenna at the back. Christian, who is paying the buffet-girl, does not see her entrance.) SECOND MARQUIS (with little cries of joy): Ah, gentlemen! she is fearfully--terribly--ravishing! FIRST MARQUIS: When one looks at her one thinks of a peach smiling at a strawberry! SECOND MARQUIS: And what freshness! A man approaching her too near might chance to get a bad chill at the heart! CHRISTIAN (raising his head, sees Roxane, and catches Ligniere by the arm): 'Tis she! LIGNIERE: Ah! is it she? CHRISTIAN: Ay, tell me quick--I am afraid. LIGNIERE (tasting his rivesalte in sips): Magdaleine Robin--Roxane, so called! A subtle wit--a precieuse. CHRISTIAN: Woe is me! LIGNIERE: Free. An orphan. The cousin of Cyrano, of whom we were now speaking. (At this moment an elegant nobleman, with blue ribbon across his breast, enters the box, and talks with Roxane, standing.) CHRISTIAN (starting): Who is yonder man? LIGNIERE (who is becoming tipsy, winking at him): Ha! ha! Count de Guiche. Enamored of her. But wedded to the niece of Armand de Richelieu. Would fain marry Roxane to a certain sorry fellow, one Monsieur de Valvert, a viscount--and--accommodating! She will none of that bargain; but De Guiche is powerful, and can persecute the daughter of a plain untitled gentleman. More by token, I myself have exposed this cunning plan of his to the world, in a song which. . .Ho! he must rage at me! The end hit home. . .Listen! (He gets up staggering, and raises his glass, ready to sing.) CHRISTIAN: No. Good-night. LIGNIERE: Where go you? CHRISTIAN: To Monsieur de Valvert! LIGNIERE: Have a care! It is he who will kill you (showing him Roxane by a look): Stay where you are--she is looking at you. CHRISTIAN: It is true! (He stands looking at her. The group of pickpockets seeing him thus, head in air and open-mouthed, draw near to him.) LIGNIERE: 'Tis I who am going. I am athirst! And they expect me--in the taverns! (He goes out, reeling.) LE BRET (who has been all round the hall, coming back to Ragueneau reassured): No sign of Cyrano. RAGUENEAU (incredulously): All the same. . . LE BRET: A hope is left to me--that he has not seen the playbill! THE AUDIENCE: Begin, begin! The same, all but Ligniere. De Guiche, Valvert, then Montfleury. A marquis (watching De Guiche, who comes down from Roxane's box, and crosses the pit surrounded by obsequious noblemen, among them the Viscount de Valvert): He pays a fine court, your De Guiche! ANOTHER: Faugh!. . .Another Gascon! THE FIRST: Ay, but the cold, supple Gascon--that is the stuff success is made of! Believe me, we had best make our bow to him. (They go toward De Guiche.) SECOND MARQUIS: What fine ribbons! How call you the color, Count de Guiche? 'Kiss me, my darling,' or 'Timid Fawn?' DE GUICHE: 'Tis the color called 'Sick Spaniard.' FIRST MARQUIS: 'Faith! The color speaks truth, for, thanks to your valor, things will soon go ill for Spain in Flanders. DE GUICHE: I go on the stage! Will you come? (He goes toward the stage, followed by the marquises and gentlemen. Turning, he calls): Come you Valvert! CHRISTIAN (who is watching and listening, starts on hearing this name): The Viscount! Ah! I will throw full in his face my. . . (He puts his hand in his pocket, and finds there the hand of a pickpocket who is about to rob him. He turns round): Hey? THE PICKPOCKET: Oh! CHRISTIAN (holding him tightly): I was looking for a glove. THE PICKPOCKET (smiling piteously): And you find a hand. (Changing his tone, quickly and in a whisper): Let me but go, and I will deliver you a secret. CHRISTIAN (still holding him): What is it? THE PICKPOCKET: Ligniere. . .he who has just left you. . . CHRISTIAN (same play): Well? THE PICKPOCKET: His life is in peril. A song writ by him has given offense in high places-- and a hundred men--I am of them--are posted to-night. . . CHRISTIAN: A hundred men! By whom posted? THE PICKPOCKET: I may not say--a secret. . . CHRISTIAN (shrugging his shoulders): Oh! THE PICKPOCKET (with great dignity): . . .Of the profession. CHRISTIAN: Where are they posted? THE PICKPOCKET: At the Porte de Nesle. On his way homeward. Warn him. CHRISTIAN (letting go of his wrists): But where can I find him? THE PICKPOCKET: Run round to all the taverns--The Golden Wine Press, the Pine Cone, The Belt that Bursts, The Two Torches, The Three Funnels, and at each leave a word that shall put him on his guard. CHRISTIAN: Good--I fly! Ah, the scoundrels! A hundred men 'gainst one! (Looking lovingly at Roxane): Ah, to leave her!. . . (looking with rage at Valvert): and him!. . .But save Ligniere I must! (He hurries out. De Guiche, the viscount, the marquises, have all disappeared behind the curtain to take their places on the benches placed on the stage. The pit is quite full; the galleries and boxes are also crowded.) THE AUDIENCE: Begin! A BURGHER (whose wig is drawn up on the end of a string by a page in the upper gallery): My wig! CRIES OF DELIGHT: He is bald! Bravo, pages--ha! ha! ha!. . . THE BURGHER (furious, shaking his fist): Young villain! LAUGHTER AND CRIES (beginning very loud, and dying gradually away): Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! (Total silence.) LE BRET (astonished): What means this sudden silence?. . . (A spectator says something to him in a low voice): Is't true? THE SPECTATOR: I have just heard it on good authority. MURMURS (spreading through the hall): Hush! Is it he? No! Ay, I say! In the box with the bars in front! The Cardinal! The Cardinal! The Cardinal! A PAGE: The devil! We shall have to behave ourselves. . . (A knock is heard upon the stage. Every one is motionless. A pause.) THE VOICE OF A MARQUIS (in the silence, behind the curtain): Snuff that candle! ANOTHER MARQUIS (putting his head through the opening in the curtain): A chair! (A chair is passed from hand to hand, over the heads of the spectators. The marquis takes it and disappears, after blowing some kisses to the boxes.) A SPECTATOR: Silence! (Three knocks are heard on the stage. The curtain opens in the centre Tableau. The marquises in insolent attitudes seated on each side of the stage. The scene represents a pastoral landscape. Four little lusters light the stage; the violins play softly.) LE BRET (in a low voice to Ragueneau): Montfleury comes on the scene? RAGUENEAU (also in a low voice): Ay, 'tis he who begins. LE BRET: Cyrano is not here. RAGUENEAU: I have lost my wager. LE BRET: 'Tis all the better! (An air on the drone-pipes is heard, and Montfleury enters, enormously stout, in an Arcadian shepherd's dress, a hat wreathed with roses drooping over one ear, blowing into a ribboned drone pipe.) THE PIT (applauding): Bravo, Montfleury! Montfleury! MONTFLEURY (after bowing low, begins the part of Phedon): 'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu solitaire, Se prescrit a soi-meme un exil volontaire, Et qui, lorsque Zephire a souffle sur les bois. . .' A VOICE (from the middle of the pit): Villain! Did I not forbid you to show your face here for month? (General stupor. Every one turns round. Murmurs.) DIFFERENT VOICES: Hey?--What?--What is't?. . . (The people stand up in the boxes to look.) CUIGY: 'Tis he! LE BRET (terrified): Cyrano! THE VOICE: King of clowns! Leave the stage this instant! ALL THE AUDIENCE (indignantly): Oh! MONTFLEURY: But. . . THE VOICE: Do you dare defy me? DIFFERENT VOICES (from the pit and the boxes): Peace! Enough!--Play on, Montfleury--fear nothing! MONTFLEURY (in a trembling voice): 'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu sol--' THE VOICE (more fiercely): Well! Chief of all the blackguards, must I come and give you a taste of my cane? (A hand holding a cane starts up over the heads of the spectators.) MONTFLEURY (in a voice that trembles more and more): 'Heureux qui. . .' (The cane is shaken.) THE VOICE: Off the stage! THE PIT: Oh! MONTFLEURY (choking): 'Heureux qui loin des cours. . .' CYRANO (appearing suddenly in the pit, standing on a chair, his arms crossed, his beaver cocked fiercely, his mustache bristling, his nose terrible to see): Ah! I shall be angry in a minute!. . . (Sensation.)

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 1, scene 1, utilizing the provided context.

act 1 scenes 5-7|act 1, scene 1|act 1, scene 2

The play opens in the year 1640 in the theater at the Hotel de Bourgogne in Paris, France. Preparations are under way for a performance of the play La Clorise. Members of the audience from all social classes, pickpockets, and an orange-girl arrive. Two gentlemen practice fencing. A middle-class man looks disapprovingly at the drinking, fighting, and gambling taking place among the audience and reflects that the place has sunk into disrepute since the great tragedies were performed there. As the chandeliers are lit in readiness for the performance, the audience gathers around in anticipation. The handsome young Baron Christian de Neuvillette enters with the satirist Ligniere, who is drunk

----------ACT 1 SCENES 5-7--------- Cyrano, Le Bret. CYRANO (to Le Bret): Now talk--I listen. (He stands at the buffet, and placing before him first the macaroon): Dinner!. . . (then the grapes): Dessert!. . . (then the glass of water): Wine!. . . (he seats himself): So! And now to table! Ah! I was hungry, friend, nay, ravenous! (eating): You said--? LE BRET: These fops, would-be belligerent, Will, if you heed them only, turn your head!. . . Ask people of good sense if you would know The effect of your fine insolence-- CYRANO (finishing his macaroon): Enormous! LE BRET: The Cardinal. . . CYRANO (radiant): The Cardinal--was there? LE BRET: Must have thought it. . . CYRANO: Original, i' faith! LE BRET: But. . . CYRANO: He's an author. 'Twill not fail to please him That I should mar a brother-author's play. LE BRET: You make too many enemies by far! CYRANO (eating his grapes): How many think you I have made to-night? LE BRET: Forty, no less, not counting ladies. CYRANO: Count! LE BRET: Montfleury first, the bourgeois, then De Guiche, The Viscount, Baro, the Academy. . . CYRANO: Enough! I am o'erjoyed! LE BRET: But these strange ways, Where will they lead you, at the end? Explain Your system--come! CYRANO: I in a labyrinth Was lost--too many different paths to choose; I took. . . LE BRET: Which? CYRANO: Oh! by far the simplest path. . . Decided to be admirable in all! LE BRET (shrugging his shoulders): So be it! But the motive of your hate To Montfleury--come, tell me! CYRANO (rising): This Silenus, Big-bellied, coarse, still deems himself a peril-- A danger to the love of lovely ladies, And, while he sputters out his actor's part, Makes sheep's eyes at their boxes--goggling frog! I hate him since the evening he presumed To raise his eyes to hers. . .Meseemed I saw A slug crawl slavering o'er a flower's petals! LE BRET (stupefied): How now? What? Can it be. . .? CYRANO (laughing bitterly): That I should love?. . . (Changing his tone, gravely): I love. LE BRET: And may I know?. . .You never said. . . CYRANO: Come now, bethink you!. . .The fond hope to be Beloved, e'en by some poor graceless lady, Is, by this nose of mine for aye bereft me; --This lengthy nose which, go where'er I will, Pokes yet a quarter-mile ahead of me; But I may love--and who? 'Tis Fate's decree I love the fairest--how were't otherwise? LE BRET: The fairest?. . . CYRANO: Ay, the fairest of the world, Most brilliant--most refined--most golden-haired! LE BRET: Who is this lady? CYRANO: She's a danger mortal, All unsuspicious--full of charms unconscious, Like a sweet perfumed rose--a snare of nature, Within whose petals Cupid lurks in ambush! He who has seen her smile has known perfection, --Instilling into trifles grace's essence, Divinity in every careless gesture; Not Venus' self can mount her conch blown sea-ward, As she can step into her chaise a porteurs, Nor Dian fleet across the woods spring-flowered, Light as my Lady o'er the stones of Paris!. . . LE BRET: Sapristi! all is clear! CYRANO: As spiderwebs! LE BRET: Your cousin, Madeleine Robin? CYRANO: Roxane! LE BRET: Well, but so much the better! Tell her so! She saw your triumph here this very night! CYRANO: Look well at me--then tell me, with what hope This vile protuberance can inspire my heart! I do not lull me with illusions--yet At times I'm weak: in evening hours dim I enter some fair pleasance, perfumed sweet; With my poor ugly devil of a nose I scent spring's essence--in the silver rays I see some knight--a lady on his arm, And think 'To saunter thus 'neath the moonshine, I were fain to have my lady, too, beside!' Thought soars to ecstasy. . .O sudden fall! --The shadow of my profile on the wall! LE BRET (tenderly): My friend!. . . CYRANO: My friend, at times 'tis hard, 'tis bitter, To feel my loneliness--my own ill-favor. . . LE BRET (taking his hand): You weep? CYRANO: No, never! Think, how vilely suited Adown this nose a tear its passage tracing! I never will, while of myself I'm master, let the divinity of tears--their beauty Be wedded to such common ugly grossness. Nothing more solemn than a tear--sublimer; And I would not by weeping turn to laughter The grave emotion that a tear engenders! LE BRET: Never be sad! What's love?--a chance of Fortune! CYRANO (shaking his head): Look I a Caesar to woo Cleopatra? A Tito to aspire to Berenice? LE BRET: Your courage and your wit!--The little maid Who offered you refreshment even now, Her eyes did not abhor you--you saw well! CYRANO (impressed): True! LE BRET: Well, how then?. . .I saw Roxane herself Was death-pale as she watched the duel. CYRANO: Pale? LE BRET: Her heart, her fancy, are already caught! Put it to th' touch! CYRANO: That she may mock my face? That is the one thing on this earth I fear! THE PORTER (introducing some one to Cyrano): Sir, some one asks for you. . . CYRANO (seeing the duenna): God! her duenna! Cyrano, Le Bret, the duenna. THE DUENNA (with a low bow): I was bid ask you where a certain lady Could see her valiant cousin--but in secret. CYRANO (overwhelmed): See me? THE DUENNA (courtesying): Ay, Sir! She has somewhat to tell. CYRANO: Somewhat?. . . THE DUENNA (still courtesying): Ay, private matters! CYRANO (staggering): Ah, my God! THE DUENNA: To-morrow, at the early blush of dawn, We go to hear mass at St. Roch. CYRANO (leaning against Le Bret): My God! THE DUENNA: After--what place for a few minutes' speech? CYRANO (confused): Where? Ah!. . .but. . .Ah, my God!. . . THE DUENNA: Say! CYRANO: I reflect!. . . THE DUENNA: Where? CYRANO: At--the pastry-house of Ragueneau. THE DUENNA: Where lodges he? CYRANO: The Rue--God!--St. Honore! THE DUENNA (going): Good. Be you there. At seven. CYRANO: Without fail. (The duenna goes out.) Cyrano, Le Bret. Then actors, actresses, Cuigy, Brissaille, Ligniere, the porter, the violinists. CYRANO (falling into Le Bret's arms): A rendezvous. . .from her!. . . LE BRET: You're sad no more! CYRANO: Ah! Let the world go burn! She knows I live! LE BRET: Now you'll be calm, I hope? CYRANO (beside himself for joy): Calm? I now calm? I'll be frenetic, frantic,--raving mad! Oh, for an army to attack!--a host! I've ten hearts in my breast; a score of arms; No dwarfs to cleave in twain!. . . (Wildly): No! Giants now! (For a few moments the shadows of the actors have been moving on the stage, whispers are heard--the rehearsal is beginning. The violinists are in their places.) A VOICE FROM THE STAGE: Hollo there! Silence! We rehearse! CYRANO (laughing): We go! (He moves away. By the big door enter Cuigy, Brissaille, and some officers, holding up Ligniere, who is drunk.) CUIGY: Cyrano! CYRANO: Well, what now? CUIGY: A lusty thrush They're bringing you! CYRANO (recognizing him): Ligniere!. . .What has chanced? CUIGY: He seeks you! BRISSAILLE: He dare not go home! CYRANO: Why not? LIGNIERE (in a husky voice, showing him a crumpled letter): This letter warns me. . .that a hundred men. . . Revenge that threatens me. . .that song, you know-- At the Porte de Nesle. To get to my own house I must pass there. . .I dare not!. . .Give me leave To sleep to-night beneath your roof! Allow. . . CYRANO: A hundred men? You'll sleep in your own bed! LIGNIERE (frightened): But-- CYRANO (in a terrible voice, showing him the lighted lantern held by the porter, who is listening curiously): Take the lantern. (Ligniere seizes it): Let us start! I swear That I will make your bed to-night myself! (To the officers): Follow; some stay behind, as witnesses! CUIGY: A hundred!. . . CYRANO: Less, to-night--would be too few! (The actors and actresses, in their costumes, have come down from the stage, and are listening.) LE BRET: But why embroil yourself? CYRANO: Le Bret who scolds! LE BRET: That worthless drunkard!-- CYRANO (slapping Ligniere on the shoulder): Wherefore? For this cause;-- This wine-barrel, this cask of Burgundy, Did, on a day, an action full of grace; As he was leaving church, he saw his love Take holy water--he, who is affeared At water's taste, ran quickly to the stoup, And drank it all, to the last drop!. . . AN ACTRESS: Indeed, that was a graceful thing! CYRANO: Ay, was it not? THE ACTRESS (to the others): But why a hundred men 'gainst one poor rhymer? CYRANO: March! (To the officers): Gentlemen, when you shall see me charge, Bear me no succor, none, whate'er the odds! ANOTHER ACTRESS (jumping from the stage): Oh! I shall come and see! CYRANO: Come, then! ANOTHER (jumping down--to an old actor): And you?. . . CYRANO: Come all--the Doctor, Isabel, Leander, Come, for you shall add, in a motley swarm, The farce Italian to this Spanish drama! ALL THE WOMEN (dancing for joy): Bravo!--a mantle, quick!--my hood! JODELET: Come on! CYRANO: Play us a march, gentlemen of the band! (The violinists join the procession, which is forming. They take the footlights, and divide them for torches): Brave officers! next, women in costume, And, twenty paces on-- (He takes his place): I all alone, Beneath the plume that Glory lends, herself, To deck my beaver--proud as Scipio!. . . --You hear me?--I forbid you succor me!-- One, two three! Porter, open wide the doors! (The porter opens the doors; a view of old Paris in the moonlight is seen): Ah!. . .Paris wrapped in night! half nebulous: The moonlight streams o'er the blue-shadowed roofs; A lovely frame for this wild battle-scene; Beneath the vapor's floating scarves, the Seine Trembles, mysterious, like a magic mirror, And, shortly, you shall see what you shall see! ALL: To the Porte de Nesle! CYRANO (standing on the threshold): Ay, to the Porte de Nesle! (Turning to the actress): Did you not ask, young lady, for what cause Against this rhymer fivescore men were sent? (He draws his sword; then, calmly): 'Twas that they knew him for a friend of mine! (He goes out. Ligniere staggers first after him, then the actresses on the officers' arms--the actors. The procession starts to the sound of the violins and in the faint light of the candles.) Curtain. ----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- The public, arriving by degrees. Troopers, burghers, lackeys, pages, a pickpocket, the doorkeeper, etc., followed by the marquises. Cuigy, Brissaille, the buffet-girl, the violinists, etc. (A confusion of loud voices is heard outside the door. A trooper enters hastily.) THE DOORKEEPER (following him): Hollo! You there! Your money! THE TROOPER: I enter gratis. THE DOORKEEPER: Why? THE TROOPER: Why? I am of the King's Household Cavalry, 'faith! THE DOORKEEPER (to another trooper who enters): And you? SECOND TROOPER: I pay nothing. THE DOORKEEPER: How so? SECOND TROOPER: I am a musketeer. FIRST TROOPER (to the second): The play will not begin till two. The pit is empty. Come, a bout with the foils to pass the time. (They fence with the foils they have brought.) A LACKEY (entering): Pst. . .Flanquin. . .! ANOTHER (already there): Champagne?. . . THE FIRST (showing him cards and dice which he takes from his doublet): See, here be cards and dice. (He seats himself on the floor): Let's play. THE SECOND (doing the same): Good; I am with you, villain! FIRST LACKEY (taking from his pocket a candle-end, which he lights, and sticks on the floor): I made free to provide myself with light at my master's expense! A GUARDSMAN (to a shop-girl who advances): 'Twas prettily done to come before the lights were lit! (He takes her round the waist.) ONE OF THE FENCERS (receiving a thrust): A hit! ONE OF THE CARD-PLAYERS: Clubs! THE GUARDSMAN (following the girl): A kiss! THE SHOP-GIRL (struggling to free herself): They're looking! THE GUARDSMAN (drawing her to a dark corner): No fear! No one can see! A MAN (sitting on the ground with others, who have brought their provisions): By coming early, one can eat in comfort. A BURGHER (conducting his son): Let us sit here, son. A CARD-PLAYER: Triple ace! A MAN (taking a bottle from under his cloak, and also seating himself on the floor): A tippler may well quaff his Burgundy (he drinks): in the Burgundy Hotel! THE BURGHER (to his son): 'Faith! A man might think he had fallen in a bad house here! (He points with his cane to the drunkard): What with topers! (One of the fencers in breaking off, jostles him): brawlers! (He stumbles into the midst of the card-players): gamblers! THE GUARDSMAN (behind him, still teasing the shop-girl): Come, one kiss! THE BURGHER (hurriedly pulling his son away): By all the holies! And this, my boy, is the theater where they played Rotrou erewhile. THE YOUNG MAN: Ay, and Corneille! A TROOP OF PAGES (hand-in-hand, enter dancing the farandole, and singing): Tra' a la, la, la, la, la, la, la, lere. . . THE DOORKEEPER (sternly, to the pages): You pages there, none of your tricks!. . . FIRST PAGE (with an air of wounded dignity): Oh, sir!--such a suspicion!. . . (Briskly, to the second page, the moment the doorkeeper's back is turned): Have you string? THE SECOND: Ay, and a fish-hook with it. FIRST PAGE: We can angle for wigs, then, up there i' th' gallery. A PICKPOCKET (gathering about him some evil-looking youths): Hark ye, young cut-purses, lend an ear, while I give you your first lesson in thieving. SECOND PAGE (calling up to others in the top galleries): You there! Have you peashooters? THIRD PAGE (from above): Ay, have we, and peas withal! (He blows, and peppers them with peas.) THE YOUNG MAN (to his father): What piece do they give us? THE BURGHER: 'Clorise.' THE YOUNG MAN: Who may the author be? THE BURGHER: Master Balthazar Baro. It is a play!. . . (He goes arm-in-arm with his son.) THE PICKPOCKET (to his pupils): Have a care, above all, of the lace knee-ruffles--cut them off! A SPECTATOR (to another, showing him a corner in the gallery): I was up there, the first night of the 'Cid.' THE PICKPOCKET (making with his fingers the gesture of filching): Thus for watches-- THE BURGHER (coming down again with his son): Ah! You shall presently see some renowned actors. . . THE PICKPOCKET (making the gestures of one who pulls something stealthily, with little jerks): Thus for handkerchiefs-- THE BURGHER: Montfleury. . . SOME ONE (shouting from the upper gallery): Light up, below there! THE BURGHER: . . .Bellerose, L'Epy, La Beaupre, Jodelet! A PAGE (in the pit): Here comes the buffet-girl! THE BUFFET-GIRL (taking her place behind the buffet): Oranges, milk, raspberry-water, cedar bitters! (A hubbub outside the door is heard.) A FALSETTO VOICE: Make place, brutes! A LACKEY (astonished): The Marquises!--in the pit?. . . ANOTHER LACKEY: Oh! only for a minute or two! (Enter a band of young marquises.) A MARQUIS (seeing that the hall is half empty): What now! So we make our entrance like a pack of woolen-drapers! Peaceably, without disturbing the folk, or treading on their toes!--Oh, fie! Fie! (Recognizing some other gentlemen who have entered a little before him): Cuigy! Brissaille! (Greetings and embraces.) CUIGY: True to our word!. . .Troth, we are here before the candles are lit. THE MARQUIS: Ay, indeed! Enough! I am of an ill humor. ANOTHER: Nay, nay, Marquis! see, for your consolation, they are coming to light up! ALL THE AUDIENCE (welcoming the entrance of the lighter): Ah!. . . (They form in groups round the lusters as they are lit. Some people have taken their seats in the galleries. Ligniere, a distinguished-looking roue, with disordered shirt-front arm-in-arm with christian de Neuvillette. Christian, who is dressed elegantly, but rather behind the fashion, seems preoccupied, and keeps looking at the boxes.) ----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- The same. Christian, Ligniere, then Ragueneau and Le Bret. CUIGY: Ligniere! BRISSAILLE (laughing): Not drunk as yet? LIGNIERE (aside to Christian): I may introduce you? (Christian nods in assent): Baron de Neuvillette. (Bows.) THE AUDIENCE (applauding as the first luster is lighted and drawn up): Ah! CUIGY (to Brissaille, looking at Christian): 'Tis a pretty fellow! FIRST MARQUIS (who has overheard): Pooh! LIGNIERE (introducing them to Christian): My lords De Cuigy. De Brissaille. . . CHRISTIAN (bowing): Delighted!. . . FIRST MARQUIS (to second): He is not ill to look at, but certes, he is not costumed in the latest mode. LIGNIERE (to Cuigy): This gentleman comes from Touraine. CHRISTIAN: Yes, I have scarce been twenty days in Paris; tomorrow I join the Guards, in the Cadets. FIRST MARQUIS (watching the people who are coming into the boxes): There is the wife of the Chief-Justice. THE BUFFET-GIRL: Oranges, milk. . . THE VIOLINISTS (tuning up): La--la-- CUIGY (to Christian, pointing to the hall, which is filling fast): 'Tis crowded. CHRISTIAN: Yes, indeed. FIRST MARQUIS: All the great world! (They recognize and name the different elegantly dressed ladies who enter the boxes, bowing low to them. The ladies send smiles in answer.) SECOND MARQUIS: Madame de Guemenee. CUIGY: Madame de Bois-Dauphin. FIRST MARQUIS: Adored by us all! BRISSAILLE: Madame de Chavigny. . . SECOND MARQUIS: Who sports with our poor hearts!. . . LIGNIERE: Ha! so Monsieur de Corneille has come back from Rouen! THE YOUNG MAN (to his father): Is the Academy here? THE BURGHER: Oh, ay, I see several of them. There is Boudu, Boissat, and Cureau de la Chambre, Porcheres, Colomby, Bourzeys, Bourdon, Arbaud. . .all names that will live! 'Tis fine! FIRST MARQUIS: Attention! Here come our precieuses; Barthenoide, Urimedonte, Cassandace, Felixerie. . . SECOND MARQUIS: Ah! How exquisite their fancy names are! Do you know them all, Marquis? FIRST MARQUIS: Ay, Marquis, I do, every one! LIGNIERE (drawing Christian aside): Friend, I but came here to give you pleasure. The lady comes not. I will betake me again to my pet vice. CHRISTIAN (persuasively): No, no! You, who are ballad-maker to Court and City alike, can tell me better than any who the lady is for whom I die of love. Stay yet awhile. THE FIRST VIOLIN (striking his bow on the desk): Gentlemen violinists! (He raises his bow.) THE BUFFET-GIRL: Macaroons, lemon-drink. . . (The violins begin to play.) CHRISTIAN: Ah! I fear me she is coquettish, and over nice and fastidious! I, who am so poor of wit, how dare I speak to her--how address her? This language that they speak to-day--ay, and write--confounds me; I am but an honest soldier, and timid withal. She has ever her place, there, on the right--the empty box, see you! LIGNIERE (making as if to go): I must go. CHRISTIAN (detaining him): Nay, stay. LIGNIERE: I cannot. D'Assoucy waits me at the tavern, and here one dies of thirst. THE BUFFET-GIRL (passing before him with a tray): Orange drink? LIGNIERE: Ugh! THE BUFFET-GIRL: Milk? LIGNIERE: Pah! THE BUFFET-GIRL: Rivesalte? LIGNIERE: Stay. (To Christian): I will remain awhile.--Let me taste this rivesalte. (He sits by the buffet; the girl pours some out for him.) CRIES (from all the audience, at the entrance of a plump little man, joyously excited): Ah! Ragueneau! LIGNIERE (to Christian): 'Tis the famous tavern-keeper Ragueneau. RAGUENEAU (dressed in the Sunday clothes of a pastry-cook, going up quickly to Ligniere): Sir, have you seen Monsieur de Cyrano? LIGNIERE (introducing him to Christian): The pastry-cook of the actors and the poets! RAGUENEAU (overcome): You do me too great honor. . . LIGNIERE: Nay, hold your peace, Maecenas that you are! RAGUENEAU: True, these gentlemen employ me. . . LIGNIERE: On credit! He is himself a poet of a pretty talent. . . RAGUENEAU: So they tell me. LIGNIERE: --Mad after poetry! RAGUENEAU: 'Tis true that, for a little ode. . . LIGNIERE: You give a tart. . . RAGUENEAU: Oh!--a tartlet! LIGNIERE: Brave fellow! He would fain fain excuse himself! --And for a triolet, now, did you not give in exchange. . . RAGUENEAU: Some little rolls! LIGNIERE (severely): They were milk-rolls! And as for the theater, which you love? RAGUENEAU: Oh! to distraction! LIGNIERE: How pay you your tickets, ha?--with cakes. Your place, to-night, come tell me in my ear, what did it cost you? RAGUENEAU: Four custards, and fifteen cream-puffs. (He looks around on all sides): Monsieur de Cyrano is not here? 'Tis strange. LIGNIERE: Why so? RAGUENEAU: Montfleury plays! LIGNIERE: Ay, 'tis true that that old wine-barrel is to take Phedon's part to-night; but what matter is that to Cyrano? RAGUENEAU: How? Know you not? He has got a hot hate for Montfleury, and so!--has forbid him strictly to show his face on the stage for one whole month. LIGNIERE (drinking his fourth glass): Well? RAGUENEAU: Montfleury will play! CUIGY: He can not hinder that. RAGUENEAU: Oh! oh! that I have come to see! FIRST MARQUIS: Who is this Cyrano? CUIGY: A fellow well skilled in all tricks of fence. SECOND MARQUIS: Is he of noble birth? CUIGY: Ay, noble enough. He is a cadet in the Guards. (Pointing to a gentleman who is going up and down the hall as if searching for some one): But 'tis his friend Le Bret, yonder, who can best tell you. (He calls him): Le Bret! (Le Bret comes towards them): Seek you for De Bergerac? LE BRET: Ay, I am uneasy. . . CUIGY: Is it not true that he is the strangest of men? LE BRET (tenderly): True, that he is the choicest of earthly beings! RAGUENEAU: Poet! CUIGY: Soldier! BRISSAILLE: Philosopher! LE BRET: Musician! LIGNIERE: And of how fantastic a presence! RAGENEAU: Marry, 'twould puzzle even our grim painter Philippe de Champaigne to portray him! Methinks, whimsical, wild, comical as he is, only Jacques Callot, now dead and gone, had succeeded better, and had made of him the maddest fighter of all his visored crew--with his triple-plumed beaver and six-pointed doublet--the sword-point sticking up 'neath his mantle like an insolent cocktail! He's prouder than all the fierce Artabans of whom Gascony has ever been and will ever be the prolific Alma Mater! Above his Toby ruff he carries a nose!--ah, good my lords, what a nose is his! When one sees it one is fain to cry aloud, 'Nay! 'tis too much! He plays a joke on us!' Then one laughs, says 'He will anon take it off.' But no!--Monsieur de Bergerac always keeps it on. LE BRET (throwing back his head): He keeps it on--and cleaves in two any man who dares remark on it! RAGUENEAU (proudly): His sword--'tis one half of the Fates' shears! FIRST MARQUIS (shrugging his shoulders): He will not come! RAGUENEAU: I say he will! and I wager a fowl--a la Ragueneau. THE MARQUIS (laughing): Good! (Murmurs of admiration in hall. Roxane has just appeared in her box. She seats herself in front, the duenna at the back. Christian, who is paying the buffet-girl, does not see her entrance.) SECOND MARQUIS (with little cries of joy): Ah, gentlemen! she is fearfully--terribly--ravishing! FIRST MARQUIS: When one looks at her one thinks of a peach smiling at a strawberry! SECOND MARQUIS: And what freshness! A man approaching her too near might chance to get a bad chill at the heart! CHRISTIAN (raising his head, sees Roxane, and catches Ligniere by the arm): 'Tis she! LIGNIERE: Ah! is it she? CHRISTIAN: Ay, tell me quick--I am afraid. LIGNIERE (tasting his rivesalte in sips): Magdaleine Robin--Roxane, so called! A subtle wit--a precieuse. CHRISTIAN: Woe is me! LIGNIERE: Free. An orphan. The cousin of Cyrano, of whom we were now speaking. (At this moment an elegant nobleman, with blue ribbon across his breast, enters the box, and talks with Roxane, standing.) CHRISTIAN (starting): Who is yonder man? LIGNIERE (who is becoming tipsy, winking at him): Ha! ha! Count de Guiche. Enamored of her. But wedded to the niece of Armand de Richelieu. Would fain marry Roxane to a certain sorry fellow, one Monsieur de Valvert, a viscount--and--accommodating! She will none of that bargain; but De Guiche is powerful, and can persecute the daughter of a plain untitled gentleman. More by token, I myself have exposed this cunning plan of his to the world, in a song which. . .Ho! he must rage at me! The end hit home. . .Listen! (He gets up staggering, and raises his glass, ready to sing.) CHRISTIAN: No. Good-night. LIGNIERE: Where go you? CHRISTIAN: To Monsieur de Valvert! LIGNIERE: Have a care! It is he who will kill you (showing him Roxane by a look): Stay where you are--she is looking at you. CHRISTIAN: It is true! (He stands looking at her. The group of pickpockets seeing him thus, head in air and open-mouthed, draw near to him.) LIGNIERE: 'Tis I who am going. I am athirst! And they expect me--in the taverns! (He goes out, reeling.) LE BRET (who has been all round the hall, coming back to Ragueneau reassured): No sign of Cyrano. RAGUENEAU (incredulously): All the same. . . LE BRET: A hope is left to me--that he has not seen the playbill! THE AUDIENCE: Begin, begin!

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 1, scene 6 with the given context.

Roxane's Duenna brings a message from Roxane asking Cyrano to meet her privately. They arrange a meeting at Ragueneau's at seven o'clock the next morning

----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- The same, all but Ligniere. De Guiche, Valvert, then Montfleury. A marquis (watching De Guiche, who comes down from Roxane's box, and crosses the pit surrounded by obsequious noblemen, among them the Viscount de Valvert): He pays a fine court, your De Guiche! ANOTHER: Faugh!. . .Another Gascon! THE FIRST: Ay, but the cold, supple Gascon--that is the stuff success is made of! Believe me, we had best make our bow to him. (They go toward De Guiche.) SECOND MARQUIS: What fine ribbons! How call you the color, Count de Guiche? 'Kiss me, my darling,' or 'Timid Fawn?' DE GUICHE: 'Tis the color called 'Sick Spaniard.' FIRST MARQUIS: 'Faith! The color speaks truth, for, thanks to your valor, things will soon go ill for Spain in Flanders. DE GUICHE: I go on the stage! Will you come? (He goes toward the stage, followed by the marquises and gentlemen. Turning, he calls): Come you Valvert! CHRISTIAN (who is watching and listening, starts on hearing this name): The Viscount! Ah! I will throw full in his face my. . . (He puts his hand in his pocket, and finds there the hand of a pickpocket who is about to rob him. He turns round): Hey? THE PICKPOCKET: Oh! CHRISTIAN (holding him tightly): I was looking for a glove. THE PICKPOCKET (smiling piteously): And you find a hand. (Changing his tone, quickly and in a whisper): Let me but go, and I will deliver you a secret. CHRISTIAN (still holding him): What is it? THE PICKPOCKET: Ligniere. . .he who has just left you. . . CHRISTIAN (same play): Well? THE PICKPOCKET: His life is in peril. A song writ by him has given offense in high places-- and a hundred men--I am of them--are posted to-night. . . CHRISTIAN: A hundred men! By whom posted? THE PICKPOCKET: I may not say--a secret. . . CHRISTIAN (shrugging his shoulders): Oh! THE PICKPOCKET (with great dignity): . . .Of the profession. CHRISTIAN: Where are they posted? THE PICKPOCKET: At the Porte de Nesle. On his way homeward. Warn him. CHRISTIAN (letting go of his wrists): But where can I find him? THE PICKPOCKET: Run round to all the taverns--The Golden Wine Press, the Pine Cone, The Belt that Bursts, The Two Torches, The Three Funnels, and at each leave a word that shall put him on his guard. CHRISTIAN: Good--I fly! Ah, the scoundrels! A hundred men 'gainst one! (Looking lovingly at Roxane): Ah, to leave her!. . . (looking with rage at Valvert): and him!. . .But save Ligniere I must! (He hurries out. De Guiche, the viscount, the marquises, have all disappeared behind the curtain to take their places on the benches placed on the stage. The pit is quite full; the galleries and boxes are also crowded.) THE AUDIENCE: Begin! A BURGHER (whose wig is drawn up on the end of a string by a page in the upper gallery): My wig! CRIES OF DELIGHT: He is bald! Bravo, pages--ha! ha! ha!. . . THE BURGHER (furious, shaking his fist): Young villain! LAUGHTER AND CRIES (beginning very loud, and dying gradually away): Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! (Total silence.) LE BRET (astonished): What means this sudden silence?. . . (A spectator says something to him in a low voice): Is't true? THE SPECTATOR: I have just heard it on good authority. MURMURS (spreading through the hall): Hush! Is it he? No! Ay, I say! In the box with the bars in front! The Cardinal! The Cardinal! The Cardinal! A PAGE: The devil! We shall have to behave ourselves. . . (A knock is heard upon the stage. Every one is motionless. A pause.) THE VOICE OF A MARQUIS (in the silence, behind the curtain): Snuff that candle! ANOTHER MARQUIS (putting his head through the opening in the curtain): A chair! (A chair is passed from hand to hand, over the heads of the spectators. The marquis takes it and disappears, after blowing some kisses to the boxes.) A SPECTATOR: Silence! (Three knocks are heard on the stage. The curtain opens in the centre Tableau. The marquises in insolent attitudes seated on each side of the stage. The scene represents a pastoral landscape. Four little lusters light the stage; the violins play softly.) LE BRET (in a low voice to Ragueneau): Montfleury comes on the scene? RAGUENEAU (also in a low voice): Ay, 'tis he who begins. LE BRET: Cyrano is not here. RAGUENEAU: I have lost my wager. LE BRET: 'Tis all the better! (An air on the drone-pipes is heard, and Montfleury enters, enormously stout, in an Arcadian shepherd's dress, a hat wreathed with roses drooping over one ear, blowing into a ribboned drone pipe.) THE PIT (applauding): Bravo, Montfleury! Montfleury! MONTFLEURY (after bowing low, begins the part of Phedon): 'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu solitaire, Se prescrit a soi-meme un exil volontaire, Et qui, lorsque Zephire a souffle sur les bois. . .' A VOICE (from the middle of the pit): Villain! Did I not forbid you to show your face here for month? (General stupor. Every one turns round. Murmurs.) DIFFERENT VOICES: Hey?--What?--What is't?. . . (The people stand up in the boxes to look.) CUIGY: 'Tis he! LE BRET (terrified): Cyrano! THE VOICE: King of clowns! Leave the stage this instant! ALL THE AUDIENCE (indignantly): Oh! MONTFLEURY: But. . . THE VOICE: Do you dare defy me? DIFFERENT VOICES (from the pit and the boxes): Peace! Enough!--Play on, Montfleury--fear nothing! MONTFLEURY (in a trembling voice): 'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu sol--' THE VOICE (more fiercely): Well! Chief of all the blackguards, must I come and give you a taste of my cane? (A hand holding a cane starts up over the heads of the spectators.) MONTFLEURY (in a voice that trembles more and more): 'Heureux qui. . .' (The cane is shaken.) THE VOICE: Off the stage! THE PIT: Oh! MONTFLEURY (choking): 'Heureux qui loin des cours. . .' CYRANO (appearing suddenly in the pit, standing on a chair, his arms crossed, his beaver cocked fiercely, his mustache bristling, his nose terrible to see): Ah! I shall be angry in a minute!. . . (Sensation.) ----------ACT 1, SCENE 5--------- Cyrano, Le Bret. CYRANO (to Le Bret): Now talk--I listen. (He stands at the buffet, and placing before him first the macaroon): Dinner!. . . (then the grapes): Dessert!. . . (then the glass of water): Wine!. . . (he seats himself): So! And now to table! Ah! I was hungry, friend, nay, ravenous! (eating): You said--? LE BRET: These fops, would-be belligerent, Will, if you heed them only, turn your head!. . . Ask people of good sense if you would know The effect of your fine insolence-- CYRANO (finishing his macaroon): Enormous! LE BRET: The Cardinal. . . CYRANO (radiant): The Cardinal--was there? LE BRET: Must have thought it. . . CYRANO: Original, i' faith! LE BRET: But. . . CYRANO: He's an author. 'Twill not fail to please him That I should mar a brother-author's play. LE BRET: You make too many enemies by far! CYRANO (eating his grapes): How many think you I have made to-night? LE BRET: Forty, no less, not counting ladies. CYRANO: Count! LE BRET: Montfleury first, the bourgeois, then De Guiche, The Viscount, Baro, the Academy. . . CYRANO: Enough! I am o'erjoyed! LE BRET: But these strange ways, Where will they lead you, at the end? Explain Your system--come! CYRANO: I in a labyrinth Was lost--too many different paths to choose; I took. . . LE BRET: Which? CYRANO: Oh! by far the simplest path. . . Decided to be admirable in all! LE BRET (shrugging his shoulders): So be it! But the motive of your hate To Montfleury--come, tell me! CYRANO (rising): This Silenus, Big-bellied, coarse, still deems himself a peril-- A danger to the love of lovely ladies, And, while he sputters out his actor's part, Makes sheep's eyes at their boxes--goggling frog! I hate him since the evening he presumed To raise his eyes to hers. . .Meseemed I saw A slug crawl slavering o'er a flower's petals! LE BRET (stupefied): How now? What? Can it be. . .? CYRANO (laughing bitterly): That I should love?. . . (Changing his tone, gravely): I love. LE BRET: And may I know?. . .You never said. . . CYRANO: Come now, bethink you!. . .The fond hope to be Beloved, e'en by some poor graceless lady, Is, by this nose of mine for aye bereft me; --This lengthy nose which, go where'er I will, Pokes yet a quarter-mile ahead of me; But I may love--and who? 'Tis Fate's decree I love the fairest--how were't otherwise? LE BRET: The fairest?. . . CYRANO: Ay, the fairest of the world, Most brilliant--most refined--most golden-haired! LE BRET: Who is this lady? CYRANO: She's a danger mortal, All unsuspicious--full of charms unconscious, Like a sweet perfumed rose--a snare of nature, Within whose petals Cupid lurks in ambush! He who has seen her smile has known perfection, --Instilling into trifles grace's essence, Divinity in every careless gesture; Not Venus' self can mount her conch blown sea-ward, As she can step into her chaise a porteurs, Nor Dian fleet across the woods spring-flowered, Light as my Lady o'er the stones of Paris!. . . LE BRET: Sapristi! all is clear! CYRANO: As spiderwebs! LE BRET: Your cousin, Madeleine Robin? CYRANO: Roxane! LE BRET: Well, but so much the better! Tell her so! She saw your triumph here this very night! CYRANO: Look well at me--then tell me, with what hope This vile protuberance can inspire my heart! I do not lull me with illusions--yet At times I'm weak: in evening hours dim I enter some fair pleasance, perfumed sweet; With my poor ugly devil of a nose I scent spring's essence--in the silver rays I see some knight--a lady on his arm, And think 'To saunter thus 'neath the moonshine, I were fain to have my lady, too, beside!' Thought soars to ecstasy. . .O sudden fall! --The shadow of my profile on the wall! LE BRET (tenderly): My friend!. . . CYRANO: My friend, at times 'tis hard, 'tis bitter, To feel my loneliness--my own ill-favor. . . LE BRET (taking his hand): You weep? CYRANO: No, never! Think, how vilely suited Adown this nose a tear its passage tracing! I never will, while of myself I'm master, let the divinity of tears--their beauty Be wedded to such common ugly grossness. Nothing more solemn than a tear--sublimer; And I would not by weeping turn to laughter The grave emotion that a tear engenders! LE BRET: Never be sad! What's love?--a chance of Fortune! CYRANO (shaking his head): Look I a Caesar to woo Cleopatra? A Tito to aspire to Berenice? LE BRET: Your courage and your wit!--The little maid Who offered you refreshment even now, Her eyes did not abhor you--you saw well! CYRANO (impressed): True! LE BRET: Well, how then?. . .I saw Roxane herself Was death-pale as she watched the duel. CYRANO: Pale? LE BRET: Her heart, her fancy, are already caught! Put it to th' touch! CYRANO: That she may mock my face? That is the one thing on this earth I fear! THE PORTER (introducing some one to Cyrano): Sir, some one asks for you. . . CYRANO (seeing the duenna): God! her duenna! ----------ACT 1, SCENE 6--------- Cyrano, Le Bret, the duenna. THE DUENNA (with a low bow): I was bid ask you where a certain lady Could see her valiant cousin--but in secret. CYRANO (overwhelmed): See me? THE DUENNA (courtesying): Ay, Sir! She has somewhat to tell. CYRANO: Somewhat?. . . THE DUENNA (still courtesying): Ay, private matters! CYRANO (staggering): Ah, my God! THE DUENNA: To-morrow, at the early blush of dawn, We go to hear mass at St. Roch. CYRANO (leaning against Le Bret): My God! THE DUENNA: After--what place for a few minutes' speech? CYRANO (confused): Where? Ah!. . .but. . .Ah, my God!. . . THE DUENNA: Say! CYRANO: I reflect!. . . THE DUENNA: Where? CYRANO: At--the pastry-house of Ragueneau. THE DUENNA: Where lodges he? CYRANO: The Rue--God!--St. Honore! THE DUENNA (going): Good. Be you there. At seven. CYRANO: Without fail. (The duenna goes out.) ----------ACT 1, SCENE 7--------- Cyrano, Le Bret. Then actors, actresses, Cuigy, Brissaille, Ligniere, the porter, the violinists. CYRANO (falling into Le Bret's arms): A rendezvous. . .from her!. . . LE BRET: You're sad no more! CYRANO: Ah! Let the world go burn! She knows I live! LE BRET: Now you'll be calm, I hope? CYRANO (beside himself for joy): Calm? I now calm? I'll be frenetic, frantic,--raving mad! Oh, for an army to attack!--a host! I've ten hearts in my breast; a score of arms; No dwarfs to cleave in twain!. . . (Wildly): No! Giants now! (For a few moments the shadows of the actors have been moving on the stage, whispers are heard--the rehearsal is beginning. The violinists are in their places.) A VOICE FROM THE STAGE: Hollo there! Silence! We rehearse! CYRANO (laughing): We go! (He moves away. By the big door enter Cuigy, Brissaille, and some officers, holding up Ligniere, who is drunk.) CUIGY: Cyrano! CYRANO: Well, what now? CUIGY: A lusty thrush They're bringing you! CYRANO (recognizing him): Ligniere!. . .What has chanced? CUIGY: He seeks you! BRISSAILLE: He dare not go home! CYRANO: Why not? LIGNIERE (in a husky voice, showing him a crumpled letter): This letter warns me. . .that a hundred men. . . Revenge that threatens me. . .that song, you know-- At the Porte de Nesle. To get to my own house I must pass there. . .I dare not!. . .Give me leave To sleep to-night beneath your roof! Allow. . . CYRANO: A hundred men? You'll sleep in your own bed! LIGNIERE (frightened): But-- CYRANO (in a terrible voice, showing him the lighted lantern held by the porter, who is listening curiously): Take the lantern. (Ligniere seizes it): Let us start! I swear That I will make your bed to-night myself! (To the officers): Follow; some stay behind, as witnesses! CUIGY: A hundred!. . . CYRANO: Less, to-night--would be too few! (The actors and actresses, in their costumes, have come down from the stage, and are listening.) LE BRET: But why embroil yourself? CYRANO: Le Bret who scolds! LE BRET: That worthless drunkard!-- CYRANO (slapping Ligniere on the shoulder): Wherefore? For this cause;-- This wine-barrel, this cask of Burgundy, Did, on a day, an action full of grace; As he was leaving church, he saw his love Take holy water--he, who is affeared At water's taste, ran quickly to the stoup, And drank it all, to the last drop!. . . AN ACTRESS: Indeed, that was a graceful thing! CYRANO: Ay, was it not? THE ACTRESS (to the others): But why a hundred men 'gainst one poor rhymer? CYRANO: March! (To the officers): Gentlemen, when you shall see me charge, Bear me no succor, none, whate'er the odds! ANOTHER ACTRESS (jumping from the stage): Oh! I shall come and see! CYRANO: Come, then! ANOTHER (jumping down--to an old actor): And you?. . . CYRANO: Come all--the Doctor, Isabel, Leander, Come, for you shall add, in a motley swarm, The farce Italian to this Spanish drama! ALL THE WOMEN (dancing for joy): Bravo!--a mantle, quick!--my hood! JODELET: Come on! CYRANO: Play us a march, gentlemen of the band! (The violinists join the procession, which is forming. They take the footlights, and divide them for torches): Brave officers! next, women in costume, And, twenty paces on-- (He takes his place): I all alone, Beneath the plume that Glory lends, herself, To deck my beaver--proud as Scipio!. . . --You hear me?--I forbid you succor me!-- One, two three! Porter, open wide the doors! (The porter opens the doors; a view of old Paris in the moonlight is seen): Ah!. . .Paris wrapped in night! half nebulous: The moonlight streams o'er the blue-shadowed roofs; A lovely frame for this wild battle-scene; Beneath the vapor's floating scarves, the Seine Trembles, mysterious, like a magic mirror, And, shortly, you shall see what you shall see! ALL: To the Porte de Nesle! CYRANO (standing on the threshold): Ay, to the Porte de Nesle! (Turning to the actress): Did you not ask, young lady, for what cause Against this rhymer fivescore men were sent? (He draws his sword; then, calmly): 'Twas that they knew him for a friend of mine! (He goes out. Ligniere staggers first after him, then the actresses on the officers' arms--the actors. The procession starts to the sound of the violins and in the faint light of the candles.) Curtain.

Cyrano de Bergerac.act 2.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 2 scenes 3-4 based on the provided context.

act 2 scenes 1-2|act 2 scenes 3-4|act 2 scenes 5-6

Cyrano enters and Ragueneau congratulates him on the duel in the theater the night before. But Cyrano is not interested in anything except his meeting with Roxane. He asks Ragueneau to clear the place out when he gives the signal, and Ragueneau agrees. A musketeer enters who will be mentioned again later. The poets come in, for their "first meal," as Lise says. They are all excited about the feat of the evening before -- one man against a hundred, and no one knows who the brave one was. Cyrano is writing a love letter to Roxane and is not at all interested in the conversation around him. He does not sign the letter, because he plans to give it to Roxane himself. The poets flatter Ragueneau by asking for his latest poetic effort -- a recipe in rhyme. Cyrano constantly asks the time, and the hour finally arrives for his meeting with Roxane. The poets are rushed to another room so that Cyrano can see her alone.

----------ACT 2 SCENES 1-2--------- Ragueneau, pastry-cooks, then Lise. Ragueneau is writing, with an inspired air, at a small table, and counting on his fingers. FIRST PASTRY-COOK (bringing in an elaborate fancy dish): Fruits in nougat! SECOND PASTRY-COOK (bringing another dish): Custard! THIRD PASTRY-COOK (bringing a roast, decorated with feathers): Peacock! FOURTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a batch of cakes on a slab): Rissoles! FIFTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a sort of pie-dish): Beef jelly! RAGUENEAU (ceasing to write, and raising his head): Aurora's silver rays begin to glint e'en now on the copper pans, and thou, O Ragueneau! must perforce stifle in thy breast the God of Song! Anon shall come the hour of the lute!--now 'tis the hour of the oven! (He rises. To a cook): You, make that sauce longer, 'tis too short! THE COOK: How much too short? RAGUENEAU: Three feet. (He passes on farther.) THE COOK: What means he? FIRST PASTRY-COOK (showing a dish to Ragueneau): The tart! SECOND PASTRY-COOK: The pie! RAGUENEAU (before the fire): My muse, retire, lest thy bright eyes be reddened by the fagot's blaze! (To a cook, showing him some loaves): You have put the cleft o' th' loaves in the wrong place; know you not that the coesura should be between the hemistiches? (To another, showing him an unfinished pasty): To this palace of paste you must add the roof. . . (To a young apprentice, who, seated on the ground, is spitting the fowls): And you, as you put on your lengthy spit the modest fowl and the superb turkey, my son, alternate them, as the old Malherbe loved well to alternate his long lines of verse with the short ones; thus shall your roasts, in strophes, turn before the flame! ANOTHER APPRENTICE (also coming up with a tray covered by a napkin): Master, I bethought me erewhile of your tastes, and made this, which will please you, I hope. (He uncovers the tray, and shows a large lyre made of pastry.) RAGUENEAU (enchanted): A lyre! THE APPRENTICE: 'Tis of brioche pastry. RAGUENEAU (touched): With conserved fruits. THE APPRENTICE: The strings, see, are of sugar. RAGUENEAU (giving him a coin): Go, drink my health! (Seeing Lise enter): Hush! My wife. Bustle, pass on, and hide that money! (To Lise, showing her the lyre, with a conscious look): Is it not beautiful? LISE: 'Tis passing silly! (She puts a pile of papers on the counter.) RAGUENEAU: Bags? Good. I thank you. (He looks at them): Heavens! my cherished leaves! The poems of my friends! Torn, dismembered, to make bags for holding biscuits and cakes!. . .Ah, 'tis the old tale again. . .Orpheus and the Bacchantes! LISE (dryly): And am I not free to turn at last to some use the sole thing that your wretched scribblers of halting lines leave behind them by way of payment? RAGUENEAU: Groveling ant!. . .Insult not the divine grasshoppers, the sweet singers! LISE: Before you were the sworn comrade of all that crew, my friend, you did not call your wife ant and Bacchante! RAGUENEAU: To turn fair verse to such a use! LISE: 'Faith, 'tis all it's good for. RAGUENEAU: Pray then, madam, to what use would you degrade prose? The same. Two children, who have just trotted into the shop. RAGUENEAU: What would you, little ones? FIRST CHILD: Three pies. RAGUENEAU (serving them): See, hot and well browned. SECOND CHILD: If it please you, Sir, will you wrap them up for us? RAGUENEAU (aside, distressed): Alas! one of my bags! (To the children): What? Must I wrap them up? (He takes a bag, and just as he is about to put in the pies, he reads): 'Ulysses thus, on leaving fair Penelope. . .' Not that one! (He puts it aside, and takes another, and as he is about to put in the pies, he reads): 'The gold-locked Phoebus. . .' Nay, nor that one!. . . (Same play.) LISE (impatiently): What are you dallying for? RAGUENEAU: Here! here! here (He chooses a third, resignedly): The sonnet to Phillis!. . .but 'tis hard to part with it! LISE: By good luck he has made up his mind at last! (Shrugging her shoulders): Nicodemus! (She mounts on a chair, and begins to range plates on a dresser.) RAGUENEAU (taking advantage of the moment she turns her back, calls back the children, who are already at the door): Hist! children!. . .render me back the sonnet to Phillis, and you shall have six pies instead of three. (The children give him back the bag, seize the cakes quickly, and go out.) RAGUENEAU (smoothing out the paper, begins to declaim): 'Phillis!. . .' On that sweet name a smear of butter! 'Phillis!. . .' (Cyrano enters hurriedly.) ----------ACT 2 SCENES 3-4--------- Ragueneau, Lise, Cyrano, then the musketeer. CYRANO: What's o'clock? RAGUENEAU (bowing low): Six o'clock. CYRANO (with emotion): In one hour's time! (He paces up and down the shop.) RAGUENEAU (following him): Bravo! I saw. . . CYRANO: Well, what saw you, then? RAGUENEAU: Your combat!. . . CYRANO: Which? RAGUENEAU: That in the Burgundy Hotel, 'faith! CYRANO (contemptuously): Ah!. . .the duel! RAGUENEAU (admiringly): Ay! the duel in verse!. . . LISE: He can talk of naught else! CYRANO: Well! Good! let be! RAGUENEAU (making passes with a spit that he catches up): 'At the envoi's end, I touch!. . .At the envoi's end, I touch!'. . .'Tis fine, fine! (With increasing enthusiasm): 'At the envoi's end--' CYRANO: What hour is it now, Ragueneau? RAGUENEAU (stopping short in the act of thrusting to look at the clock): Five minutes after six!. . .'I touch!' (He straightens himself): . . .Oh! to write a ballade! LISE (to Cyrano, who, as he passes by the counter, has absently shaken hands with her): What's wrong with your hand? CYRANO: Naught; a slight cut. RAGUENEAU: Have you been in some danger? CYRANO: None in the world. LISE (shaking her finger at him): Methinks you speak not the truth in saying that! CYRANO: Did you see my nose quiver when I spoke? 'Faith, it must have been a monstrous lie that should move it! (Changing his tone): I wait some one here. Leave us alone, and disturb us for naught an it were not for crack of doom! RAGUENEAU: But 'tis impossible; my poets are coming. . . LISE (ironically): Oh, ay, for their first meal o' the day! CYRANO: Prythee, take them aside when I shall make you sign to do so. . .What's o'clock? RAGUENEAU: Ten minutes after six. CYRANO (nervously seating himself at Ragueneau's table, and drawing some paper toward him): A pen!. . . RAGUENEAU (giving him the one from behind his ear): Here--a swan's quill. A MUSKETEER (with fierce mustache, enters, and in a stentorian voice): Good-day! (Lise goes up to him quickly.) CYRANO (turning round): Who's that? RAGUENEAU: 'Tis a friend of my wife--a terrible warrior--at least so says he himself. CYRANO (taking up the pen, and motioning Ragueneau away): Hush! (To himself): I will write, fold it, give it her, and fly! (Throws down the pen): Coward!. . .But strike me dead if I dare to speak to her,. . .ay, even one single word! (To Ragueneau): What time is it? RAGUENEAU: A quarter after six!. . . CYRANO (striking his breast): Ay--a single word of all those here! here! But writing, 'tis easier done. . . (He takes up the pen): Go to, I will write it, that love-letter! Oh! I have writ it and rewrit it in my own mind so oft that it lies there ready for pen and ink; and if I lay but my soul by my letter-sheet, 'tis naught to do but to copy from it. (He writes. Through the glass of the door the silhouettes of their figures move uncertainly and hesitatingly.) Ragueneau, Lise, the musketeer. Cyrano at the little table writing. The poets, dressed in black, their stockings ungartered, and covered with mud. LISE (entering, to Ragueneau): Here they come, your mud-bespattered friends! FIRST POET (entering, to Ragueneau): Brother in art!. . . SECOND POET (to Ragueneau, shaking his hands): Dear brother! THIRD POET: High soaring eagle among pastry-cooks! (He sniffs): Marry! it smells good here in your eyrie! FOURTH POET: 'Tis at Phoebus' own rays that thy roasts turn! FIFTH POET: Apollo among master-cooks-- RAGUENEAU (whom they surround and embrace): Ah! how quick a man feels at his ease with them!. . . FIRST POET: We were stayed by the mob; they are crowded all round the Porte de Nesle!. . . SECOND POET: Eight bleeding brigand carcasses strew the pavements there--all slit open with sword-gashes! CYRANO (raising his head a minute): Eight?. . .hold, methought seven. (He goes on writing.) RAGUENEAU (to Cyrano): Know you who might be the hero of the fray? CYRANO (carelessly): Not I. LISE (to the musketeer): And you? Know you? THE MUSKETEER (twirling his mustache): Maybe! CYRANO (writing a little way off:--he is heard murmuring a word from time to time): 'I love thee!' FIRST POET: 'Twas one man, say they all, ay, swear to it, one man who, single-handed, put the whole band to the rout! SECOND POET: 'Twas a strange sight!--pikes and cudgels strewed thick upon the ground. CYRANO (writing): . . .'Thine eyes'. . . THIRD POET: And they were picking up hats all the way to the Quai d'Orfevres! FIRST POET: Sapristi! but he must have been a ferocious. . . CYRANO (same play): . . .'Thy lips'. . . FIRST POET: 'Twas a parlous fearsome giant that was the author of such exploits! CYRANO (same play): . . .'And when I see thee come, I faint for fear.' SECOND POET (filching a cake): What hast rhymed of late, Ragueneau? CYRANO (same play): . . .'Who worships thee'. . . (He stops, just as he is about to sign, and gets up, slipping the letter into his doublet): No need I sign, since I give it her myself. RAGUENEAU (to second poet): I have put a recipe into verse. THIRD POET (seating himself by a plate of cream-puffs): Go to! Let us hear these verses! FOURTH POET (looking at a cake which he has taken): Its cap is all a' one side! (He makes one bite of the top.) FIRST POET: See how this gingerbread woos the famished rhymer with its almond eyes, and its eyebrows of angelica! (He takes it.) SECOND POET: We listen. THIRD POET (squeezing a cream-puff gently): How it laughs! Till its very cream runs over! SECOND POET (biting a bit off the great lyre of pastry): This is the first time in my life that ever I drew any means of nourishing me from the lyre! RAGUENEAU (who has put himself ready for reciting, cleared his throat, settled his cap, struck an attitude): A recipe in verse!. . . SECOND POET (to first, nudging him): You are breakfasting? FIRST POET (to second): And you dining, methinks. RAGUENEAU: How almond tartlets are made. Beat your eggs up, light and quick; Froth them thick; Mingle with them while you beat Juice of lemon, essence fine; Then combine The burst milk of almonds sweet. Circle with a custard paste The slim waist Of your tartlet-molds; the top With a skillful finger print, Nick and dint, Round their edge, then, drop by drop, In its little dainty bed Your cream shed: In the oven place each mold: Reappearing, softly browned, The renowned Almond tartlets you behold! THE POETS (with mouths crammed full): Exquisite! Delicious! A POET (choking): Homph! (They go up, eating.) CYRANO (who has been watching, goes toward Ragueneau): Lulled by your voice, did you see how they were stuffing themselves? RAGUENEAU (in a low voice, smiling): Oh, ay! I see well enough, but I never will seem to look, fearing to distress them; thus I gain a double pleasure when I recite to them my poems; for I leave those poor fellows who have not breakfasted free to eat, even while I gratify my own dearest foible, see you? CYRANO (clapping him on the shoulder): Friend, I like you right well!. . . (Ragueneau goes after his friends. Cyrano follows him with his eyes, then, rather sharply): Ho there! Lise! (Lise, who is talking tenderly to the musketeer, starts, and comes down toward Cyrano): So this fine captain is laying siege to you? LISE (offended): One haughty glance of my eye can conquer any man that should dare venture aught 'gainst my virtue. CYRANO: Pooh! Conquering eyes, methinks, are oft conquered eyes. LISE (choking with anger): But-- CYRANO (incisively): I like Ragueneau well, and so--mark me, Dame Lise--I permit not that he be rendered a laughing-stock by any. . . LISE: But. . . CYRANO (who has raised his voice so as to be heard by the gallant): A word to the wise. . . (He bows to the musketeer, and goes to the doorway to watch, after looking at the clock.) LISE (to the musketeer, who has merely bowed in answer to Cyrano's bow): How now? Is this your courage?. . .Why turn you not a jest on his nose? THE MUSKETEER: On his nose?. . .ay, ay. . .his nose. (He goes quickly farther away; Lise follows him.) CYRANO (from the doorway, signing to Ragueneau to draw the poets away): Hist!. . . RAGUENEAU (showing them the door on the right): We shall be more private there. . . CYRANO (impatiently): Hist! Hist!. . . RAGUENEAU (drawing them farther): To read poetry, 'tis better here. . . FIRST POET (despairingly, with his mouth full): What! leave the cakes?. . . SECOND POET: Never! Let's take them with us! (They all follow Ragueneau in procession, after sweeping all the cakes off the trays.) ----------ACT 2 SCENES 5-6--------- Cyrano, Roxane, the duenna. CYRANO: Ah! if I see but the faint glimmer of hope, then I draw out my letter! (Roxane, masked, followed by the duenna, appears at the glass pane of the door. He opens quickly): Enter!. . . (Walking up to the duenna): Two words with you, Duenna. THE DUENNA: Four, Sir, an it like you. CYRANO: Are you fond of sweet things? THE DUENNA: Ay, I could eat myself sick on them! CYRANO (catching up some of the paper bags from the counter): Good. See you these two sonnets of Monsieur Beuserade. . . THE DUENNA: Hey? CYRANO: . . .Which I fill for you with cream cakes! THE DUENNA (changing her expression): Ha. CYRANO: What say you to the cake they call a little puff? THE DUENNA: If made with cream, Sir, I love them passing well. CYRANO: Here I plunge six for your eating into the bosom of a poem by Saint Amant! And in these verses of Chapelain I glide a lighter morsel. Stay, love you hot cakes? THE DUENNA: Ay, to the core of my heart! CYRANO (filling her arms with the bags): Pleasure me then; go eat them all in the street. THE DUENNA: But. . . CYRANO (pushing her out): And come not back till the very last crumb be eaten! (He shuts the door, comes down toward Roxane, and, uncovering, stands at a respectful distance from her.) Cyrano, Roxane. CYRANO: Blessed be the moment when you condescend-- Remembering that humbly I exist-- To come to meet me, and to say. . .to tell?. . . ROXANE (who has unmasked): To thank you first of all. That dandy count, Whom you checkmated in brave sword-play Last night,. . .he is the man whom a great lord, Desirous of my favor. . . CYRANO: Ha, De Guiche? ROXANE (casting down her eyes): Sought to impose on me. . .for husband. . . CYRANO: Ay! Husband!--dupe-husband!. . .Husband a la mode! (Bowing): Then I fought, happy chance! sweet lady, not For my ill favor--but your favors fair! ROXANE: Confession next!. . .But, ere I make my shrift, You must be once again that brother-friend With whom I used to play by the lake-side!. . . CYRANO: Ay, you would come each spring to Bergerac! ROXANE: Mind you the reeds you cut to make your swords?. . . CYRANO: While you wove corn-straw plaits for your dolls' hair! ROXANE: Those were the days of games!. . . CYRANO: And blackberries!. . . ROXANE: In those days you did everything I bid!. . . CYRANO: Roxane, in her short frock, was Madeleine. . . ROXANE: Was I fair then? CYRANO: You were not ill to see! ROXANE: Ofttimes, with hands all bloody from a fall, You'd run to me! Then--aping mother-ways-- I, in a voice would-be severe, would chide,-- (She takes his hand): 'What is this scratch, again, that I see here?' (She starts, surprised): Oh! 'Tis too much! What's this? (Cyrano tries to draw away his hand): No, let me see! At your age, fie! Where did you get that scratch? CYRANO: I got it--playing at the Porte de Nesle. ROXANE (seating herself by the table, and dipping her handkerchief in a glass of water): Give here! CYRANO (sitting by her): So soft! so gay maternal-sweet! ROXANE: And tell me, while I wipe away the blood, How many 'gainst you? CYRANO: Oh! A hundred--near. ROXANE: Come, tell me! CYRANO: No, let be. But you, come tell The thing, just now, you dared not. . . ROXANE (keeping his hand): Now, I dare! The scent of those old days emboldens me! Yes, now I dare. Listen. I am in love. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: But with one who knows not. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: Not yet. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: But who, if he knows not, soon shall learn. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: A poor youth who all this time has loved Timidly, from afar, and dares not speak. . . CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: Leave your hand; why, it is fever-hot!-- But I have seen love trembling on his lips. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE (bandaging his hand with her handkerchief): And to think of it! that he by chance-- Yes, cousin, he is of your regiment! CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE (laughing): --Is cadet in your own company! CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: On his brow he bears the genius-stamp; He is proud, noble, young, intrepid, fair. . . CYRANO (rising suddenly, very pale): Fair! ROXANE: Why, what ails you? CYRANO: Nothing; 'tis. . . (He shows his hand, smiling): This scratch! ROXANE: I love him; all is said. But you must know I have only seen him at the Comedy. . . CYRANO: How? You have never spoken? ROXANE: Eyes can speak. CYRANO: How know you then that he. . .? ROXANE: Oh! people talk 'Neath the limes in the Place Royale. . . Gossip's chat Has let me know. . . CYRANO: He is cadet? ROXANE: In the Guards. CYRANO: His name? ROXANE: Baron Christian de Neuvillette. CYRANO: How now?. . .He is not of the Guards! ROXANE: To-day He is not join your ranks, under Captain Carbon de Castel-Jaloux. CYRANO: Ah, how quick, How quick the heart has flown!. . .But, my poor child. . . THE DUENNA (opening the door): The cakes are eaten, Monsieur Bergerac! CYRANO: Then read the verses printed on the bags! (She goes out): . . .My poor child, you who love but flowing words, Bright wit,--what if he be a lout unskilled? ROXANE: No, his bright locks, like D'Urfe's heroes. . . CYRANO: Ah! A well-curled pate, and witless tongue, perchance! ROXANE: Ah no! I guess--I feel--his words are fair! CYRANO: All words are fair that lurk 'neath fair mustache! --Suppose he were a fool!. . . ROXANE (stamping her foot): Then bury me! CYRANO (after a pause): Was it to tell me this you brought me here? I fail to see what use this serves, Madame. ROXANE: Nay, but I felt a terror, here, in the heart, On learning yesterday you were Gascons All of your company. . . CYRANO: And we provoke All beardless sprigs that favor dares admit 'Midst us pure Gascons--(pure! Heaven save the mark! They told you that as well? ROXANE: Ah! Think how I Trembled for him! CYRANO (between his teeth): Not causelessly! ROXANE: But when Last night I saw you,--brave, invincible,-- Punish that dandy, fearless hold your own Against those brutes, I thought--I thought, if he Whom all fear, all--if he would only. . . CYRANO: Good. I will befriend your little Baron. ROXANE: Ah! You'll promise me you will do this for me? I've always held you as a tender friend. CYRANO: Ay, ay. ROXANE: Then you will be his friend? CYRANO: I swear! ROXANE: And he shall fight no duels, promise! CYRANO: None. ROXANE: You are kind, cousin! Now I must be gone. (She puts on her mask and veil quickly; then, absently): You have not told me of your last night's fray. Ah, but it must have been a hero-fight!. . . --Bid him to write. (She sends him a kiss with her fingers): How good you are! CYRANO: Ay! Ay! ROXANE: A hundred men against you? Now, farewell.-- We are great friends? CYRANO: Ay, ay! ROXANE: Oh, bid him write! You'll tell me all one day--A hundred men!-- Ah, brave!. . .How brave! CYRANO (bowing to her): I have fought better since. (She goes out. Cyrano stands motionless, with eyes on the ground. A silence. The door (right) opens. Ragueneau looks in.)

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 2, scene 1, utilizing the provided context.

act 2 scenes 7-8|act 2 scenes 9-10|act 2 scene 11|act 2, scene 1|act 2, scene 2

At Ragueneau's shop, Ragueneau is sitting at a table writing poetry while his assistants are cooking. One assistant has made a pastry lyre , which delights Ragueneau. Ragueneau's wife Lise comes in, furious that he has been giving away his wares to poets in return for poems. She brings some paper bags that she has made out of the paper on which the poems are written. Ragueneau is upset that she should abuse poetry like this

----------ACT 2 SCENES 7-8--------- Cyrano, Ragueneau, poets, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, a crowd, then De Guiche. RAGUENEAU: Can we come in? CYRANO (without stirring): Yes. . . (Ragueneau signs to his friends, and they come in. At the same time, by door at back, enters Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, in Captain's uniform. He makes gestures of surprise on seeing Cyrano.) CARBON: Here he is! CYRANO (raising his head): Captain!. . . CARBON (delightedly): Our hero! We heard all! Thirty or more Of my cadets are there!. . . CYRANO (shrinking back): But. . . CARBON (trying to draw him away): Come with me! They will not rest until they see you! CYRANO: No! CARBON: They're drinking opposite, at The Bear's Head. CYRANO: I. . . CARBON (going to the door and calling across the street in a voice of thunder): He won't come! The hero's in the sulks! A VOICE (outside): Ah! Sandious! (Tumult outside. Noise of boots and swords is heard approaching.) CARBON (rubbing his hands): They are running 'cross the street! CADETS (entering): Mille dious! Capdedious! Pocapdedious! RAGUENEAU (drawing back startled): Gentlemen, are you all from Gascony? THE CADETS: All! A CADET (to Cyrano): Bravo! CYRANO: Baron! ANOTHER (shaking his hands): Vivat! CYRANO: Baron! THIRD CADET: Come! I must embrace you! CYRANO: Baron! SEVERAL GASCONS: We'll embrace Him, all in turn! CYRANO (not knowing whom to reply to): Baron!. . .Baron!. . .I beg. . . RAGUENEAU: Are you all Barons, Sirs? THE CADETS: Ay, every one! RAGUENEAU: Is it true?. . . FIRST CADET: Ay--why, you could build a tower With nothing but our coronets, my friend! LE BRET (entering, and running up to Cyrano): They're looking for you! Here's a crazy mob Led by the men who followed you last night. . . CYRANO (alarmed): What! Have you told them where to find me? LE BRET (rubbing his hands): Yes! A BURGHER (entering, followed by a group of men): Sir, all the Marais is a-coming here! (Outside the street has filled with people. Chaises a porteurs and carriages have drawn up.) LE BRET (in a low voice, smiling, to Cyrano): And Roxane? CYRANO (quickly): Hush! THE CROWD (calling outside): Cyrano!. . . (A crowd rush into the shop, pushing one another. Acclamations.) RAGUENEAU (standing on a table): Lo! my shop Invaded! They break all! Magnificent! PEOPLE (crowding round Cyrano): My friend!. . .my friend. . . Cyrano: Meseems that yesterday I had not all these friends! LE BRET (delighted): Success! A YOUNG MARQUIS (hurrying up with his hands held out): My friend, Didst thou but know. . . CYRANO: Thou!. . .Marry!. . .thou!. . .Pray when Did we herd swine together, you and I! ANOTHER: I would present you, Sir, to some fair dames Who in my carriage yonder. . . CYRANO (coldly): Ah! and who Will first present you, Sir, to me? LE BRET (astonished): What's wrong? CYRANO: Hush! A MAN OF LETTERS (with writing-board): A few details?. . . CYRANO: No. LE BRET (nudging his elbow): 'Tis Theophrast, Renaudet,. . .of the 'Court Gazette'! CYRANO: Who cares? LE BRET: This paper--but it is of great importance!. . . They say it will be an immense success! A POET (advancing): Sir. . . CYRANO: What, another! THE POET: . . .Pray permit I make A pentacrostic on your name. . . SOME ONE (also advancing): Pray, Sir. . . CYRANO: Enough! Enough! (A movement in the crowd. De Guiche appears, escorted by officers. Cuigy, Brissaille, the officers who went with Cyrano the night before. Cuigy comes rapidly up to Cyrano.) CUIGY (to Cyrano): Here is Monsieur de Guiche? (A murmur--every one makes way): He comes from the Marshal of Gassion! DE GUICHE (bowing to Cyrano): . . .Who would express his admiration, Sir, For your new exploit noised so loud abroad. THE CROWD: Bravo! CYRANO (bowing): The Marshal is a judge of valor. DE GUICHE: He could not have believed the thing, unless These gentlemen had sworn they witnessed it. CUIGY: With our own eyes! LE BRET (aside to Cyrano, who has an absent air): But. . .you. . . CYRANO: Hush! LE BRET: But. . .You suffer? CYRANO (starting): Before this rabble?--I?. . . (He draws himself up, twirls his mustache, and throws back his shoulders): Wait!. . .You shall see! DE GUICHE (to whom Cuigy has spoken in a low voice): In feats of arms, already your career Abounded.--You serve with those crazy pates Of Gascons? CYRANO: Ay, with the Cadets. A CADET (in a terrible voice): With us! DE GUICHE (looking at the cadets, ranged behind Cyrano): Ah!. . .All these gentlemen of haughty mien, Are they the famous?. . . CARBON: Cyrano! CYRANO: Ay, Captain! CARBON: Since all my company's assembled here, Pray favor me,--present them to my lord! CYRANO (making two steps toward De Guiche): My Lord de Guiche, permit that I present-- (pointing to the cadets): The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux! Brawling and swaggering boastfully, The bold Cadets of Gascony! Spouting of Armory, Heraldry, Their veins a-brimming with blood so blue, The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux: Eagle-eye, and spindle-shanks, Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth! Slash-the-rabble and scatter-their-ranks; Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks, With a flaming feather that gayly pranks, Hiding the holes in their hats, forsooth! Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks, Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth! 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk' Are their gentlest sobriquets; With Fame and Glory their soul is drunk! 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk,' In brawl and skirmish they show their spunk, Give rendezvous in broil and fray; 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk' Are their gentlest sobriquets! What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! All jealous lovers are sport for you! O Woman! dear divinity! What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! Whom scowling husbands quake to see. Blow, 'taratara,' and cry 'Cuckoo.' What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! Husbands and lovers are game for you! DE GUICHE (seated with haughty carelessness in an armchair brought quickly by Ragueneau): A poet! 'Tis the fashion of the hour! --Will you be mine? CYRANO: No, Sir,--no man's! DE GUICHE: Last night Your fancy pleased my uncle Richelieu. I'll gladly say a word to him for you. LE BRET (overjoyed): Great Heavens! DE GUICHE: I imagine you have rhymed Five acts, or so? LE BRET (in Cyrano's ear): Your play!--your 'Agrippine!' You'll see it staged at last! DE GUICHE: Take them to him. CYRANO (beginning to be tempted and attracted): In sooth,--I would. . . DE GUICHE: He is a critic skilled: He may correct a line or two, at most. CYRANO (whose face stiffens at once): Impossible! My blood congeals to think That other hand should change a comma's dot. DE GUICHE: But when a verse approves itself to him He pays it dear, good friend. CYRANO: He pays less dear Than I myself; when a verse pleases me I pay myself, and sing it to myself! DE GUICHE: You are proud. CYRANO: Really? You have noticed that? A CADET (entering, with a string of old battered plumed beaver hats, full of holes, slung on his sword): See, Cyrano,--this morning, on the quay What strange bright-feathered game we caught! The hats O' the fugitives. . . CARBON: 'Spolia opima!' ALL (laughing): Ah! ah! ah! CUIGY: He who laid that ambush, 'faith! Must curse and swear! BRISSAILLE: Who was it? DE GUICHE: I myself. (The laughter stops): I charged them--work too dirty for my sword, To punish and chastise a rhymster sot. (Constrained silence.) The CADET (in a low voice, to Cyrano, showing him the beavers): What do with them? They're full of grease!--a stew? CYRANO (taking the sword and, with a salute, dropping the hats at De Guiche's feet): Sir, pray be good enough to render them Back to your friends. DE GUICHE (rising, sharply): My chair there--quick!--I go! (To Cyrano passionately): As to you, sirrah!. . . VOICE (in the street): Porters for my lord De Guiche! DE GUICHE (who has controlled himself--smiling): Have you read 'Don Quixote'? CYRANO: I have! And doff my hat at th' mad knight-errant's name. DE GUICHE: I counsel you to study. . . A PORTER (appearing at back): My lord's chair! DE GUICHE: . . .The windmill chapter! CYRANO (bowing): Chapter the Thirteenth. DE GUICHE: For when one tilts 'gainst windmills--it may chance. . . CYRANO: Tilt I 'gainst those who change with every breeze? DE GUICHE: . . .That windmill sails may sweep you with their arm Down--in the mire!. . . CYRANO: Or upward--to the stars! (De Guiche goes out, and mounts into his chair. The other lords go away whispering together. Le Bret goes to the door with them. The crowd disperses.) Cyrano, Le Bret, the cadets, who are eating and drinking at the tables right and left. CYRANO (bowing mockingly to those who go out without daring to salute him): Gentlemen. . .Gentlemen. . . LE BRET (coming back, despairingly): Here's a fine coil! CYRANO: Oh! scold away! LE BRET: At least, you will agree That to annihilate each chance of Fate Exaggerates. . . CYRANO: Yes!--I exaggerate! LE BRET (triumphantly): Ah! CYRANO: But for principle--example too,-- I think 'tis well thus to exaggerate. LE BRET: Oh! lay aside that pride of musketeer, Fortune and glory wait you!. . . CYRANO: Ay, and then?. . . Seek a protector, choose a patron out, And like the crawling ivy round a tree That licks the bark to gain the trunk's support, Climb high by creeping ruse instead of force? No, grammercy! What! I, like all the rest Dedicate verse to bankers?--play buffoon In cringing hope to see, at last, a smile Not disapproving, on a patron's lips? Grammercy, no! What! learn to swallow toads? --With frame aweary climbing stairs?--a skin Grown grimed and horny,--here, about the knees? And, acrobat-like, teach my back to bend?-- No, grammercy! Or,--double-faced and sly-- Run with the hare, while hunting with the hounds; And, oily-tongued, to win the oil of praise, Flatter the great man to his very nose? No, grammercy! Steal soft from lap to lap, --A little great man in a circle small, Or navigate, with madrigals for sails, Blown gently windward by old ladies' sighs? No, grammercy! Bribe kindly editors To spread abroad my verses? Grammercy! Or try to be elected as the pope Of tavern-councils held by imbeciles? No, grammercy! Toil to gain reputation By one small sonnet, 'stead of making many? No, grammercy! Or flatter sorry bunglers? Be terrorized by every prating paper? Say ceaselessly, 'Oh, had I but the chance Of a fair notice in the "Mercury"!' Grammercy, no! Grow pale, fear, calculate? Prefer to make a visit to a rhyme? Seek introductions, draw petitions up? No, grammercy! and no! and no again! But--sing? Dream, laugh, go lightly, solitary, free, With eyes that look straight forward--fearless voice! To cock your beaver just the way you choose,-- For 'yes' or 'no' show fight, or turn a rhyme! --To work without one thought of gain or fame, To realize that journey to the moon! Never to pen a line that has not sprung Straight from the heart within. Embracing then Modesty, say to oneself, 'Good my friend, Be thou content with flowers,--fruit,--nay, leaves, But pluck them from no garden but thine own!' And then, if glory come by chance your way, To pay no tribute unto Caesar, none, But keep the merit all your own! In short, Disdaining tendrils of the parasite, To be content, if neither oak nor elm-- Not to mount high, perchance, but mount alone! LE BRET: Alone, an if you will! But not with hand 'Gainst every man! How in the devil's name Have you conceived this lunatic idea, To make foes for yourself at every turn? CYRANO: By dint of seeing you at every turn Make friends,--and fawn upon your frequent friends With mouth wide smiling, slit from ear to ear! I pass, still unsaluted, joyfully, And cry,--What, ho! another enemy? LE BRET: Lunacy! CYRANO: Well, what if it be my vice, My pleasure to displease--to love men hate me! Ah, friend of mine, believe me, I march better 'Neath the cross-fire of glances inimical! How droll the stains one sees on fine-laced doublets, From gall of envy, or the poltroon's drivel! --The enervating friendship which enfolds you Is like an open-laced Italian collar, Floating around your neck in woman's fashion; One is at ease thus,--but less proud the carriage! The forehead, free from mainstay or coercion, Bends here, there, everywhere. But I, embracing Hatred, she lends,--forbidding, stiffly fluted, The ruff's starched folds that hold the head so rigid; Each enemy--another fold--a gopher, Who adds constraint, and adds a ray of glory; For Hatred, like the ruff worn by the Spanish, Grips like a vice, but frames you like a halo! LE BRET (after a silence, taking his arm): Speak proud aloud, and bitter!--In my ear Whisper me simply this,--She loves thee not! CYRANO (vehemently): Hush! (Christian has just entered, and mingled with the cadets, who do not speak to him; he has seated himself at a table, where Lise serves him.) ----------ACT 2 SCENES 9-10--------- Cyrano, Le Bret, the cadets, Christian de Neuvillette. A CADET (seated at a table, glass in hand): Cyrano! (Cyrano turns round): The story! CYRANO: In its time! (He goes up on Le Bret's arm. They talk in low voices.) THE CADET (rising and coming down): The story of the fray! 'Twill lesson well (He stops before the table where Christian is seated): This timid young apprentice! CHRISTIAN (raising his head): 'Prentice! Who? ANOTHER CADET: This sickly Northern greenhorn! CHRISTIAN: Sickly! FIRST CADET (mockingly): Hark! Monsieur de Neuvillette, this in your ear: There's somewhat here, one no more dares to name, Than to say 'rope' to one whose sire was hanged! CHRISTIAN: What may that be? ANOTHER CADET (in a terrible voice): See here! (He puts his finger three times, mysteriously, on his nose): Do you understand? CHRISTIAN: Oh! 'tis the. . . ANOTHER: Hush! oh, never breathe that word, Unless you'd reckon with him yonder! (He points to Cyrano, who is talking with Le Bret.) ANOTHER (who has meanwhile come up noiselessly to sit on the table--whispering behind him): Hark! He put two snuffling men to death, in rage, For the sole reason they spoke through their nose! ANOTHER (in a hollow voice, darting on all-fours from under the table, where he had crept): And if you would not perish in flower o' youth, --Oh, mention not the fatal cartilage! ANOTHER (clapping him on the shoulder): A word? A gesture! For the indiscreet His handkerchief may prove his winding-sheet! (Silence. All, with crossed arms, look at Christian. He rises and goes over to Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is talking to an officer, and feigns to see nothing.) CHRISTIAN: Captain! CARBON (turning and looking at him from head to foot): Sir! CHRISTIAN: Pray, what skills it best to do To Southerners who swagger?. . . CARBON: Give them proof That one may be a Northerner, yet brave! (He turns his back on him.) CHRISTIAN: I thank you. FIRST CADET (to Cyrano): Now the tale! ALL: The tale! CYRANO (coming toward them): The tale?. . . (All bring their stools up, and group round him, listening eagerly. Christian is astride a chair): Well! I went all alone to meet the band. The moon was shining, clock-like, full i' th' sky, When, suddenly, some careful clockwright passed A cloud of cotton-wool across the case That held this silver watch. And, presto! heigh! The night was inky black, and all the quays Were hidden in the murky dark. Gadsooks! One could see nothing further. . . CHRISTIAN: Than one's nose! (Silence. All slowly rise, looking in terror at Cyrano, who has stopped-- dumfounded. Pause.) CYRANO: Who on God's earth is that? A CADET (whispering): It is a man Who joined to-day. CYRANO (making a step toward Christian): To-day? CARBON (in a low voice): Yes. . .his name is The Baron de Neuvil. . . CYRANO (checking himself): Good! It is well. . . (He turns pale, flushes, makes as if to fall on Christian): I. . . (He controls himself): What said I?. . . (With a burst of rage): MORDIOUS!. . . (Then continues calmly): That it was dark. (Astonishment. The cadets reseat themselves, staring at him): On I went, thinking, 'For a knavish cause I may provoke some great man, some great prince, Who certainly could break'. . . CHRISTIAN: My nose!. . . (Every one starts up. Christian balances on his chair.) CYRANO (in a choked voice): . . .'My teeth! Who would break my teeth, and I, imprudent-like, Was poking. . .' CHRISTIAN: My nose!. . . CYRANO: 'My finger,. . .in the crack Between the tree and bark! He may prove strong And rap me. . .' CHRISTIAN: Over the nose. . . CYRANO (wiping his forehead): . . .'O' th' knuckles! Ay,' But I cried, 'Forward, Gascon! Duty calls! On, Cyrano!' And thus I ventured on. . . When, from the shadow, came. . . CHRISTIAN: A crack o' th' nose. CYRANO: I parry it--find myself. . . CHRISTIAN: Nose to nose. . . CYRANO (bounding on to him): Heaven and earth! (All the Gascons leap up to see, but when he is close to Christian he controls himself and continues): . . .With a hundred brawling sots, Who stank. . . CHRISTIAN: A noseful. . . CYRANO (white, but smiling): Onions, brandy-cups! I leapt out, head well down. . . CHRISTIAN: Nosing the wind! CYRANO: I charge!--gore two, impale one--run him through, One aims at me--Paf! and I parry. . . CHRISTIAN: Pif! CYRANO (bursting out): Great God! Out! all of you! (The cadets rush to the doors.) FIRST CADET: The tiger wakes! CYRANO: Every man, out! Leave me alone with him! SECOND CADET: We shall find him minced fine, minced into hash In a big pasty! RAGUENEAU: I am turning pale, And curl up, like a napkin, limp and white! CARBON: Let us be gone. ANOTHER: He will not leave a crumb! ANOTHER: I die of fright to think what will pass here! ANOTHER (shutting door right): Something too horrible! (All have gone out by different doors, some by the staircase. Cyrano and Christian are face to face, looking at each other for a moment.) Cyrano, Christian. CYRANO: Embrace me now! CHRISTIAN: Sir. . . CYRANO: You are brave. CHRISTIAN: Oh! but. . . CYRANO: Nay, I insist. CHRISTIAN: Pray tell me. . . CYRANO: Come, embrace! I am her brother. CHRISTIAN: Whose brother? CYRANO: Hers i' faith! Roxane's! CHRISTIAN (rushing up to him): O heavens! Her brother. . .? CYRANO: Cousin--brother!. . .the same thing! CHRISTIAN: And she has told you. . .? CYRANO: All! CHRISTIAN: She loves me? say! CYRANO: Maybe! CHRISTIAN (taking his hands): How glad I am to meet you, Sir! CYRANO: That may be called a sudden sentiment! CHRISTIAN: I ask your pardon. . . CYRANO (looking at him, with his hand on his shoulder): True, he's fair, the villain! CHRISTIAN: Ah, Sir! If you but knew my admiration!. . . CYRANO: But all those noses?. . . CHRISTIAN: Oh! I take them back! CYRANO: Roxane expects a letter. CHRISTIAN: Woe the day! CYRANO: How? CHRISTIAN: I am lost if I but ope my lips! CYRANO: Why so? CHRISTIAN: I am a fool--could die for shame! CYRANO: None is a fool who knows himself a fool. And you did not attack me like a fool. CHRISTIAN: Bah! One finds battle-cry to lead th' assault! I have a certain military wit, But, before women, can but hold my tongue. Their eyes! True, when I pass, their eyes are kind. . . CYRANO: And, when you stay, their hearts, methinks, are kinder? CHRISTIAN: No! for I am one of those men--tongue-tied, I know it--who can never tell their love. CYRANO: And I, meseems, had Nature been more kind, More careful, when she fashioned me,--had been One of those men who well could speak their love! CHRISTIAN: Oh, to express one's thoughts with facile grace!. . . CYRANO: . . .To be a musketeer, with handsome face! CHRISTIAN: Roxane is precieuse. I'm sure to prove A disappointment to her! CYRANO (looking at him): Had I but Such an interpreter to speak my soul! CHRISTIAN (with despair): Eloquence! Where to find it? CYRANO (abruptly): That I lend, If you lend me your handsome victor-charms; Blended, we make a hero of romance! CHRISTIAN: How so? CYRANO: Think you you can repeat what things I daily teach your tongue? CHRISTIAN: What do you mean? CYRANO: Roxane shall never have a disillusion! Say, wilt thou that we woo her, double-handed? Wilt thou that we two woo her, both together? Feel'st thou, passing from my leather doublet, Through thy laced doublet, all my soul inspiring? CHRISTIAN: But, Cyrano!. . . CYRANO: Will you, I say? CHRISTIAN: I fear! CYRANO: Since, by yourself, you fear to chill her heart, Will you--to kindle all her heart to flame-- Wed into one my phrases and your lips? CHRISTIAN: Your eyes flash! CYRANO: Will you? CHRISTIAN: Will it please you so? --Give you such pleasure? CYRANO (madly): It!. . . (Then calmly, business-like): It would amuse me! It is an enterprise to tempt a poet. Will you complete me, and let me complete you? You march victorious,--I go in your shadow; Let me be wit for you, be you my beauty! CHRISTIAN: The letter, that she waits for even now! I never can. . . CYRANO (taking out the letter he had written): See! Here it is--your letter! CHRISTIAN: What? CYRANO: Take it! Look, it wants but the address. CHRISTIAN: But I. . . CYRANO: Fear nothing. Send it. It will suit. CHRISTIAN: But have you. . .? CYRANO: Oh! We have our pockets full, We poets, of love-letters, writ to Chloes, Daphnes--creations of our noddle-heads. Our lady-loves,--phantasms of our brains, --Dream-fancies blown into soap-bubbles! Come! Take it, and change feigned love-words into true; I breathed my sighs and moans haphazard-wise; Call all these wandering love-birds home to nest. You'll see that I was in these lettered lines, --Eloquent all the more, the less sincere! --Take it, and make an end! CHRISTIAN: Were it not well To change some words? Written haphazard-wise, Will it fit Roxane? CYRANO: 'Twill fit like a glove! CHRISTIAN: But. . . CYRANO: Ah, credulity of love! Roxane Will think each word inspired by herself! CHRISTIAN: My friend! (He throws himself into Cyrano's arms. They remain thus.) ----------ACT 2 SCENE 11--------- Cyrano, Christian, the Gascons, the musketeer, Lise. A CADET (half opening the door): Naught here!. . .The silence of the grave! I dare not look. . . (He puts his head in): Why?. . . ALL THE CADETS (entering, and seeing Cyrano and Christian embracing): Oh!. . . A CADET: This passes all! (Consternation.) THE MUSKETEER (mockingly): Ho, ho!. . . CARBON: Our demon has become a saint? Struck on one nostril--lo! he turns the other! MUSKETEER: Then we may speak about his nose, henceforth!. . . (Calling to Lise, boastfully): --Ah, Lise, see here! (Sniffing ostentatiously): O heavens!. . .what a stink!. . . (Going up to Cyrano): You, sir, without a doubt have sniffed it up! --What is the smell I notice here? CYRANO (cuffing his head): Clove-heads. (General delight. The cadets have found the old Cyrano again! They turn somersaults.) Curtain. ----------ACT 2, SCENE 1--------- Ragueneau, pastry-cooks, then Lise. Ragueneau is writing, with an inspired air, at a small table, and counting on his fingers. FIRST PASTRY-COOK (bringing in an elaborate fancy dish): Fruits in nougat! SECOND PASTRY-COOK (bringing another dish): Custard! THIRD PASTRY-COOK (bringing a roast, decorated with feathers): Peacock! FOURTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a batch of cakes on a slab): Rissoles! FIFTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a sort of pie-dish): Beef jelly! RAGUENEAU (ceasing to write, and raising his head): Aurora's silver rays begin to glint e'en now on the copper pans, and thou, O Ragueneau! must perforce stifle in thy breast the God of Song! Anon shall come the hour of the lute!--now 'tis the hour of the oven! (He rises. To a cook): You, make that sauce longer, 'tis too short! THE COOK: How much too short? RAGUENEAU: Three feet. (He passes on farther.) THE COOK: What means he? FIRST PASTRY-COOK (showing a dish to Ragueneau): The tart! SECOND PASTRY-COOK: The pie! RAGUENEAU (before the fire): My muse, retire, lest thy bright eyes be reddened by the fagot's blaze! (To a cook, showing him some loaves): You have put the cleft o' th' loaves in the wrong place; know you not that the coesura should be between the hemistiches? (To another, showing him an unfinished pasty): To this palace of paste you must add the roof. . . (To a young apprentice, who, seated on the ground, is spitting the fowls): And you, as you put on your lengthy spit the modest fowl and the superb turkey, my son, alternate them, as the old Malherbe loved well to alternate his long lines of verse with the short ones; thus shall your roasts, in strophes, turn before the flame! ANOTHER APPRENTICE (also coming up with a tray covered by a napkin): Master, I bethought me erewhile of your tastes, and made this, which will please you, I hope. (He uncovers the tray, and shows a large lyre made of pastry.) RAGUENEAU (enchanted): A lyre! THE APPRENTICE: 'Tis of brioche pastry. RAGUENEAU (touched): With conserved fruits. THE APPRENTICE: The strings, see, are of sugar. RAGUENEAU (giving him a coin): Go, drink my health! (Seeing Lise enter): Hush! My wife. Bustle, pass on, and hide that money! (To Lise, showing her the lyre, with a conscious look): Is it not beautiful? LISE: 'Tis passing silly! (She puts a pile of papers on the counter.) RAGUENEAU: Bags? Good. I thank you. (He looks at them): Heavens! my cherished leaves! The poems of my friends! Torn, dismembered, to make bags for holding biscuits and cakes!. . .Ah, 'tis the old tale again. . .Orpheus and the Bacchantes! LISE (dryly): And am I not free to turn at last to some use the sole thing that your wretched scribblers of halting lines leave behind them by way of payment? RAGUENEAU: Groveling ant!. . .Insult not the divine grasshoppers, the sweet singers! LISE: Before you were the sworn comrade of all that crew, my friend, you did not call your wife ant and Bacchante! RAGUENEAU: To turn fair verse to such a use! LISE: 'Faith, 'tis all it's good for. RAGUENEAU: Pray then, madam, to what use would you degrade prose? ----------ACT 2, SCENE 2--------- The same. Two children, who have just trotted into the shop. RAGUENEAU: What would you, little ones? FIRST CHILD: Three pies. RAGUENEAU (serving them): See, hot and well browned. SECOND CHILD: If it please you, Sir, will you wrap them up for us? RAGUENEAU (aside, distressed): Alas! one of my bags! (To the children): What? Must I wrap them up? (He takes a bag, and just as he is about to put in the pies, he reads): 'Ulysses thus, on leaving fair Penelope. . .' Not that one! (He puts it aside, and takes another, and as he is about to put in the pies, he reads): 'The gold-locked Phoebus. . .' Nay, nor that one!. . . (Same play.) LISE (impatiently): What are you dallying for? RAGUENEAU: Here! here! here (He chooses a third, resignedly): The sonnet to Phillis!. . .but 'tis hard to part with it! LISE: By good luck he has made up his mind at last! (Shrugging her shoulders): Nicodemus! (She mounts on a chair, and begins to range plates on a dresser.) RAGUENEAU (taking advantage of the moment she turns her back, calls back the children, who are already at the door): Hist! children!. . .render me back the sonnet to Phillis, and you shall have six pies instead of three. (The children give him back the bag, seize the cakes quickly, and go out.) RAGUENEAU (smoothing out the paper, begins to declaim): 'Phillis!. . .' On that sweet name a smear of butter! 'Phillis!. . .' (Cyrano enters hurriedly.)

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 2, scene 6, utilizing the provided context.

act 2, scene 3|act 2, scene 4|act 2, scene 5|act 2, scene 6|act 2, scene 7|act 2, scene 8

Cyrano begins to address Roxane as a lover grateful to be acknowledged, but Roxane interrupts him to explain that the first purpose of her visit is to thank him for puncturing the pride of Valvert by fighting him in the theater. She reminisces with Cyrano about the happy times they spent together as children. She tends to his hand, which he has wounded in the fight at the Porte de Nesle. Roxane confesses that she is in love with someone who does not know that she loves him. She thinks that he loves her in return, but he is shy and dare not speak. Cyrano feels encouraged, as this could mean him. But as soon as Roxane says that the man is handsome, Cyrano feels discouraged, feeling that she cannot be thinking of him. When she names Christian, Cyrano warns her that he may not be intelligent enough for her. But she believes that anyone who is so beautiful on the outside must be eloquent also. She has invited Cyrano to meet her in order to ask him to protect Christian, as he is the only cadet in Cyrano's company who does not come from the region of Gascony, and she fears he will be picked on. Cyrano promises to look after Christian. Roxane expresses her friendly love for Cyrano and leaves. Cyrano looks despondent

----------ACT 2, SCENE 3--------- Ragueneau, Lise, Cyrano, then the musketeer. CYRANO: What's o'clock? RAGUENEAU (bowing low): Six o'clock. CYRANO (with emotion): In one hour's time! (He paces up and down the shop.) RAGUENEAU (following him): Bravo! I saw. . . CYRANO: Well, what saw you, then? RAGUENEAU: Your combat!. . . CYRANO: Which? RAGUENEAU: That in the Burgundy Hotel, 'faith! CYRANO (contemptuously): Ah!. . .the duel! RAGUENEAU (admiringly): Ay! the duel in verse!. . . LISE: He can talk of naught else! CYRANO: Well! Good! let be! RAGUENEAU (making passes with a spit that he catches up): 'At the envoi's end, I touch!. . .At the envoi's end, I touch!'. . .'Tis fine, fine! (With increasing enthusiasm): 'At the envoi's end--' CYRANO: What hour is it now, Ragueneau? RAGUENEAU (stopping short in the act of thrusting to look at the clock): Five minutes after six!. . .'I touch!' (He straightens himself): . . .Oh! to write a ballade! LISE (to Cyrano, who, as he passes by the counter, has absently shaken hands with her): What's wrong with your hand? CYRANO: Naught; a slight cut. RAGUENEAU: Have you been in some danger? CYRANO: None in the world. LISE (shaking her finger at him): Methinks you speak not the truth in saying that! CYRANO: Did you see my nose quiver when I spoke? 'Faith, it must have been a monstrous lie that should move it! (Changing his tone): I wait some one here. Leave us alone, and disturb us for naught an it were not for crack of doom! RAGUENEAU: But 'tis impossible; my poets are coming. . . LISE (ironically): Oh, ay, for their first meal o' the day! CYRANO: Prythee, take them aside when I shall make you sign to do so. . .What's o'clock? RAGUENEAU: Ten minutes after six. CYRANO (nervously seating himself at Ragueneau's table, and drawing some paper toward him): A pen!. . . RAGUENEAU (giving him the one from behind his ear): Here--a swan's quill. A MUSKETEER (with fierce mustache, enters, and in a stentorian voice): Good-day! (Lise goes up to him quickly.) CYRANO (turning round): Who's that? RAGUENEAU: 'Tis a friend of my wife--a terrible warrior--at least so says he himself. CYRANO (taking up the pen, and motioning Ragueneau away): Hush! (To himself): I will write, fold it, give it her, and fly! (Throws down the pen): Coward!. . .But strike me dead if I dare to speak to her,. . .ay, even one single word! (To Ragueneau): What time is it? RAGUENEAU: A quarter after six!. . . CYRANO (striking his breast): Ay--a single word of all those here! here! But writing, 'tis easier done. . . (He takes up the pen): Go to, I will write it, that love-letter! Oh! I have writ it and rewrit it in my own mind so oft that it lies there ready for pen and ink; and if I lay but my soul by my letter-sheet, 'tis naught to do but to copy from it. (He writes. Through the glass of the door the silhouettes of their figures move uncertainly and hesitatingly.) ----------ACT 2, SCENE 4--------- Ragueneau, Lise, the musketeer. Cyrano at the little table writing. The poets, dressed in black, their stockings ungartered, and covered with mud. LISE (entering, to Ragueneau): Here they come, your mud-bespattered friends! FIRST POET (entering, to Ragueneau): Brother in art!. . . SECOND POET (to Ragueneau, shaking his hands): Dear brother! THIRD POET: High soaring eagle among pastry-cooks! (He sniffs): Marry! it smells good here in your eyrie! FOURTH POET: 'Tis at Phoebus' own rays that thy roasts turn! FIFTH POET: Apollo among master-cooks-- RAGUENEAU (whom they surround and embrace): Ah! how quick a man feels at his ease with them!. . . FIRST POET: We were stayed by the mob; they are crowded all round the Porte de Nesle!. . . SECOND POET: Eight bleeding brigand carcasses strew the pavements there--all slit open with sword-gashes! CYRANO (raising his head a minute): Eight?. . .hold, methought seven. (He goes on writing.) RAGUENEAU (to Cyrano): Know you who might be the hero of the fray? CYRANO (carelessly): Not I. LISE (to the musketeer): And you? Know you? THE MUSKETEER (twirling his mustache): Maybe! CYRANO (writing a little way off:--he is heard murmuring a word from time to time): 'I love thee!' FIRST POET: 'Twas one man, say they all, ay, swear to it, one man who, single-handed, put the whole band to the rout! SECOND POET: 'Twas a strange sight!--pikes and cudgels strewed thick upon the ground. CYRANO (writing): . . .'Thine eyes'. . . THIRD POET: And they were picking up hats all the way to the Quai d'Orfevres! FIRST POET: Sapristi! but he must have been a ferocious. . . CYRANO (same play): . . .'Thy lips'. . . FIRST POET: 'Twas a parlous fearsome giant that was the author of such exploits! CYRANO (same play): . . .'And when I see thee come, I faint for fear.' SECOND POET (filching a cake): What hast rhymed of late, Ragueneau? CYRANO (same play): . . .'Who worships thee'. . . (He stops, just as he is about to sign, and gets up, slipping the letter into his doublet): No need I sign, since I give it her myself. RAGUENEAU (to second poet): I have put a recipe into verse. THIRD POET (seating himself by a plate of cream-puffs): Go to! Let us hear these verses! FOURTH POET (looking at a cake which he has taken): Its cap is all a' one side! (He makes one bite of the top.) FIRST POET: See how this gingerbread woos the famished rhymer with its almond eyes, and its eyebrows of angelica! (He takes it.) SECOND POET: We listen. THIRD POET (squeezing a cream-puff gently): How it laughs! Till its very cream runs over! SECOND POET (biting a bit off the great lyre of pastry): This is the first time in my life that ever I drew any means of nourishing me from the lyre! RAGUENEAU (who has put himself ready for reciting, cleared his throat, settled his cap, struck an attitude): A recipe in verse!. . . SECOND POET (to first, nudging him): You are breakfasting? FIRST POET (to second): And you dining, methinks. RAGUENEAU: How almond tartlets are made. Beat your eggs up, light and quick; Froth them thick; Mingle with them while you beat Juice of lemon, essence fine; Then combine The burst milk of almonds sweet. Circle with a custard paste The slim waist Of your tartlet-molds; the top With a skillful finger print, Nick and dint, Round their edge, then, drop by drop, In its little dainty bed Your cream shed: In the oven place each mold: Reappearing, softly browned, The renowned Almond tartlets you behold! THE POETS (with mouths crammed full): Exquisite! Delicious! A POET (choking): Homph! (They go up, eating.) CYRANO (who has been watching, goes toward Ragueneau): Lulled by your voice, did you see how they were stuffing themselves? RAGUENEAU (in a low voice, smiling): Oh, ay! I see well enough, but I never will seem to look, fearing to distress them; thus I gain a double pleasure when I recite to them my poems; for I leave those poor fellows who have not breakfasted free to eat, even while I gratify my own dearest foible, see you? CYRANO (clapping him on the shoulder): Friend, I like you right well!. . . (Ragueneau goes after his friends. Cyrano follows him with his eyes, then, rather sharply): Ho there! Lise! (Lise, who is talking tenderly to the musketeer, starts, and comes down toward Cyrano): So this fine captain is laying siege to you? LISE (offended): One haughty glance of my eye can conquer any man that should dare venture aught 'gainst my virtue. CYRANO: Pooh! Conquering eyes, methinks, are oft conquered eyes. LISE (choking with anger): But-- CYRANO (incisively): I like Ragueneau well, and so--mark me, Dame Lise--I permit not that he be rendered a laughing-stock by any. . . LISE: But. . . CYRANO (who has raised his voice so as to be heard by the gallant): A word to the wise. . . (He bows to the musketeer, and goes to the doorway to watch, after looking at the clock.) LISE (to the musketeer, who has merely bowed in answer to Cyrano's bow): How now? Is this your courage?. . .Why turn you not a jest on his nose? THE MUSKETEER: On his nose?. . .ay, ay. . .his nose. (He goes quickly farther away; Lise follows him.) CYRANO (from the doorway, signing to Ragueneau to draw the poets away): Hist!. . . RAGUENEAU (showing them the door on the right): We shall be more private there. . . CYRANO (impatiently): Hist! Hist!. . . RAGUENEAU (drawing them farther): To read poetry, 'tis better here. . . FIRST POET (despairingly, with his mouth full): What! leave the cakes?. . . SECOND POET: Never! Let's take them with us! (They all follow Ragueneau in procession, after sweeping all the cakes off the trays.) ----------ACT 2, SCENE 5--------- Cyrano, Roxane, the duenna. CYRANO: Ah! if I see but the faint glimmer of hope, then I draw out my letter! (Roxane, masked, followed by the duenna, appears at the glass pane of the door. He opens quickly): Enter!. . . (Walking up to the duenna): Two words with you, Duenna. THE DUENNA: Four, Sir, an it like you. CYRANO: Are you fond of sweet things? THE DUENNA: Ay, I could eat myself sick on them! CYRANO (catching up some of the paper bags from the counter): Good. See you these two sonnets of Monsieur Beuserade. . . THE DUENNA: Hey? CYRANO: . . .Which I fill for you with cream cakes! THE DUENNA (changing her expression): Ha. CYRANO: What say you to the cake they call a little puff? THE DUENNA: If made with cream, Sir, I love them passing well. CYRANO: Here I plunge six for your eating into the bosom of a poem by Saint Amant! And in these verses of Chapelain I glide a lighter morsel. Stay, love you hot cakes? THE DUENNA: Ay, to the core of my heart! CYRANO (filling her arms with the bags): Pleasure me then; go eat them all in the street. THE DUENNA: But. . . CYRANO (pushing her out): And come not back till the very last crumb be eaten! (He shuts the door, comes down toward Roxane, and, uncovering, stands at a respectful distance from her.) ----------ACT 2, SCENE 6--------- Cyrano, Roxane. CYRANO: Blessed be the moment when you condescend-- Remembering that humbly I exist-- To come to meet me, and to say. . .to tell?. . . ROXANE (who has unmasked): To thank you first of all. That dandy count, Whom you checkmated in brave sword-play Last night,. . .he is the man whom a great lord, Desirous of my favor. . . CYRANO: Ha, De Guiche? ROXANE (casting down her eyes): Sought to impose on me. . .for husband. . . CYRANO: Ay! Husband!--dupe-husband!. . .Husband a la mode! (Bowing): Then I fought, happy chance! sweet lady, not For my ill favor--but your favors fair! ROXANE: Confession next!. . .But, ere I make my shrift, You must be once again that brother-friend With whom I used to play by the lake-side!. . . CYRANO: Ay, you would come each spring to Bergerac! ROXANE: Mind you the reeds you cut to make your swords?. . . CYRANO: While you wove corn-straw plaits for your dolls' hair! ROXANE: Those were the days of games!. . . CYRANO: And blackberries!. . . ROXANE: In those days you did everything I bid!. . . CYRANO: Roxane, in her short frock, was Madeleine. . . ROXANE: Was I fair then? CYRANO: You were not ill to see! ROXANE: Ofttimes, with hands all bloody from a fall, You'd run to me! Then--aping mother-ways-- I, in a voice would-be severe, would chide,-- (She takes his hand): 'What is this scratch, again, that I see here?' (She starts, surprised): Oh! 'Tis too much! What's this? (Cyrano tries to draw away his hand): No, let me see! At your age, fie! Where did you get that scratch? CYRANO: I got it--playing at the Porte de Nesle. ROXANE (seating herself by the table, and dipping her handkerchief in a glass of water): Give here! CYRANO (sitting by her): So soft! so gay maternal-sweet! ROXANE: And tell me, while I wipe away the blood, How many 'gainst you? CYRANO: Oh! A hundred--near. ROXANE: Come, tell me! CYRANO: No, let be. But you, come tell The thing, just now, you dared not. . . ROXANE (keeping his hand): Now, I dare! The scent of those old days emboldens me! Yes, now I dare. Listen. I am in love. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: But with one who knows not. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: Not yet. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: But who, if he knows not, soon shall learn. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: A poor youth who all this time has loved Timidly, from afar, and dares not speak. . . CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: Leave your hand; why, it is fever-hot!-- But I have seen love trembling on his lips. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE (bandaging his hand with her handkerchief): And to think of it! that he by chance-- Yes, cousin, he is of your regiment! CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE (laughing): --Is cadet in your own company! CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: On his brow he bears the genius-stamp; He is proud, noble, young, intrepid, fair. . . CYRANO (rising suddenly, very pale): Fair! ROXANE: Why, what ails you? CYRANO: Nothing; 'tis. . . (He shows his hand, smiling): This scratch! ROXANE: I love him; all is said. But you must know I have only seen him at the Comedy. . . CYRANO: How? You have never spoken? ROXANE: Eyes can speak. CYRANO: How know you then that he. . .? ROXANE: Oh! people talk 'Neath the limes in the Place Royale. . . Gossip's chat Has let me know. . . CYRANO: He is cadet? ROXANE: In the Guards. CYRANO: His name? ROXANE: Baron Christian de Neuvillette. CYRANO: How now?. . .He is not of the Guards! ROXANE: To-day He is not join your ranks, under Captain Carbon de Castel-Jaloux. CYRANO: Ah, how quick, How quick the heart has flown!. . .But, my poor child. . . THE DUENNA (opening the door): The cakes are eaten, Monsieur Bergerac! CYRANO: Then read the verses printed on the bags! (She goes out): . . .My poor child, you who love but flowing words, Bright wit,--what if he be a lout unskilled? ROXANE: No, his bright locks, like D'Urfe's heroes. . . CYRANO: Ah! A well-curled pate, and witless tongue, perchance! ROXANE: Ah no! I guess--I feel--his words are fair! CYRANO: All words are fair that lurk 'neath fair mustache! --Suppose he were a fool!. . . ROXANE (stamping her foot): Then bury me! CYRANO (after a pause): Was it to tell me this you brought me here? I fail to see what use this serves, Madame. ROXANE: Nay, but I felt a terror, here, in the heart, On learning yesterday you were Gascons All of your company. . . CYRANO: And we provoke All beardless sprigs that favor dares admit 'Midst us pure Gascons--(pure! Heaven save the mark! They told you that as well? ROXANE: Ah! Think how I Trembled for him! CYRANO (between his teeth): Not causelessly! ROXANE: But when Last night I saw you,--brave, invincible,-- Punish that dandy, fearless hold your own Against those brutes, I thought--I thought, if he Whom all fear, all--if he would only. . . CYRANO: Good. I will befriend your little Baron. ROXANE: Ah! You'll promise me you will do this for me? I've always held you as a tender friend. CYRANO: Ay, ay. ROXANE: Then you will be his friend? CYRANO: I swear! ROXANE: And he shall fight no duels, promise! CYRANO: None. ROXANE: You are kind, cousin! Now I must be gone. (She puts on her mask and veil quickly; then, absently): You have not told me of your last night's fray. Ah, but it must have been a hero-fight!. . . --Bid him to write. (She sends him a kiss with her fingers): How good you are! CYRANO: Ay! Ay! ROXANE: A hundred men against you? Now, farewell.-- We are great friends? CYRANO: Ay, ay! ROXANE: Oh, bid him write! You'll tell me all one day--A hundred men!-- Ah, brave!. . .How brave! CYRANO (bowing to her): I have fought better since. (She goes out. Cyrano stands motionless, with eyes on the ground. A silence. The door (right) opens. Ragueneau looks in.) ----------ACT 2, SCENE 7--------- Cyrano, Ragueneau, poets, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, a crowd, then De Guiche. RAGUENEAU: Can we come in? CYRANO (without stirring): Yes. . . (Ragueneau signs to his friends, and they come in. At the same time, by door at back, enters Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, in Captain's uniform. He makes gestures of surprise on seeing Cyrano.) CARBON: Here he is! CYRANO (raising his head): Captain!. . . CARBON (delightedly): Our hero! We heard all! Thirty or more Of my cadets are there!. . . CYRANO (shrinking back): But. . . CARBON (trying to draw him away): Come with me! They will not rest until they see you! CYRANO: No! CARBON: They're drinking opposite, at The Bear's Head. CYRANO: I. . . CARBON (going to the door and calling across the street in a voice of thunder): He won't come! The hero's in the sulks! A VOICE (outside): Ah! Sandious! (Tumult outside. Noise of boots and swords is heard approaching.) CARBON (rubbing his hands): They are running 'cross the street! CADETS (entering): Mille dious! Capdedious! Pocapdedious! RAGUENEAU (drawing back startled): Gentlemen, are you all from Gascony? THE CADETS: All! A CADET (to Cyrano): Bravo! CYRANO: Baron! ANOTHER (shaking his hands): Vivat! CYRANO: Baron! THIRD CADET: Come! I must embrace you! CYRANO: Baron! SEVERAL GASCONS: We'll embrace Him, all in turn! CYRANO (not knowing whom to reply to): Baron!. . .Baron!. . .I beg. . . RAGUENEAU: Are you all Barons, Sirs? THE CADETS: Ay, every one! RAGUENEAU: Is it true?. . . FIRST CADET: Ay--why, you could build a tower With nothing but our coronets, my friend! LE BRET (entering, and running up to Cyrano): They're looking for you! Here's a crazy mob Led by the men who followed you last night. . . CYRANO (alarmed): What! Have you told them where to find me? LE BRET (rubbing his hands): Yes! A BURGHER (entering, followed by a group of men): Sir, all the Marais is a-coming here! (Outside the street has filled with people. Chaises a porteurs and carriages have drawn up.) LE BRET (in a low voice, smiling, to Cyrano): And Roxane? CYRANO (quickly): Hush! THE CROWD (calling outside): Cyrano!. . . (A crowd rush into the shop, pushing one another. Acclamations.) RAGUENEAU (standing on a table): Lo! my shop Invaded! They break all! Magnificent! PEOPLE (crowding round Cyrano): My friend!. . .my friend. . . Cyrano: Meseems that yesterday I had not all these friends! LE BRET (delighted): Success! A YOUNG MARQUIS (hurrying up with his hands held out): My friend, Didst thou but know. . . CYRANO: Thou!. . .Marry!. . .thou!. . .Pray when Did we herd swine together, you and I! ANOTHER: I would present you, Sir, to some fair dames Who in my carriage yonder. . . CYRANO (coldly): Ah! and who Will first present you, Sir, to me? LE BRET (astonished): What's wrong? CYRANO: Hush! A MAN OF LETTERS (with writing-board): A few details?. . . CYRANO: No. LE BRET (nudging his elbow): 'Tis Theophrast, Renaudet,. . .of the 'Court Gazette'! CYRANO: Who cares? LE BRET: This paper--but it is of great importance!. . . They say it will be an immense success! A POET (advancing): Sir. . . CYRANO: What, another! THE POET: . . .Pray permit I make A pentacrostic on your name. . . SOME ONE (also advancing): Pray, Sir. . . CYRANO: Enough! Enough! (A movement in the crowd. De Guiche appears, escorted by officers. Cuigy, Brissaille, the officers who went with Cyrano the night before. Cuigy comes rapidly up to Cyrano.) CUIGY (to Cyrano): Here is Monsieur de Guiche? (A murmur--every one makes way): He comes from the Marshal of Gassion! DE GUICHE (bowing to Cyrano): . . .Who would express his admiration, Sir, For your new exploit noised so loud abroad. THE CROWD: Bravo! CYRANO (bowing): The Marshal is a judge of valor. DE GUICHE: He could not have believed the thing, unless These gentlemen had sworn they witnessed it. CUIGY: With our own eyes! LE BRET (aside to Cyrano, who has an absent air): But. . .you. . . CYRANO: Hush! LE BRET: But. . .You suffer? CYRANO (starting): Before this rabble?--I?. . . (He draws himself up, twirls his mustache, and throws back his shoulders): Wait!. . .You shall see! DE GUICHE (to whom Cuigy has spoken in a low voice): In feats of arms, already your career Abounded.--You serve with those crazy pates Of Gascons? CYRANO: Ay, with the Cadets. A CADET (in a terrible voice): With us! DE GUICHE (looking at the cadets, ranged behind Cyrano): Ah!. . .All these gentlemen of haughty mien, Are they the famous?. . . CARBON: Cyrano! CYRANO: Ay, Captain! CARBON: Since all my company's assembled here, Pray favor me,--present them to my lord! CYRANO (making two steps toward De Guiche): My Lord de Guiche, permit that I present-- (pointing to the cadets): The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux! Brawling and swaggering boastfully, The bold Cadets of Gascony! Spouting of Armory, Heraldry, Their veins a-brimming with blood so blue, The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux: Eagle-eye, and spindle-shanks, Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth! Slash-the-rabble and scatter-their-ranks; Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks, With a flaming feather that gayly pranks, Hiding the holes in their hats, forsooth! Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks, Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth! 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk' Are their gentlest sobriquets; With Fame and Glory their soul is drunk! 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk,' In brawl and skirmish they show their spunk, Give rendezvous in broil and fray; 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk' Are their gentlest sobriquets! What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! All jealous lovers are sport for you! O Woman! dear divinity! What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! Whom scowling husbands quake to see. Blow, 'taratara,' and cry 'Cuckoo.' What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! Husbands and lovers are game for you! DE GUICHE (seated with haughty carelessness in an armchair brought quickly by Ragueneau): A poet! 'Tis the fashion of the hour! --Will you be mine? CYRANO: No, Sir,--no man's! DE GUICHE: Last night Your fancy pleased my uncle Richelieu. I'll gladly say a word to him for you. LE BRET (overjoyed): Great Heavens! DE GUICHE: I imagine you have rhymed Five acts, or so? LE BRET (in Cyrano's ear): Your play!--your 'Agrippine!' You'll see it staged at last! DE GUICHE: Take them to him. CYRANO (beginning to be tempted and attracted): In sooth,--I would. . . DE GUICHE: He is a critic skilled: He may correct a line or two, at most. CYRANO (whose face stiffens at once): Impossible! My blood congeals to think That other hand should change a comma's dot. DE GUICHE: But when a verse approves itself to him He pays it dear, good friend. CYRANO: He pays less dear Than I myself; when a verse pleases me I pay myself, and sing it to myself! DE GUICHE: You are proud. CYRANO: Really? You have noticed that? A CADET (entering, with a string of old battered plumed beaver hats, full of holes, slung on his sword): See, Cyrano,--this morning, on the quay What strange bright-feathered game we caught! The hats O' the fugitives. . . CARBON: 'Spolia opima!' ALL (laughing): Ah! ah! ah! CUIGY: He who laid that ambush, 'faith! Must curse and swear! BRISSAILLE: Who was it? DE GUICHE: I myself. (The laughter stops): I charged them--work too dirty for my sword, To punish and chastise a rhymster sot. (Constrained silence.) The CADET (in a low voice, to Cyrano, showing him the beavers): What do with them? They're full of grease!--a stew? CYRANO (taking the sword and, with a salute, dropping the hats at De Guiche's feet): Sir, pray be good enough to render them Back to your friends. DE GUICHE (rising, sharply): My chair there--quick!--I go! (To Cyrano passionately): As to you, sirrah!. . . VOICE (in the street): Porters for my lord De Guiche! DE GUICHE (who has controlled himself--smiling): Have you read 'Don Quixote'? CYRANO: I have! And doff my hat at th' mad knight-errant's name. DE GUICHE: I counsel you to study. . . A PORTER (appearing at back): My lord's chair! DE GUICHE: . . .The windmill chapter! CYRANO (bowing): Chapter the Thirteenth. DE GUICHE: For when one tilts 'gainst windmills--it may chance. . . CYRANO: Tilt I 'gainst those who change with every breeze? DE GUICHE: . . .That windmill sails may sweep you with their arm Down--in the mire!. . . CYRANO: Or upward--to the stars! (De Guiche goes out, and mounts into his chair. The other lords go away whispering together. Le Bret goes to the door with them. The crowd disperses.) ----------ACT 2, SCENE 8--------- Cyrano, Le Bret, the cadets, who are eating and drinking at the tables right and left. CYRANO (bowing mockingly to those who go out without daring to salute him): Gentlemen. . .Gentlemen. . . LE BRET (coming back, despairingly): Here's a fine coil! CYRANO: Oh! scold away! LE BRET: At least, you will agree That to annihilate each chance of Fate Exaggerates. . . CYRANO: Yes!--I exaggerate! LE BRET (triumphantly): Ah! CYRANO: But for principle--example too,-- I think 'tis well thus to exaggerate. LE BRET: Oh! lay aside that pride of musketeer, Fortune and glory wait you!. . . CYRANO: Ay, and then?. . . Seek a protector, choose a patron out, And like the crawling ivy round a tree That licks the bark to gain the trunk's support, Climb high by creeping ruse instead of force? No, grammercy! What! I, like all the rest Dedicate verse to bankers?--play buffoon In cringing hope to see, at last, a smile Not disapproving, on a patron's lips? Grammercy, no! What! learn to swallow toads? --With frame aweary climbing stairs?--a skin Grown grimed and horny,--here, about the knees? And, acrobat-like, teach my back to bend?-- No, grammercy! Or,--double-faced and sly-- Run with the hare, while hunting with the hounds; And, oily-tongued, to win the oil of praise, Flatter the great man to his very nose? No, grammercy! Steal soft from lap to lap, --A little great man in a circle small, Or navigate, with madrigals for sails, Blown gently windward by old ladies' sighs? No, grammercy! Bribe kindly editors To spread abroad my verses? Grammercy! Or try to be elected as the pope Of tavern-councils held by imbeciles? No, grammercy! Toil to gain reputation By one small sonnet, 'stead of making many? No, grammercy! Or flatter sorry bunglers? Be terrorized by every prating paper? Say ceaselessly, 'Oh, had I but the chance Of a fair notice in the "Mercury"!' Grammercy, no! Grow pale, fear, calculate? Prefer to make a visit to a rhyme? Seek introductions, draw petitions up? No, grammercy! and no! and no again! But--sing? Dream, laugh, go lightly, solitary, free, With eyes that look straight forward--fearless voice! To cock your beaver just the way you choose,-- For 'yes' or 'no' show fight, or turn a rhyme! --To work without one thought of gain or fame, To realize that journey to the moon! Never to pen a line that has not sprung Straight from the heart within. Embracing then Modesty, say to oneself, 'Good my friend, Be thou content with flowers,--fruit,--nay, leaves, But pluck them from no garden but thine own!' And then, if glory come by chance your way, To pay no tribute unto Caesar, none, But keep the merit all your own! In short, Disdaining tendrils of the parasite, To be content, if neither oak nor elm-- Not to mount high, perchance, but mount alone! LE BRET: Alone, an if you will! But not with hand 'Gainst every man! How in the devil's name Have you conceived this lunatic idea, To make foes for yourself at every turn? CYRANO: By dint of seeing you at every turn Make friends,--and fawn upon your frequent friends With mouth wide smiling, slit from ear to ear! I pass, still unsaluted, joyfully, And cry,--What, ho! another enemy? LE BRET: Lunacy! CYRANO: Well, what if it be my vice, My pleasure to displease--to love men hate me! Ah, friend of mine, believe me, I march better 'Neath the cross-fire of glances inimical! How droll the stains one sees on fine-laced doublets, From gall of envy, or the poltroon's drivel! --The enervating friendship which enfolds you Is like an open-laced Italian collar, Floating around your neck in woman's fashion; One is at ease thus,--but less proud the carriage! The forehead, free from mainstay or coercion, Bends here, there, everywhere. But I, embracing Hatred, she lends,--forbidding, stiffly fluted, The ruff's starched folds that hold the head so rigid; Each enemy--another fold--a gopher, Who adds constraint, and adds a ray of glory; For Hatred, like the ruff worn by the Spanish, Grips like a vice, but frames you like a halo! LE BRET (after a silence, taking his arm): Speak proud aloud, and bitter!--In my ear Whisper me simply this,--She loves thee not! CYRANO (vehemently): Hush! (Christian has just entered, and mingled with the cadets, who do not speak to him; he has seated himself at a table, where Lise serves him.)

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 2, scene 9, utilizing the provided context.

Christian enters with some of the cadets. None of them sit with him. They taunt him for being a northerner, and warn him not to mention Cyrano's nose, as Cyrano may kill him. Christian asks Carbon what a northerner should do when southerners boast too much. Carbon answers that he should show them that a northerner can be as brave as a southerner. The Guards beg Cyrano to tell them the story of what happened at the Porte de Nesle. Christian, in an attempt to demonstrate his courage to the cadets, constantly interrupts Cyrano's narrative to make jokes about his nose. The Guardsare terrified of how Cyrano might respond. Cyrano moves threateningly towards Christian, but on hearing who he is, he stops in his tracks and controls his anger. Christian continues to taunt Cyrano about his nose. Finally, Cyrano can contain himself no longer and orders the other Guards out of the room. They rush out, expecting to return to see Christian's corpse chopped into pieces

----------ACT 2, SCENE 9--------- Cyrano, Le Bret, the cadets, Christian de Neuvillette. A CADET (seated at a table, glass in hand): Cyrano! (Cyrano turns round): The story! CYRANO: In its time! (He goes up on Le Bret's arm. They talk in low voices.) THE CADET (rising and coming down): The story of the fray! 'Twill lesson well (He stops before the table where Christian is seated): This timid young apprentice! CHRISTIAN (raising his head): 'Prentice! Who? ANOTHER CADET: This sickly Northern greenhorn! CHRISTIAN: Sickly! FIRST CADET (mockingly): Hark! Monsieur de Neuvillette, this in your ear: There's somewhat here, one no more dares to name, Than to say 'rope' to one whose sire was hanged! CHRISTIAN: What may that be? ANOTHER CADET (in a terrible voice): See here! (He puts his finger three times, mysteriously, on his nose): Do you understand? CHRISTIAN: Oh! 'tis the. . . ANOTHER: Hush! oh, never breathe that word, Unless you'd reckon with him yonder! (He points to Cyrano, who is talking with Le Bret.) ANOTHER (who has meanwhile come up noiselessly to sit on the table--whispering behind him): Hark! He put two snuffling men to death, in rage, For the sole reason they spoke through their nose! ANOTHER (in a hollow voice, darting on all-fours from under the table, where he had crept): And if you would not perish in flower o' youth, --Oh, mention not the fatal cartilage! ANOTHER (clapping him on the shoulder): A word? A gesture! For the indiscreet His handkerchief may prove his winding-sheet! (Silence. All, with crossed arms, look at Christian. He rises and goes over to Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is talking to an officer, and feigns to see nothing.) CHRISTIAN: Captain! CARBON (turning and looking at him from head to foot): Sir! CHRISTIAN: Pray, what skills it best to do To Southerners who swagger?. . . CARBON: Give them proof That one may be a Northerner, yet brave! (He turns his back on him.) CHRISTIAN: I thank you. FIRST CADET (to Cyrano): Now the tale! ALL: The tale! CYRANO (coming toward them): The tale?. . . (All bring their stools up, and group round him, listening eagerly. Christian is astride a chair): Well! I went all alone to meet the band. The moon was shining, clock-like, full i' th' sky, When, suddenly, some careful clockwright passed A cloud of cotton-wool across the case That held this silver watch. And, presto! heigh! The night was inky black, and all the quays Were hidden in the murky dark. Gadsooks! One could see nothing further. . . CHRISTIAN: Than one's nose! (Silence. All slowly rise, looking in terror at Cyrano, who has stopped-- dumfounded. Pause.) CYRANO: Who on God's earth is that? A CADET (whispering): It is a man Who joined to-day. CYRANO (making a step toward Christian): To-day? CARBON (in a low voice): Yes. . .his name is The Baron de Neuvil. . . CYRANO (checking himself): Good! It is well. . . (He turns pale, flushes, makes as if to fall on Christian): I. . . (He controls himself): What said I?. . . (With a burst of rage): MORDIOUS!. . . (Then continues calmly): That it was dark. (Astonishment. The cadets reseat themselves, staring at him): On I went, thinking, 'For a knavish cause I may provoke some great man, some great prince, Who certainly could break'. . . CHRISTIAN: My nose!. . . (Every one starts up. Christian balances on his chair.) CYRANO (in a choked voice): . . .'My teeth! Who would break my teeth, and I, imprudent-like, Was poking. . .' CHRISTIAN: My nose!. . . CYRANO: 'My finger,. . .in the crack Between the tree and bark! He may prove strong And rap me. . .' CHRISTIAN: Over the nose. . . CYRANO (wiping his forehead): . . .'O' th' knuckles! Ay,' But I cried, 'Forward, Gascon! Duty calls! On, Cyrano!' And thus I ventured on. . . When, from the shadow, came. . . CHRISTIAN: A crack o' th' nose. CYRANO: I parry it--find myself. . . CHRISTIAN: Nose to nose. . . CYRANO (bounding on to him): Heaven and earth! (All the Gascons leap up to see, but when he is close to Christian he controls himself and continues): . . .With a hundred brawling sots, Who stank. . . CHRISTIAN: A noseful. . . CYRANO (white, but smiling): Onions, brandy-cups! I leapt out, head well down. . . CHRISTIAN: Nosing the wind! CYRANO: I charge!--gore two, impale one--run him through, One aims at me--Paf! and I parry. . . CHRISTIAN: Pif! CYRANO (bursting out): Great God! Out! all of you! (The cadets rush to the doors.) FIRST CADET: The tiger wakes! CYRANO: Every man, out! Leave me alone with him! SECOND CADET: We shall find him minced fine, minced into hash In a big pasty! RAGUENEAU: I am turning pale, And curl up, like a napkin, limp and white! CARBON: Let us be gone. ANOTHER: He will not leave a crumb! ANOTHER: I die of fright to think what will pass here! ANOTHER (shutting door right): Something too horrible! (All have gone out by different doors, some by the staircase. Cyrano and Christian are face to face, looking at each other for a moment.) ----------ACT 2, SCENE 10--------- Cyrano, Christian. CYRANO: Embrace me now! CHRISTIAN: Sir. . . CYRANO: You are brave. CHRISTIAN: Oh! but. . . CYRANO: Nay, I insist. CHRISTIAN: Pray tell me. . . CYRANO: Come, embrace! I am her brother. CHRISTIAN: Whose brother? CYRANO: Hers i' faith! Roxane's! CHRISTIAN (rushing up to him): O heavens! Her brother. . .? CYRANO: Cousin--brother!. . .the same thing! CHRISTIAN: And she has told you. . .? CYRANO: All! CHRISTIAN: She loves me? say! CYRANO: Maybe! CHRISTIAN (taking his hands): How glad I am to meet you, Sir! CYRANO: That may be called a sudden sentiment! CHRISTIAN: I ask your pardon. . . CYRANO (looking at him, with his hand on his shoulder): True, he's fair, the villain! CHRISTIAN: Ah, Sir! If you but knew my admiration!. . . CYRANO: But all those noses?. . . CHRISTIAN: Oh! I take them back! CYRANO: Roxane expects a letter. CHRISTIAN: Woe the day! CYRANO: How? CHRISTIAN: I am lost if I but ope my lips! CYRANO: Why so? CHRISTIAN: I am a fool--could die for shame! CYRANO: None is a fool who knows himself a fool. And you did not attack me like a fool. CHRISTIAN: Bah! One finds battle-cry to lead th' assault! I have a certain military wit, But, before women, can but hold my tongue. Their eyes! True, when I pass, their eyes are kind. . . CYRANO: And, when you stay, their hearts, methinks, are kinder? CHRISTIAN: No! for I am one of those men--tongue-tied, I know it--who can never tell their love. CYRANO: And I, meseems, had Nature been more kind, More careful, when she fashioned me,--had been One of those men who well could speak their love! CHRISTIAN: Oh, to express one's thoughts with facile grace!. . . CYRANO: . . .To be a musketeer, with handsome face! CHRISTIAN: Roxane is precieuse. I'm sure to prove A disappointment to her! CYRANO (looking at him): Had I but Such an interpreter to speak my soul! CHRISTIAN (with despair): Eloquence! Where to find it? CYRANO (abruptly): That I lend, If you lend me your handsome victor-charms; Blended, we make a hero of romance! CHRISTIAN: How so? CYRANO: Think you you can repeat what things I daily teach your tongue? CHRISTIAN: What do you mean? CYRANO: Roxane shall never have a disillusion! Say, wilt thou that we woo her, double-handed? Wilt thou that we two woo her, both together? Feel'st thou, passing from my leather doublet, Through thy laced doublet, all my soul inspiring? CHRISTIAN: But, Cyrano!. . . CYRANO: Will you, I say? CHRISTIAN: I fear! CYRANO: Since, by yourself, you fear to chill her heart, Will you--to kindle all her heart to flame-- Wed into one my phrases and your lips? CHRISTIAN: Your eyes flash! CYRANO: Will you? CHRISTIAN: Will it please you so? --Give you such pleasure? CYRANO (madly): It!. . . (Then calmly, business-like): It would amuse me! It is an enterprise to tempt a poet. Will you complete me, and let me complete you? You march victorious,--I go in your shadow; Let me be wit for you, be you my beauty! CHRISTIAN: The letter, that she waits for even now! I never can. . . CYRANO (taking out the letter he had written): See! Here it is--your letter! CHRISTIAN: What? CYRANO: Take it! Look, it wants but the address. CHRISTIAN: But I. . . CYRANO: Fear nothing. Send it. It will suit. CHRISTIAN: But have you. . .? CYRANO: Oh! We have our pockets full, We poets, of love-letters, writ to Chloes, Daphnes--creations of our noddle-heads. Our lady-loves,--phantasms of our brains, --Dream-fancies blown into soap-bubbles! Come! Take it, and change feigned love-words into true; I breathed my sighs and moans haphazard-wise; Call all these wandering love-birds home to nest. You'll see that I was in these lettered lines, --Eloquent all the more, the less sincere! --Take it, and make an end! CHRISTIAN: Were it not well To change some words? Written haphazard-wise, Will it fit Roxane? CYRANO: 'Twill fit like a glove! CHRISTIAN: But. . . CYRANO: Ah, credulity of love! Roxane Will think each word inspired by herself! CHRISTIAN: My friend! (He throws himself into Cyrano's arms. They remain thus.)

Cyrano de Bergerac.act 3.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 3 scenes 5-7 based on the provided context.

act 3 scene 1|act 3 scenes 2-3|act 3 scene 4|act 3 scenes 5-7

Christian tells Roxane, "I love you." "That," she replies, "is the theme. Embroider." Of course, poor Christian can think of nothing else to say. Roxane goes inside in disgust. Christian asks Cyrano to help him. Cyrano hides under Roxane's balcony and whispers to Christian, who repeats the words aloud to Roxane. At last, Cyrano is carried away and speaks aloud eloquently himself, but Roxane still believes it is Christian who is doing the speaking.

----------ACT 3 SCENE 1--------- Ragueneau, the duenna. Then Roxane, Cyrano, and two pages. RAGUENEAU: --And then, off she went, with a musketeer! Deserted and ruined too, I would make an end of all, and so hanged myself. My last breath was drawn:-- then in comes Monsieur de Bergerac! He cuts me down, and begs his cousin to take me for her steward. THE DUENNA: Well, but how came it about that you were thus ruined? RAGUENEAU: Oh! Lise loved the warriors, and I loved the poets! What cakes there were that Apollo chanced to leave were quickly snapped up by Mars. Thus ruin was not long a-coming. THE DUENNA (rising, and calling up to the open window): Roxane, are you ready? They wait for us! ROXANE'S VOICE (from the window): I will but put me on a cloak! THE DUENNA (to Ragueneau, showing him the door opposite): They wait us there opposite, at Clomire's house. She receives them all there to-day--the precieuses, the poets; they read a discourse on the Tender Passion. RAGUENEAU: The Tender Passion? THE DUENNA (in a mincing voice): Ay, indeed! (Calling up to the window): Roxane, an you come not down quickly, we shall miss the discourse on the Tender Passion! ROXANE'S VOICE: I come! I come! (A sound of stringed instruments approaching.) CYRANO'S VOICE (behind the scenes, singing): La, la, la, la! THE DUENNA (surprised): They serenade us? CYRANO (followed by two pages with arch-lutes): I tell you they are demi-semi-quavers, demi-semi-fool! FIRST PAGE (ironically): You know then, Sir, to distinguish between semi-quavers and demi-semi- quavers? CYRANO: Is not every disciple of Gassendi a musician? THE PAGE (playing and singing): La, la! CYRANO (snatching the lute from him, and going on with the phrase): In proof of which, I can continue! La, la, la, la! ROXANE (appearing on the balcony): What? 'Tis you? CYRANO (going on with the air, and singing to it): 'Tis I, who come to serenade your lilies, and pay my devoir to your ro-o- oses! ROXANE: I am coming down! (She leaves the balcony.) THE DUENNA (pointing to the pages): How come these two virtuosi here? CYRANO: 'Tis for a wager I won of D'Assoucy. We were disputing a nice point in grammar; contradictions raged hotly--''Tis so!' 'Nay, 'tis so!' when suddenly he shows me these two long-shanks, whom he takes about with him as an escort, and who are skillful in scratching lute-strings with their skinny claws! 'I will wager you a day's music,' says he!--And lost it! Thus, see you, till Phoebus' chariot starts once again, these lute-twangers are at my heels, seeing all I do, hearing all I say, and accompanying all with melody. 'Twas pleasant at the first, but i' faith, I begin to weary of it already! (To the musicians): Ho there! go serenade Montfleury for me! Play a dance to him! (The pages go toward the door. To the duenna): I have come, as is my wont, nightly, to ask Roxane whether. . . (To the pages, who are going out): Play a long time,--and play out of tune! (To the duenna): . . .Whether her soul's elected is ever the same, ever faultless! ROXANE (coming out of the house): Ah! How handsome he is, how brilliant a wit! And--how well I love him! CYRANO (smiling): Christian has so brilliant a wit? ROXANE: Brighter than even your own, cousin! CYRANO: Be it so, with all my heart! ROXANE: Ah! methinks 'twere impossible that there could breathe a man on this earth skilled to say as sweetly as he all the pretty nothings that mean so much-- that mean all! At times his mind seems far away, the Muse says naught--and then, presto! he speaks--bewitchingly! enchantingly! CYRANO (incredulously): No, no! ROXANE: Fie! That is ill said! But lo! men are ever thus! Because he is fair to see, you would have it that he must be dull of speech. CYRANO: He hath an eloquent tongue in telling his love? ROXANE: In telling his love? why, 'tis not simple telling, 'tis dissertation, 'tis analysis! CYRANO: How is he with the pen? ROXANE: Still better! Listen,--here:-- (Reciting): 'The more of my poor heart you take The larger grows my heart!' (Triumphantly to Cyrano): How like you those lines? CYRANO: Pooh! ROXANE: And thus it goes on. . . 'And, since some target I must show For Cupid's cruel dart, Oh, if mine own you deign to keep, Then give me your sweet heart!' CYRANO: Lord! first he has too much, then anon not enough! How much heart does the fellow want? ROXANE: You would vex a saint!. . .But 'tis your jealousy. CYRANO (starting): What mean you? ROXANE: Ay, your poet's jealousy! Hark now, if this again be not tender-sweet?-- 'My heart to yours sounds but one cry: If kisses fast could flee By letter, then with your sweet lips My letters read should be! If kisses could be writ with ink, If kisses fast could flee!' CYRANO (smiling approvingly in spite of himself): Ha! those last lines are,--hm!. . .hm!. . . (Correcting himself--contemptuously): --They are paltry enough! ROXANE: And this. . . CYRANO (enchanted): Then you have his letters by heart? ROXANE: Every one of them! CYRANO: By all oaths that can be sworn,--'tis flattering! ROXANE: They are the lines of a master! CYRANO (modestly): Come, nay. . .a master?. . . ROXANE: Ay, I say it--a master! CYRANO: Good--be it so. THE DUENNA (coming down quickly): Here comes Monsieur de Guiche! (To Cyrano, pushing him toward the house): In with you! 'twere best he see you not; it might perchance put him on the scent. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano): Ay, of my own dear secret! He loves me, and is powerful, and, if he knew, then all were lost! Marry! he could well deal a deathblow to my love! CYRANO (entering the house): Good! good! (De Guiche appears.) ----------ACT 3 SCENES 2-3--------- Roxane, De Guiche, the duenna standing a little way off. ROXANE (courtesying to De Guiche): I was going out. DE GUICHE: I come to take my leave. ROXANE: Whither go you? DE GUICHE: To the war. ROXANE: Ah! DE GUICHE: Ay, to-night. ROXANE: Oh! DE GUICHE: I am ordered away. We are to besiege Arras. ROXANE: Ah--to besiege?. . . DE GUICHE: Ay. My going moves you not, meseems. ROXANE: Nay. . . DE GUICHE: I am grieved to the core of the heart. Shall I again behold you?. . .When? I know not. Heard you that I am named commander?. . . ROXANE (indifferently): Bravo! DE GUICHE: Of the Guards regiment. ROXANE (startled): What! the Guards? DE GUICHE: Ay, where serves your cousin, the swaggering boaster. I will find a way to revenge myself on him at Arras. ROXANE (choking): What mean you? The Guards go to Arras? DE GUICHE (laughing): Bethink you, is it not my own regiment? ROXANE (falling seated on the bench--aside): Christian! DE GUICHE: What ails you? ROXANE (moved deeply): Oh--I am in despair! The man one loves!--at the war! DE GUICHE (surprised and delighted): You say such sweet words to me! 'Tis the first time!--and just when I must quit you! ROXANE (collected, and fanning herself): Thus,--you would fain revenge your grudge against my cousin? DE GUICHE: My fair lady is on his side? ROXANE: Nay,--against him! DE GUICHE: Do you see him often? ROXANE: But very rarely. DE GUICHE: He is ever to be met now in company with one of the cadets,. . .one New-- villen--viller-- ROXANE: Of high stature? DE GUICHE: Fair-haired! ROXANE: Ay, a red-headed fellow! DE GUICHE: Handsome!. . . ROXANE: Tut! DE GUICHE: But dull-witted. ROXANE: One would think so, to look at him! (Changing her tone): How mean you to play your revenge on Cyrano? Perchance you think to put him i' the thick of the shots? Nay, believe me, that were a poor vengeance--he would love such a post better than aught else! I know the way to wound his pride far more keenly! DE GUICHE: What then? Tell. . . ROXANE: If, when the regiment march to Arras, he were left here with his beloved boon companions, the Cadets, to sit with crossed arms so long as the war lasted! There is your method, would you enrage a man of his kind; cheat him of his chance of mortal danger, and you punish him right fiercely. DE GUICHE (coming nearer): O woman! woman! Who but a woman had e'er devised so subtle a trick? ROXANE: See you not how he will eat out his heart, while his friends gnaw their thick fists for that they are deprived of the battle? So are you best avenged. DE GUICHE: You love me, then, a little? (She smiles): I would fain--seeing you thus espouse my cause, Roxane--believe it a proof of love! ROXANE: 'Tis a proof of love! DE GUICHE (showing some sealed papers): Here are the marching orders; they will be sent instantly to each company-- except-- (He detaches one): --This one! 'Tis that of the Cadets. (He puts it in his pocket): This I keep. (Laughing): Ha! ha! ha! Cyrano! His love of battle!. . .So you can play tricks on people?. . .you, of all ladies! ROXANE: Sometimes! DE GUICHE (coming close to her): Oh! how I love you!--to distraction! Listen! To-night--true, I ought to start--but--how leave you now that I feel your heart is touched! Hard by, in the Rue d'Orleans, is a convent founded by Father Athanasius, the syndic of the Capuchins. True that no layman may enter--but--I can settle that with the good Fathers! Their habit sleeves are wide enough to hide me in. 'Tis they who serve Richelieu's private chapel: and from respect to the uncle, fear the nephew. All will deem me gone. I will come to you, masked. Give me leave to wait till tomorrow, sweet Lady Fanciful! ROXANE: But, of this be rumored, your glory. . . DE GUICHE: Bah! ROXANE: But the siege--Arras. . . DE GUICHE: 'Twill take its chance. Grant but permission. ROXANE: No! DE GUICHE: Give me leave! ROXANE (tenderly): It were my duty to forbid you! DE GUICHE: Ah! ROXANE: You must go! (Aside): Christian stays here. (Aloud): I would have you heroic--Antoine! DE GUICHE: O heavenly word! You love, then, him?. . . ROXANE: . . .For whom I trembled. DE GUICHE (in an ecstasy): Ah! I go then! (He kisses her hand): Are you content? ROXANE: Yes, my friend! (He goes out.) THE DUENNA (making behind his back a mocking courtesy): Yes, my friend! ROXANE (to the duenna): Not a word of what I have done. Cyrano would never pardon me for stealing his fighting from him! (She calls toward the house): Cousin! Roxane, The duenna, Cyrano. ROXANE: We are going to Clomire's house. (She points to the door opposite): Alcandre and Lysimon are to discourse! THE DUENNA (putting her little finger in her ear): Yes! But my little finger tells me we shall miss them. CYRANO: 'Twere a pity to miss such apes! (They have come to Clomire's door.) THE DUENNA: Oh, see! The knocker is muffled up! (Speaking to the knocker): So they have gagged that metal tongue of yours, little noisy one, lest it should disturb the fine orators! (She lifts it carefully and knocks with precaution.) ROXANE (seeing that the door opens): Let us enter! (On the threshold, to Cyrano): If Christian comes, as I feel sure he will, bid him wait for me! CYRANO (quickly, as she is going in): Listen! (She turns): What mean you to question him on, as is your wont, to-night? ROXANE: Oh-- CYRANO (eagerly): Well, say. ROXANE: But you will be mute? CYRANO: Mute as a fish. ROXANE: I shall not question him at all, but say: Give rein to your fancy! Prepare not your speeches,--but speak the thoughts as they come! Speak to me of love, and speak splendidly! CYRANO (smiling): Very good! ROXANE: But secret!. . . CYRANO: Secret. ROXANE: Not a word! (She enters and shuts the door.) CYRANO (when the door is shut, bowing to her): A thousand thanks! (The door opens again, and Roxane puts her head out.) ROXANE: Lest he prepare himself! CYRANO: The devil!--no, no! BOTH TOGETHER: Secret. (The door shuts.) CYRANO (calling): Christian! ----------ACT 3 SCENE 4--------- Cyrano, Christian. CYRANO: I know all that is needful. Here's occasion For you to deck yourself with glory. Come, Lose no time; put away those sulky looks, Come to your house with me, I'll teach you. . . CHRISTIAN: No! CYRANO: Why? CHRISTIAN: I will wait for Roxane here. CYRANO: How? Crazy? Come quick with me and learn. . . CHRISTIAN: No, no! I say. I am aweary of these borrowed letters, --Borrowed love-makings! Thus to act a part, And tremble all the time!--'Twas well enough At the beginning!--Now I know she loves! I fear no longer!--I will speak myself. CYRANO: Mercy! CHRISTIAN: And how know you I cannot speak?-- I am not such a fool when all is said! I've by your lessons profited. You'll see I shall know how to speak alone! The devil! I know at least to clasp her in my arms! (Seeing Roxane come out from Clomire's house): --It is she! Cyrano, no!--Leave me not! CYRANO (bowing): Speak for yourself, my friend, and take your chance. (He disappears behind the garden wall.) ----------ACT 3 SCENES 5-7--------- Christian, Roxane, the duenna. ROXANE (coming out of Clomire's house, with a company of friends, whom she leaves. Bows and good-byes): Barthenoide!--Alcandre!--Gremione!-- THE DUENNA (bitterly disappointed): We've missed the speech upon the Tender Passion! (Goes into Roxane's house.) ROXANE (still bowing): Urimedonte--adieu! (All bow to Roxane and to each other, and then separate, going up different streets. Roxane suddenly seeing Christian): You! (She goes to him): Evening falls. Let's sit. Speak on. I listen. CHRISTIAN (sits by her on the bench. A silence): Oh! I love you! ROXANE (shutting her eyes): Ay, speak to me of love. CHRISTIAN: I love thee! ROXANE: That's The theme! But vary it. CHRISTIAN: I. . . ROXANE: Vary it! CHRISTIAN: I love you so! ROXANE: Oh! without doubt!--and then?. . . CHRISTIAN: And then--I should be--oh!--so glad--so glad If you would love me!--Roxane, tell me so! ROXANE (with a little grimace): I hoped for cream,--you give me gruel! Say How love possesses you? CHRISTIAN: Oh utterly! ROXANE: Come, come!. . .unknot those tangled sentiments! CHRISTIAN: Your throat I'd kiss it! ROXANE: Christian! CHRISTIAN: I love thee! ROXANE (half-rising): Again! CHRISTIAN (eagerly, detaining her): No, no! I love thee not! ROXANE (reseating herself): 'Tis well! CHRISTIAN: But I adore thee! ROXANE (rising, and going further off): Oh! CHRISTIAN: I am grown stupid! ROXANE (dryly): And that displeases me, almost as much As 'twould displease me if you grew ill-favored. CHRISTIAN: But. . . ROXANE: Rally your poor eloquence that's flown! CHRISTIAN: I. . . ROXANE: Yes, you love me, that I know. Adieu. (She goes toward her house.) CHRISTIAN: Oh, go not yet! I'd tell you-- ROXANE (opening the door): You adore me? I've heard it very oft. No!--Go away! CHRISTIAN: But I would fain. . . (She shuts the door in his face.) CYRANO (who has re-entered unseen): I' faith! It is successful! Christian, Cyrano, two pages. CHRISTIAN: Come to my aid! CYRANO: Not I! CHRISTIAN: But I shall die, Unless at once I win back her fair favor. CYRANO: And how can I, at once, i' th' devil's name, Lesson you in. . . CHRISTIAN (seizing his arm): Oh, she is there! (The window of the balcony is now lighted up.) CYRANO (moved): Her window! CHRISTIAN: Oh! I shall die! CYRANO: Speak lower! CHRISTIAN (in a whisper): I shall die! CYRANO: The night is dark. . . CHRISTIAN: Well! CYRANO: All can be repaired. Although you merit not. Stand there, poor wretch! Fronting the balcony! I'll go beneath And prompt your words to you. . . CHRISTIAN: But. . . CYRANO: Hold your tongue! THE PAGES (reappearing at back--to Cyrano): Ho! CYRANO: Hush! (He signs to them to speak softly.) FIRST PAGE (in a low voice): We've played the serenade you bade To Montfleury! CYRANO (quickly, in a low voice): Go! lurk in ambush there, One at this street corner, and one at that; And if a passer-by should here intrude, Play you a tune! SECOND PAGE: What tune, Sir Gassendist? CYRANO: Gay, if a woman comes,--for a man, sad! (The pages disappear, one at each street corner. To Christian): Call her! CHRISTIAN: Roxane! CYRANO (picking up stones and throwing them at the window): Some pebbles! wait awhile! ROXANE (half-opening the casement): Who calls me? CHRISTIAN: I! ROXANE: Who's that? CHRISTIAN: Christian! ROXANE (disdainfully): Oh! you? CHRISTIAN: I would speak with you. CYRANO (under the balcony--to Christian): Good. Speak soft and low. ROXANE: No, you speak stupidly! CHRISTIAN: Oh, pity me! ROXANE: No! you love me no more! CHRISTIAN (prompted by Cyrano): You say--Great Heaven! I love no more?--when--I--love more and more! ROXANE (who was about to shut the casement, pausing): Hold! 'tis a trifle better! ay, a trifle! CHRISTIAN (same play): Love grew apace, rocked by the anxious beating. . . Of this poor heart, which the cruel wanton boy. . . Took for a cradle! ROXANE (coming out on to the balcony): That is better! But An if you deem that Cupid be so cruel You should have stifled baby-love in's cradle! CHRISTIAN (same play): Ah, Madame, I assayed, but all in vain This. . .new-born babe is a young. . .Hercules! ROXANE: Still better! CHRISTIAN (same play): Thus he strangled in my heart The. . .serpents twain, of. . .Pride. . .and Doubt! ROXANE (leaning over the balcony): Well said! --But why so faltering? Has mental palsy Seized on your faculty imaginative? CYRANO (drawing Christian under the balcony, and slipping into his place): Give place! This waxes critical!. . . ROXANE: To-day. . . Your words are hesitating. CYRANO (imitating Christian--in a whisper): Night has come. . . In the dusk they grope their way to find your ear. ROXANE: But my words find no such impediment. CYRANO: They find their way at once? Small wonder that! For 'tis within my heart they find their home; Bethink how large my heart, how small your ear! And,--from fair heights descending, words fall fast, But mine must mount, Madame, and that takes time! ROXANE: Meseems that your last words have learned to climb. CYRANO: With practice such gymnastic grows less hard! ROXANE: In truth, I seem to speak from distant heights! CYRANO: True, far above; at such a height 'twere death If a hard word from you fell on my heart. ROXANE (moving): I will come down. . . CYRANO (hastily): No! ROXANE (showing him the bench under the balcony): Mount then on the bench! CYRANO (starting back alarmed): No! ROXANE: How, you will not? CYRANO (more and more moved): Stay awhile! 'Tis sweet,. . . The rare occasion, when our hearts can speak Our selves unseen, unseeing! ROXANE: Why--unseen? CYRANO: Ay, it is sweet! Half hidden,--half revealed-- You see the dark folds of my shrouding cloak, And I, the glimmering whiteness of your dress: I but a shadow--you a radiance fair! Know you what such a moment holds for me? If ever I were eloquent. . . ROXANE: You were! CYRANO: Yet never till to-night my speech has sprung Straight from my heart as now it springs. ROXANE: Why not? CYRANO: Till now I spoke haphazard. . . ROXANE: What? CYRANO: Your eyes Have beams that turn men dizzy!--But to-night Methinks I shall find speech for the first time! ROXANE: 'Tis true, your voice rings with a tone that's new. CYRANO (coming nearer, passionately): Ay, a new tone! In the tender, sheltering dusk I dare to be myself for once,--at last! (He stops, falters): What say I? I know not!--Oh, pardon me-- It thrills me,--'tis so sweet, so novel. . . ROXANE: How? So novel? CYRANO (off his balance, trying to find the thread of his sentence): Ay,--to be at last sincere; Till now, my chilled heart, fearing to be mocked. . . ROXANE: Mocked, and for what? CYRANO: For its mad beating!--Ay, My heart has clothed itself with witty words, To shroud itself from curious eyes:--impelled At times to aim at a star, I stay my hand, And, fearing ridicule,--cull a wild flower! ROXANE: A wild flower's sweet. CYRANO: Ay, but to-night--the star! ROXANE: Oh! never have you spoken thus before! CYRANO: If, leaving Cupid's arrows, quivers, torches, We turned to seek for sweeter--fresher things! Instead of sipping in a pygmy glass Dull fashionable waters,--did we try How the soul slakes its thirst in fearless draught By drinking from the river's flooding brim! ROXANE: But wit?. . . CYRANO: If I have used it to arrest you At the first starting,--now, 'twould be an outrage, An insult--to the perfumed Night--to Nature-- To speak fine words that garnish vain love-letters! Look up but at her stars! The quiet Heaven Will ease our hearts of all things artificial; I fear lest, 'midst the alchemy we're skilled in The truth of sentiment dissolve and vanish,-- The soul exhausted by these empty pastimes, The gain of fine things be the loss of all things! ROXANE: But wit? I say. . . CYRANO: In love 'tis crime,--'tis hateful! Turning frank loving into subtle fencing! At last the moment comes, inevitable,-- --Oh, woe for those who never know that moment! When feeling love exists in us, ennobling, Each well-weighed word is futile and soul-saddening! ROXANE: Well, if that moment's come for us--suppose it! What words would serve you? CYRANO: All, all, all, whatever That came to me, e'en as they came, I'd fling them In a wild cluster, not a careful bouquet. I love thee! I am mad! I love, I stifle! Thy name is in my heart as in a sheep-bell, And as I ever tremble, thinking of thee, Ever the bell shakes, ever thy name ringeth! All things of thine I mind, for I love all things; I know that last year on the twelfth of May-month, To walk abroad, one day you changed your hair-plaits! I am so used to take your hair for daylight That,--like as when the eye stares on the sun's disk, One sees long after a red blot on all things-- So, when I quit thy beams, my dazzled vision Sees upon all things a blonde stain imprinted. ROXANE (agitated): Why, this is love indeed!. . . CYRANO: Ay, true, the feeling Which fills me, terrible and jealous, truly Love,--which is ever sad amid its transports! Love,--and yet, strangely, not a selfish passion! I for your joy would gladly lay mine own down, --E'en though you never were to know it,--never! --If but at times I might--far off and lonely,-- Hear some gay echo of the joy I bought you! Each glance of thine awakes in me a virtue,-- A novel, unknown valor. Dost begin, sweet, To understand? So late, dost understand me? Feel'st thou my soul, here, through the darkness mounting? Too fair the night! Too fair, too fair the moment! That I should speak thus, and that you should hearken! Too fair! In moments when my hopes rose proudest, I never hoped such guerdon. Naught is left me But to die now! Have words of mine the power To make you tremble,--throned there in the branches? Ay, like a leaf among the leaves, you tremble! You tremble! For I feel,--an if you will it, Or will it not,--your hand's beloved trembling Thrill through the branches, down your sprays of jasmine! (He kisses passionately one of the hanging tendrils.) ROXANE: Ay! I am trembling, weeping!--I am thine! Thou hast conquered all of me! CYRANO: Then let death come! 'Tis I, 'tis I myself, who conquered thee! One thing, but one, I dare to ask-- CHRISTIAN (under the balcony): A kiss! ROXANE (drawing back): What? CYRANO: Oh! ROXANE: You ask. . .? CYRANO: I. . . (To Christian, whispering): Fool! you go too quick! CHRISTIAN: Since she is moved thus--I will profit by it! CYRANO (to Roxane): My words sprang thoughtlessly, but now I see-- Shame on me!--I was too presumptuous. ROXANE (a little chilled): How quickly you withdraw. CYRANO: Yes, I withdraw Without withdrawing! Hurt I modesty? If so--the kiss I asked--oh, grant it not. CHRISTIAN (to Cyrano, pulling him by his cloak): Why? CYRANO: Silence, Christian! Hush! ROXANE (leaning over): What whisper you? CYRANO: I chid myself for my too bold advances; Said, 'Silence, Christian!' (The lutes begin to play): Hark! Wait awhile,. . . Steps come! (Roxane shuts the window. Cyrano listens to the lutes, one of which plays a merry, the other a melancholy, tune): Why, they play sad--then gay--then sad! What? Neither man nor woman?--oh! a monk! (Enter a capuchin friar, with a lantern. He goes from house to house, looking at every door.) Cyrano, Christian, a capuchin friar. CYRANO (to the friar): What do you, playing at Diogenes? THE FRIAR: I seek the house of Madame. . . CHRISTIAN: Oh! plague take him! THE FRIAR: Madeleine Robin. . . CHRISTIAN: What would he?. . . CYRANO (pointing to a street at the back): This way! Straight on. . . THE FRIAR I thank you, and, in your intention Will tell my rosary to its last bead. (He goes out.) CYRANO: Good luck! My blessings rest upon your cowl! (He goes back to Christian.)

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 3 scenes 11-12, utilizing the provided context.

act 3 scenes 8-10|act 3 scenes 11-12|act 3, scene 1|act 3, scene 2|act 3, scene 3

Cyrano has climbed to the top of the wall, and when De Guiche enters, Cyrano swings from a branch and drops down in front of him. He tells De Guiche that he came from the moon and asks where he is. In spite of himself, De Guiche is amused. When Cyrano says that he has invented six ways to travel to the moon, De Guiche is curious enough to listen to what they are. Then, after telling him the six ways, Cyrano says, in his own voice, that the quarter of an hour is up, and the marriage completed. He believes there is nothing De Guiche can do about the marriage. De Guiche, however, gains revenge by sending the cadets to the front immediately.

----------ACT 3 SCENES 8-10--------- Cyrano, Christian. CHRISTIAN: Oh! win for me that kiss. . . CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: Soon or late!. . . CYRANO: 'Tis true! The moment of intoxication-- Of madness,--when your mouths are sure to meet Thanks to your fair mustache--and her rose lips! (To himself): I'd fainer it should come thanks to. . . (A sound of shutters reopening. Christian goes in again under the balcony.) Cyrano, Christian, Roxane. ROXANE (coming out on the balcony): Still there? We spoke of a. . . CYRANO: A kiss! The word is sweet. I see not why your lip should shrink from it; If the word burns it,--what would the kiss do? Oh! let it not your bashfulness affright; Have you not, all this time, insensibly, Left badinage aside, and unalarmed Glided from smile to sigh,--from sigh to weeping? Glide gently, imperceptibly, still onward-- From tear to kiss,--a moment's thrill!--a heartbeat! ROXANE: Hush! hush! CYRANO: A kiss, when all is said,--what is it? An oath that's ratified,--a sealed promise, A heart's avowal claiming confirmation,-- A rose-dot on the 'i' of 'adoration,'-- A secret that to mouth, not ear, is whispered,-- Brush of a bee's wing, that makes time eternal,-- Communion perfumed like the spring's wild flowers,-- The heart's relieving in the heart's outbreathing, When to the lips the soul's flood rises, brimming! ROXANE: Hush! hush! CYRANO: A kiss, Madame, is honorable: The Queen of France, to a most favored lord Did grant a kiss--the Queen herself! ROXANE: What then? CYRANO (speaking more warmly): Buckingham suffered dumbly,--so have I,-- Adored his Queen, as loyally as I,-- Was sad, but faithful,--so am I. . . ROXANE: And you Are fair as Buckingham! CYRANO (aside--suddenly cooled): True,--I forgot! ROXANE: Must I then bid thee mount to cull this flower? CYRANO (pushing Christian toward the balcony): Mount! ROXANE: This heart-breathing!. . . CYRANO: Mount! ROXANE: This brush of bee's wing!. . . CYRANO: Mount! CHRISTIAN (hesitating): But I feel now, as though 'twere ill done! ROXANE: This moment infinite!. . . CYRANO (still pushing him): Come, blockhead, mount! (Christian springs forward, and by means of the bench, the branches, and the pillars, climbs to the balcony and strides over it.) CHRISTIAN: Ah, Roxane! (He takes her in his arms, and bends over her lips.) CYRANO: Aie! Strange pain that wrings my heart! The kiss, love's feast, so near! I, Lazarus, Lie at the gate in darkness. Yet to me Falls still a crumb or two from the rich man's board-- Ay, 'tis my heart receives thee, Roxane--mine! For on the lips you press you kiss as well The words I spoke just now!--my words--my words! (The lutes play): A sad air,--a gay air: the monk! (He begins to run as if he came from a long way off, and cries out): Hola! ROXANE: Who is it? CYRANO: I--I was but passing by. . . Is Christian there? CHRISTIAN (astonished): Cyrano! ROXANE: Good-day, cousin! CYRANO: Cousin, good-day! ROXANE: I'm coming! (She disappears into the house. At the back re-enter the friar.) CHRISTIAN (seeing him): Back again! (He follows Roxane.) Cyrano, Christian, Roxane, the friar, Ragueneau. THE FRIAR: 'Tis here,--I'm sure of it--Madame Madeleine Robin. CYRANO: Why, you said Ro-LIN. THE FRIAR: No, not I. B,I,N,BIN! ROXANE (appearing on the threshold, followed by Ragueneau, who carries a lantern, and Christian): What is't? THE FRIAR: A letter. CHRISTIAN: What? THE FRIAR (to Roxane): Oh, it can boot but a holy business! 'Tis from a worthy lord. . . ROXANE (to Christian): De Guiche! CHRISTIAN: He dares. . . ROXANE: Oh, he will not importune me forever! (Unsealing the letter): I love you,--therefore-- (She reads in a low voice by the aid of Ragueneau's lantern): 'Lady, The drums beat; My regiment buckles its harness on And starts; but I,--they deem me gone before-- But I stay. I have dared to disobey Your mandate. I am here in convent walls. I come to you to-night. By this poor monk-- A simple fool who knows not what he bears-- I send this missive to apprise your ear. Your lips erewhile have smiled on me, too sweet: I go not ere I've seen them once again! I would be private; send each soul away, Receive alone him,--whose great boldness you Have deigned, I hope, to pardon, ere he asks,-- He who is ever your--et cetera.' (To the monk): Father, this is the matter of the letter:-- (All come near her, and she reads aloud): 'Lady, The Cardinal's wish is law; albeit It be to you unwelcome. For this cause I send these lines--to your fair ear addressed-- By a holy man, discreet, intelligent: It is our will that you receive from him, In your own house, the marriage (She turns the page): benediction Straightway, this night. Unknown to all the world Christian becomes your husband. Him we send. He is abhorrent to your choice. Let be. Resign yourself, and this obedience Will be by Heaven well recompensed. Receive, Fair lady, all assurance of respect, From him who ever was, and still remains, Your humble and obliged--et cetera.' THE FRIAR (with great delight): O worthy lord! I knew naught was to fear; It could be but holy business! ROXANE (to Christian, in a low voice): Am I not apt at reading letters? CHRISTIAN: Hum! ROXANE (aloud, with despair): But this is horrible! THE FRIAR (who has turned his lantern on Cyrano): 'Tis you? CHRISTIAN: 'Tis I! THE FRIAR (turning the light on to him, and as if a doubt struck him on seeing his beauty): But. . . ROXANE (quickly): I have overlooked the postscript--see:-- 'Give twenty pistoles for the Convent.' THE FRIAR: . . .Oh! Most worthy lord! (To Roxane): Submit you? ROXANE (with a martyr's look): I submit! (While Ragueneau opens the door, and Christian invites the friar to enter, she whispers to Cyrano): Oh, keep De Guiche at bay! He will be here! Let him not enter till. . . CYRANO: I understand! (To the friar): What time need you to tie the marriage-knot? THE FRIAR: A quarter of an hour. CYRANO (pushing them all toward the house): Go! I stay. ROXANE (to Christian): Come!. . . (They enter.) CYRANO: Now, how to detain De Guiche so long? (He jumps on the bench, climbs to the balcony by the wall): Come!. . .up I go!. . .I have my plan!. . . (The lutes begin to play a very sad air): What, ho! (The tremolo grows more and more weird): It is a man! ay! 'tis a man this time! (He is on the balcony, pulls his hat over his eyes, takes off his sword, wraps himself in his cloak, then leans over): 'Tis not too high! (He strides across the balcony, and drawing to him a long branch of one of the trees that are by the garden wall, he hangs on to it with both hands, ready to let himself fall): I'll shake this atmosphere! ----------ACT 3 SCENES 11-12--------- Cyrano, De Guiche. DE GUICHE (who enters, masked, feeling his way in the dark): What can that cursed Friar be about? CYRANO: The devil!. . .If he knows my voice! (Letting go with one hand, he pretends to turn an invisible key. Solemnly): Cric! Crac! Assume thou, Cyrano, to serve the turn, The accent of thy native Bergerac!. . . DE GUICHE (looking at the house): 'Tis there. I see dim,--this mask hinders me! (He is about to enter, when Cyrano leaps from the balcony, holding on to the branch, which bends, dropping him between the door and De Guiche; he pretends to fall heavily, as from a great height, and lies flat on the ground, motionless, as if stunned. De Guiche starts back): What's this? (When he looks up, the branch has sprung back into its place. He sees only the sky, and is lost in amazement): Where fell that man from? CYRANO (sitting up, and speaking with a Gascon accent): From the moon! DE GUICHE: From?. . . CYRANO (in a dreamy voice): What's o'clock? DE GUICHE: He's lost his mind, for sure! CYRANO: What hour? What country this? What month? What day? DE GUICHE: But. . . CYRANO: I am stupefied! DE GUICHE: Sir! CYRANO: Like a bomb I fell from the moon! DE GUICHE (impatiently): Come now! CYRANO (rising, in a terrible voice): I say,--the moon! DE GUICHE (recoiling): Good, good! let it be so!. . .He's raving mad! CYRANO (walking up to him): I say from the moon! I mean no metaphor!. . . DE GUICHE: But. . . CYRANO: Was't a hundred years--a minute, since? --I cannot guess what time that fall embraced!-- That I was in that saffron-colored ball? DE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders): Good! let me pass! CYRANO (intercepting him): Where am I? Tell the truth! Fear not to tell! Oh, spare me not! Where? where? Have I fallen like a shooting star? DE GUICHE: Morbleu! CYRANO: The fall was lightning-quick! no time to choose Where I should fall--I know not where it be! Oh, tell me! Is it on a moon or earth, that my posterior weight has landed me? DE GUICHE: I tell you, Sir. . . CYRANO (with a screech of terror, which makes De Guiche start back): No? Can it be? I'm on A planet where men have black faces? DE GUICHE (putting a hand to his face): What? CYRANO (feigning great alarm): Am I in Africa? A native you? DE GUICHE (who has remembered his mask): This mask of mine. . . CYRANO (pretending to be reassured): In Venice? ha!--or Rome? DE GUICHE (trying to pass): A lady waits. . CYRANO (quite reassured): Oh-ho! I am in Paris! DE GUICHE (smiling in spite of himself): The fool is comical! CYRANO: You laugh? DE GUICHE: I laugh, But would get by! CYRANO (beaming with joy): I have shot back to Paris! (Quite at ease, laughing, dusting himself, bowing): Come--pardon me--by the last water-spout, Covered with ether,--accident of travel! My eyes still full of star-dust, and my spurs Encumbered by the planets' filaments! (Picking something off his sleeve): Ha! on my doublet?--ah, a comet's hair!. . . (He puffs as if to blow it away.) DE GUICHE (beside himself): Sir!. . . CYRANO (just as he is about to pass, holds out his leg as if to show him something and stops him): In my leg--the calf--there is a tooth Of the Great Bear, and, passing Neptune close, I would avoid his trident's point, and fell, Thus sitting, plump, right in the Scales! My weight Is marked, still registered, up there in heaven! (Hurriedly preventing De Guiche from passing, and detaining him by the button of his doublet): I swear to you that if you squeezed my nose It would spout milk! DE GUICHE: Milk? CYRANO: From the Milky Way! DE GUICHE: Oh, go to hell! CYRANO (crossing his arms): I fall, Sir, out of heaven! Now, would you credit it, that as I fell I saw that Sirius wears a nightcap? True! (Confidentially): The other Bear is still too small to bite. (Laughing): I went through the Lyre, but I snapped a cord; (Grandiloquent): I mean to write the whole thing in a book; The small gold stars, that, wrapped up in my cloak, I carried safe away at no small risks, Will serve for asterisks i' the printed page! DE GUICHE: Come, make an end! I want. . . CYRANO: Oh-ho! You are sly! DE GUICHE: Sir! CYRANO: You would worm all out of me!--the way The moon is made, and if men breathe and live In its rotund cucurbita? DE GUICHE (angrily): No, no! I want. . . CYRANO: Ha, ha!--to know how I got up? Hark, it was by a method all my own. DE GUICHE (wearied): He's mad! CYRANO(contemptuously): No! not for me the stupid eagle Of Regiomontanus, nor the timid Pigeon of Archytas--neither of those! DE GUICHE: Ay, 'tis a fool! But 'tis a learned fool! CYRANO: No imitator I of other men! (De Guiche has succeeded in getting by, and goes toward Roxane's door. Cyrano follows him, ready to stop him by force): Six novel methods, all, this brain invented! DE GUICHE (turning round): Six? CYRANO (volubly): First, with body naked as your hand, Festooned about with crystal flacons, full O' th' tears the early morning dew distils; My body to the sun's fierce rays exposed To let it suck me up, as 't sucks the dew! DE GUICHE (surprised, making one step toward Cyrano): Ah! that makes one! CYRANO (stepping back, and enticing him further away): And then, the second way, To generate wind--for my impetus-- To rarefy air, in a cedar case, By mirrors placed icosahedron-wise. DE GUICHE (making another step): Two! CYRANO (still stepping backward): Or--for I have some mechanic skill-- To make a grasshopper, with springs of steel, And launch myself by quick succeeding fires Saltpeter-fed to the stars' pastures blue! DE GUICHE (unconsciously following him and counting on his fingers): Three! CYRANO: Or (since fumes have property to mount)-- To charge a globe with fumes, sufficiently To carry me aloft! DE GUICHE (same play, more and more astonished): Well, that makes four! CYRANO: Or smear myself with marrow from a bull, Since, at the lowest point of Zodiac, Phoebus well loves to suck that marrow up! DE GUICHE (amazed): Five! CYRANO (who, while speaking, had drawn him to the other side of the square near a bench): Sitting on an iron platform--thence To throw a magnet in the air. This is A method well conceived--the magnet flown, Infallibly the iron will pursue: Then quick! relaunch your magnet, and you thus Can mount and mount unmeasured distances! DE GUICHE: Here are six excellent expedients! Which of the six chose you? CYRANO: Why, none!--a seventh! DE GUICHE: Astonishing! What was it? CYRANO: I'll recount. DE GUICHE: This wild eccentric becomes interesting! CYRANO (making a noise like the waves, with weird gestures): Houuh! Houuh! DE GUICHE: Well. CYRANO: You have guessed? DE GUICHE: Not I! CYRANO: The tide! I' th' witching hour when the moon woos the wave, I laid me, fresh from a sea-bath, on the shore-- And, failing not to put head foremost--for The hair holds the sea-water in its mesh-- I rose in air, straight! straight! like angel's flight, And mounted, mounted, gently, effortless,. . . When lo! a sudden shock! Then. . . DE GUICHE (overcome by curiosity, sitting down on the bench): Then? CYRANO: Oh! then. . . (Suddenly returning to his natural voice): The quarter's gone--I'll hinder you no more: The marriage-vows are made. DE GUICHE (springing up): What? Am I mad? That voice? (The house-door opens. Lackeys appear carrying lighted candelabra. Light. Cyrano gracefully uncovers): That nose--Cyrano? CYRANO (bowing): Cyrano. While we were chatting, they have plighted troth. DE GUICHE: Who? (He turns round. Tableau. Behind the lackeys appear Roxane and Christian, holding each other by the hand. The friar follows them, smiling. Ragueneau also holds a candlestick. The duenna closes the rear, bewildered, having made a hasty toilet): Heavens! The same. Roxane, Christian, the friar, Ragueneau, lackeys, the duenna. DE GUICHE (to Roxane): You? (Recognizing Christian, in amazement): He? (Bowing, with admiration, to Roxane): Cunningly contrived! (To Cyrano): My compliments--Sir Apparatus-maker! Your story would arrest at Peter's gate Saints eager for their Paradise! Note well The details. 'Faith! They'd make a stirring book! CYRANO (bowing): I shall not fail to follow your advice. THE FRIAR (showing with satisfaction the two lovers to De Guiche): A handsome couple, son, made one by you! DE GUICHE (with a freezing look): Ay! (To Roxane): Bid your bridegroom, Madame, fond farewell. ROXANE: Why so? DE GUICHE (to Christian): Even now the regiment departs. Join it! ROXANE: It goes to battle? DE GUICHE: Without doubt. ROXANE: But the Cadets go not? DE GUICHE: Oh ay! they go. (Drawing out the paper he had put in his pocket): Here is the order. (To Christian): Baron, bear it, quick! ROXANE (throwing herself in Christian's arms): Christian! DE GUICHE (sneeringly to Cyrano): The wedding-night is far, methinks! CYRANO (aside): He thinks to give me pain of death by this! CHRISTIAN (to Roxane): Oh! once again! Your lips! CYRANO: Come, come, enough! CHRISTIAN (still kissing Roxane): --'Tis hard to leave her, you know not. . . CYRANO (trying to draw him away): I know. (Sound of drums beating a march in the distance.) DE GUICHE: The regiment starts! ROXANE (To Cyrano, holding back Christian, whom Cyrano is drawing away): Oh!--I trust him you! Promise me that no risks shall put his life In danger! CYRANO: I will try my best, but promise. . . That I cannot! ROXANE: But swear he shall be prudent? CYRANO: Again, I'll do my best, but. . . ROXANE: In the siege Let him not suffer! CYRANO: All that man can do, I. . . ROXANE: That he shall be faithful! CYRANO: Doubtless, but. . . ROXANE: That he will write oft? CYRANO (pausing): That, I promise you! Curtain. ----------ACT 3, SCENE 1--------- Ragueneau, the duenna. Then Roxane, Cyrano, and two pages. RAGUENEAU: --And then, off she went, with a musketeer! Deserted and ruined too, I would make an end of all, and so hanged myself. My last breath was drawn:-- then in comes Monsieur de Bergerac! He cuts me down, and begs his cousin to take me for her steward. THE DUENNA: Well, but how came it about that you were thus ruined? RAGUENEAU: Oh! Lise loved the warriors, and I loved the poets! What cakes there were that Apollo chanced to leave were quickly snapped up by Mars. Thus ruin was not long a-coming. THE DUENNA (rising, and calling up to the open window): Roxane, are you ready? They wait for us! ROXANE'S VOICE (from the window): I will but put me on a cloak! THE DUENNA (to Ragueneau, showing him the door opposite): They wait us there opposite, at Clomire's house. She receives them all there to-day--the precieuses, the poets; they read a discourse on the Tender Passion. RAGUENEAU: The Tender Passion? THE DUENNA (in a mincing voice): Ay, indeed! (Calling up to the window): Roxane, an you come not down quickly, we shall miss the discourse on the Tender Passion! ROXANE'S VOICE: I come! I come! (A sound of stringed instruments approaching.) CYRANO'S VOICE (behind the scenes, singing): La, la, la, la! THE DUENNA (surprised): They serenade us? CYRANO (followed by two pages with arch-lutes): I tell you they are demi-semi-quavers, demi-semi-fool! FIRST PAGE (ironically): You know then, Sir, to distinguish between semi-quavers and demi-semi- quavers? CYRANO: Is not every disciple of Gassendi a musician? THE PAGE (playing and singing): La, la! CYRANO (snatching the lute from him, and going on with the phrase): In proof of which, I can continue! La, la, la, la! ROXANE (appearing on the balcony): What? 'Tis you? CYRANO (going on with the air, and singing to it): 'Tis I, who come to serenade your lilies, and pay my devoir to your ro-o- oses! ROXANE: I am coming down! (She leaves the balcony.) THE DUENNA (pointing to the pages): How come these two virtuosi here? CYRANO: 'Tis for a wager I won of D'Assoucy. We were disputing a nice point in grammar; contradictions raged hotly--''Tis so!' 'Nay, 'tis so!' when suddenly he shows me these two long-shanks, whom he takes about with him as an escort, and who are skillful in scratching lute-strings with their skinny claws! 'I will wager you a day's music,' says he!--And lost it! Thus, see you, till Phoebus' chariot starts once again, these lute-twangers are at my heels, seeing all I do, hearing all I say, and accompanying all with melody. 'Twas pleasant at the first, but i' faith, I begin to weary of it already! (To the musicians): Ho there! go serenade Montfleury for me! Play a dance to him! (The pages go toward the door. To the duenna): I have come, as is my wont, nightly, to ask Roxane whether. . . (To the pages, who are going out): Play a long time,--and play out of tune! (To the duenna): . . .Whether her soul's elected is ever the same, ever faultless! ROXANE (coming out of the house): Ah! How handsome he is, how brilliant a wit! And--how well I love him! CYRANO (smiling): Christian has so brilliant a wit? ROXANE: Brighter than even your own, cousin! CYRANO: Be it so, with all my heart! ROXANE: Ah! methinks 'twere impossible that there could breathe a man on this earth skilled to say as sweetly as he all the pretty nothings that mean so much-- that mean all! At times his mind seems far away, the Muse says naught--and then, presto! he speaks--bewitchingly! enchantingly! CYRANO (incredulously): No, no! ROXANE: Fie! That is ill said! But lo! men are ever thus! Because he is fair to see, you would have it that he must be dull of speech. CYRANO: He hath an eloquent tongue in telling his love? ROXANE: In telling his love? why, 'tis not simple telling, 'tis dissertation, 'tis analysis! CYRANO: How is he with the pen? ROXANE: Still better! Listen,--here:-- (Reciting): 'The more of my poor heart you take The larger grows my heart!' (Triumphantly to Cyrano): How like you those lines? CYRANO: Pooh! ROXANE: And thus it goes on. . . 'And, since some target I must show For Cupid's cruel dart, Oh, if mine own you deign to keep, Then give me your sweet heart!' CYRANO: Lord! first he has too much, then anon not enough! How much heart does the fellow want? ROXANE: You would vex a saint!. . .But 'tis your jealousy. CYRANO (starting): What mean you? ROXANE: Ay, your poet's jealousy! Hark now, if this again be not tender-sweet?-- 'My heart to yours sounds but one cry: If kisses fast could flee By letter, then with your sweet lips My letters read should be! If kisses could be writ with ink, If kisses fast could flee!' CYRANO (smiling approvingly in spite of himself): Ha! those last lines are,--hm!. . .hm!. . . (Correcting himself--contemptuously): --They are paltry enough! ROXANE: And this. . . CYRANO (enchanted): Then you have his letters by heart? ROXANE: Every one of them! CYRANO: By all oaths that can be sworn,--'tis flattering! ROXANE: They are the lines of a master! CYRANO (modestly): Come, nay. . .a master?. . . ROXANE: Ay, I say it--a master! CYRANO: Good--be it so. THE DUENNA (coming down quickly): Here comes Monsieur de Guiche! (To Cyrano, pushing him toward the house): In with you! 'twere best he see you not; it might perchance put him on the scent. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano): Ay, of my own dear secret! He loves me, and is powerful, and, if he knew, then all were lost! Marry! he could well deal a deathblow to my love! CYRANO (entering the house): Good! good! (De Guiche appears.) ----------ACT 3, SCENE 2--------- Roxane, De Guiche, the duenna standing a little way off. ROXANE (courtesying to De Guiche): I was going out. DE GUICHE: I come to take my leave. ROXANE: Whither go you? DE GUICHE: To the war. ROXANE: Ah! DE GUICHE: Ay, to-night. ROXANE: Oh! DE GUICHE: I am ordered away. We are to besiege Arras. ROXANE: Ah--to besiege?. . . DE GUICHE: Ay. My going moves you not, meseems. ROXANE: Nay. . . DE GUICHE: I am grieved to the core of the heart. Shall I again behold you?. . .When? I know not. Heard you that I am named commander?. . . ROXANE (indifferently): Bravo! DE GUICHE: Of the Guards regiment. ROXANE (startled): What! the Guards? DE GUICHE: Ay, where serves your cousin, the swaggering boaster. I will find a way to revenge myself on him at Arras. ROXANE (choking): What mean you? The Guards go to Arras? DE GUICHE (laughing): Bethink you, is it not my own regiment? ROXANE (falling seated on the bench--aside): Christian! DE GUICHE: What ails you? ROXANE (moved deeply): Oh--I am in despair! The man one loves!--at the war! DE GUICHE (surprised and delighted): You say such sweet words to me! 'Tis the first time!--and just when I must quit you! ROXANE (collected, and fanning herself): Thus,--you would fain revenge your grudge against my cousin? DE GUICHE: My fair lady is on his side? ROXANE: Nay,--against him! DE GUICHE: Do you see him often? ROXANE: But very rarely. DE GUICHE: He is ever to be met now in company with one of the cadets,. . .one New-- villen--viller-- ROXANE: Of high stature? DE GUICHE: Fair-haired! ROXANE: Ay, a red-headed fellow! DE GUICHE: Handsome!. . . ROXANE: Tut! DE GUICHE: But dull-witted. ROXANE: One would think so, to look at him! (Changing her tone): How mean you to play your revenge on Cyrano? Perchance you think to put him i' the thick of the shots? Nay, believe me, that were a poor vengeance--he would love such a post better than aught else! I know the way to wound his pride far more keenly! DE GUICHE: What then? Tell. . . ROXANE: If, when the regiment march to Arras, he were left here with his beloved boon companions, the Cadets, to sit with crossed arms so long as the war lasted! There is your method, would you enrage a man of his kind; cheat him of his chance of mortal danger, and you punish him right fiercely. DE GUICHE (coming nearer): O woman! woman! Who but a woman had e'er devised so subtle a trick? ROXANE: See you not how he will eat out his heart, while his friends gnaw their thick fists for that they are deprived of the battle? So are you best avenged. DE GUICHE: You love me, then, a little? (She smiles): I would fain--seeing you thus espouse my cause, Roxane--believe it a proof of love! ROXANE: 'Tis a proof of love! DE GUICHE (showing some sealed papers): Here are the marching orders; they will be sent instantly to each company-- except-- (He detaches one): --This one! 'Tis that of the Cadets. (He puts it in his pocket): This I keep. (Laughing): Ha! ha! ha! Cyrano! His love of battle!. . .So you can play tricks on people?. . .you, of all ladies! ROXANE: Sometimes! DE GUICHE (coming close to her): Oh! how I love you!--to distraction! Listen! To-night--true, I ought to start--but--how leave you now that I feel your heart is touched! Hard by, in the Rue d'Orleans, is a convent founded by Father Athanasius, the syndic of the Capuchins. True that no layman may enter--but--I can settle that with the good Fathers! Their habit sleeves are wide enough to hide me in. 'Tis they who serve Richelieu's private chapel: and from respect to the uncle, fear the nephew. All will deem me gone. I will come to you, masked. Give me leave to wait till tomorrow, sweet Lady Fanciful! ROXANE: But, of this be rumored, your glory. . . DE GUICHE: Bah! ROXANE: But the siege--Arras. . . DE GUICHE: 'Twill take its chance. Grant but permission. ROXANE: No! DE GUICHE: Give me leave! ROXANE (tenderly): It were my duty to forbid you! DE GUICHE: Ah! ROXANE: You must go! (Aside): Christian stays here. (Aloud): I would have you heroic--Antoine! DE GUICHE: O heavenly word! You love, then, him?. . . ROXANE: . . .For whom I trembled. DE GUICHE (in an ecstasy): Ah! I go then! (He kisses her hand): Are you content? ROXANE: Yes, my friend! (He goes out.) THE DUENNA (making behind his back a mocking courtesy): Yes, my friend! ROXANE (to the duenna): Not a word of what I have done. Cyrano would never pardon me for stealing his fighting from him! (She calls toward the house): Cousin! ----------ACT 3, SCENE 3--------- Roxane, The duenna, Cyrano. ROXANE: We are going to Clomire's house. (She points to the door opposite): Alcandre and Lysimon are to discourse! THE DUENNA (putting her little finger in her ear): Yes! But my little finger tells me we shall miss them. CYRANO: 'Twere a pity to miss such apes! (They have come to Clomire's door.) THE DUENNA: Oh, see! The knocker is muffled up! (Speaking to the knocker): So they have gagged that metal tongue of yours, little noisy one, lest it should disturb the fine orators! (She lifts it carefully and knocks with precaution.) ROXANE (seeing that the door opens): Let us enter! (On the threshold, to Cyrano): If Christian comes, as I feel sure he will, bid him wait for me! CYRANO (quickly, as she is going in): Listen! (She turns): What mean you to question him on, as is your wont, to-night? ROXANE: Oh-- CYRANO (eagerly): Well, say. ROXANE: But you will be mute? CYRANO: Mute as a fish. ROXANE: I shall not question him at all, but say: Give rein to your fancy! Prepare not your speeches,--but speak the thoughts as they come! Speak to me of love, and speak splendidly! CYRANO (smiling): Very good! ROXANE: But secret!. . . CYRANO: Secret. ROXANE: Not a word! (She enters and shuts the door.) CYRANO (when the door is shut, bowing to her): A thousand thanks! (The door opens again, and Roxane puts her head out.) ROXANE: Lest he prepare himself! CYRANO: The devil!--no, no! BOTH TOGETHER: Secret. (The door shuts.) CYRANO (calling): Christian!

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 3, scene 4, utilizing the provided context.

act 3, scene 4|act 3, scene 5|act 3, scene 6|act 3, scene 7|act 3, scene 8|act 3, scene 9|act 3, scene 10|act 3, scene 11

Cyrano tries to persuade Christian to learn some lines that he has written, but Christian refuses. He is confident that Roxane loves him now, and he wants to speak to her in his own words.

----------ACT 3, SCENE 4--------- Cyrano, Christian. CYRANO: I know all that is needful. Here's occasion For you to deck yourself with glory. Come, Lose no time; put away those sulky looks, Come to your house with me, I'll teach you. . . CHRISTIAN: No! CYRANO: Why? CHRISTIAN: I will wait for Roxane here. CYRANO: How? Crazy? Come quick with me and learn. . . CHRISTIAN: No, no! I say. I am aweary of these borrowed letters, --Borrowed love-makings! Thus to act a part, And tremble all the time!--'Twas well enough At the beginning!--Now I know she loves! I fear no longer!--I will speak myself. CYRANO: Mercy! CHRISTIAN: And how know you I cannot speak?-- I am not such a fool when all is said! I've by your lessons profited. You'll see I shall know how to speak alone! The devil! I know at least to clasp her in my arms! (Seeing Roxane come out from Clomire's house): --It is she! Cyrano, no!--Leave me not! CYRANO (bowing): Speak for yourself, my friend, and take your chance. (He disappears behind the garden wall.) ----------ACT 3, SCENE 5--------- Christian, Roxane, the duenna. ROXANE (coming out of Clomire's house, with a company of friends, whom she leaves. Bows and good-byes): Barthenoide!--Alcandre!--Gremione!-- THE DUENNA (bitterly disappointed): We've missed the speech upon the Tender Passion! (Goes into Roxane's house.) ROXANE (still bowing): Urimedonte--adieu! (All bow to Roxane and to each other, and then separate, going up different streets. Roxane suddenly seeing Christian): You! (She goes to him): Evening falls. Let's sit. Speak on. I listen. CHRISTIAN (sits by her on the bench. A silence): Oh! I love you! ROXANE (shutting her eyes): Ay, speak to me of love. CHRISTIAN: I love thee! ROXANE: That's The theme! But vary it. CHRISTIAN: I. . . ROXANE: Vary it! CHRISTIAN: I love you so! ROXANE: Oh! without doubt!--and then?. . . CHRISTIAN: And then--I should be--oh!--so glad--so glad If you would love me!--Roxane, tell me so! ROXANE (with a little grimace): I hoped for cream,--you give me gruel! Say How love possesses you? CHRISTIAN: Oh utterly! ROXANE: Come, come!. . .unknot those tangled sentiments! CHRISTIAN: Your throat I'd kiss it! ROXANE: Christian! CHRISTIAN: I love thee! ROXANE (half-rising): Again! CHRISTIAN (eagerly, detaining her): No, no! I love thee not! ROXANE (reseating herself): 'Tis well! CHRISTIAN: But I adore thee! ROXANE (rising, and going further off): Oh! CHRISTIAN: I am grown stupid! ROXANE (dryly): And that displeases me, almost as much As 'twould displease me if you grew ill-favored. CHRISTIAN: But. . . ROXANE: Rally your poor eloquence that's flown! CHRISTIAN: I. . . ROXANE: Yes, you love me, that I know. Adieu. (She goes toward her house.) CHRISTIAN: Oh, go not yet! I'd tell you-- ROXANE (opening the door): You adore me? I've heard it very oft. No!--Go away! CHRISTIAN: But I would fain. . . (She shuts the door in his face.) CYRANO (who has re-entered unseen): I' faith! It is successful! ----------ACT 3, SCENE 6--------- Christian, Cyrano, two pages. CHRISTIAN: Come to my aid! CYRANO: Not I! CHRISTIAN: But I shall die, Unless at once I win back her fair favor. CYRANO: And how can I, at once, i' th' devil's name, Lesson you in. . . CHRISTIAN (seizing his arm): Oh, she is there! (The window of the balcony is now lighted up.) CYRANO (moved): Her window! CHRISTIAN: Oh! I shall die! CYRANO: Speak lower! CHRISTIAN (in a whisper): I shall die! CYRANO: The night is dark. . . CHRISTIAN: Well! CYRANO: All can be repaired. Although you merit not. Stand there, poor wretch! Fronting the balcony! I'll go beneath And prompt your words to you. . . CHRISTIAN: But. . . CYRANO: Hold your tongue! THE PAGES (reappearing at back--to Cyrano): Ho! CYRANO: Hush! (He signs to them to speak softly.) FIRST PAGE (in a low voice): We've played the serenade you bade To Montfleury! CYRANO (quickly, in a low voice): Go! lurk in ambush there, One at this street corner, and one at that; And if a passer-by should here intrude, Play you a tune! SECOND PAGE: What tune, Sir Gassendist? CYRANO: Gay, if a woman comes,--for a man, sad! (The pages disappear, one at each street corner. To Christian): Call her! CHRISTIAN: Roxane! CYRANO (picking up stones and throwing them at the window): Some pebbles! wait awhile! ROXANE (half-opening the casement): Who calls me? CHRISTIAN: I! ROXANE: Who's that? CHRISTIAN: Christian! ROXANE (disdainfully): Oh! you? CHRISTIAN: I would speak with you. CYRANO (under the balcony--to Christian): Good. Speak soft and low. ROXANE: No, you speak stupidly! CHRISTIAN: Oh, pity me! ROXANE: No! you love me no more! CHRISTIAN (prompted by Cyrano): You say--Great Heaven! I love no more?--when--I--love more and more! ROXANE (who was about to shut the casement, pausing): Hold! 'tis a trifle better! ay, a trifle! CHRISTIAN (same play): Love grew apace, rocked by the anxious beating. . . Of this poor heart, which the cruel wanton boy. . . Took for a cradle! ROXANE (coming out on to the balcony): That is better! But An if you deem that Cupid be so cruel You should have stifled baby-love in's cradle! CHRISTIAN (same play): Ah, Madame, I assayed, but all in vain This. . .new-born babe is a young. . .Hercules! ROXANE: Still better! CHRISTIAN (same play): Thus he strangled in my heart The. . .serpents twain, of. . .Pride. . .and Doubt! ROXANE (leaning over the balcony): Well said! --But why so faltering? Has mental palsy Seized on your faculty imaginative? CYRANO (drawing Christian under the balcony, and slipping into his place): Give place! This waxes critical!. . . ROXANE: To-day. . . Your words are hesitating. CYRANO (imitating Christian--in a whisper): Night has come. . . In the dusk they grope their way to find your ear. ROXANE: But my words find no such impediment. CYRANO: They find their way at once? Small wonder that! For 'tis within my heart they find their home; Bethink how large my heart, how small your ear! And,--from fair heights descending, words fall fast, But mine must mount, Madame, and that takes time! ROXANE: Meseems that your last words have learned to climb. CYRANO: With practice such gymnastic grows less hard! ROXANE: In truth, I seem to speak from distant heights! CYRANO: True, far above; at such a height 'twere death If a hard word from you fell on my heart. ROXANE (moving): I will come down. . . CYRANO (hastily): No! ROXANE (showing him the bench under the balcony): Mount then on the bench! CYRANO (starting back alarmed): No! ROXANE: How, you will not? CYRANO (more and more moved): Stay awhile! 'Tis sweet,. . . The rare occasion, when our hearts can speak Our selves unseen, unseeing! ROXANE: Why--unseen? CYRANO: Ay, it is sweet! Half hidden,--half revealed-- You see the dark folds of my shrouding cloak, And I, the glimmering whiteness of your dress: I but a shadow--you a radiance fair! Know you what such a moment holds for me? If ever I were eloquent. . . ROXANE: You were! CYRANO: Yet never till to-night my speech has sprung Straight from my heart as now it springs. ROXANE: Why not? CYRANO: Till now I spoke haphazard. . . ROXANE: What? CYRANO: Your eyes Have beams that turn men dizzy!--But to-night Methinks I shall find speech for the first time! ROXANE: 'Tis true, your voice rings with a tone that's new. CYRANO (coming nearer, passionately): Ay, a new tone! In the tender, sheltering dusk I dare to be myself for once,--at last! (He stops, falters): What say I? I know not!--Oh, pardon me-- It thrills me,--'tis so sweet, so novel. . . ROXANE: How? So novel? CYRANO (off his balance, trying to find the thread of his sentence): Ay,--to be at last sincere; Till now, my chilled heart, fearing to be mocked. . . ROXANE: Mocked, and for what? CYRANO: For its mad beating!--Ay, My heart has clothed itself with witty words, To shroud itself from curious eyes:--impelled At times to aim at a star, I stay my hand, And, fearing ridicule,--cull a wild flower! ROXANE: A wild flower's sweet. CYRANO: Ay, but to-night--the star! ROXANE: Oh! never have you spoken thus before! CYRANO: If, leaving Cupid's arrows, quivers, torches, We turned to seek for sweeter--fresher things! Instead of sipping in a pygmy glass Dull fashionable waters,--did we try How the soul slakes its thirst in fearless draught By drinking from the river's flooding brim! ROXANE: But wit?. . . CYRANO: If I have used it to arrest you At the first starting,--now, 'twould be an outrage, An insult--to the perfumed Night--to Nature-- To speak fine words that garnish vain love-letters! Look up but at her stars! The quiet Heaven Will ease our hearts of all things artificial; I fear lest, 'midst the alchemy we're skilled in The truth of sentiment dissolve and vanish,-- The soul exhausted by these empty pastimes, The gain of fine things be the loss of all things! ROXANE: But wit? I say. . . CYRANO: In love 'tis crime,--'tis hateful! Turning frank loving into subtle fencing! At last the moment comes, inevitable,-- --Oh, woe for those who never know that moment! When feeling love exists in us, ennobling, Each well-weighed word is futile and soul-saddening! ROXANE: Well, if that moment's come for us--suppose it! What words would serve you? CYRANO: All, all, all, whatever That came to me, e'en as they came, I'd fling them In a wild cluster, not a careful bouquet. I love thee! I am mad! I love, I stifle! Thy name is in my heart as in a sheep-bell, And as I ever tremble, thinking of thee, Ever the bell shakes, ever thy name ringeth! All things of thine I mind, for I love all things; I know that last year on the twelfth of May-month, To walk abroad, one day you changed your hair-plaits! I am so used to take your hair for daylight That,--like as when the eye stares on the sun's disk, One sees long after a red blot on all things-- So, when I quit thy beams, my dazzled vision Sees upon all things a blonde stain imprinted. ROXANE (agitated): Why, this is love indeed!. . . CYRANO: Ay, true, the feeling Which fills me, terrible and jealous, truly Love,--which is ever sad amid its transports! Love,--and yet, strangely, not a selfish passion! I for your joy would gladly lay mine own down, --E'en though you never were to know it,--never! --If but at times I might--far off and lonely,-- Hear some gay echo of the joy I bought you! Each glance of thine awakes in me a virtue,-- A novel, unknown valor. Dost begin, sweet, To understand? So late, dost understand me? Feel'st thou my soul, here, through the darkness mounting? Too fair the night! Too fair, too fair the moment! That I should speak thus, and that you should hearken! Too fair! In moments when my hopes rose proudest, I never hoped such guerdon. Naught is left me But to die now! Have words of mine the power To make you tremble,--throned there in the branches? Ay, like a leaf among the leaves, you tremble! You tremble! For I feel,--an if you will it, Or will it not,--your hand's beloved trembling Thrill through the branches, down your sprays of jasmine! (He kisses passionately one of the hanging tendrils.) ROXANE: Ay! I am trembling, weeping!--I am thine! Thou hast conquered all of me! CYRANO: Then let death come! 'Tis I, 'tis I myself, who conquered thee! One thing, but one, I dare to ask-- CHRISTIAN (under the balcony): A kiss! ROXANE (drawing back): What? CYRANO: Oh! ROXANE: You ask. . .? CYRANO: I. . . (To Christian, whispering): Fool! you go too quick! CHRISTIAN: Since she is moved thus--I will profit by it! CYRANO (to Roxane): My words sprang thoughtlessly, but now I see-- Shame on me!--I was too presumptuous. ROXANE (a little chilled): How quickly you withdraw. CYRANO: Yes, I withdraw Without withdrawing! Hurt I modesty? If so--the kiss I asked--oh, grant it not. CHRISTIAN (to Cyrano, pulling him by his cloak): Why? CYRANO: Silence, Christian! Hush! ROXANE (leaning over): What whisper you? CYRANO: I chid myself for my too bold advances; Said, 'Silence, Christian!' (The lutes begin to play): Hark! Wait awhile,. . . Steps come! (Roxane shuts the window. Cyrano listens to the lutes, one of which plays a merry, the other a melancholy, tune): Why, they play sad--then gay--then sad! What? Neither man nor woman?--oh! a monk! (Enter a capuchin friar, with a lantern. He goes from house to house, looking at every door.) ----------ACT 3, SCENE 7--------- Cyrano, Christian, a capuchin friar. CYRANO (to the friar): What do you, playing at Diogenes? THE FRIAR: I seek the house of Madame. . . CHRISTIAN: Oh! plague take him! THE FRIAR: Madeleine Robin. . . CHRISTIAN: What would he?. . . CYRANO (pointing to a street at the back): This way! Straight on. . . THE FRIAR I thank you, and, in your intention Will tell my rosary to its last bead. (He goes out.) CYRANO: Good luck! My blessings rest upon your cowl! (He goes back to Christian.) ----------ACT 3, SCENE 8--------- Cyrano, Christian. CHRISTIAN: Oh! win for me that kiss. . . CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: Soon or late!. . . CYRANO: 'Tis true! The moment of intoxication-- Of madness,--when your mouths are sure to meet Thanks to your fair mustache--and her rose lips! (To himself): I'd fainer it should come thanks to. . . (A sound of shutters reopening. Christian goes in again under the balcony.) ----------ACT 3, SCENE 9--------- Cyrano, Christian, Roxane. ROXANE (coming out on the balcony): Still there? We spoke of a. . . CYRANO: A kiss! The word is sweet. I see not why your lip should shrink from it; If the word burns it,--what would the kiss do? Oh! let it not your bashfulness affright; Have you not, all this time, insensibly, Left badinage aside, and unalarmed Glided from smile to sigh,--from sigh to weeping? Glide gently, imperceptibly, still onward-- From tear to kiss,--a moment's thrill!--a heartbeat! ROXANE: Hush! hush! CYRANO: A kiss, when all is said,--what is it? An oath that's ratified,--a sealed promise, A heart's avowal claiming confirmation,-- A rose-dot on the 'i' of 'adoration,'-- A secret that to mouth, not ear, is whispered,-- Brush of a bee's wing, that makes time eternal,-- Communion perfumed like the spring's wild flowers,-- The heart's relieving in the heart's outbreathing, When to the lips the soul's flood rises, brimming! ROXANE: Hush! hush! CYRANO: A kiss, Madame, is honorable: The Queen of France, to a most favored lord Did grant a kiss--the Queen herself! ROXANE: What then? CYRANO (speaking more warmly): Buckingham suffered dumbly,--so have I,-- Adored his Queen, as loyally as I,-- Was sad, but faithful,--so am I. . . ROXANE: And you Are fair as Buckingham! CYRANO (aside--suddenly cooled): True,--I forgot! ROXANE: Must I then bid thee mount to cull this flower? CYRANO (pushing Christian toward the balcony): Mount! ROXANE: This heart-breathing!. . . CYRANO: Mount! ROXANE: This brush of bee's wing!. . . CYRANO: Mount! CHRISTIAN (hesitating): But I feel now, as though 'twere ill done! ROXANE: This moment infinite!. . . CYRANO (still pushing him): Come, blockhead, mount! (Christian springs forward, and by means of the bench, the branches, and the pillars, climbs to the balcony and strides over it.) CHRISTIAN: Ah, Roxane! (He takes her in his arms, and bends over her lips.) CYRANO: Aie! Strange pain that wrings my heart! The kiss, love's feast, so near! I, Lazarus, Lie at the gate in darkness. Yet to me Falls still a crumb or two from the rich man's board-- Ay, 'tis my heart receives thee, Roxane--mine! For on the lips you press you kiss as well The words I spoke just now!--my words--my words! (The lutes play): A sad air,--a gay air: the monk! (He begins to run as if he came from a long way off, and cries out): Hola! ROXANE: Who is it? CYRANO: I--I was but passing by. . . Is Christian there? CHRISTIAN (astonished): Cyrano! ROXANE: Good-day, cousin! CYRANO: Cousin, good-day! ROXANE: I'm coming! (She disappears into the house. At the back re-enter the friar.) CHRISTIAN (seeing him): Back again! (He follows Roxane.) ----------ACT 3, SCENE 10--------- Cyrano, Christian, Roxane, the friar, Ragueneau. THE FRIAR: 'Tis here,--I'm sure of it--Madame Madeleine Robin. CYRANO: Why, you said Ro-LIN. THE FRIAR: No, not I. B,I,N,BIN! ROXANE (appearing on the threshold, followed by Ragueneau, who carries a lantern, and Christian): What is't? THE FRIAR: A letter. CHRISTIAN: What? THE FRIAR (to Roxane): Oh, it can boot but a holy business! 'Tis from a worthy lord. . . ROXANE (to Christian): De Guiche! CHRISTIAN: He dares. . . ROXANE: Oh, he will not importune me forever! (Unsealing the letter): I love you,--therefore-- (She reads in a low voice by the aid of Ragueneau's lantern): 'Lady, The drums beat; My regiment buckles its harness on And starts; but I,--they deem me gone before-- But I stay. I have dared to disobey Your mandate. I am here in convent walls. I come to you to-night. By this poor monk-- A simple fool who knows not what he bears-- I send this missive to apprise your ear. Your lips erewhile have smiled on me, too sweet: I go not ere I've seen them once again! I would be private; send each soul away, Receive alone him,--whose great boldness you Have deigned, I hope, to pardon, ere he asks,-- He who is ever your--et cetera.' (To the monk): Father, this is the matter of the letter:-- (All come near her, and she reads aloud): 'Lady, The Cardinal's wish is law; albeit It be to you unwelcome. For this cause I send these lines--to your fair ear addressed-- By a holy man, discreet, intelligent: It is our will that you receive from him, In your own house, the marriage (She turns the page): benediction Straightway, this night. Unknown to all the world Christian becomes your husband. Him we send. He is abhorrent to your choice. Let be. Resign yourself, and this obedience Will be by Heaven well recompensed. Receive, Fair lady, all assurance of respect, From him who ever was, and still remains, Your humble and obliged--et cetera.' THE FRIAR (with great delight): O worthy lord! I knew naught was to fear; It could be but holy business! ROXANE (to Christian, in a low voice): Am I not apt at reading letters? CHRISTIAN: Hum! ROXANE (aloud, with despair): But this is horrible! THE FRIAR (who has turned his lantern on Cyrano): 'Tis you? CHRISTIAN: 'Tis I! THE FRIAR (turning the light on to him, and as if a doubt struck him on seeing his beauty): But. . . ROXANE (quickly): I have overlooked the postscript--see:-- 'Give twenty pistoles for the Convent.' THE FRIAR: . . .Oh! Most worthy lord! (To Roxane): Submit you? ROXANE (with a martyr's look): I submit! (While Ragueneau opens the door, and Christian invites the friar to enter, she whispers to Cyrano): Oh, keep De Guiche at bay! He will be here! Let him not enter till. . . CYRANO: I understand! (To the friar): What time need you to tie the marriage-knot? THE FRIAR: A quarter of an hour. CYRANO (pushing them all toward the house): Go! I stay. ROXANE (to Christian): Come!. . . (They enter.) CYRANO: Now, how to detain De Guiche so long? (He jumps on the bench, climbs to the balcony by the wall): Come!. . .up I go!. . .I have my plan!. . . (The lutes begin to play a very sad air): What, ho! (The tremolo grows more and more weird): It is a man! ay! 'tis a man this time! (He is on the balcony, pulls his hat over his eyes, takes off his sword, wraps himself in his cloak, then leans over): 'Tis not too high! (He strides across the balcony, and drawing to him a long branch of one of the trees that are by the garden wall, he hangs on to it with both hands, ready to let himself fall): I'll shake this atmosphere! ----------ACT 3, SCENE 11--------- Cyrano, De Guiche. DE GUICHE (who enters, masked, feeling his way in the dark): What can that cursed Friar be about? CYRANO: The devil!. . .If he knows my voice! (Letting go with one hand, he pretends to turn an invisible key. Solemnly): Cric! Crac! Assume thou, Cyrano, to serve the turn, The accent of thy native Bergerac!. . . DE GUICHE (looking at the house): 'Tis there. I see dim,--this mask hinders me! (He is about to enter, when Cyrano leaps from the balcony, holding on to the branch, which bends, dropping him between the door and De Guiche; he pretends to fall heavily, as from a great height, and lies flat on the ground, motionless, as if stunned. De Guiche starts back): What's this? (When he looks up, the branch has sprung back into its place. He sees only the sky, and is lost in amazement): Where fell that man from? CYRANO (sitting up, and speaking with a Gascon accent): From the moon! DE GUICHE: From?. . . CYRANO (in a dreamy voice): What's o'clock? DE GUICHE: He's lost his mind, for sure! CYRANO: What hour? What country this? What month? What day? DE GUICHE: But. . . CYRANO: I am stupefied! DE GUICHE: Sir! CYRANO: Like a bomb I fell from the moon! DE GUICHE (impatiently): Come now! CYRANO (rising, in a terrible voice): I say,--the moon! DE GUICHE (recoiling): Good, good! let it be so!. . .He's raving mad! CYRANO (walking up to him): I say from the moon! I mean no metaphor!. . . DE GUICHE: But. . . CYRANO: Was't a hundred years--a minute, since? --I cannot guess what time that fall embraced!-- That I was in that saffron-colored ball? DE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders): Good! let me pass! CYRANO (intercepting him): Where am I? Tell the truth! Fear not to tell! Oh, spare me not! Where? where? Have I fallen like a shooting star? DE GUICHE: Morbleu! CYRANO: The fall was lightning-quick! no time to choose Where I should fall--I know not where it be! Oh, tell me! Is it on a moon or earth, that my posterior weight has landed me? DE GUICHE: I tell you, Sir. . . CYRANO (with a screech of terror, which makes De Guiche start back): No? Can it be? I'm on A planet where men have black faces? DE GUICHE (putting a hand to his face): What? CYRANO (feigning great alarm): Am I in Africa? A native you? DE GUICHE (who has remembered his mask): This mask of mine. . . CYRANO (pretending to be reassured): In Venice? ha!--or Rome? DE GUICHE (trying to pass): A lady waits. . CYRANO (quite reassured): Oh-ho! I am in Paris! DE GUICHE (smiling in spite of himself): The fool is comical! CYRANO: You laugh? DE GUICHE: I laugh, But would get by! CYRANO (beaming with joy): I have shot back to Paris! (Quite at ease, laughing, dusting himself, bowing): Come--pardon me--by the last water-spout, Covered with ether,--accident of travel! My eyes still full of star-dust, and my spurs Encumbered by the planets' filaments! (Picking something off his sleeve): Ha! on my doublet?--ah, a comet's hair!. . . (He puffs as if to blow it away.) DE GUICHE (beside himself): Sir!. . . CYRANO (just as he is about to pass, holds out his leg as if to show him something and stops him): In my leg--the calf--there is a tooth Of the Great Bear, and, passing Neptune close, I would avoid his trident's point, and fell, Thus sitting, plump, right in the Scales! My weight Is marked, still registered, up there in heaven! (Hurriedly preventing De Guiche from passing, and detaining him by the button of his doublet): I swear to you that if you squeezed my nose It would spout milk! DE GUICHE: Milk? CYRANO: From the Milky Way! DE GUICHE: Oh, go to hell! CYRANO (crossing his arms): I fall, Sir, out of heaven! Now, would you credit it, that as I fell I saw that Sirius wears a nightcap? True! (Confidentially): The other Bear is still too small to bite. (Laughing): I went through the Lyre, but I snapped a cord; (Grandiloquent): I mean to write the whole thing in a book; The small gold stars, that, wrapped up in my cloak, I carried safe away at no small risks, Will serve for asterisks i' the printed page! DE GUICHE: Come, make an end! I want. . . CYRANO: Oh-ho! You are sly! DE GUICHE: Sir! CYRANO: You would worm all out of me!--the way The moon is made, and if men breathe and live In its rotund cucurbita? DE GUICHE (angrily): No, no! I want. . . CYRANO: Ha, ha!--to know how I got up? Hark, it was by a method all my own. DE GUICHE (wearied): He's mad! CYRANO(contemptuously): No! not for me the stupid eagle Of Regiomontanus, nor the timid Pigeon of Archytas--neither of those! DE GUICHE: Ay, 'tis a fool! But 'tis a learned fool! CYRANO: No imitator I of other men! (De Guiche has succeeded in getting by, and goes toward Roxane's door. Cyrano follows him, ready to stop him by force): Six novel methods, all, this brain invented! DE GUICHE (turning round): Six? CYRANO (volubly): First, with body naked as your hand, Festooned about with crystal flacons, full O' th' tears the early morning dew distils; My body to the sun's fierce rays exposed To let it suck me up, as 't sucks the dew! DE GUICHE (surprised, making one step toward Cyrano): Ah! that makes one! CYRANO (stepping back, and enticing him further away): And then, the second way, To generate wind--for my impetus-- To rarefy air, in a cedar case, By mirrors placed icosahedron-wise. DE GUICHE (making another step): Two! CYRANO (still stepping backward): Or--for I have some mechanic skill-- To make a grasshopper, with springs of steel, And launch myself by quick succeeding fires Saltpeter-fed to the stars' pastures blue! DE GUICHE (unconsciously following him and counting on his fingers): Three! CYRANO: Or (since fumes have property to mount)-- To charge a globe with fumes, sufficiently To carry me aloft! DE GUICHE (same play, more and more astonished): Well, that makes four! CYRANO: Or smear myself with marrow from a bull, Since, at the lowest point of Zodiac, Phoebus well loves to suck that marrow up! DE GUICHE (amazed): Five! CYRANO (who, while speaking, had drawn him to the other side of the square near a bench): Sitting on an iron platform--thence To throw a magnet in the air. This is A method well conceived--the magnet flown, Infallibly the iron will pursue: Then quick! relaunch your magnet, and you thus Can mount and mount unmeasured distances! DE GUICHE: Here are six excellent expedients! Which of the six chose you? CYRANO: Why, none!--a seventh! DE GUICHE: Astonishing! What was it? CYRANO: I'll recount. DE GUICHE: This wild eccentric becomes interesting! CYRANO (making a noise like the waves, with weird gestures): Houuh! Houuh! DE GUICHE: Well. CYRANO: You have guessed? DE GUICHE: Not I! CYRANO: The tide! I' th' witching hour when the moon woos the wave, I laid me, fresh from a sea-bath, on the shore-- And, failing not to put head foremost--for The hair holds the sea-water in its mesh-- I rose in air, straight! straight! like angel's flight, And mounted, mounted, gently, effortless,. . . When lo! a sudden shock! Then. . . DE GUICHE (overcome by curiosity, sitting down on the bench): Then? CYRANO: Oh! then. . . (Suddenly returning to his natural voice): The quarter's gone--I'll hinder you no more: The marriage-vows are made. DE GUICHE (springing up): What? Am I mad? That voice? (The house-door opens. Lackeys appear carrying lighted candelabra. Light. Cyrano gracefully uncovers): That nose--Cyrano? CYRANO (bowing): Cyrano. While we were chatting, they have plighted troth. DE GUICHE: Who? (He turns round. Tableau. Behind the lackeys appear Roxane and Christian, holding each other by the hand. The friar follows them, smiling. Ragueneau also holds a candlestick. The duenna closes the rear, bewildered, having made a hasty toilet): Heavens!

Cyrano de Bergerac.act 4.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 4 scenes 2-3 based on the provided context.

act 4 scene 1|act 4 scenes 2-3|act 4 scene 4

The cadets complain of hunger. Cyrano tries to entertain them with his wit, but when even he cannot cheer them up, he asks an old piper to play some familiar Provencal songs for them and speaks to them of home. When Carbon protests that Cyrano is making them cry, Cyrano responds that it is nobler to cry from homesickness than it is to cry from hunger, because homesickness is moral and hunger is physical.

----------ACT 4 SCENE 1--------- Christian, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, Le Bret, the cadets, then Cyrano. LE BRET: 'Tis terrible. CARBON: Not a morsel left. LE BRET: Mordioux! CARBON (making a sign that he should speak lower): Curse under your breath. You will awake them. (To the cadets): Hush! Sleep on. (To Le Bret): He who sleeps, dines! LE BRET: But that is sorry comfort for the sleepless!. . . What starvation! (Firing is heard in the distance.) CARBON: Oh, plague take their firing! 'Twill wake my sons. (To the cadets, who lift up their heads): Sleep on! (Firing is again heard, nearer this time.) A CADET (moving): The devil!. . .Again. CARBON: 'Tis nothing! 'Tis Cyrano coming back! (Those who have lifted up their heads prepare to sleep again.) A SENTINEL (from without): Ventrebieu! Who goes there? THE VOICE Of CYRANO: Bergerac. The SENTINEL (who is on the redoubt): Ventrebieu! Who goes there? CYRANO (appearing at the top): Bergerac, idiot! (He comes down; Le Bret advances anxiously to meet him.) LE BRET: Heavens! CYRANO (making signs that he should not awake the others): Hush! LE BRET: Wounded? CYRANO: Oh! you know it has become their custom to shoot at me every morning and to miss me. LE BRET: This passes all! To take letters at each day's dawn. To risk. . . CYRANO (stopping before Christian): I promised he should write often. (He looks at him): He sleeps. How pale he is! But how handsome still, despite his sufferings. If his poor little lady-love knew that he is dying of hunger. . . LE BRET: Get you quick to bed. CYRANO: Nay, never scold, Le Bret. I ran but little risk. I have found me a spot to pass the Spanish lines, where each night they lie drunk. LE BRET: You should try to bring us back provision. CYRANO: A man must carry no weight who would get by there! But there will be surprise for us this night. The French will eat or die. . .if I mistake not! LE BRET: Oh!. . .tell me!. . . CYRANO: Nay, not yet. I am not certain. . .You will see! CARBON: It is disgraceful that we should starve while we're besieging! LE BRET: Alas, how full of complication is this siege of Arras! To think that while we are besieging, we should ourselves be caught in a trap and besieged by the Cardinal Infante of Spain. CYRANO: It were well done if he should be besieged in his turn. LE BRET: I am in earnest. CYRANO: Oh! indeed! LE BRET: To think you risk a life so precious. . .for the sake of a letter. . .Thankless one. (Seeing him turning to enter the tent): Where are you going? CYRANO: I am going to write another. (He enters the tent and disappears.) ----------ACT 4 SCENES 2-3--------- The same, all but Cyrano. The day is breaking in a rosy light. The town of Arras is golden in the horizon. The report of cannon is heard in the distance, followed immediately by the beating of drums far away to the left. Other drums are heard much nearer. Sounds of stirring in the camp. Voices of officers in the distance. CARBON (sighing): The reveille! (The cadets move and stretch themselves): Nourishing sleep! Thou art at an end!. . .I know well what will be their first cry! A CADET (sitting up): I am so hungry! ANOTHER: I am dying of hunger. TOGETHER: Oh! CARBON: Up with you! THIRD CADET: --Cannot move a limb. FOURTH CADET: Nor can I. THE FIRST (looking at himself in a bit of armor): My tongue is yellow. The air at this season of the year is hard to digest. ANOTHER: My coronet for a bit of Chester! ANOTHER: If none can furnish to my gaster wherewith to make a pint of chyle, I shall retire to my tent--like Achilles! ANOTHER: Oh! something! were it but a crust! CARBON (going to the tent and calling softly): Cyrano! ALL THE CADETS: We are dying! CARBON (continuing to speak under his breath at the opening of the tent): Come to my aid, you, who have the art of quick retort and gay jest. Come, hearten them up. SECOND CADET (rushing toward another who is munching something): What are you crunching there? FIRST CADET: Cannon-wads soaked in axle-grease! 'Tis poor hunting round about Arras! A CADET (entering): I have been after game. ANOTHER (following him): And I after fish. ALL (rushing to the two newcomers): Well! what have you brought?--a pheasant?--a carp?--Come, show us quick! THE ANGLER: A gudgeon! THE SPORTSMAN: A sparrow! ALL TOGETHER (beside themselves): 'Tis more than can be borne! We will mutiny! CARBON: Cyrano! Come to my help. (The daylight has now come.) The SAME. Cyrano. CYRANO (appearing from the tent, very calm, with a pen stuck behind his ear and a book in his hand): What is wrong? (Silence. To the first cadet): Why drag you your legs so sorrowfully? THE CADET: I have something in my heels which weighs them down. CYRANO: And what may that be? THE CADET: My stomach! CYRANO: So have I, 'faith! THE CADET: It must be in your way? CYRANO: Nay, I am all the taller. A THIRD: My stomach's hollow. CYRANO: 'Faith, 'twill make a fine drum to sound the assault. ANOTHER: I have a ringing in my ears. CYRANO: No, no, 'tis false; a hungry stomach has no ears. ANOTHER: Oh, to eat something--something oily! CYRANO (pulling off the cadet's helmet and holding it out to him): Behold your salad! ANOTHER: What, in God's name, can we devour? CYRANO (throwing him the book which he is carrying): The 'Iliad'. ANOTHER: The first minister in Paris has his four meals a day! CYRANO: 'Twere courteous an he sent you a few partridges! THE SAME: And why not? with wine, too! CYRANO: A little Burgundy. Richelieu, s'il vous plait! THE SAME: He could send it by one of his friars. CYRANO: Ay! by His Eminence Joseph himself. ANOTHER: I am as ravenous as an ogre! CYRANO: Eat your patience, then. THE FIRST CADET (shrugging his shoulders): Always your pointed word! CYRANO: Ay, pointed words! I would fain die thus, some soft summer eve, Making a pointed word for a good cause. --To make a soldier's end by soldier's sword, Wielded by some brave adversary--die On blood-stained turf, not on a fever-bed, A point upon my lips, a point within my heart. CRIES FROM ALL: I'm hungry! CYRANO (crossing his arms): All your thoughts of meat and drink! Bertrand the fifer!--you were shepherd once,-- Draw from its double leathern case your fife, Play to these greedy, guzzling soldiers. Play Old country airs with plaintive rhythm recurring, Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear home-voices, Each note of which calls like a little sister, Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smoke-wreaths Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets, Their music strikes the ear like Gascon patois!. . . (The old man seats himself, and gets his flute ready): Your flute was now a warrior in durance; But on its stem your fingers are a-dancing A bird-like minuet! O flute! Remember That flutes were made of reeds first, not laburnum; Make us a music pastoral days recalling-- The soul-time of your youth, in country pastures!. . . (The old man begins to play the airs of Languedoc): Hark to the music, Gascons!. . .'Tis no longer The piercing fife of camp--but 'neath his fingers The flute of the woods! No more the call to combat, 'Tis now the love-song of the wandering goat-herds!. . . Hark!. . .'tis the valley, the wet landes, the forest, The sunburnt shepherd-boy with scarlet beret, The dusk of evening on the Dordogne river,-- 'Tis Gascony! Hark, Gascons, to the music! (The cadets sit with bowed heads; their eyes have a far-off look as if dreaming, and they surreptitiously wipe away their tears with their cuffs and the corner of their cloaks.) CARBON (to Cyrano in a whisper): But you make them weep! CYRANO: Ay, for homesickness. A nobler pain than hunger,--'tis of the soul, not of the body! I am well pleased to see their pain change its viscera. Heart-ache is better than stomach-ache. CARBON: But you weaken their courage by playing thus on their heart-strings! CYRANO (making a sign to a drummer to approach): Not I. The hero that sleeps in Gascon blood is ever ready to awake in them. 'Twould suffice. . . (He makes a signal; the drum beats.) ALL THE CADETS (stand up and rush to take arms): What? What is it? CYRANO (smiling): You see! One roll of the drum is enough! Good-by dreams, regrets, native land, love. . .All that the pipe called forth the drum has chased away! A CADET (looking toward the back of the stage): Ho! here comes Monsieur de Guiche. ALL THE CADETS (muttering): Ugh!. . .Ugh!. . . CYRANO (smiling): A flattering welcome! A CADET: We are sick to death of him! ANOTHER CADET: --With his lace collar over his armor, playing the fine gentleman! ANOTHER: As if one wore linen over steel! THE FIRST: It were good for a bandage had he boils on his neck. THE SECOND: Another plotting courtier! ANOTHER CADET: His uncle's own nephew! CARBON: For all that--a Gascon. THE FIRST: Ay, false Gascon!. . .trust him not. . . Gascons should ever be crack-brained. . . Naught more dangerous than a rational Gascon. LE BRET: How pale he is! ANOTHER: Oh! he is hungry, just like us poor devils; but under his cuirass, with its fine gilt nails, his stomach-ache glitters brave in the sun. CYRANO (hurriedly): Let us not seem to suffer either! Out with your cards, pipes, and dice. . . (All begin spreading out the games on the drums, the stools, the ground, and on their cloaks, and light long pipes): And I shall read Descartes. (He walks up and down, reading a little book which he has drawn from his pocket. Tableau. Enter De Guiche. All appear absorbed and happy. He is very pale. He goes up to Carbon.) ----------ACT 4 SCENE 4--------- The same. De Guiche. DE GUICHE (to Carbon): Good-day! (They examine each other. Aside, with satisfaction): He's green. CARBON (aside): He has nothing left but eyes. DE GUICHE (looking at the cadets): Here are the rebels! Ay, Sirs, on all sides I hear that in your ranks you scoff at me; That the Cadets, these loutish, mountain-bred, Poor country squires, and barons of Perigord, Scarce find for me--their Colonel--a disdain Sufficient! call me plotter, wily courtier! It does not please their mightiness to see A point-lace collar on my steel cuirass,-- And they enrage, because a man, in sooth, May be no ragged-robin, yet a Gascon! (Silence. All smoke and play): Shall I command your Captain punish you? No. CARBON: I am free, moreover,--will not punish-- DE GUICHE: Ah! CARBON: I have paid my company--'tis mine. I bow but to headquarters. DE GUICHE: So?--in faith! That will suffice. (Addressing himself to the cadets): I can despise your taunts 'Tis well known how I bear me in the war; At Bapaume, yesterday, they saw the rage With which I beat back the Count of Bucquoi; Assembling my own men, I fell on his, And charged three separate times! CYRANO (without lifting his eyes from his book): And your white scarf? DE GUICHE (surprised and gratified): You know that detail?. . .Troth! It happened thus: While caracoling to recall the troops For the third charge, a band of fugitives Bore me with them, close by the hostile ranks: I was in peril--capture, sudden death!-- When I thought of the good expedient To loosen and let fall the scarf which told My military rank; thus I contrived --Without attention waked--to leave the foes, And suddenly returning, reinforced With my own men, to scatter them! And now, --What say you, Sir? (The cadets pretend not to be listening, but the cards and the dice-boxes remain suspended in their hands, the smoke of their pipes in their cheeks. They wait.) CYRANO: I say, that Henri Quatre Had not, by any dangerous odds, been forced To strip himself of his white helmet plume. (Silent delight. The cards fall, the dice rattle. The smoke is puffed.) DE GUICHE: The ruse succeeded, though! (Same suspension of play, etc.) CYRANO: Oh, may be! But One does not lightly abdicate the honor To serve as target to the enemy (Cards, dice, fall again, and the cadets smoke with evident delight): Had I been present when your scarf fell low, --Our courage, Sir, is of a different sort-- I would have picked it up and put it on. DE GUICHE: Oh, ay! Another Gascon boast! CYRANO: A boast? Lend it to me. I pledge myself, to-night, --With it across my breast,--to lead th' assault. DE GUICHE: Another Gascon vaunt! You know the scarf Lies with the enemy, upon the brink Of the stream,. . .the place is riddled now with shot,-- No one can fetch it hither! CYRANO (drawing the scarf from his pocket, and holding it out to him): Here it is. (Silence. The cadets stifle their laughter in their cards and dice-boxes. De Guiche turns and looks at them; they instantly become grave, and set to play. One of them whistles indifferently the air just played by the fifer.) DE GUICHE (taking the scarf): I thank you. It will now enable me To make a signal,--that I had forborne To make--till now. (He goes to the rampart, climbs it, and waves the scarf thrice.) ALL: What's that? THE SENTINEL (from the top of the rampart): See you yon man Down there, who runs?. . . DE GUICHE (descending): 'Tis a false Spanish spy Who is extremely useful to my ends. The news he carries to the enemy Are those I prompt him with--so, in a word, We have an influence on their decisions! CYRANO: Scoundrel! DE GUICHE (carelessly knotting on his scarf): 'Tis opportune. What were we saying? Ah! I have news for you. Last evening --To victual us--the Marshal did attempt A final effort:--secretly he went To Dourlens, where the King's provisions be. But--to return to camp more easily-- He took with him a goodly force of troops. Those who attacked us now would have fine sport! Half of the army's absent from the camp! CARBON: Ay, if the Spaniards knew, 'twere ill for us, But they know nothing of it? DE GUICHE: Oh! they know. They will attack us. CARBON: Ah! DE GUICHE: For my false spy Came to warn me of their attack. He said, 'I can decide the point for their assault; Where would you have it? I will tell them 'tis The least defended--they'll attempt you there.' I answered, 'Good. Go out of camp, but watch My signal. Choose the point from whence it comes.' CARBON (to cadets): Make ready! (All rise; sounds of swords and belts being buckled.) DE GUICHE: 'Twill be in an hour. FIRST CADET: Good!. . . (They all sit down again and take up their games.) DE GUICHE (to Carbon): Time must be gained. The Marshal will return. CARBON: How gain it? DE GUICHE: You will all be good enough To let yourselves to be killed. CYRANO: Vengeance! oho! DE GUICHE: I do not say that, if I loved you well, I had chosen you and yours,--but, as things stand,-- Your courage yielding to no corps the palm-- I serve my King, and serve my grudge as well. CYRANO: Permit that I express my gratitude. . . DE GUICHE: I know you love to fight against five score; You will not now complain of paltry odds. (He goes up with Carbon.) CYRANO (to the cadets): We shall add to the Gascon coat of arms, With its six bars of blue and gold, one more-- The blood-red bar that was a-missing there! (De Guiche speaks in a low voice with Carbon at the back. Orders are given. Preparations go forward. Cyrano goes up to Christian, who stands with crossed arms.) CYRANO (putting his hand on Christian's shoulder): Christian! CHRISTIAN (shaking his head): Roxane! CYRANO: Alas! CHRISTIAN: At least, I'd send My heart's farewell to her in a fair letter!. . . CYRANO: I had suspicion it would be to-day, (He draws a letter out of his doublet): And had already writ. . . CHRISTIAN: Show! CYRANO: Will you. . .? CHRISTIAN (taking the letter): Ay! (He opens and reads it): Hold! CYRANO: What? CHRISTIAN: This little spot! CYRANO (taking the letter, with an innocent look): A spot? CHRISTIAN: A tear! CYRANO: Poets, at last,--by dint of counterfeiting-- Take counterfeit for true--that is the charm! This farewell letter,--it was passing sad, I wept myself in writing it! CHRISTIAN: Wept? why? CYRANO: Oh!. . .death itself is hardly terrible,. . . --But, ne'er to see her more! That is death's sting! --For. . .I shall never. . . (Christian looks at him): We shall. . . (Quickly): I mean, you. . . CHRISTIAN (snatching the letter from him): Give me that letter! (A rumor, far off in the camp.) VOICE Of SENTINEL: Who goes there? Halloo! (Shots--voices--carriage-bells.) CARBON: What is it? A SENTINEL (on the rampart): 'Tis a carriage! (All rush to see.) CRIES: In the camp? It enters!--It comes from the enemy! --Fire!--No!--The coachman cries!--What does he say? --'On the King's service!' (Everyone is on the rampart, staring. The bells come nearer.) DE GUICHE: The King's service? How? (All descend and draw up in line.) CARBON: Uncover, all! DE GUICHE: The King's! Draw up in line! Let him describe his curve as it befits! (The carriage enters at full speed covered with dust and mud. The curtains are drawn close. Two lackeys behind. It is pulled up suddenly.) CARBON: Beat a salute! (A roll of drums. The cadets uncover.) DE GUICHE: Lower the carriage-steps! (Two cadets rush forward. The door opens.) ROXANE (jumping down from the carriage): Good-day! (All are bowing to the ground, but at the sound of a woman's voice every head is instantly raised.)

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 4 scenes 5-7, utilizing the provided context.

act 4 scenes 5-7|act 4 scene 8|act 4 scene 9-10

When the carriage comes to a halt, everyone is astonished to see Roxane alight from it. She has charmed her way through the Spanish lines and gaily explains that this siege has gone on too long. De Guiche and Cyrano try to convince her to leave, but she refuses. The cadets are introduced to Roxane. She gives them her dainty handkerchief to use as a banner. She has managed to bring a carriage load of gourmet food with her, and with Ragueneau's help, she dispenses it to the cadets. They eat hungrily, but hide the food when De Guiche returns. De Guiche announces that he has brought a cannon for the cadets. He says that if Roxane will not leave the encampment and return to safety he will stay, too. Cyrano cautions Christian to remember about all the letters written to Roxane in Christian's behalf.

----------ACT 4 SCENES 5-7--------- The same. Roxane. DE GUICHE: On the King's service! You? ROXANE: Ay,--King Love's! What other king? CYRANO: Great God! CHRISTIAN (rushing forward): Why have you come? ROXANE: This siege--'tis too long! CHRISTIAN: But why?. . . ROXANE: I will tell you all! CYRANO (who, at the sound of her voice, has stood still, rooted to the ground, afraid to raise his eyes): My God! dare I look at her? DE GUICHE: You cannot remain here! ROXANE (merrily): But I say yes! Who will push a drum hither for me? (She seats herself on the drum they roll forward): So! I thank you. (She laughs): My carriage was fired at (proudly): by the patrol! Look! would you not think 'twas made of a pumpkin, like Cinderella's chariot in the tale,--and the footmen out of rats? (Sending a kiss with her lips to Christian): Good-morrow! (Examining them all): You look not merry, any of you! Ah! know you that 'tis a long road to get to Arras? (Seeing Cyrano): Cousin, delighted! CYRANO (coming up to her): But how, in Heaven's name?. . . ROXANE: How found I the way to the army? It was simple enough, for I had but to pass on and on, as far as I saw the country laid waste. Ah, what horrors were there! Had I not seen, then I could never have believed it! Well, gentlemen, if such be the service of your King, I would fainer serve mine! CYRANO: But 'tis sheer madness! Where in the fiend's name did you get through? ROXANE: Where? Through the Spanish lines. FIRST CADET: --For subtle craft, give me a woman! DE GUICHE: But how did you pass through their lines? LE BRET: Faith! that must have been a hard matter!. . . ROXANE: None too hard. I but drove quietly forward in my carriage, and when some hidalgo of haughty mien would have stayed me, lo! I showed at the window my sweetest smile, and these Senors being (with no disrespect to you) the most gallant gentlemen in the world,--I passed on! CARBON: True, that smile is a passport! But you must have been asked frequently to give an account of where you were going, Madame? ROXANE: Yes, frequently. Then I would answer, 'I go to see my lover.' At that word the very fiercest Spaniard of them all would gravely shut the carriage-door, and, with a gesture that a king might envy, make signal to his men to lower the muskets leveled at me;--then, with melancholy but withal very graceful dignity--his beaver held to the wind that the plumes might flutter bravely, he would bow low, saying to me, 'Pass on, Senorita!' CHRISTIAN: But, Roxane. . . ROXANE: Forgive me that I said, 'my lover!' But bethink you, had I said 'my husband,' not one of them had let me pass! CHRISTIAN: But. . . ROXANE: What ails you? DE GUICHE: You must leave this place! ROXANE: I? CYRANO: And that instantly! LE BRET: No time to lose. CHRISTIAN: Indeed, you must. ROXANE: But wherefore must I? CHRISTIAN (embarrassed): 'Tis that. . . CYRANO (the same): --In three quarters of an hour. . . DE GUICHE (the same): --Or for. . . CARBON (the same): It were best. . . LE BRET (the same): You might. . . ROXANE: You are going to fight?--I stay here. ALL: No, no! ROXANE: He is my husband! (She throws herself into Christian's arms): They shall kill us both together! CHRISTIAN: Why do you look at me thus? ROXANE: I will tell you why! DE GUICHE (in despair): 'Tis a post of mortal danger! ROXANE (turning round): Mortal danger! CYRANO: Proof enough, that he has put us here! ROXANE (to De Guiche): So, Sir, you would have made a widow of me? DE GUICHE: Nay, on my oath. . . ROXANE: I will not go! I am reckless now, and I shall not stir from here!--Besides, 'tis amusing! CYRANO: Oh-ho! So our precieuse is a heroine! ROXANE: Monsieur de Bergerac, I am your cousin. A CADET: We will defend you well! ROXANE (more and more excited): I have no fear of that, my friends! ANOTHER (in ecstasy): The whole camp smells sweet of orris-root! ROXANE: And, by good luck, I have chosen a hat that will suit well with the battlefield! (Looking at De Guiche): But were it not wisest that the Count retire? They may begin the attack. DE GUICHE: That is not to be brooked! I go to inspect the cannon, and shall return. You have still time--think better of it! ROXANE: Never! (De Guiche goes out.) The same, all but De Guiche. CHRISTIAN (entreatingly): Roxane! ROXANE: No! FIRST CADET (to the others): She stays! ALL (hurrying, hustling each other, tidying themselves): A comb!--Soap!--My uniform is torn!--A needle!--A ribbon!--Lend your mirror!--My cuffs!--Your curling-iron!--A razor!. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano, who still pleads with her): No! Naught shall make me stir from this spot! CARBON (who, like the others, has been buckling, dusting, brushing his hat, settling his plume, and drawing on his cuffs, advances to Roxane, and ceremoniously): It is perchance more seemly, since things are thus, that I present to you some of these gentlemen who are about to have the honor of dying before your eyes. (Roxane bows, and stands leaning on Christian's arm, while Carbon introduces the cadets to her): Baron de Peyrescous de Colignac! THE CADET (with a low reverence): Madame. . . CARBON (continuing): Baron de Casterac de Cahuzac,--Vidame de Malgouyre Estressac Lesbas d'Escarabiot, Chevalier d'Antignac-Juzet, Baron Hillot de Blagnac-Salechan de Castel Crabioules. . . ROXANE: But how many names have you each? BARON HILLOT: Scores! CARBON (to Roxane): Pray, upon the hand that holds your kerchief. ROXANE (opens her hand, and the handkerchief falls): Why? (The whole company start forward to pick it up.) CARBON (quickly raising it): My company had no flag. But now, by my faith, they will have the fairest in all the camp! ROXANE (smiling): 'Tis somewhat small. CARBON (tying the handkerchief on the staff of his lance): But--'tis of lace! A CADET (to the rest): I could die happy, having seen so sweet a face, if I had something in my stomach--were it but a nut! CARBON (who has overheard, indignantly): Shame on you! What, talk of eating when a lovely woman!. . . ROXANE: But your camp air is keen; I myself am famished. Pasties, cold fricassee, old wines--there is my bill of fare? Pray bring it all here. (Consternation.) A CADET: All that? ANOTHER: But where on earth find it? ROXANE (quietly): In my carriage. ALL: How? ROXANE: Now serve up--carve! Look a little closer at my coachman, gentlemen, and you will recognize a man most welcome. All the sauces can be sent to table hot, if we will! THE CADETS (rushing pellmell to the carriage): 'Tis Ragueneau! (Acclamations): Oh, oh! ROXANE (looking after them): Poor fellows! CYRANO (kissing her hand): Kind fairy! RAGUENEAU (standing on the box like a quack doctor at a fair): Gentlemen!. . . (General delight.) THE CADETS: Bravo! bravo! RAGUENEAU: . . .The Spaniards, gazing on a lady so dainty fair, overlooked the fare so dainty!. . . (Applause.) CYRANO (in a whisper to Christian): Hark, Christian! RAGUENEAU: . . .And, occupied with gallantry, perceived not-- (His draws a plate from under the seat, and holds it up): --The galantine!. . . (Applause. The galantine passes from hand to hand.) CYRANO (still whispering to Christian): Prythee, one word! RAGUENEAU: And Venus so attracted their eyes that Diana could secretly pass by with-- (He holds up a shoulder of mutton): --her fawn! (Enthusiasm. Twenty hands are held out to seize the shoulder of mutton.) CYRANO (in a low whisper to Christian): I must speak to you! ROXANE (to the cadets, who come down, their arms laden with food): Put it all on the ground! (She lays all out on the grass, aided by the two imperturbable lackeys who were behind the carriage.) ROXANE (to Christian, just as Cyrano is drawing him apart): Come, make yourself of use! (Christian comes to help her. Cyrano's uneasiness increases.) RAGUENEAU: Truffled peacock! FIRST CADET (radiant, coming down, cutting a big slice of ham): By the mass! We shall not brave the last hazard without having had a gullet-full!-- (quickly correcting himself on seeing Roxane): --Pardon! A Balthazar feast! RAGUENEAU (throwing down the carriage cushions): The cushions are stuffed with ortolans! (Hubbub. They tear open and turn out the contents of the cushions. Bursts of laughter--merriment.) THIRD CADET: Ah! Viedaze! RAGUENEAU (throwing down to the cadets bottles of red wine): Flasks of rubies!-- (and white wine): --Flasks of topaz! ROXANE (throwing a folded tablecloth at Cyrano's head): Unfold me that napkin!--Come, come! be nimble! RAGUENEAU (waving a lantern): Each of the carriage-lamps is a little larder! CYRANO (in a low voice to Christian, as they arrange the cloth together): I must speak with you ere you speak to her. RAGUENEAU: My whip-handle is an Arles sausage! ROXANE (pouring out wine, helping): Since we are to die, let the rest of the army shift for itself. All for the Gascons! And mark! if De Guiche comes, let no one invite him! (Going from one to the other): There! there! You have time enough! Do not eat too fast!--Drink a little.- -Why are you crying? FIRST CADET: It is all so good!. . . ROXANE: Tut!--Red or white?--Some bread for Monsieur de Carbon!--a knife! Pass your plate!--a little of the crust? Some more? Let me help you!--Some champagne?- -A wing? CYRANO (who follows her, his arms laden with dishes, helping her to wait on everybody): How I worship her! ROXANE (going up to Christian): What will you? CHRISTIAN: Nothing. ROXANE: Nay, nay, take this biscuit, steeped in muscat; come!. . .but two drops! CHRISTIAN (trying to detain her): Oh! tell me why you came? ROXANE: Wait; my first duty is to these poor fellows.--Hush! In a few minutes. . . LE BRET (who had gone up to pass a loaf on the end of a lance to the sentry on the rampart): De Guiche! CYRANO: Quick! hide flasks, plates, pie-dishes, game-baskets! Hurry!--Let us all look unconscious! (To Ragueneau): Up on your seat!--Is everything covered up? (In an instant all has been pushed into the tents, or hidden under doublets, cloaks, and beavers. De Guiche enters hurriedly--stops suddenly, sniffing the air. Silence.) The same. De Guiche. DE GUICHE: It smells good here. A CADET (humming): Lo! Lo-lo! DE GUICHE (looking at him): What is the matter?--You are very red. THE CADET: The matter?--Nothing!--'Tis my blood--boiling at the thought of the coming battle! ANOTHER: Poum, poum--poum. . . DE GUICHE (turning round): What's that? THE CADET (slightly drunk): Nothing!. . .'Tis a song!--a little. . . DE GUICHE: You are merry, my friend! THE CADET: The approach of danger is intoxicating! DE GUICHE (calling Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, to give him an order): Captain! I. . . (He stops short on seeing him): Plague take me! but you look bravely, too! CARBON (crimson in the face, hiding a bottle behind his back, with an evasive movement): Oh!. . . DE GUICHE: I have one cannon left, and have had it carried there-- (he points behind the scenes): --in that corner. . .Your men can use it in case of need. A CADET (reeling slightly): Charming attention! ANOTHER (with a gracious smile): Kind solicitude! DE GUICHE: How? they are all gone crazy? (Drily): As you are not used to cannon, beware of the recoil. FIRST CADET: Pooh! DE GUICHE (furious, going up to him): But. . . THE CADET: Gascon cannons never recoil! DE GUICHE (taking him by the arm and shaking him): You are tipsy!--but what with? THE CADET (grandiloquently): --With the smell of powder! DE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders and pushing him away, then going quickly to Roxane): Briefly, Madame, what decision do you deign to take? ROXANE: I stay here. DE GUICHE: You must fly! ROXANE: No! I will stay. DE GUICHE: Since things are thus, give me a musket, one of you! CARBON: Wherefore? DE GUICHE: Because I too--mean to remain. CYRANO: At last! This is true valor, Sir! FIRST CADET: Then you are Gascon after all, spite of your lace collar? ROXANE: What is all this? DE GUICHE: I leave no woman in peril. SECOND CADET (to the first): Hark you! Think you not we might give him something to eat? (All the viands reappear as if by magic.) DE GUICHE (whose eyes sparkle): Victuals! THE THIRD CADET: Yes, you'll see them coming from under every coat! DE GUICHE (controlling himself, haughtily): Do you think I will eat your leavings? CYRANO (saluting him): You make progress. DE GUICHE (proudly, with a light touch of accent on the word 'breaking'): I will fight without br-r-eaking my fast! FIRST CADET (with wild delight): Br-r-r-eaking! He has got the accent! DE GUICHE (laughing): I? THE CADET: 'Tis a Gascon! (All begin to dance.) CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX (who had disappeared behind the rampart, reappearing on the ridge): I have drawn my pikemen up in line. They are a resolute troop. (He points to a row of pikes, the tops of which are seen over the ridge.) DE GUICHE (bowing to Roxane): Will you accept my hand, and accompany me while I review them? (She takes it, and they go up toward the rampart. All uncover and follow them.) CHRISTIAN (going to Cyrano, eagerly): Tell me quickly! (As Roxane appears on the ridge, the tops of the lances disappear, lowered for the salute, and a shout is raised. She bows.) THE PIKEMEN (outside): Vivat! CHRISTIAN: What is this secret? CYRANO: If Roxane should. . . CHRISTIAN: Should?. . . CYRANO: Speak of the letters?. . . CHRISTIAN: Yes, I know!. . . CYRANO: Do not spoil all by seeming surprised. . . CHRISTIAN: At what? CYRANO: I must explain to you!. . .Oh! 'tis no great matter--I but thought of it to- day on seeing her. You have. . . CHRISTIAN: Tell quickly! CYRANO: You have. . .written to her oftener than you think. . . CHRISTIAN: How so? CYRANO: Thus, 'faith! I had taken it in hand to express your flame for you!. . .At times I wrote without saying, 'I am writing!' CHRISTIAN: Ah!. . . CYRANO: 'Tis simple enough! CHRISTIAN: But how did you contrive, since we have been cut off, thus. . .to?. . . CYRANO: . . .Oh! before dawn. . .I was able to get through. . . CHRISTIAN (folding his arms): That was simple, too? And how oft, pray you, have I written?. . .Twice in the week?. . .Three times?. . .Four?. . . CYRANO: More often still. CHRISTIAN: What! Every day? CYRANO: Yes, every day,--twice. CHRISTIAN (violently): And that became so mad a joy for you, that you braved death. . . CYRANO (seeing Roxane returning): Hush! Not before her! (He goes hurriedly into his tent.) ----------ACT 4 SCENE 8--------- Roxane, Christian. In the distance cadets coming and going. Carbon and De Guiche give orders. ROXANE (running up to Christian): Ah, Christian, at last!. . . CHRISTIAN (taking her hands): Now tell me why-- Why, by these fearful paths so perilous-- Across these ranks of ribald soldiery, You have come? ROXANE: Love, your letters brought me here! CHRISTIAN: What say you? ROXANE: 'Tis your fault if I ran risks! Your letters turned my head! Ah! all this month, How many!--and the last one ever bettered The one that went before! CHRISTIAN: What!--for a few Inconsequent love-letters! ROXANE: Hold your peace! Ah! you cannot conceive it! Ever since That night, when, in a voice all new to me, Under my window you revealed your soul-- Ah! ever since I have adored you! Now Your letters all this whole month long!--meseemed As if I heard that voice so tender, true, Sheltering, close! Thy fault, I say! It drew me, The voice o' th' night! Oh! wise Penelope Would ne'er have stayed to broider on her hearthstone, If her Ulysses could have writ such letters! But would have cast away her silken bobbins, And fled to join him, mad for love as Helen! CHRISTIAN: But. . . ROXANE: I read, read again--grew faint for love; I was thine utterly. Each separate page Was like a fluttering flower-petal, loosed From your own soul, and wafted thus to mine. Imprinted in each burning word was love Sincere, all-powerful. . . CHRISTIAN: A love sincere! Can that be felt, Roxane! ROXANE: Ay, that it can! CHRISTIAN: You come. . .? ROXANE: O, Christian, my true lord, I come-- (Were I to throw myself, here, at your knees, You would raise me--but 'tis my soul I lay At your feet--you can raise it nevermore!) --I come to crave your pardon. (Ay, 'tis time To sue for pardon, now that death may come!) For the insult done to you when, frivolous, At first I loved you only for your face! CHRISTIAN (horror-stricken): Roxane! ROXANE: And later, love--less frivolous-- Like a bird that spreads its wings, but can not fly-- Arrested by your beauty, by your soul Drawn close--I loved for both at once! CHRISTIAN: And now? ROXANE: Ah! you yourself have triumphed o'er yourself, And now, I love you only for your soul! CHRISTIAN (stepping backward): Roxane! ROXANE: Be happy. To be loved for beauty-- A poor disguise that time so soon wears threadbare-- Must be to noble souls--to souls aspiring-- A torture. Your dear thoughts have now effaced That beauty that so won me at the outset. Now I see clearer--and I no more see it! CHRISTIAN: Oh!. . . ROXANE: You are doubtful of such victory? CHRISTIAN (pained): Roxane! ROXANE: I see you cannot yet believe it. Such love. . .? CHRISTIAN: I do not ask such love as that! I would be loved more simply; for. . . ROXANE: For that Which they have all in turns loved in thee?-- Shame! Oh! be loved henceforth in a better way! CHRISTIAN: No! the first love was best! ROXANE: Ah! how you err! 'Tis now that I love best--love well! 'Tis that Which is thy true self, see!--that I adore! Were your brilliance dimmed. . . CHRISTIAN: Hush! ROXANE: I should love still! Ay, if your beauty should to-day depart. . . CHRISTIAN: Say not so! ROXANE: Ay, I say it! CHRISTIAN: Ugly? How? ROXANE: Ugly! I swear I'd love you still! CHRISTIAN: My God! ROXANE: Are you content at last? CHRISTIAN (in a choked voice): Ay!. . . ROXANE: What is wrong? CHRISTIAN (gently pushing her away): Nothing. . .I have two words to say:--one second. . . ROXANE: But?. . . CHRISTIAN (pointing to the cadets): Those poor fellows, shortly doomed to death,-- My love deprives them of the sight of you: Go,--speak to them--smile on them ere they die! ROXANE (deeply affected): Dear Christian!. . . (She goes up to the cadets, who respectfully crowd round her.) ----------ACT 4 SCENE 9-10--------- Christian, Cyrano. At back Roxane talking to Carbon and some cadets. CHRISTIAN (calling toward Cyrano's tent): Cyrano! CYRANO (reappearing, fully armed): What? Why so pale? CHRISTIAN: She does not love me! CYRANO: What? CHRISTIAN: 'Tis you she loves! CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: --For she loves me only for my soul! CYRANO: Truly? CHRISTIAN: Yes! Thus--you see, that soul is you,. . . Therefore, 'tis you she loves!--And you--love her! CYRANO: I? CHRISTIAN: Oh, I know it! CYRANO: Ay, 'tis true! CHRISTIAN: You love To madness! CYRANO: Ay! and worse! CHRISTIAN: Then tell her so! CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: And why not? CYRANO: Look at my face!--be answered! CHRISTIAN: She'd love me--were I ugly. CYRANO: Said she so? CHRISTIAN: Ay! in those words! CYRANO: I'm glad she told you that! But pooh!--believe it not! I am well pleased She thought to tell you. Take it not for truth. Never grow ugly:--she'd reproach me then! CHRISTIAN: That I intend discovering! CYRANO: No! I beg! CHRISTIAN: Ay! she shall choose between us!--Tell her all! CYRANO: No! no! I will not have it! Spare me this! CHRISTIAN: Because my face is haply fair, shall I Destroy your happiness? 'Twere too unjust! CYRANO: And I,--because by Nature's freak I have The gift to say--all that perchance you feel. Shall I be fatal to your happiness? CHRISTIAN: Tell all! CYRANO: It is ill done to tempt me thus! CHRISTIAN: Too long I've borne about within myself A rival to myself--I'll make an end! CYRANO: Christian! CHRISTIAN: Our union, without witness--secret-- Clandestine--can be easily dissolved If we survive. CYRANO: My God!--he still persists! CHRISTIAN: I will be loved myself--or not at all! --I'll go see what they do--there, at the end Of the post: speak to her, and then let her choose One of us two! CYRANO: It will be you. CHRISTIAN: Pray God! (He calls): Roxane! CYRANO: No! no! ROXANE (coming up quickly): What? CHRISTIAN: Cyrano has things Important for your ear. . . (She hastens to Cyrano. Christian goes out.) Roxane, Cyrano. Then Le Bret, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, Ragueneau, De Guiche, etc. ROXANE: Important, how? CYRANO (in despair. to Roxane): He's gone! 'Tis naught!--Oh, you know how he sees Importance in a trifle! ROXANE (warmly): Did he doubt Of what I said?--Ah, yes, I saw he doubted! CYRANO (taking her hand): But are you sure you told him all the truth? ROXANE: Yes, I would love him were he. . . (She hesitates.) CYRANO: Does that word Embarrass you before my face, Roxane? ROXANE: I. . . CYRANO (smiling sadly): 'Twill not hurt me! Say it! If he were Ugly!. . . ROXANE: Yes, ugly! (Musket report outside): Hark! I hear a shot! CYRANO (ardently): Hideous! ROXANE: Hideous! yes! CYRANO: Disfigured. ROXANE: Ay! CYRANO: Grotesque? ROXANE: He could not be grotesque to me! CYRANO: You'd love the same?. . . ROXANE: The same--nay, even more! CYRANO (losing command over himself--aside): My God! it's true, perchance, love waits me there! (To Roxane): I. . .Roxane. . .listen. . . LE BRET (entering hurriedly--to Cyrano): Cyrano! CYRANO (turning round): What? LE BRET: Hush! (He whispers something to him.) CYRANO (letting go Roxane's hand and exclaiming): Ah, God! ROXANE: What is it? CYRANO (to himself--stunned): All is over now. (Renewed reports.) ROXANE: What is the matter? Hark! another shot! (She goes up to look outside.) CYRANO: It is too late, now I can never tell! ROXANE (trying to rush out): What has chanced? CYRANO (rushing to stop her): Nothing! (Some cadets enter, trying to hide something they are carrying, and close round it to prevent Roxane approaching.) ROXANE: And those men? (Cyrano draws her away): What were you just about to say before. . .? CYRANO: What was I saying? Nothing now, I swear! (Solemnly): I swear that Christian's soul, his nature, were. . . (Hastily correcting himself): Nay, that they are, the noblest, greatest. . . ROXANE: Were? (With a loud scream): Oh! (She rushes up, pushing every one aside.) CYRANO: All is over now! ROXANE (seeing Christian lying on the ground, wrapped in his cloak): O Christian! LE BRET (to Cyrano): Struck by first shot of the enemy! (Roxane flings herself down by Christian. Fresh reports of cannon--clash of arms--clamor--beating of drums.) CARBON (with sword in the air): O come! Your muskets. (Followed by the cadets, he passes to the other side of the ramparts.) ROXANE: Christian! THE VOICE OF CARBON (from the other side): Ho! make haste! ROXANE: Christian! CARBON: FORM LINE! ROXANE: Christian! CARBON: HANDLE YOUR MATCH! (Ragueneau rushes up, bringing water in a helmet.) CHRISTIAN (in a dying voice): Roxane! CYRANO (quickly, whispering into Christian's ear, while Roxane distractedly tears a piece of linen from his breast, which she dips into the water, trying to stanch the bleeding): I told her all. She loves you still. (Christian closes his eyes.) ROXANE: How, my sweet love? CARBON: DRAW RAMRODS! ROXANE (to Cyrano): He is not dead? CARBON: OPEN YOUR CHARGES WITH YOUR TEETH! ROXANE: His cheek Grows cold against my own! CARBON: READY! PRESENT! ROXANE (seeing a letter in Christian's doublet): A letter!. . . 'Tis for me! (She opens it.) CYRANO (aside): My letter! CARBON: FIRE! (Musket reports--shouts--noise of battle.) CYRANO (trying to disengage his hand, which Roxane on her knees is holding): But, Roxane, hark, they fight! ROXANE (detaining him): Stay yet awhile. For he is dead. You knew him, you alone. (Weeping quietly): Ah, was not his a beauteous soul, a soul Wondrous! CYRANO (standing up--bareheaded): Ay, Roxane. ROXANE: An inspired poet? CYRANO: Ay, Roxane. ROXANE: And a mind sublime? CYRANO: Oh, yes! ROXANE: A heart too deep for common minds to plumb, A spirit subtle, charming? CYRANO (firmly): Ay, Roxane. ROXANE (flinging herself on the dead body): Dead, my love! CYRANO (aside--drawing his sword): Ay, and let me die to-day, Since, all unconscious, she mourns me--in him! (Sounds of trumpets in the distance.) DE GUICHE (appearing on the ramparts--bareheaded--with a wound on his forehead--in a voice of thunder): It is the signal! Trumpet flourishes! The French bring the provisions into camp! Hold but the place awhile! ROXANE: See, there is blood Upon the letter--tears! A VOICE (outside--shouting): Surrender! VOICE OF CADETS: No! RAGUENEAU (standing on the top of his carriage, watches the battle over the edge of the ramparts): The danger's ever greater! CYRANO (to De Guiche--pointing to Roxane): I will charge! Take her away! ROXANE (kissing the letter--in a half-extinguished voice): O God! his tears! his blood!. . . RAGUENEAU (jumping down from the carriage and rushing toward her): She's swooned away! DE GUICHE (on the rampart--to the cadets--with fury): Stand fast! A VOICE (outside): Lay down your arms! THE CADETS: No! CYRANO (to De Guiche): Now that you have proved your valor, Sir, (Pointing to Roxane): Fly, and save her! DE GUICHE (rushing to Roxane, and carrying her away in his arms): So be it! Gain but time, The victory's ours! CYRANO: Good. (Calling out to Roxane, whom De Guiche, aided by Ragueneau, is bearing away in a fainting condition): Farewell, Roxane! (Tumult. Shouts. Cadets reappear, wounded, falling on the scene. Cyrano, rushing to the battle, is stopped by Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is streaming with blood.) CARBON: We are breaking! I am wounded--wounded twice! CYRANO (shouting to the Gascons): GASCONS! HO, GASCONS! NEVER TURN YOUR BACKS! (To Carbon, whom he is supporting): Have no fear! I have two deaths to avenge: My friend who's slain;--and my dead happiness! (They come down, Cyrano brandishing the lance to which is attached Roxane's handkerchief): Float there! laced kerchief broidered with her name! (He sticks it in the ground and shouts to the cadets): FALL ON THEM, GASCONS! CRUSH THEM! (To the fifer): Fifer, play! (The fife plays. The wounded try to rise. Some cadets, falling one over the other down the slope, group themselves round Cyrano and the little flag. The carriage is crowded with men inside and outside, and, bristling with arquebuses, is turned into a fortress.) A CADET (appearing on the crest, beaten backward, but still fighting, cries): They're climbing the redoubt! (and falls dead.) CYRANO: Let us salute them! (The rampart is covered instantly by a formidable row of enemies. The standards of the Imperialists are raised): Fire! (General discharge.) A CRY IN THE ENEMY'S RANKS: Fire! (A deadly answering volley. The cadets fall on all sides.) A SPANISH OFFICER (uncovering): Who are these men who rush on death? CYRANO (reciting, erect, amid a storm of bullets): The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux! Brawling, swaggering boastfully, (He rushes forward, followed by a few survivors): The bold Cadets. . . (His voice is drowned in the battle.) Curtain.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 4, scene 6, utilizing the provided context.

act 4, scene 1|act 4, scene 2|act 4, scene 3|act 4, scene 4|act 4, scene 5|act 4, scene 6

Carbon presents the Guards to Roxane, and asks her to give them her handkerchief to use as a banner, which she does. One of the men complains of hunger. To their delight, Roxane produces Ragueneau from her carriage, along with food for everyone. Roxane busies herself with ensuring that all the men are served with food and drink. Le Bret notices that de Guiche is approaching, and everyone quickly hides the food

----------ACT 4, SCENE 1--------- Christian, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, Le Bret, the cadets, then Cyrano. LE BRET: 'Tis terrible. CARBON: Not a morsel left. LE BRET: Mordioux! CARBON (making a sign that he should speak lower): Curse under your breath. You will awake them. (To the cadets): Hush! Sleep on. (To Le Bret): He who sleeps, dines! LE BRET: But that is sorry comfort for the sleepless!. . . What starvation! (Firing is heard in the distance.) CARBON: Oh, plague take their firing! 'Twill wake my sons. (To the cadets, who lift up their heads): Sleep on! (Firing is again heard, nearer this time.) A CADET (moving): The devil!. . .Again. CARBON: 'Tis nothing! 'Tis Cyrano coming back! (Those who have lifted up their heads prepare to sleep again.) A SENTINEL (from without): Ventrebieu! Who goes there? THE VOICE Of CYRANO: Bergerac. The SENTINEL (who is on the redoubt): Ventrebieu! Who goes there? CYRANO (appearing at the top): Bergerac, idiot! (He comes down; Le Bret advances anxiously to meet him.) LE BRET: Heavens! CYRANO (making signs that he should not awake the others): Hush! LE BRET: Wounded? CYRANO: Oh! you know it has become their custom to shoot at me every morning and to miss me. LE BRET: This passes all! To take letters at each day's dawn. To risk. . . CYRANO (stopping before Christian): I promised he should write often. (He looks at him): He sleeps. How pale he is! But how handsome still, despite his sufferings. If his poor little lady-love knew that he is dying of hunger. . . LE BRET: Get you quick to bed. CYRANO: Nay, never scold, Le Bret. I ran but little risk. I have found me a spot to pass the Spanish lines, where each night they lie drunk. LE BRET: You should try to bring us back provision. CYRANO: A man must carry no weight who would get by there! But there will be surprise for us this night. The French will eat or die. . .if I mistake not! LE BRET: Oh!. . .tell me!. . . CYRANO: Nay, not yet. I am not certain. . .You will see! CARBON: It is disgraceful that we should starve while we're besieging! LE BRET: Alas, how full of complication is this siege of Arras! To think that while we are besieging, we should ourselves be caught in a trap and besieged by the Cardinal Infante of Spain. CYRANO: It were well done if he should be besieged in his turn. LE BRET: I am in earnest. CYRANO: Oh! indeed! LE BRET: To think you risk a life so precious. . .for the sake of a letter. . .Thankless one. (Seeing him turning to enter the tent): Where are you going? CYRANO: I am going to write another. (He enters the tent and disappears.) ----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- The same, all but Cyrano. The day is breaking in a rosy light. The town of Arras is golden in the horizon. The report of cannon is heard in the distance, followed immediately by the beating of drums far away to the left. Other drums are heard much nearer. Sounds of stirring in the camp. Voices of officers in the distance. CARBON (sighing): The reveille! (The cadets move and stretch themselves): Nourishing sleep! Thou art at an end!. . .I know well what will be their first cry! A CADET (sitting up): I am so hungry! ANOTHER: I am dying of hunger. TOGETHER: Oh! CARBON: Up with you! THIRD CADET: --Cannot move a limb. FOURTH CADET: Nor can I. THE FIRST (looking at himself in a bit of armor): My tongue is yellow. The air at this season of the year is hard to digest. ANOTHER: My coronet for a bit of Chester! ANOTHER: If none can furnish to my gaster wherewith to make a pint of chyle, I shall retire to my tent--like Achilles! ANOTHER: Oh! something! were it but a crust! CARBON (going to the tent and calling softly): Cyrano! ALL THE CADETS: We are dying! CARBON (continuing to speak under his breath at the opening of the tent): Come to my aid, you, who have the art of quick retort and gay jest. Come, hearten them up. SECOND CADET (rushing toward another who is munching something): What are you crunching there? FIRST CADET: Cannon-wads soaked in axle-grease! 'Tis poor hunting round about Arras! A CADET (entering): I have been after game. ANOTHER (following him): And I after fish. ALL (rushing to the two newcomers): Well! what have you brought?--a pheasant?--a carp?--Come, show us quick! THE ANGLER: A gudgeon! THE SPORTSMAN: A sparrow! ALL TOGETHER (beside themselves): 'Tis more than can be borne! We will mutiny! CARBON: Cyrano! Come to my help. (The daylight has now come.) ----------ACT 4, SCENE 3--------- The SAME. Cyrano. CYRANO (appearing from the tent, very calm, with a pen stuck behind his ear and a book in his hand): What is wrong? (Silence. To the first cadet): Why drag you your legs so sorrowfully? THE CADET: I have something in my heels which weighs them down. CYRANO: And what may that be? THE CADET: My stomach! CYRANO: So have I, 'faith! THE CADET: It must be in your way? CYRANO: Nay, I am all the taller. A THIRD: My stomach's hollow. CYRANO: 'Faith, 'twill make a fine drum to sound the assault. ANOTHER: I have a ringing in my ears. CYRANO: No, no, 'tis false; a hungry stomach has no ears. ANOTHER: Oh, to eat something--something oily! CYRANO (pulling off the cadet's helmet and holding it out to him): Behold your salad! ANOTHER: What, in God's name, can we devour? CYRANO (throwing him the book which he is carrying): The 'Iliad'. ANOTHER: The first minister in Paris has his four meals a day! CYRANO: 'Twere courteous an he sent you a few partridges! THE SAME: And why not? with wine, too! CYRANO: A little Burgundy. Richelieu, s'il vous plait! THE SAME: He could send it by one of his friars. CYRANO: Ay! by His Eminence Joseph himself. ANOTHER: I am as ravenous as an ogre! CYRANO: Eat your patience, then. THE FIRST CADET (shrugging his shoulders): Always your pointed word! CYRANO: Ay, pointed words! I would fain die thus, some soft summer eve, Making a pointed word for a good cause. --To make a soldier's end by soldier's sword, Wielded by some brave adversary--die On blood-stained turf, not on a fever-bed, A point upon my lips, a point within my heart. CRIES FROM ALL: I'm hungry! CYRANO (crossing his arms): All your thoughts of meat and drink! Bertrand the fifer!--you were shepherd once,-- Draw from its double leathern case your fife, Play to these greedy, guzzling soldiers. Play Old country airs with plaintive rhythm recurring, Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear home-voices, Each note of which calls like a little sister, Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smoke-wreaths Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets, Their music strikes the ear like Gascon patois!. . . (The old man seats himself, and gets his flute ready): Your flute was now a warrior in durance; But on its stem your fingers are a-dancing A bird-like minuet! O flute! Remember That flutes were made of reeds first, not laburnum; Make us a music pastoral days recalling-- The soul-time of your youth, in country pastures!. . . (The old man begins to play the airs of Languedoc): Hark to the music, Gascons!. . .'Tis no longer The piercing fife of camp--but 'neath his fingers The flute of the woods! No more the call to combat, 'Tis now the love-song of the wandering goat-herds!. . . Hark!. . .'tis the valley, the wet landes, the forest, The sunburnt shepherd-boy with scarlet beret, The dusk of evening on the Dordogne river,-- 'Tis Gascony! Hark, Gascons, to the music! (The cadets sit with bowed heads; their eyes have a far-off look as if dreaming, and they surreptitiously wipe away their tears with their cuffs and the corner of their cloaks.) CARBON (to Cyrano in a whisper): But you make them weep! CYRANO: Ay, for homesickness. A nobler pain than hunger,--'tis of the soul, not of the body! I am well pleased to see their pain change its viscera. Heart-ache is better than stomach-ache. CARBON: But you weaken their courage by playing thus on their heart-strings! CYRANO (making a sign to a drummer to approach): Not I. The hero that sleeps in Gascon blood is ever ready to awake in them. 'Twould suffice. . . (He makes a signal; the drum beats.) ALL THE CADETS (stand up and rush to take arms): What? What is it? CYRANO (smiling): You see! One roll of the drum is enough! Good-by dreams, regrets, native land, love. . .All that the pipe called forth the drum has chased away! A CADET (looking toward the back of the stage): Ho! here comes Monsieur de Guiche. ALL THE CADETS (muttering): Ugh!. . .Ugh!. . . CYRANO (smiling): A flattering welcome! A CADET: We are sick to death of him! ANOTHER CADET: --With his lace collar over his armor, playing the fine gentleman! ANOTHER: As if one wore linen over steel! THE FIRST: It were good for a bandage had he boils on his neck. THE SECOND: Another plotting courtier! ANOTHER CADET: His uncle's own nephew! CARBON: For all that--a Gascon. THE FIRST: Ay, false Gascon!. . .trust him not. . . Gascons should ever be crack-brained. . . Naught more dangerous than a rational Gascon. LE BRET: How pale he is! ANOTHER: Oh! he is hungry, just like us poor devils; but under his cuirass, with its fine gilt nails, his stomach-ache glitters brave in the sun. CYRANO (hurriedly): Let us not seem to suffer either! Out with your cards, pipes, and dice. . . (All begin spreading out the games on the drums, the stools, the ground, and on their cloaks, and light long pipes): And I shall read Descartes. (He walks up and down, reading a little book which he has drawn from his pocket. Tableau. Enter De Guiche. All appear absorbed and happy. He is very pale. He goes up to Carbon.) ----------ACT 4, SCENE 4--------- The same. De Guiche. DE GUICHE (to Carbon): Good-day! (They examine each other. Aside, with satisfaction): He's green. CARBON (aside): He has nothing left but eyes. DE GUICHE (looking at the cadets): Here are the rebels! Ay, Sirs, on all sides I hear that in your ranks you scoff at me; That the Cadets, these loutish, mountain-bred, Poor country squires, and barons of Perigord, Scarce find for me--their Colonel--a disdain Sufficient! call me plotter, wily courtier! It does not please their mightiness to see A point-lace collar on my steel cuirass,-- And they enrage, because a man, in sooth, May be no ragged-robin, yet a Gascon! (Silence. All smoke and play): Shall I command your Captain punish you? No. CARBON: I am free, moreover,--will not punish-- DE GUICHE: Ah! CARBON: I have paid my company--'tis mine. I bow but to headquarters. DE GUICHE: So?--in faith! That will suffice. (Addressing himself to the cadets): I can despise your taunts 'Tis well known how I bear me in the war; At Bapaume, yesterday, they saw the rage With which I beat back the Count of Bucquoi; Assembling my own men, I fell on his, And charged three separate times! CYRANO (without lifting his eyes from his book): And your white scarf? DE GUICHE (surprised and gratified): You know that detail?. . .Troth! It happened thus: While caracoling to recall the troops For the third charge, a band of fugitives Bore me with them, close by the hostile ranks: I was in peril--capture, sudden death!-- When I thought of the good expedient To loosen and let fall the scarf which told My military rank; thus I contrived --Without attention waked--to leave the foes, And suddenly returning, reinforced With my own men, to scatter them! And now, --What say you, Sir? (The cadets pretend not to be listening, but the cards and the dice-boxes remain suspended in their hands, the smoke of their pipes in their cheeks. They wait.) CYRANO: I say, that Henri Quatre Had not, by any dangerous odds, been forced To strip himself of his white helmet plume. (Silent delight. The cards fall, the dice rattle. The smoke is puffed.) DE GUICHE: The ruse succeeded, though! (Same suspension of play, etc.) CYRANO: Oh, may be! But One does not lightly abdicate the honor To serve as target to the enemy (Cards, dice, fall again, and the cadets smoke with evident delight): Had I been present when your scarf fell low, --Our courage, Sir, is of a different sort-- I would have picked it up and put it on. DE GUICHE: Oh, ay! Another Gascon boast! CYRANO: A boast? Lend it to me. I pledge myself, to-night, --With it across my breast,--to lead th' assault. DE GUICHE: Another Gascon vaunt! You know the scarf Lies with the enemy, upon the brink Of the stream,. . .the place is riddled now with shot,-- No one can fetch it hither! CYRANO (drawing the scarf from his pocket, and holding it out to him): Here it is. (Silence. The cadets stifle their laughter in their cards and dice-boxes. De Guiche turns and looks at them; they instantly become grave, and set to play. One of them whistles indifferently the air just played by the fifer.) DE GUICHE (taking the scarf): I thank you. It will now enable me To make a signal,--that I had forborne To make--till now. (He goes to the rampart, climbs it, and waves the scarf thrice.) ALL: What's that? THE SENTINEL (from the top of the rampart): See you yon man Down there, who runs?. . . DE GUICHE (descending): 'Tis a false Spanish spy Who is extremely useful to my ends. The news he carries to the enemy Are those I prompt him with--so, in a word, We have an influence on their decisions! CYRANO: Scoundrel! DE GUICHE (carelessly knotting on his scarf): 'Tis opportune. What were we saying? Ah! I have news for you. Last evening --To victual us--the Marshal did attempt A final effort:--secretly he went To Dourlens, where the King's provisions be. But--to return to camp more easily-- He took with him a goodly force of troops. Those who attacked us now would have fine sport! Half of the army's absent from the camp! CARBON: Ay, if the Spaniards knew, 'twere ill for us, But they know nothing of it? DE GUICHE: Oh! they know. They will attack us. CARBON: Ah! DE GUICHE: For my false spy Came to warn me of their attack. He said, 'I can decide the point for their assault; Where would you have it? I will tell them 'tis The least defended--they'll attempt you there.' I answered, 'Good. Go out of camp, but watch My signal. Choose the point from whence it comes.' CARBON (to cadets): Make ready! (All rise; sounds of swords and belts being buckled.) DE GUICHE: 'Twill be in an hour. FIRST CADET: Good!. . . (They all sit down again and take up their games.) DE GUICHE (to Carbon): Time must be gained. The Marshal will return. CARBON: How gain it? DE GUICHE: You will all be good enough To let yourselves to be killed. CYRANO: Vengeance! oho! DE GUICHE: I do not say that, if I loved you well, I had chosen you and yours,--but, as things stand,-- Your courage yielding to no corps the palm-- I serve my King, and serve my grudge as well. CYRANO: Permit that I express my gratitude. . . DE GUICHE: I know you love to fight against five score; You will not now complain of paltry odds. (He goes up with Carbon.) CYRANO (to the cadets): We shall add to the Gascon coat of arms, With its six bars of blue and gold, one more-- The blood-red bar that was a-missing there! (De Guiche speaks in a low voice with Carbon at the back. Orders are given. Preparations go forward. Cyrano goes up to Christian, who stands with crossed arms.) CYRANO (putting his hand on Christian's shoulder): Christian! CHRISTIAN (shaking his head): Roxane! CYRANO: Alas! CHRISTIAN: At least, I'd send My heart's farewell to her in a fair letter!. . . CYRANO: I had suspicion it would be to-day, (He draws a letter out of his doublet): And had already writ. . . CHRISTIAN: Show! CYRANO: Will you. . .? CHRISTIAN (taking the letter): Ay! (He opens and reads it): Hold! CYRANO: What? CHRISTIAN: This little spot! CYRANO (taking the letter, with an innocent look): A spot? CHRISTIAN: A tear! CYRANO: Poets, at last,--by dint of counterfeiting-- Take counterfeit for true--that is the charm! This farewell letter,--it was passing sad, I wept myself in writing it! CHRISTIAN: Wept? why? CYRANO: Oh!. . .death itself is hardly terrible,. . . --But, ne'er to see her more! That is death's sting! --For. . .I shall never. . . (Christian looks at him): We shall. . . (Quickly): I mean, you. . . CHRISTIAN (snatching the letter from him): Give me that letter! (A rumor, far off in the camp.) VOICE Of SENTINEL: Who goes there? Halloo! (Shots--voices--carriage-bells.) CARBON: What is it? A SENTINEL (on the rampart): 'Tis a carriage! (All rush to see.) CRIES: In the camp? It enters!--It comes from the enemy! --Fire!--No!--The coachman cries!--What does he say? --'On the King's service!' (Everyone is on the rampart, staring. The bells come nearer.) DE GUICHE: The King's service? How? (All descend and draw up in line.) CARBON: Uncover, all! DE GUICHE: The King's! Draw up in line! Let him describe his curve as it befits! (The carriage enters at full speed covered with dust and mud. The curtains are drawn close. Two lackeys behind. It is pulled up suddenly.) CARBON: Beat a salute! (A roll of drums. The cadets uncover.) DE GUICHE: Lower the carriage-steps! (Two cadets rush forward. The door opens.) ROXANE (jumping down from the carriage): Good-day! (All are bowing to the ground, but at the sound of a woman's voice every head is instantly raised.) ----------ACT 4, SCENE 5--------- The same. Roxane. DE GUICHE: On the King's service! You? ROXANE: Ay,--King Love's! What other king? CYRANO: Great God! CHRISTIAN (rushing forward): Why have you come? ROXANE: This siege--'tis too long! CHRISTIAN: But why?. . . ROXANE: I will tell you all! CYRANO (who, at the sound of her voice, has stood still, rooted to the ground, afraid to raise his eyes): My God! dare I look at her? DE GUICHE: You cannot remain here! ROXANE (merrily): But I say yes! Who will push a drum hither for me? (She seats herself on the drum they roll forward): So! I thank you. (She laughs): My carriage was fired at (proudly): by the patrol! Look! would you not think 'twas made of a pumpkin, like Cinderella's chariot in the tale,--and the footmen out of rats? (Sending a kiss with her lips to Christian): Good-morrow! (Examining them all): You look not merry, any of you! Ah! know you that 'tis a long road to get to Arras? (Seeing Cyrano): Cousin, delighted! CYRANO (coming up to her): But how, in Heaven's name?. . . ROXANE: How found I the way to the army? It was simple enough, for I had but to pass on and on, as far as I saw the country laid waste. Ah, what horrors were there! Had I not seen, then I could never have believed it! Well, gentlemen, if such be the service of your King, I would fainer serve mine! CYRANO: But 'tis sheer madness! Where in the fiend's name did you get through? ROXANE: Where? Through the Spanish lines. FIRST CADET: --For subtle craft, give me a woman! DE GUICHE: But how did you pass through their lines? LE BRET: Faith! that must have been a hard matter!. . . ROXANE: None too hard. I but drove quietly forward in my carriage, and when some hidalgo of haughty mien would have stayed me, lo! I showed at the window my sweetest smile, and these Senors being (with no disrespect to you) the most gallant gentlemen in the world,--I passed on! CARBON: True, that smile is a passport! But you must have been asked frequently to give an account of where you were going, Madame? ROXANE: Yes, frequently. Then I would answer, 'I go to see my lover.' At that word the very fiercest Spaniard of them all would gravely shut the carriage-door, and, with a gesture that a king might envy, make signal to his men to lower the muskets leveled at me;--then, with melancholy but withal very graceful dignity--his beaver held to the wind that the plumes might flutter bravely, he would bow low, saying to me, 'Pass on, Senorita!' CHRISTIAN: But, Roxane. . . ROXANE: Forgive me that I said, 'my lover!' But bethink you, had I said 'my husband,' not one of them had let me pass! CHRISTIAN: But. . . ROXANE: What ails you? DE GUICHE: You must leave this place! ROXANE: I? CYRANO: And that instantly! LE BRET: No time to lose. CHRISTIAN: Indeed, you must. ROXANE: But wherefore must I? CHRISTIAN (embarrassed): 'Tis that. . . CYRANO (the same): --In three quarters of an hour. . . DE GUICHE (the same): --Or for. . . CARBON (the same): It were best. . . LE BRET (the same): You might. . . ROXANE: You are going to fight?--I stay here. ALL: No, no! ROXANE: He is my husband! (She throws herself into Christian's arms): They shall kill us both together! CHRISTIAN: Why do you look at me thus? ROXANE: I will tell you why! DE GUICHE (in despair): 'Tis a post of mortal danger! ROXANE (turning round): Mortal danger! CYRANO: Proof enough, that he has put us here! ROXANE (to De Guiche): So, Sir, you would have made a widow of me? DE GUICHE: Nay, on my oath. . . ROXANE: I will not go! I am reckless now, and I shall not stir from here!--Besides, 'tis amusing! CYRANO: Oh-ho! So our precieuse is a heroine! ROXANE: Monsieur de Bergerac, I am your cousin. A CADET: We will defend you well! ROXANE (more and more excited): I have no fear of that, my friends! ANOTHER (in ecstasy): The whole camp smells sweet of orris-root! ROXANE: And, by good luck, I have chosen a hat that will suit well with the battlefield! (Looking at De Guiche): But were it not wisest that the Count retire? They may begin the attack. DE GUICHE: That is not to be brooked! I go to inspect the cannon, and shall return. You have still time--think better of it! ROXANE: Never! (De Guiche goes out.) ----------ACT 4, SCENE 6--------- The same, all but De Guiche. CHRISTIAN (entreatingly): Roxane! ROXANE: No! FIRST CADET (to the others): She stays! ALL (hurrying, hustling each other, tidying themselves): A comb!--Soap!--My uniform is torn!--A needle!--A ribbon!--Lend your mirror!--My cuffs!--Your curling-iron!--A razor!. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano, who still pleads with her): No! Naught shall make me stir from this spot! CARBON (who, like the others, has been buckling, dusting, brushing his hat, settling his plume, and drawing on his cuffs, advances to Roxane, and ceremoniously): It is perchance more seemly, since things are thus, that I present to you some of these gentlemen who are about to have the honor of dying before your eyes. (Roxane bows, and stands leaning on Christian's arm, while Carbon introduces the cadets to her): Baron de Peyrescous de Colignac! THE CADET (with a low reverence): Madame. . . CARBON (continuing): Baron de Casterac de Cahuzac,--Vidame de Malgouyre Estressac Lesbas d'Escarabiot, Chevalier d'Antignac-Juzet, Baron Hillot de Blagnac-Salechan de Castel Crabioules. . . ROXANE: But how many names have you each? BARON HILLOT: Scores! CARBON (to Roxane): Pray, upon the hand that holds your kerchief. ROXANE (opens her hand, and the handkerchief falls): Why? (The whole company start forward to pick it up.) CARBON (quickly raising it): My company had no flag. But now, by my faith, they will have the fairest in all the camp! ROXANE (smiling): 'Tis somewhat small. CARBON (tying the handkerchief on the staff of his lance): But--'tis of lace! A CADET (to the rest): I could die happy, having seen so sweet a face, if I had something in my stomach--were it but a nut! CARBON (who has overheard, indignantly): Shame on you! What, talk of eating when a lovely woman!. . . ROXANE: But your camp air is keen; I myself am famished. Pasties, cold fricassee, old wines--there is my bill of fare? Pray bring it all here. (Consternation.) A CADET: All that? ANOTHER: But where on earth find it? ROXANE (quietly): In my carriage. ALL: How? ROXANE: Now serve up--carve! Look a little closer at my coachman, gentlemen, and you will recognize a man most welcome. All the sauces can be sent to table hot, if we will! THE CADETS (rushing pellmell to the carriage): 'Tis Ragueneau! (Acclamations): Oh, oh! ROXANE (looking after them): Poor fellows! CYRANO (kissing her hand): Kind fairy! RAGUENEAU (standing on the box like a quack doctor at a fair): Gentlemen!. . . (General delight.) THE CADETS: Bravo! bravo! RAGUENEAU: . . .The Spaniards, gazing on a lady so dainty fair, overlooked the fare so dainty!. . . (Applause.) CYRANO (in a whisper to Christian): Hark, Christian! RAGUENEAU: . . .And, occupied with gallantry, perceived not-- (His draws a plate from under the seat, and holds it up): --The galantine!. . . (Applause. The galantine passes from hand to hand.) CYRANO (still whispering to Christian): Prythee, one word! RAGUENEAU: And Venus so attracted their eyes that Diana could secretly pass by with-- (He holds up a shoulder of mutton): --her fawn! (Enthusiasm. Twenty hands are held out to seize the shoulder of mutton.) CYRANO (in a low whisper to Christian): I must speak to you! ROXANE (to the cadets, who come down, their arms laden with food): Put it all on the ground! (She lays all out on the grass, aided by the two imperturbable lackeys who were behind the carriage.) ROXANE (to Christian, just as Cyrano is drawing him apart): Come, make yourself of use! (Christian comes to help her. Cyrano's uneasiness increases.) RAGUENEAU: Truffled peacock! FIRST CADET (radiant, coming down, cutting a big slice of ham): By the mass! We shall not brave the last hazard without having had a gullet-full!-- (quickly correcting himself on seeing Roxane): --Pardon! A Balthazar feast! RAGUENEAU (throwing down the carriage cushions): The cushions are stuffed with ortolans! (Hubbub. They tear open and turn out the contents of the cushions. Bursts of laughter--merriment.) THIRD CADET: Ah! Viedaze! RAGUENEAU (throwing down to the cadets bottles of red wine): Flasks of rubies!-- (and white wine): --Flasks of topaz! ROXANE (throwing a folded tablecloth at Cyrano's head): Unfold me that napkin!--Come, come! be nimble! RAGUENEAU (waving a lantern): Each of the carriage-lamps is a little larder! CYRANO (in a low voice to Christian, as they arrange the cloth together): I must speak with you ere you speak to her. RAGUENEAU: My whip-handle is an Arles sausage! ROXANE (pouring out wine, helping): Since we are to die, let the rest of the army shift for itself. All for the Gascons! And mark! if De Guiche comes, let no one invite him! (Going from one to the other): There! there! You have time enough! Do not eat too fast!--Drink a little.- -Why are you crying? FIRST CADET: It is all so good!. . . ROXANE: Tut!--Red or white?--Some bread for Monsieur de Carbon!--a knife! Pass your plate!--a little of the crust? Some more? Let me help you!--Some champagne?- -A wing? CYRANO (who follows her, his arms laden with dishes, helping her to wait on everybody): How I worship her! ROXANE (going up to Christian): What will you? CHRISTIAN: Nothing. ROXANE: Nay, nay, take this biscuit, steeped in muscat; come!. . .but two drops! CHRISTIAN (trying to detain her): Oh! tell me why you came? ROXANE: Wait; my first duty is to these poor fellows.--Hush! In a few minutes. . . LE BRET (who had gone up to pass a loaf on the end of a lance to the sentry on the rampart): De Guiche! CYRANO: Quick! hide flasks, plates, pie-dishes, game-baskets! Hurry!--Let us all look unconscious! (To Ragueneau): Up on your seat!--Is everything covered up? (In an instant all has been pushed into the tents, or hidden under doublets, cloaks, and beavers. De Guiche enters hurriedly--stops suddenly, sniffing the air. Silence.)

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 4, scene 10 using the context provided.

Cyrano and Roxane discuss her conversation with Christian. Musket fire is heard offstage. Cyrano asks Roxane if it is true that she would love him even if he were ugly, or even disfigured. She confirms that she would. Cyrano is ecstatic, and is on the brink of revealing his secret to Roxane. Before he can speak, however, Le Bret rushes in and whispers something in Cyrano's ear. Cyrano, anguished, cries that it is too late: he can never tell Roxane his feelings. Some men enter, carrying Christian. He is dying. Le Bret tells Cyrano that he was the first to die. Roxane, distraught, throws herself on Christian's body. Cyrano whispers in his ear that he told Roxane their secret, and asked her to choose between them: she chose Christian. Christian dies. The battle begins all around them. Roxane notices a letter addressed to her in Christian's pocket. It is Cyrano's latest letter. Roxane praises Christian's fine intellect, sensitivity, and gift for poetry to Cyrano. Cyrano reflects that he can die happy today, as she is really weeping for him. De Guiche enters, with a head wound. Roxane notices that the letter in Christian's pocket is stained with blood and tears. She is on the verge of fainting. Cyrano asks de Guiche to take her away, as he is going to charge against the Spanish. Cyrano also tells de Guiche that he has proved his worth. De Guiche agrees to take Roxane away, and tells Cyrano that if the Guards can hold the line even for half an hour, the main forces will have returned and they can beat the Spanish. A wounded Carbon runs in with some other men, with the news that the French line is breaking. Cyrano says the Spanish will pay for two things: Christian's death and his own hopes of happiness. Cyrano plants the standard, Roxane's handkerchief, in the ground, and rallies the troops.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 7--------- The same. De Guiche. DE GUICHE: It smells good here. A CADET (humming): Lo! Lo-lo! DE GUICHE (looking at him): What is the matter?--You are very red. THE CADET: The matter?--Nothing!--'Tis my blood--boiling at the thought of the coming battle! ANOTHER: Poum, poum--poum. . . DE GUICHE (turning round): What's that? THE CADET (slightly drunk): Nothing!. . .'Tis a song!--a little. . . DE GUICHE: You are merry, my friend! THE CADET: The approach of danger is intoxicating! DE GUICHE (calling Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, to give him an order): Captain! I. . . (He stops short on seeing him): Plague take me! but you look bravely, too! CARBON (crimson in the face, hiding a bottle behind his back, with an evasive movement): Oh!. . . DE GUICHE: I have one cannon left, and have had it carried there-- (he points behind the scenes): --in that corner. . .Your men can use it in case of need. A CADET (reeling slightly): Charming attention! ANOTHER (with a gracious smile): Kind solicitude! DE GUICHE: How? they are all gone crazy? (Drily): As you are not used to cannon, beware of the recoil. FIRST CADET: Pooh! DE GUICHE (furious, going up to him): But. . . THE CADET: Gascon cannons never recoil! DE GUICHE (taking him by the arm and shaking him): You are tipsy!--but what with? THE CADET (grandiloquently): --With the smell of powder! DE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders and pushing him away, then going quickly to Roxane): Briefly, Madame, what decision do you deign to take? ROXANE: I stay here. DE GUICHE: You must fly! ROXANE: No! I will stay. DE GUICHE: Since things are thus, give me a musket, one of you! CARBON: Wherefore? DE GUICHE: Because I too--mean to remain. CYRANO: At last! This is true valor, Sir! FIRST CADET: Then you are Gascon after all, spite of your lace collar? ROXANE: What is all this? DE GUICHE: I leave no woman in peril. SECOND CADET (to the first): Hark you! Think you not we might give him something to eat? (All the viands reappear as if by magic.) DE GUICHE (whose eyes sparkle): Victuals! THE THIRD CADET: Yes, you'll see them coming from under every coat! DE GUICHE (controlling himself, haughtily): Do you think I will eat your leavings? CYRANO (saluting him): You make progress. DE GUICHE (proudly, with a light touch of accent on the word 'breaking'): I will fight without br-r-eaking my fast! FIRST CADET (with wild delight): Br-r-r-eaking! He has got the accent! DE GUICHE (laughing): I? THE CADET: 'Tis a Gascon! (All begin to dance.) CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX (who had disappeared behind the rampart, reappearing on the ridge): I have drawn my pikemen up in line. They are a resolute troop. (He points to a row of pikes, the tops of which are seen over the ridge.) DE GUICHE (bowing to Roxane): Will you accept my hand, and accompany me while I review them? (She takes it, and they go up toward the rampart. All uncover and follow them.) CHRISTIAN (going to Cyrano, eagerly): Tell me quickly! (As Roxane appears on the ridge, the tops of the lances disappear, lowered for the salute, and a shout is raised. She bows.) THE PIKEMEN (outside): Vivat! CHRISTIAN: What is this secret? CYRANO: If Roxane should. . . CHRISTIAN: Should?. . . CYRANO: Speak of the letters?. . . CHRISTIAN: Yes, I know!. . . CYRANO: Do not spoil all by seeming surprised. . . CHRISTIAN: At what? CYRANO: I must explain to you!. . .Oh! 'tis no great matter--I but thought of it to- day on seeing her. You have. . . CHRISTIAN: Tell quickly! CYRANO: You have. . .written to her oftener than you think. . . CHRISTIAN: How so? CYRANO: Thus, 'faith! I had taken it in hand to express your flame for you!. . .At times I wrote without saying, 'I am writing!' CHRISTIAN: Ah!. . . CYRANO: 'Tis simple enough! CHRISTIAN: But how did you contrive, since we have been cut off, thus. . .to?. . . CYRANO: . . .Oh! before dawn. . .I was able to get through. . . CHRISTIAN (folding his arms): That was simple, too? And how oft, pray you, have I written?. . .Twice in the week?. . .Three times?. . .Four?. . . CYRANO: More often still. CHRISTIAN: What! Every day? CYRANO: Yes, every day,--twice. CHRISTIAN (violently): And that became so mad a joy for you, that you braved death. . . CYRANO (seeing Roxane returning): Hush! Not before her! (He goes hurriedly into his tent.) ----------ACT 4, SCENE 8--------- Roxane, Christian. In the distance cadets coming and going. Carbon and De Guiche give orders. ROXANE (running up to Christian): Ah, Christian, at last!. . . CHRISTIAN (taking her hands): Now tell me why-- Why, by these fearful paths so perilous-- Across these ranks of ribald soldiery, You have come? ROXANE: Love, your letters brought me here! CHRISTIAN: What say you? ROXANE: 'Tis your fault if I ran risks! Your letters turned my head! Ah! all this month, How many!--and the last one ever bettered The one that went before! CHRISTIAN: What!--for a few Inconsequent love-letters! ROXANE: Hold your peace! Ah! you cannot conceive it! Ever since That night, when, in a voice all new to me, Under my window you revealed your soul-- Ah! ever since I have adored you! Now Your letters all this whole month long!--meseemed As if I heard that voice so tender, true, Sheltering, close! Thy fault, I say! It drew me, The voice o' th' night! Oh! wise Penelope Would ne'er have stayed to broider on her hearthstone, If her Ulysses could have writ such letters! But would have cast away her silken bobbins, And fled to join him, mad for love as Helen! CHRISTIAN: But. . . ROXANE: I read, read again--grew faint for love; I was thine utterly. Each separate page Was like a fluttering flower-petal, loosed From your own soul, and wafted thus to mine. Imprinted in each burning word was love Sincere, all-powerful. . . CHRISTIAN: A love sincere! Can that be felt, Roxane! ROXANE: Ay, that it can! CHRISTIAN: You come. . .? ROXANE: O, Christian, my true lord, I come-- (Were I to throw myself, here, at your knees, You would raise me--but 'tis my soul I lay At your feet--you can raise it nevermore!) --I come to crave your pardon. (Ay, 'tis time To sue for pardon, now that death may come!) For the insult done to you when, frivolous, At first I loved you only for your face! CHRISTIAN (horror-stricken): Roxane! ROXANE: And later, love--less frivolous-- Like a bird that spreads its wings, but can not fly-- Arrested by your beauty, by your soul Drawn close--I loved for both at once! CHRISTIAN: And now? ROXANE: Ah! you yourself have triumphed o'er yourself, And now, I love you only for your soul! CHRISTIAN (stepping backward): Roxane! ROXANE: Be happy. To be loved for beauty-- A poor disguise that time so soon wears threadbare-- Must be to noble souls--to souls aspiring-- A torture. Your dear thoughts have now effaced That beauty that so won me at the outset. Now I see clearer--and I no more see it! CHRISTIAN: Oh!. . . ROXANE: You are doubtful of such victory? CHRISTIAN (pained): Roxane! ROXANE: I see you cannot yet believe it. Such love. . .? CHRISTIAN: I do not ask such love as that! I would be loved more simply; for. . . ROXANE: For that Which they have all in turns loved in thee?-- Shame! Oh! be loved henceforth in a better way! CHRISTIAN: No! the first love was best! ROXANE: Ah! how you err! 'Tis now that I love best--love well! 'Tis that Which is thy true self, see!--that I adore! Were your brilliance dimmed. . . CHRISTIAN: Hush! ROXANE: I should love still! Ay, if your beauty should to-day depart. . . CHRISTIAN: Say not so! ROXANE: Ay, I say it! CHRISTIAN: Ugly? How? ROXANE: Ugly! I swear I'd love you still! CHRISTIAN: My God! ROXANE: Are you content at last? CHRISTIAN (in a choked voice): Ay!. . . ROXANE: What is wrong? CHRISTIAN (gently pushing her away): Nothing. . .I have two words to say:--one second. . . ROXANE: But?. . . CHRISTIAN (pointing to the cadets): Those poor fellows, shortly doomed to death,-- My love deprives them of the sight of you: Go,--speak to them--smile on them ere they die! ROXANE (deeply affected): Dear Christian!. . . (She goes up to the cadets, who respectfully crowd round her.) ----------ACT 4, SCENE 9--------- Christian, Cyrano. At back Roxane talking to Carbon and some cadets. CHRISTIAN (calling toward Cyrano's tent): Cyrano! CYRANO (reappearing, fully armed): What? Why so pale? CHRISTIAN: She does not love me! CYRANO: What? CHRISTIAN: 'Tis you she loves! CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: --For she loves me only for my soul! CYRANO: Truly? CHRISTIAN: Yes! Thus--you see, that soul is you,. . . Therefore, 'tis you she loves!--And you--love her! CYRANO: I? CHRISTIAN: Oh, I know it! CYRANO: Ay, 'tis true! CHRISTIAN: You love To madness! CYRANO: Ay! and worse! CHRISTIAN: Then tell her so! CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: And why not? CYRANO: Look at my face!--be answered! CHRISTIAN: She'd love me--were I ugly. CYRANO: Said she so? CHRISTIAN: Ay! in those words! CYRANO: I'm glad she told you that! But pooh!--believe it not! I am well pleased She thought to tell you. Take it not for truth. Never grow ugly:--she'd reproach me then! CHRISTIAN: That I intend discovering! CYRANO: No! I beg! CHRISTIAN: Ay! she shall choose between us!--Tell her all! CYRANO: No! no! I will not have it! Spare me this! CHRISTIAN: Because my face is haply fair, shall I Destroy your happiness? 'Twere too unjust! CYRANO: And I,--because by Nature's freak I have The gift to say--all that perchance you feel. Shall I be fatal to your happiness? CHRISTIAN: Tell all! CYRANO: It is ill done to tempt me thus! CHRISTIAN: Too long I've borne about within myself A rival to myself--I'll make an end! CYRANO: Christian! CHRISTIAN: Our union, without witness--secret-- Clandestine--can be easily dissolved If we survive. CYRANO: My God!--he still persists! CHRISTIAN: I will be loved myself--or not at all! --I'll go see what they do--there, at the end Of the post: speak to her, and then let her choose One of us two! CYRANO: It will be you. CHRISTIAN: Pray God! (He calls): Roxane! CYRANO: No! no! ROXANE (coming up quickly): What? CHRISTIAN: Cyrano has things Important for your ear. . . (She hastens to Cyrano. Christian goes out.) ----------ACT 4, SCENE 10--------- Roxane, Cyrano. Then Le Bret, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, Ragueneau, De Guiche, etc. ROXANE: Important, how? CYRANO (in despair. to Roxane): He's gone! 'Tis naught!--Oh, you know how he sees Importance in a trifle! ROXANE (warmly): Did he doubt Of what I said?--Ah, yes, I saw he doubted! CYRANO (taking her hand): But are you sure you told him all the truth? ROXANE: Yes, I would love him were he. . . (She hesitates.) CYRANO: Does that word Embarrass you before my face, Roxane? ROXANE: I. . . CYRANO (smiling sadly): 'Twill not hurt me! Say it! If he were Ugly!. . . ROXANE: Yes, ugly! (Musket report outside): Hark! I hear a shot! CYRANO (ardently): Hideous! ROXANE: Hideous! yes! CYRANO: Disfigured. ROXANE: Ay! CYRANO: Grotesque? ROXANE: He could not be grotesque to me! CYRANO: You'd love the same?. . . ROXANE: The same--nay, even more! CYRANO (losing command over himself--aside): My God! it's true, perchance, love waits me there! (To Roxane): I. . .Roxane. . .listen. . . LE BRET (entering hurriedly--to Cyrano): Cyrano! CYRANO (turning round): What? LE BRET: Hush! (He whispers something to him.) CYRANO (letting go Roxane's hand and exclaiming): Ah, God! ROXANE: What is it? CYRANO (to himself--stunned): All is over now. (Renewed reports.) ROXANE: What is the matter? Hark! another shot! (She goes up to look outside.) CYRANO: It is too late, now I can never tell! ROXANE (trying to rush out): What has chanced? CYRANO (rushing to stop her): Nothing! (Some cadets enter, trying to hide something they are carrying, and close round it to prevent Roxane approaching.) ROXANE: And those men? (Cyrano draws her away): What were you just about to say before. . .? CYRANO: What was I saying? Nothing now, I swear! (Solemnly): I swear that Christian's soul, his nature, were. . . (Hastily correcting himself): Nay, that they are, the noblest, greatest. . . ROXANE: Were? (With a loud scream): Oh! (She rushes up, pushing every one aside.) CYRANO: All is over now! ROXANE (seeing Christian lying on the ground, wrapped in his cloak): O Christian! LE BRET (to Cyrano): Struck by first shot of the enemy! (Roxane flings herself down by Christian. Fresh reports of cannon--clash of arms--clamor--beating of drums.) CARBON (with sword in the air): O come! Your muskets. (Followed by the cadets, he passes to the other side of the ramparts.) ROXANE: Christian! THE VOICE OF CARBON (from the other side): Ho! make haste! ROXANE: Christian! CARBON: FORM LINE! ROXANE: Christian! CARBON: HANDLE YOUR MATCH! (Ragueneau rushes up, bringing water in a helmet.) CHRISTIAN (in a dying voice): Roxane! CYRANO (quickly, whispering into Christian's ear, while Roxane distractedly tears a piece of linen from his breast, which she dips into the water, trying to stanch the bleeding): I told her all. She loves you still. (Christian closes his eyes.) ROXANE: How, my sweet love? CARBON: DRAW RAMRODS! ROXANE (to Cyrano): He is not dead? CARBON: OPEN YOUR CHARGES WITH YOUR TEETH! ROXANE: His cheek Grows cold against my own! CARBON: READY! PRESENT! ROXANE (seeing a letter in Christian's doublet): A letter!. . . 'Tis for me! (She opens it.) CYRANO (aside): My letter! CARBON: FIRE! (Musket reports--shouts--noise of battle.) CYRANO (trying to disengage his hand, which Roxane on her knees is holding): But, Roxane, hark, they fight! ROXANE (detaining him): Stay yet awhile. For he is dead. You knew him, you alone. (Weeping quietly): Ah, was not his a beauteous soul, a soul Wondrous! CYRANO (standing up--bareheaded): Ay, Roxane. ROXANE: An inspired poet? CYRANO: Ay, Roxane. ROXANE: And a mind sublime? CYRANO: Oh, yes! ROXANE: A heart too deep for common minds to plumb, A spirit subtle, charming? CYRANO (firmly): Ay, Roxane. ROXANE (flinging herself on the dead body): Dead, my love! CYRANO (aside--drawing his sword): Ay, and let me die to-day, Since, all unconscious, she mourns me--in him! (Sounds of trumpets in the distance.) DE GUICHE (appearing on the ramparts--bareheaded--with a wound on his forehead--in a voice of thunder): It is the signal! Trumpet flourishes! The French bring the provisions into camp! Hold but the place awhile! ROXANE: See, there is blood Upon the letter--tears! A VOICE (outside--shouting): Surrender! VOICE OF CADETS: No! RAGUENEAU (standing on the top of his carriage, watches the battle over the edge of the ramparts): The danger's ever greater! CYRANO (to De Guiche--pointing to Roxane): I will charge! Take her away! ROXANE (kissing the letter--in a half-extinguished voice): O God! his tears! his blood!. . . RAGUENEAU (jumping down from the carriage and rushing toward her): She's swooned away! DE GUICHE (on the rampart--to the cadets--with fury): Stand fast! A VOICE (outside): Lay down your arms! THE CADETS: No! CYRANO (to De Guiche): Now that you have proved your valor, Sir, (Pointing to Roxane): Fly, and save her! DE GUICHE (rushing to Roxane, and carrying her away in his arms): So be it! Gain but time, The victory's ours! CYRANO: Good. (Calling out to Roxane, whom De Guiche, aided by Ragueneau, is bearing away in a fainting condition): Farewell, Roxane! (Tumult. Shouts. Cadets reappear, wounded, falling on the scene. Cyrano, rushing to the battle, is stopped by Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is streaming with blood.) CARBON: We are breaking! I am wounded--wounded twice! CYRANO (shouting to the Gascons): GASCONS! HO, GASCONS! NEVER TURN YOUR BACKS! (To Carbon, whom he is supporting): Have no fear! I have two deaths to avenge: My friend who's slain;--and my dead happiness! (They come down, Cyrano brandishing the lance to which is attached Roxane's handkerchief): Float there! laced kerchief broidered with her name! (He sticks it in the ground and shouts to the cadets): FALL ON THEM, GASCONS! CRUSH THEM! (To the fifer): Fifer, play! (The fife plays. The wounded try to rise. Some cadets, falling one over the other down the slope, group themselves round Cyrano and the little flag. The carriage is crowded with men inside and outside, and, bristling with arquebuses, is turned into a fortress.) A CADET (appearing on the crest, beaten backward, but still fighting, cries): They're climbing the redoubt! (and falls dead.) CYRANO: Let us salute them! (The rampart is covered instantly by a formidable row of enemies. The standards of the Imperialists are raised): Fire! (General discharge.) A CRY IN THE ENEMY'S RANKS: Fire! (A deadly answering volley. The cadets fall on all sides.) A SPANISH OFFICER (uncovering): Who are these men who rush on death? CYRANO (reciting, erect, amid a storm of bullets): The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux! Brawling, swaggering boastfully, (He rushes forward, followed by a few survivors): The bold Cadets. . . (His voice is drowned in the battle.) Curtain.

Cyrano de Bergerac.act 5.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 5 scene 5 with the given context.

act 5 scene 1|act 5 scenes 2-3|act 5 scene 4|act 5 scene 5|act 5 scene 6|act 5, scene 1

Roxane works on her tapestry, and does not notice that Cyrano is pale. Sister Marthe, whom he teases as usual, thinks that his pallor is caused by hunger. Cyrano begins his witty, amusing account of the week's gossip, and then nearly faints for a moment. He asks to see Roxane's last letter from Christian. Roxane gives it to him, and he reads it aloud. Roxane recognizes the voice that she heard under her balcony so long ago. She realizes that it is dark, that Cyrano could not be reading the letter but must be quoting from memory. She understands the deception at last, and knows that it is Cyrano whom she loved.

----------ACT 5 SCENE 1--------- Mother Marguerite, Sister Martha, Sister Claire, other sisters. SISTER MARTHA (to Mother Marguerite): Sister Claire glanced in the mirror, once--nay, twice, to see if her coif suited. MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Claire): 'Tis not well. SISTER CLAIRE: But I saw Sister Martha take a plum Out of the tart. MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Martha): That was ill done, my sister. SISTER CLAIRE: A little glance! SISTER MARTHA: And such a little plum! MOTHER MARGUERITE: I shall tell this to Monsieur Cyrano. SISTER CLAIRE: Nay, prithee do not!--he will mock! SISTER MARTHA: He'll say we nuns are vain! SISTER CLAIRE: And greedy! MOTHER MARGUERITE (smiling): Ay, and kind! SISTER CLAIRE: Is it not true, pray, Mother Marguerite, That he has come, each week, on Saturday For ten years, to the convent? MOTHER MARGUERITE: Ay! and more! Ever since--fourteen years ago--the day His cousin brought here, 'midst our woolen coifs, The worldly mourning of her widow's veil, Like a blackbird's wing among the convent doves! SISTER MARTHA: He only has the skill to turn her mind From grief--unsoftened yet by Time--unhealed! ALL THE SISTERS: He is so droll!--It's cheerful when he comes!-- He teases us!--But we all like him well!-- --We make him pasties of angelica! SISTER MARTHA: But, he is not a faithful Catholic! SISTER CLAIRE: We will convert him! THE SISTERS: Yes! Yes! MOTHER MARGUERITE: I forbid, My daughters, you attempt that subject. Nay, Weary him not--he might less oft come here! SISTER MARTHA: But. . .God. . . MOTHER MARGUERITE: Nay, never fear! God knows him well! SISTER MARTHA: But--every Saturday, when he arrives, He tells me, 'Sister, I eat meat on Friday!' MOTHER MARGUERITE: Ah! says he so? Well, the last time he came Food had not passed his lips for two whole days! SISTER MARTHA: Mother! MOTHER MARGUERITE: He's poor. SISTER MARTHA: Who told you so, dear Mother? MOTHER MARGUERITE: Monsieur Le Bret. SISTER MARTHA: None help him? MOTHER MARGUERITE: He permits not. (In an alley at the back Roxane appears, dressed in black, with a widow's coif and veil. De Guiche, imposing-looking and visibly aged, walks by her side. They saunter slowly. Mother Marguerite rises): 'Tis time we go in; Madame Madeleine Walks in the garden with a visitor. SISTER MARTHA (to Sister Claire, in a low voice): The Marshal of Grammont? SISTER CLAIRE (looking at him): 'Tis he, I think. SISTER MARTHA: 'Tis many months now since he came to see her. THE SISTERS: He is so busy!--The Court,--the camp!. . . SISTER CLAIRE: The world! (They go out. De Guiche and Roxane come forward in silence, and stop close to the embroidery frame.) ----------ACT 5 SCENES 2-3--------- Roxane; the Duke de Grammont, formerly Count de Guiche. Then Le Bret and Ragueneau. THE DUKE: And you stay here still--ever vainly fair, Ever in weeds? ROXANE: Ever. THE DUKE: Still faithful? ROXANE: Still. THE DUKE (after a pause): Am I forgiven? ROXANE: Ay, since I am here. (Another pause.) THE DUKE: His was a soul, you say?. . . ROXANE: Ah!--when you knew him! THE DUKE: Ah, may be!. . .I, perchance, too little knew him! . . .And his last letter, ever next your heart? ROXANE: Hung from this chain, a gentle scapulary. THE DUKE: And, dead, you love him still? ROXANE: At times,--meseems He is but partly dead--our hearts still speak, As if his love, still living, wrapped me round! THE DUKE (after another pause): Cyrano comes to see you? ROXANE: Often, ay. Dear, kind old friend! We call him my 'Gazette.' He never fails to come: beneath this tree They place his chair, if it be fine:--I wait, I broider;--the clock strikes;--at the last stroke I hear,--for now I never turn to look-- Too sure to hear his cane tap down the steps; He seats himself:--with gentle raillery He mocks my tapestry that's never done; He tells me all the gossip of the week. . . (Le Bret appears on the steps): Why, here's Le Bret! (Le Bret descends): How goes it with our friend? LE BRET: Ill!--very ill. THE DUKE: How? ROXANE (to the Duke): He exaggerates! LE BRET: All that I prophesied: desertion, want!. . . His letters now make him fresh enemies!-- Attacking the sham nobles, sham devout, Sham brave,--the thieving authors,--all the world! ROXANE: Ah! but his sword still holds them all in check; None get the better of him. THE DUKE (shaking his head): Time will show! LE BRET: Ah, but I fear for him--not man's attack,-- Solitude--hunger--cold December days, That wolf-like steal into his chamber drear:-- Lo! the assassins that I fear for him! Each day he tightens by one hole his belt: That poor nose--tinted like old ivory: He has retained one shabby suit of serge. THE DUKE: Ay, there is one who has no prize of Fortune!-- Yet is not to be pitied! LE BRET (with a bitter smile): My Lord Marshal!. . . THE DUKE: Pity him not! He has lived out his vows, Free in his thoughts, as in his actions free! LE BRET (in the same tone): My Lord!. . . THE DUKE (haughtily): True! I have all, and he has naught;. . . Yet I were proud to take his hand! (Bowing to Roxane): Adieu! ROXANE: I go with you. (The Duke bows to Le Bret, and goes with Roxane toward the steps.) THE DUKE (pausing, while she goes up): Ay, true,--I envy him. Look you, when life is brimful of success --Though the past hold no action foul--one feels A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest; And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame, The Duke's furred mantles trail within their folds A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets, A rustle--scarce a whisper--like as when, Mounting the terrace steps, by your mourning robe Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves. ROXANE (ironically): You are pensive? THE DUKE: True! I am! (As he is going out, suddenly): Monsieur Le Bret! (To Roxane): A word, with your permission? (He goes to Le Bret, and in a low voice): True, that none Dare to attack your friend;--but many hate him; Yesterday, at the Queen's card-play, 'twas said 'That Cyrano may die--by accident!' Let him stay in--be prudent! LE BRET (raising his arms to heaven): Prudent! He!. . . He's coming here. I'll warn him--but!. . . ROXANE (who has stayed on the steps, to a sister who comes toward her): What is it? THE SISTER: Ragueneau would see you, Madame. ROXANE: Let him come. (To the Duke and Le Bret): He comes to tell his troubles. Having been An author (save the mark!)--poor fellow--now By turns he's singer. . . LE BRET: Bathing-man. . . ROXANE: Then actor. . . LE BRET: Beadle. . . ROXANE: Wig-maker. . . LE BRET: Teacher of the lute. . . ROXANE: What will he be to-day, by chance? RAGUENEAU (entering hurriedly): Ah! Madame! (He sees Le Bret): Ah! you here, Sir! ROXANE (smiling): Tell all your miseries To him; I will return anon. RAGUENEAU: But, Madame. . . (Roxane goes out with the Duke. Ragueneau goes toward Le Bret.) Le Bret, Ragueneau. RAGUENEAU: Since you are here, 'tis best she should not know! I was going to your friend just now--was but A few steps from the house, when I saw him Go out. I hurried to him. Saw him turn The corner. . .suddenly, from out a window Where he was passing--was it chance?. . .may be! A lackey let fall a large piece of wood. LE BRET: Cowards! O Cyrano! RAGUENEAU: I ran--I saw. . . LE BRET: 'Tis hideous! RAGUENEAU: Saw our poet, Sir--our friend-- Struck to the ground--a large wound in his head! LE BRET: He's dead? RAGUENEAU: No--but--I bore him to his room. . . Ah! his room! What a thing to see!--that garret! LE BRET: He suffers? RAGUENEAU: No, his consciousness has flown. LE BRET: Saw you a doctor? RAGUENEAU: One was kind--he came. LE BRET: My poor Cyrano!--We must not tell this To Roxane suddenly.--What said this leech?-- RAGUENEAU: Said,--what, I know not--fever, meningitis!-- Ah! could you see him--all his head bound up!-- But let us haste!--There's no one by his bed!-- And if he try to rise, Sir, he might die! LE BRET (dragging him toward the right): Come! Through the chapel! 'Tis the quickest way! ROXANE (appearing on the steps, and seeing Le Bret go away by the colonnade leading to the chapel door): Monsieur le Bret! (Le Bret and Ragueneau disappear without answering): Le Bret goes--when I call! 'Tis some new trouble of good Ragueneau's. (She descends the steps.) ----------ACT 5 SCENE 4--------- Roxane alone. Two sisters, for a moment. ROXANE: Ah! what a beauty in September's close! My sorrow's eased. April's joy dazzled it, But autumn wins it with her dying calm. (She seats herself at the embroidery frame. Two sisters come out of the house, and bring a large armchair under the tree): There comes the famous armchair where he sits, Dear faithful friend! SISTER MARTHA: It is the parlor's best! ROXANE: Thanks, sister. (The sisters go): He'll be here now. (She seats herself. A clock strikes): The hour strikes. --My silks?--Why, now, the hour's struck! How strange To be behind his time, at last, to-day! Perhaps the portress--where's my thimble?. . . Here!--Is preaching to him. (A pause): Yes, she must be preaching! Surely he must come soon!--Ah, a dead leaf!-- (She brushes off the leaf from her work): Nothing, besides, could--scissors?--In my bag! --Could hinder him. . . A SISTER (coming to the steps): Monsieur de Bergerac. ----------ACT 5 SCENE 5--------- Roxane, Cyrano and, for a moment, Sister Martha. ROXANE (without turning round): What was I saying?. . . (She embroiders. Cyrano, very pale, his hat pulled down over his eyes, appears. The sister who had announced him retires. He descends the steps slowly, with a visible difficulty in holding himself upright, bearing heavily on his cane. Roxane still works at her tapestry): Time has dimmed the tints. . . How harmonize them now? (To Cyrano, with playful reproach): For the first time Late!--For the first time, all these fourteen years! CYRANO (who has succeeded in reaching the chair, and has seated himself--in a lively voice, which is in great contrast with his pale face): Ay! It is villainous! I raged--was stayed. . . ROXANE: By?. . . CYRANO: By a bold, unwelcome visitor. ROXANE (absently, working): Some creditor? CYRANO: Ay, cousin,--the last creditor Who has a debt to claim from me. ROXANE: And you Have paid it? CYRANO: No, not yet! I put it off; --Said, 'Cry you mercy; this is Saturday, When I have get a standing rendezvous That naught defers. Call in an hour's time!' ROXANE (carelessly): Oh, well, a creditor can always wait! I shall not let you go ere twilight falls. CYRANO: Haply, perforce, I quit you ere it falls! (He shuts his eyes, and is silent for a moment. Sister Martha crosses the park from the chapel to the flight of steps. Roxane, seeing her, signs to her to approach.) ROXANE (to Cyrano): How now? You have not teased the Sister? CYRANO (hastily opening his eyes): True! (In a comically loud voice): Sister! come here! (The sister glides up to him): Ha! ha! What? Those bright eyes Bent ever on the ground? SISTER MARTHA (who makes a movement of astonishment on seeing his face): Oh! CYRANO (in a whisper, pointing to Roxane): Hush! 'tis naught!-- (Loudly, in a blustering voice): I broke fast yesterday! SISTER MARTHA (aside): I know, I know! That's how he is so pale! Come presently To the refectory, I'll make you drink A famous bowl of soup. . .You'll come? CYRANO: Ay, ay! SISTER MARTHA: There, see! You are more reasonable to-day! ROXANE (who hears them whispering): The Sister would convert you? SISTER MARTHA: Nay, not I! CYRANO: Hold! but it's true! You preach to me no more, You, once so glib with holy words! I am Astonished!. . . (With burlesque fury): Stay, I will surprise you too! Hark! I permit you. . . (He pretends to be seeking for something to tease her with, and to have found it): . . .It is something new!-- To--pray for me, to-night, at chapel-time! ROXANE: Oh! oh! CYRANO (laughing): Good Sister Martha is struck dumb! SISTER MARTHA (gently): I did not wait your leave to pray for you. (She goes out.) CYRANO (turning to Roxane, who is still bending over her work): That tapestry! Beshrew me if my eyes Will ever see it finished! ROXANE: I was sure To hear that well-known jest! (A light breeze causes the leaves to fall.) CYRANO: The autumn leaves! ROXANE (lifting her head, and looking down the distant alley): Soft golden brown, like a Venetian's hair. --See how they fall! CYRANO: Ay, see how brave they fall, In their last journey downward from the bough, To rot within the clay; yet, lovely still, Hiding the horror of the last decay, With all the wayward grace of careless flight! ROXANE: What, melancholy--you? CYRANO (collecting himself): Nay, nay, Roxane! ROXANE: Then let the dead leaves fall the way they will. . . And chat. What, have you nothing new to tell, My Court Gazette? CYRANO: Listen. ROXANE: Ah! CYRANO (growing whiter and whiter): Saturday The nineteenth: having eaten to excess Of pear-conserve, the King felt feverish; The lancet quelled this treasonable revolt, And the august pulse beats at normal pace. At the Queen's ball on Sunday thirty score Of best white waxen tapers were consumed. Our troops, they say, have chased the Austrians. Four sorcerers were hanged. The little dog Of Madame d'Athis took a dose. . . ROXANE: I bid You hold your tongue, Monsieur de Bergerac! CYRANO: Monday--not much--Claire changed protector. ROXANE: Oh! CYRANO (whose face changes more and more): Tuesday, the Court repaired to Fontainebleau. Wednesday, the Montglat said to Comte de Fiesque. . . No! Thursday--Mancini, Queen of France! (almost!) Friday, the Monglat to Count Fiesque said--'Yes!' And Saturday the twenty-sixth. . . (He closes his eyes. His head falls forward. Silence.) ROXANE (surprised at his voice ceasing, turns round, looks at him, and rising, terrified): He swoons! (She runs toward him crying): Cyrano! CYRANO (opening his eyes, in an unconcerned voice): What is this? (He sees Roxane bending over him, and, hastily pressing his hat on his head, and shrinking back in his chair): Nay, on my word 'Tis nothing! Let me be! ROXANE: But. . . CYRANO: That old wound Of Arras, sometimes,--as you know. . . ROXANE: Dear friend! CYRANO: 'Tis nothing, 'twill pass soon; (He smiles with an effort): See!--it has passed! ROXANE: Each of us has his wound; ay, I have mine,-- Never healed up--not healed yet, my old wound! (She puts her hand on her breast): 'Tis here, beneath this letter brown with age, All stained with tear-drops, and still stained with blood. (Twilight begins to fall.) CYRANO: His letter! Ah! you promised me one day That I should read it. ROXANE: What would you?--His letter? CYRANO: Yes, I would fain,--to-day. . . ROXANE (giving the bag hung at her neck): See! here it is! CYRANO (taking it): Have I your leave to open? ROXANE: Open--read! (She comes back to her tapestry frame, folds it up, sorts her wools.) CYRANO (reading): 'Roxane, adieu! I soon must die! This very night, beloved; and I Feel my soul heavy with love untold. I die! No more, as in days of old, My loving, longing eyes will feast On your least gesture--ay, the least! I mind me the way you touch your cheek With your finger, softly, as you speak! Ah me! I know that gesture well! My heart cries out!--I cry "Farewell"!' ROXANE: But how you read that letter! One would think. . . CYRANO (continuing to read): 'My life, my love, my jewel, my sweet, My heart has been yours in every beat!' (The shades of evening fall imperceptibly.) ROXANE: You read in such a voice--so strange--and yet-- It is not the first time I hear that voice! (She comes nearer very softly, without his perceiving it, passes behind his chair, and, noiselessly leaning over him, looks at the letter. The darkness deepens.) CYRANO: 'Here, dying, and there, in the land on high, I am he who loved, who loves you,--I. . .' ROXANE (putting her hand on his shoulder): How can you read? It is too dark to see! (He starts, turns, sees her close to him. Suddenly alarmed, he holds his head down. Then in the dusk, which has now completely enfolded them, she says, very slowly, with clasped hands): And, fourteen years long, he has played this part Of the kind old friend who comes to laugh and chat. CYRANO: Roxane! ROXANE: 'Twas you! CYRANO: No, never; Roxane, no! ROXANE: I should have guessed, each time he said my name! CYRANO: No, it was not I! ROXANE: It was you! CYRANO: I swear! ROXANE: I see through all the generous counterfeit-- The letters--you! CYRANO: No. ROXANE: The sweet, mad love-words! You! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: The voice that thrilled the night--you, you! CYRANO: I swear you err. ROXANE: The soul--it was your soul! CYRANO: I loved you not. ROXANE: You loved me not? CYRANO: 'Twas he! ROXANE: You loved me! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: See! how you falter now! CYRANO: No, my sweet love, I never loved you! ROXANE: Ah! Things dead, long dead, see! how they rise again! --Why, why keep silence all these fourteen years, When, on this letter, which he never wrote, The tears were your tears? CYRANO (holding out the letter to her): The bloodstains were his. ROXANE: Why, then, that noble silence,--kept so long-- Broken to-day for the first time--why? CYRANO: Why?. . . (Le Bret and Ragueneau enter running.) ----------ACT 5 SCENE 6--------- The same. Le Bret and Ragueneau. LE BRET: What madness! Here? I knew it well! CYRANO (smiling and sitting up): What now? LE BRET: He has brought his death by coming, Madame. ROXANE: God! Ah, then! that faintness of a moment since. . .? CYRANO: Why, true! It interrupted the 'Gazette:' . . .Saturday, twenty-sixth, at dinner-time, Assassination of De Bergerac. (He takes off his hat; they see his head bandaged.) ROXANE: What says he? Cyrano!--His head all bound! Ah, what has chanced? How?--Who?. . . CYRANO: 'To be struck down, Pierced by sword i' the heart, from a hero's hand!' That I had dreamed. O mockery of Fate! --Killed, I! of all men--in an ambuscade! Struck from behind, and by a lackey's hand! 'Tis very well. I am foiled, foiled in all, Even in my death. RAGUENEAU: Ah, Monsieur!. . . CYRANO (holding out his hand to him): Ragueneau, Weep not so bitterly!. . .What do you now, Old comrade? RAGUENEAU (amid his tears): Trim the lights for Moliere's stage. CYRANO: Moliere! RAGUENEAU: Yes; but I shall leave to-morrow. I cannot bear it!--Yesterday, they played 'Scapin'--I saw he'd thieved a scene from you! LE BRET: What! a whole scene? RAGUENEAU: Oh, yes, indeed, Monsieur, The famous one, 'Que Diable allait-il faire?' LE BRET: Moliere has stolen that? CYRANO: Tut! He did well!. . . (to Ragueneau): How went the scene? It told--I think it told? RAGUENEAU (sobbing): Ah! how they laughed! CYRANO: Look you, it was my life To be the prompter every one forgets! (To Roxane): That night when 'neath your window Christian spoke --Under your balcony, you remember? Well! There was the allegory of my whole life: I, in the shadow, at the ladder's foot, While others lightly mount to Love and Fame! Just! very just! Here on the threshold drear Of death, I pay my tribute with the rest, To Moliere's genius,--Christian's fair face! (The chapel-bell chimes. The nuns are seen passing down the alley at the back, to say their office): Let them go pray, go pray, when the bell rings! ROXANE (rising and calling): Sister! Sister! CYRANO (holding her fast): Call no one. Leave me not; When you come back, I should be gone for aye. (The nuns have all entered the chapel. The organ sounds): I was somewhat fain for music--hark! 'tis come. ROXANE: Live, for I love you! CYRANO: No, In fairy tales When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast-- But I remain the same, up to the last! ROXANE: I have marred your life--I, I! CYRANO: You blessed my life! Never on me had rested woman's love. My mother even could not find me fair: I had no sister; and, when grown a man, I feared the mistress who would mock at me. But I have had your friendship--grace to you A woman's charm has passed across my path. LE BRET (pointing to the moon, which is seen between the trees): Your other lady-love is come. CYRANO (smiling): I see. ROXANE: I loved but once, yet twice I lose my love! CYRANO: Hark you, Le Bret! I soon shall reach the moon. To-night, alone, with no projectile's aid!. . . LE BRET: What are you saying? CYRANO: I tell you, it is there, There, that they send me for my Paradise, There I shall find at last the souls I love, In exile,--Galileo--Socrates! LE BRET (rebelliously): No, no! It is too clumsy, too unjust! So great a heart! So great a poet! Die Like this? what, die. . .? CYRANO: Hark to Le Bret, who scolds! LE BRET (weeping): Dear friend. . . CYRANO (starting up, his eyes wild): What ho! Cadets of Gascony! The elemental mass--ah yes! The hic. . . LE BRET: His science still--he raves! CYRANO: Copernicus Said. . . ROXANE: Oh! CYRANO: Mais que diable allait-il faire, Mais que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere?. . . Philosopher, metaphysician, Rhymer, brawler, and musician, Famed for his lunar expedition, And the unnumbered duels he fought,-- And lover also,--by interposition!-- Here lies Hercule Savinien De Cyrano de Bergerac, Who was everything, yet was naught. I cry you pardon, but I may not stay; See, the moon-ray that comes to call me hence! (He has fallen back in his chair; the sobs of Roxane recall him to reality; he looks long at her, and, touching her veil): I would not bid you mourn less faithfully That good, brave Christian: I would only ask That when my body shall be cold in clay You wear those sable mourning weeds for two, And mourn awhile for me, in mourning him. ROXANE: I swear it you!. . . CYRANO (shivering violently, then suddenly rising): Not there! what, seated?--no! (They spring toward him): Let no one hold me up-- (He props himself against the tree): Only the tree! (Silence): It comes. E'en now my feet have turned to stone, My hands are gloved with lead! (He stands erect): But since Death comes, I meet him still afoot, (He draws his sword): And sword in hand! LE BRET: Cyrano! ROXANE (half fainting): Cyrano! (All shrink back in terror.) CYRANO: Why, I well believe He dares to mock my nose? Ho! insolent! (He raises his sword): What say you? It is useless? Ay, I know But who fights ever hoping for success? I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest! You there, who are you!--You are thousands! Ah! I know you now, old enemies of mine! Falsehood! (He strikes in air with his sword): Have at you! Ha! and Compromise! Prejudice, Treachery!. . . (He strikes): Surrender, I? Parley? No, never! You too, Folly,--you? I know that you will lay me low at last; Let be! Yet I fall fighting, fighting still! (He makes passes in the air, and stops, breathless): You strip from me the laurel and the rose! Take all! Despite you there is yet one thing I hold against you all, and when, to-night, I enter Christ's fair courts, and, lowly bowed, Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue, One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch, I bear away despite you. (He springs forward, his sword raised; it falls from his hand; he staggers, falls back into the arms of Le Bret and Ragueneau.) ROXANE (bending and kissing his forehead): 'Tis?. . . CYRANO (opening his eyes, recognizing her, and smiling): MY PANACHE. Curtain. ----------ACT 5, SCENE 1--------- Mother Marguerite, Sister Martha, Sister Claire, other sisters. SISTER MARTHA (to Mother Marguerite): Sister Claire glanced in the mirror, once--nay, twice, to see if her coif suited. MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Claire): 'Tis not well. SISTER CLAIRE: But I saw Sister Martha take a plum Out of the tart. MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Martha): That was ill done, my sister. SISTER CLAIRE: A little glance! SISTER MARTHA: And such a little plum! MOTHER MARGUERITE: I shall tell this to Monsieur Cyrano. SISTER CLAIRE: Nay, prithee do not!--he will mock! SISTER MARTHA: He'll say we nuns are vain! SISTER CLAIRE: And greedy! MOTHER MARGUERITE (smiling): Ay, and kind! SISTER CLAIRE: Is it not true, pray, Mother Marguerite, That he has come, each week, on Saturday For ten years, to the convent? MOTHER MARGUERITE: Ay! and more! Ever since--fourteen years ago--the day His cousin brought here, 'midst our woolen coifs, The worldly mourning of her widow's veil, Like a blackbird's wing among the convent doves! SISTER MARTHA: He only has the skill to turn her mind From grief--unsoftened yet by Time--unhealed! ALL THE SISTERS: He is so droll!--It's cheerful when he comes!-- He teases us!--But we all like him well!-- --We make him pasties of angelica! SISTER MARTHA: But, he is not a faithful Catholic! SISTER CLAIRE: We will convert him! THE SISTERS: Yes! Yes! MOTHER MARGUERITE: I forbid, My daughters, you attempt that subject. Nay, Weary him not--he might less oft come here! SISTER MARTHA: But. . .God. . . MOTHER MARGUERITE: Nay, never fear! God knows him well! SISTER MARTHA: But--every Saturday, when he arrives, He tells me, 'Sister, I eat meat on Friday!' MOTHER MARGUERITE: Ah! says he so? Well, the last time he came Food had not passed his lips for two whole days! SISTER MARTHA: Mother! MOTHER MARGUERITE: He's poor. SISTER MARTHA: Who told you so, dear Mother? MOTHER MARGUERITE: Monsieur Le Bret. SISTER MARTHA: None help him? MOTHER MARGUERITE: He permits not. (In an alley at the back Roxane appears, dressed in black, with a widow's coif and veil. De Guiche, imposing-looking and visibly aged, walks by her side. They saunter slowly. Mother Marguerite rises): 'Tis time we go in; Madame Madeleine Walks in the garden with a visitor. SISTER MARTHA (to Sister Claire, in a low voice): The Marshal of Grammont? SISTER CLAIRE (looking at him): 'Tis he, I think. SISTER MARTHA: 'Tis many months now since he came to see her. THE SISTERS: He is so busy!--The Court,--the camp!. . . SISTER CLAIRE: The world! (They go out. De Guiche and Roxane come forward in silence, and stop close to the embroidery frame.)

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 5, scene 6 using the context provided.

Le Bret and Ragueneau rush in, crying that Cyrano's coming here will kill him. Cyrano tells Roxane his last piece of news: "Today. Monsieur de Bergerac was murdered. He takes off his hat and reveals his bandaged head. Roxane is distraught. Cyrano says he always expected to die on the point of a hero's sword, but instead he has been struck down from behind with a lump of wood, by a servant. Even his death, he adds, is "laughable. Ragueneau tells Cyrano that Moliere has been stealing jokes and scenes that Cyrano has written to put in his plays. Cyrano says that it does not matter as long as the scene worked. Ragueneau says that the audience laughed and laughed. Cyrano comments that his role in life has been to feed lines to others. He tells Roxane that when Christian courted her under the balcony, he was feeding him his lines, but it was Christian who climbed up to claim the kiss from her. Roxane says that Cyrano cannot die, and that she loves him. She says that she has only ever loved one man, and now she is losing him again. Cyrano becomes delirious. He sees that his death is approaching. He stands up, his sword in his hand, to meet death. He says he thinks that death is looking at his nose. He begins to fence his old enemies: Lies, Compromise, Spite, Cowardice, and Stupidity. He says that they can take his poet's crown and lover's garland, yet he will go into God's presence with one thing that he will take unstained out of this world. Roxane, kissing him, asks him what it is. He answers, "My white plume.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 2--------- Roxane; the Duke de Grammont, formerly Count de Guiche. Then Le Bret and Ragueneau. THE DUKE: And you stay here still--ever vainly fair, Ever in weeds? ROXANE: Ever. THE DUKE: Still faithful? ROXANE: Still. THE DUKE (after a pause): Am I forgiven? ROXANE: Ay, since I am here. (Another pause.) THE DUKE: His was a soul, you say?. . . ROXANE: Ah!--when you knew him! THE DUKE: Ah, may be!. . .I, perchance, too little knew him! . . .And his last letter, ever next your heart? ROXANE: Hung from this chain, a gentle scapulary. THE DUKE: And, dead, you love him still? ROXANE: At times,--meseems He is but partly dead--our hearts still speak, As if his love, still living, wrapped me round! THE DUKE (after another pause): Cyrano comes to see you? ROXANE: Often, ay. Dear, kind old friend! We call him my 'Gazette.' He never fails to come: beneath this tree They place his chair, if it be fine:--I wait, I broider;--the clock strikes;--at the last stroke I hear,--for now I never turn to look-- Too sure to hear his cane tap down the steps; He seats himself:--with gentle raillery He mocks my tapestry that's never done; He tells me all the gossip of the week. . . (Le Bret appears on the steps): Why, here's Le Bret! (Le Bret descends): How goes it with our friend? LE BRET: Ill!--very ill. THE DUKE: How? ROXANE (to the Duke): He exaggerates! LE BRET: All that I prophesied: desertion, want!. . . His letters now make him fresh enemies!-- Attacking the sham nobles, sham devout, Sham brave,--the thieving authors,--all the world! ROXANE: Ah! but his sword still holds them all in check; None get the better of him. THE DUKE (shaking his head): Time will show! LE BRET: Ah, but I fear for him--not man's attack,-- Solitude--hunger--cold December days, That wolf-like steal into his chamber drear:-- Lo! the assassins that I fear for him! Each day he tightens by one hole his belt: That poor nose--tinted like old ivory: He has retained one shabby suit of serge. THE DUKE: Ay, there is one who has no prize of Fortune!-- Yet is not to be pitied! LE BRET (with a bitter smile): My Lord Marshal!. . . THE DUKE: Pity him not! He has lived out his vows, Free in his thoughts, as in his actions free! LE BRET (in the same tone): My Lord!. . . THE DUKE (haughtily): True! I have all, and he has naught;. . . Yet I were proud to take his hand! (Bowing to Roxane): Adieu! ROXANE: I go with you. (The Duke bows to Le Bret, and goes with Roxane toward the steps.) THE DUKE (pausing, while she goes up): Ay, true,--I envy him. Look you, when life is brimful of success --Though the past hold no action foul--one feels A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest; And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame, The Duke's furred mantles trail within their folds A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets, A rustle--scarce a whisper--like as when, Mounting the terrace steps, by your mourning robe Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves. ROXANE (ironically): You are pensive? THE DUKE: True! I am! (As he is going out, suddenly): Monsieur Le Bret! (To Roxane): A word, with your permission? (He goes to Le Bret, and in a low voice): True, that none Dare to attack your friend;--but many hate him; Yesterday, at the Queen's card-play, 'twas said 'That Cyrano may die--by accident!' Let him stay in--be prudent! LE BRET (raising his arms to heaven): Prudent! He!. . . He's coming here. I'll warn him--but!. . . ROXANE (who has stayed on the steps, to a sister who comes toward her): What is it? THE SISTER: Ragueneau would see you, Madame. ROXANE: Let him come. (To the Duke and Le Bret): He comes to tell his troubles. Having been An author (save the mark!)--poor fellow--now By turns he's singer. . . LE BRET: Bathing-man. . . ROXANE: Then actor. . . LE BRET: Beadle. . . ROXANE: Wig-maker. . . LE BRET: Teacher of the lute. . . ROXANE: What will he be to-day, by chance? RAGUENEAU (entering hurriedly): Ah! Madame! (He sees Le Bret): Ah! you here, Sir! ROXANE (smiling): Tell all your miseries To him; I will return anon. RAGUENEAU: But, Madame. . . (Roxane goes out with the Duke. Ragueneau goes toward Le Bret.) ----------ACT 5, SCENE 3--------- Le Bret, Ragueneau. RAGUENEAU: Since you are here, 'tis best she should not know! I was going to your friend just now--was but A few steps from the house, when I saw him Go out. I hurried to him. Saw him turn The corner. . .suddenly, from out a window Where he was passing--was it chance?. . .may be! A lackey let fall a large piece of wood. LE BRET: Cowards! O Cyrano! RAGUENEAU: I ran--I saw. . . LE BRET: 'Tis hideous! RAGUENEAU: Saw our poet, Sir--our friend-- Struck to the ground--a large wound in his head! LE BRET: He's dead? RAGUENEAU: No--but--I bore him to his room. . . Ah! his room! What a thing to see!--that garret! LE BRET: He suffers? RAGUENEAU: No, his consciousness has flown. LE BRET: Saw you a doctor? RAGUENEAU: One was kind--he came. LE BRET: My poor Cyrano!--We must not tell this To Roxane suddenly.--What said this leech?-- RAGUENEAU: Said,--what, I know not--fever, meningitis!-- Ah! could you see him--all his head bound up!-- But let us haste!--There's no one by his bed!-- And if he try to rise, Sir, he might die! LE BRET (dragging him toward the right): Come! Through the chapel! 'Tis the quickest way! ROXANE (appearing on the steps, and seeing Le Bret go away by the colonnade leading to the chapel door): Monsieur le Bret! (Le Bret and Ragueneau disappear without answering): Le Bret goes--when I call! 'Tis some new trouble of good Ragueneau's. (She descends the steps.) ----------ACT 5, SCENE 4--------- Roxane alone. Two sisters, for a moment. ROXANE: Ah! what a beauty in September's close! My sorrow's eased. April's joy dazzled it, But autumn wins it with her dying calm. (She seats herself at the embroidery frame. Two sisters come out of the house, and bring a large armchair under the tree): There comes the famous armchair where he sits, Dear faithful friend! SISTER MARTHA: It is the parlor's best! ROXANE: Thanks, sister. (The sisters go): He'll be here now. (She seats herself. A clock strikes): The hour strikes. --My silks?--Why, now, the hour's struck! How strange To be behind his time, at last, to-day! Perhaps the portress--where's my thimble?. . . Here!--Is preaching to him. (A pause): Yes, she must be preaching! Surely he must come soon!--Ah, a dead leaf!-- (She brushes off the leaf from her work): Nothing, besides, could--scissors?--In my bag! --Could hinder him. . . A SISTER (coming to the steps): Monsieur de Bergerac. ----------ACT 5, SCENE 5--------- Roxane, Cyrano and, for a moment, Sister Martha. ROXANE (without turning round): What was I saying?. . . (She embroiders. Cyrano, very pale, his hat pulled down over his eyes, appears. The sister who had announced him retires. He descends the steps slowly, with a visible difficulty in holding himself upright, bearing heavily on his cane. Roxane still works at her tapestry): Time has dimmed the tints. . . How harmonize them now? (To Cyrano, with playful reproach): For the first time Late!--For the first time, all these fourteen years! CYRANO (who has succeeded in reaching the chair, and has seated himself--in a lively voice, which is in great contrast with his pale face): Ay! It is villainous! I raged--was stayed. . . ROXANE: By?. . . CYRANO: By a bold, unwelcome visitor. ROXANE (absently, working): Some creditor? CYRANO: Ay, cousin,--the last creditor Who has a debt to claim from me. ROXANE: And you Have paid it? CYRANO: No, not yet! I put it off; --Said, 'Cry you mercy; this is Saturday, When I have get a standing rendezvous That naught defers. Call in an hour's time!' ROXANE (carelessly): Oh, well, a creditor can always wait! I shall not let you go ere twilight falls. CYRANO: Haply, perforce, I quit you ere it falls! (He shuts his eyes, and is silent for a moment. Sister Martha crosses the park from the chapel to the flight of steps. Roxane, seeing her, signs to her to approach.) ROXANE (to Cyrano): How now? You have not teased the Sister? CYRANO (hastily opening his eyes): True! (In a comically loud voice): Sister! come here! (The sister glides up to him): Ha! ha! What? Those bright eyes Bent ever on the ground? SISTER MARTHA (who makes a movement of astonishment on seeing his face): Oh! CYRANO (in a whisper, pointing to Roxane): Hush! 'tis naught!-- (Loudly, in a blustering voice): I broke fast yesterday! SISTER MARTHA (aside): I know, I know! That's how he is so pale! Come presently To the refectory, I'll make you drink A famous bowl of soup. . .You'll come? CYRANO: Ay, ay! SISTER MARTHA: There, see! You are more reasonable to-day! ROXANE (who hears them whispering): The Sister would convert you? SISTER MARTHA: Nay, not I! CYRANO: Hold! but it's true! You preach to me no more, You, once so glib with holy words! I am Astonished!. . . (With burlesque fury): Stay, I will surprise you too! Hark! I permit you. . . (He pretends to be seeking for something to tease her with, and to have found it): . . .It is something new!-- To--pray for me, to-night, at chapel-time! ROXANE: Oh! oh! CYRANO (laughing): Good Sister Martha is struck dumb! SISTER MARTHA (gently): I did not wait your leave to pray for you. (She goes out.) CYRANO (turning to Roxane, who is still bending over her work): That tapestry! Beshrew me if my eyes Will ever see it finished! ROXANE: I was sure To hear that well-known jest! (A light breeze causes the leaves to fall.) CYRANO: The autumn leaves! ROXANE (lifting her head, and looking down the distant alley): Soft golden brown, like a Venetian's hair. --See how they fall! CYRANO: Ay, see how brave they fall, In their last journey downward from the bough, To rot within the clay; yet, lovely still, Hiding the horror of the last decay, With all the wayward grace of careless flight! ROXANE: What, melancholy--you? CYRANO (collecting himself): Nay, nay, Roxane! ROXANE: Then let the dead leaves fall the way they will. . . And chat. What, have you nothing new to tell, My Court Gazette? CYRANO: Listen. ROXANE: Ah! CYRANO (growing whiter and whiter): Saturday The nineteenth: having eaten to excess Of pear-conserve, the King felt feverish; The lancet quelled this treasonable revolt, And the august pulse beats at normal pace. At the Queen's ball on Sunday thirty score Of best white waxen tapers were consumed. Our troops, they say, have chased the Austrians. Four sorcerers were hanged. The little dog Of Madame d'Athis took a dose. . . ROXANE: I bid You hold your tongue, Monsieur de Bergerac! CYRANO: Monday--not much--Claire changed protector. ROXANE: Oh! CYRANO (whose face changes more and more): Tuesday, the Court repaired to Fontainebleau. Wednesday, the Montglat said to Comte de Fiesque. . . No! Thursday--Mancini, Queen of France! (almost!) Friday, the Monglat to Count Fiesque said--'Yes!' And Saturday the twenty-sixth. . . (He closes his eyes. His head falls forward. Silence.) ROXANE (surprised at his voice ceasing, turns round, looks at him, and rising, terrified): He swoons! (She runs toward him crying): Cyrano! CYRANO (opening his eyes, in an unconcerned voice): What is this? (He sees Roxane bending over him, and, hastily pressing his hat on his head, and shrinking back in his chair): Nay, on my word 'Tis nothing! Let me be! ROXANE: But. . . CYRANO: That old wound Of Arras, sometimes,--as you know. . . ROXANE: Dear friend! CYRANO: 'Tis nothing, 'twill pass soon; (He smiles with an effort): See!--it has passed! ROXANE: Each of us has his wound; ay, I have mine,-- Never healed up--not healed yet, my old wound! (She puts her hand on her breast): 'Tis here, beneath this letter brown with age, All stained with tear-drops, and still stained with blood. (Twilight begins to fall.) CYRANO: His letter! Ah! you promised me one day That I should read it. ROXANE: What would you?--His letter? CYRANO: Yes, I would fain,--to-day. . . ROXANE (giving the bag hung at her neck): See! here it is! CYRANO (taking it): Have I your leave to open? ROXANE: Open--read! (She comes back to her tapestry frame, folds it up, sorts her wools.) CYRANO (reading): 'Roxane, adieu! I soon must die! This very night, beloved; and I Feel my soul heavy with love untold. I die! No more, as in days of old, My loving, longing eyes will feast On your least gesture--ay, the least! I mind me the way you touch your cheek With your finger, softly, as you speak! Ah me! I know that gesture well! My heart cries out!--I cry "Farewell"!' ROXANE: But how you read that letter! One would think. . . CYRANO (continuing to read): 'My life, my love, my jewel, my sweet, My heart has been yours in every beat!' (The shades of evening fall imperceptibly.) ROXANE: You read in such a voice--so strange--and yet-- It is not the first time I hear that voice! (She comes nearer very softly, without his perceiving it, passes behind his chair, and, noiselessly leaning over him, looks at the letter. The darkness deepens.) CYRANO: 'Here, dying, and there, in the land on high, I am he who loved, who loves you,--I. . .' ROXANE (putting her hand on his shoulder): How can you read? It is too dark to see! (He starts, turns, sees her close to him. Suddenly alarmed, he holds his head down. Then in the dusk, which has now completely enfolded them, she says, very slowly, with clasped hands): And, fourteen years long, he has played this part Of the kind old friend who comes to laugh and chat. CYRANO: Roxane! ROXANE: 'Twas you! CYRANO: No, never; Roxane, no! ROXANE: I should have guessed, each time he said my name! CYRANO: No, it was not I! ROXANE: It was you! CYRANO: I swear! ROXANE: I see through all the generous counterfeit-- The letters--you! CYRANO: No. ROXANE: The sweet, mad love-words! You! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: The voice that thrilled the night--you, you! CYRANO: I swear you err. ROXANE: The soul--it was your soul! CYRANO: I loved you not. ROXANE: You loved me not? CYRANO: 'Twas he! ROXANE: You loved me! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: See! how you falter now! CYRANO: No, my sweet love, I never loved you! ROXANE: Ah! Things dead, long dead, see! how they rise again! --Why, why keep silence all these fourteen years, When, on this letter, which he never wrote, The tears were your tears? CYRANO (holding out the letter to her): The bloodstains were his. ROXANE: Why, then, that noble silence,--kept so long-- Broken to-day for the first time--why? CYRANO: Why?. . . (Le Bret and Ragueneau enter running.) ----------ACT 5, SCENE 6--------- The same. Le Bret and Ragueneau. LE BRET: What madness! Here? I knew it well! CYRANO (smiling and sitting up): What now? LE BRET: He has brought his death by coming, Madame. ROXANE: God! Ah, then! that faintness of a moment since. . .? CYRANO: Why, true! It interrupted the 'Gazette:' . . .Saturday, twenty-sixth, at dinner-time, Assassination of De Bergerac. (He takes off his hat; they see his head bandaged.) ROXANE: What says he? Cyrano!--His head all bound! Ah, what has chanced? How?--Who?. . . CYRANO: 'To be struck down, Pierced by sword i' the heart, from a hero's hand!' That I had dreamed. O mockery of Fate! --Killed, I! of all men--in an ambuscade! Struck from behind, and by a lackey's hand! 'Tis very well. I am foiled, foiled in all, Even in my death. RAGUENEAU: Ah, Monsieur!. . . CYRANO (holding out his hand to him): Ragueneau, Weep not so bitterly!. . .What do you now, Old comrade? RAGUENEAU (amid his tears): Trim the lights for Moliere's stage. CYRANO: Moliere! RAGUENEAU: Yes; but I shall leave to-morrow. I cannot bear it!--Yesterday, they played 'Scapin'--I saw he'd thieved a scene from you! LE BRET: What! a whole scene? RAGUENEAU: Oh, yes, indeed, Monsieur, The famous one, 'Que Diable allait-il faire?' LE BRET: Moliere has stolen that? CYRANO: Tut! He did well!. . . (to Ragueneau): How went the scene? It told--I think it told? RAGUENEAU (sobbing): Ah! how they laughed! CYRANO: Look you, it was my life To be the prompter every one forgets! (To Roxane): That night when 'neath your window Christian spoke --Under your balcony, you remember? Well! There was the allegory of my whole life: I, in the shadow, at the ladder's foot, While others lightly mount to Love and Fame! Just! very just! Here on the threshold drear Of death, I pay my tribute with the rest, To Moliere's genius,--Christian's fair face! (The chapel-bell chimes. The nuns are seen passing down the alley at the back, to say their office): Let them go pray, go pray, when the bell rings! ROXANE (rising and calling): Sister! Sister! CYRANO (holding her fast): Call no one. Leave me not; When you come back, I should be gone for aye. (The nuns have all entered the chapel. The organ sounds): I was somewhat fain for music--hark! 'tis come. ROXANE: Live, for I love you! CYRANO: No, In fairy tales When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast-- But I remain the same, up to the last! ROXANE: I have marred your life--I, I! CYRANO: You blessed my life! Never on me had rested woman's love. My mother even could not find me fair: I had no sister; and, when grown a man, I feared the mistress who would mock at me. But I have had your friendship--grace to you A woman's charm has passed across my path. LE BRET (pointing to the moon, which is seen between the trees): Your other lady-love is come. CYRANO (smiling): I see. ROXANE: I loved but once, yet twice I lose my love! CYRANO: Hark you, Le Bret! I soon shall reach the moon. To-night, alone, with no projectile's aid!. . . LE BRET: What are you saying? CYRANO: I tell you, it is there, There, that they send me for my Paradise, There I shall find at last the souls I love, In exile,--Galileo--Socrates! LE BRET (rebelliously): No, no! It is too clumsy, too unjust! So great a heart! So great a poet! Die Like this? what, die. . .? CYRANO: Hark to Le Bret, who scolds! LE BRET (weeping): Dear friend. . . CYRANO (starting up, his eyes wild): What ho! Cadets of Gascony! The elemental mass--ah yes! The hic. . . LE BRET: His science still--he raves! CYRANO: Copernicus Said. . . ROXANE: Oh! CYRANO: Mais que diable allait-il faire, Mais que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere?. . . Philosopher, metaphysician, Rhymer, brawler, and musician, Famed for his lunar expedition, And the unnumbered duels he fought,-- And lover also,--by interposition!-- Here lies Hercule Savinien De Cyrano de Bergerac, Who was everything, yet was naught. I cry you pardon, but I may not stay; See, the moon-ray that comes to call me hence! (He has fallen back in his chair; the sobs of Roxane recall him to reality; he looks long at her, and, touching her veil): I would not bid you mourn less faithfully That good, brave Christian: I would only ask That when my body shall be cold in clay You wear those sable mourning weeds for two, And mourn awhile for me, in mourning him. ROXANE: I swear it you!. . . CYRANO (shivering violently, then suddenly rising): Not there! what, seated?--no! (They spring toward him): Let no one hold me up-- (He props himself against the tree): Only the tree! (Silence): It comes. E'en now my feet have turned to stone, My hands are gloved with lead! (He stands erect): But since Death comes, I meet him still afoot, (He draws his sword): And sword in hand! LE BRET: Cyrano! ROXANE (half fainting): Cyrano! (All shrink back in terror.) CYRANO: Why, I well believe He dares to mock my nose? Ho! insolent! (He raises his sword): What say you? It is useless? Ay, I know But who fights ever hoping for success? I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest! You there, who are you!--You are thousands! Ah! I know you now, old enemies of mine! Falsehood! (He strikes in air with his sword): Have at you! Ha! and Compromise! Prejudice, Treachery!. . . (He strikes): Surrender, I? Parley? No, never! You too, Folly,--you? I know that you will lay me low at last; Let be! Yet I fall fighting, fighting still! (He makes passes in the air, and stops, breathless): You strip from me the laurel and the rose! Take all! Despite you there is yet one thing I hold against you all, and when, to-night, I enter Christ's fair courts, and, lowly bowed, Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue, One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch, I bear away despite you. (He springs forward, his sword raised; it falls from his hand; he staggers, falls back into the arms of Le Bret and Ragueneau.) ROXANE (bending and kissing his forehead): 'Tis?. . . CYRANO (opening his eyes, recognizing her, and smiling): MY PANACHE. Curtain.

Cyrano de Bergerac.act i.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act i, scene vi using the context provided.

act i, scene i|act i, scene ii|act i, scene iii|act i, scene v|act i, scene vi

Roxane's duenna appears and interrupts their conversation. She has a message for Cyrano: Roxane wants to see him. Tremendously excited, and perhaps a bit nervous, he agrees to meet her at Ragueneau's shop at seven o'clock the next morning

----------ACT I, SCENE I--------- The public, arriving by degrees. Troopers, burghers, lackeys, pages, a pickpocket, the doorkeeper, etc., followed by the marquises. Cuigy, Brissaille, the buffet-girl, the violinists, etc. (A confusion of loud voices is heard outside the door. A trooper enters hastily.) THE DOORKEEPER (following him): Hollo! You there! Your money! THE TROOPER: I enter gratis. THE DOORKEEPER: Why? THE TROOPER: Why? I am of the King's Household Cavalry, 'faith! THE DOORKEEPER (to another trooper who enters): And you? SECOND TROOPER: I pay nothing. THE DOORKEEPER: How so? SECOND TROOPER: I am a musketeer. FIRST TROOPER (to the second): The play will not begin till two. The pit is empty. Come, a bout with the foils to pass the time. (They fence with the foils they have brought.) A LACKEY (entering): Pst. . .Flanquin. . .! ANOTHER (already there): Champagne?. . . THE FIRST (showing him cards and dice which he takes from his doublet): See, here be cards and dice. (He seats himself on the floor): Let's play. THE SECOND (doing the same): Good; I am with you, villain! FIRST LACKEY (taking from his pocket a candle-end, which he lights, and sticks on the floor): I made free to provide myself with light at my master's expense! A GUARDSMAN (to a shop-girl who advances): 'Twas prettily done to come before the lights were lit! (He takes her round the waist.) ONE OF THE FENCERS (receiving a thrust): A hit! ONE OF THE CARD-PLAYERS: Clubs! THE GUARDSMAN (following the girl): A kiss! THE SHOP-GIRL (struggling to free herself): They're looking! THE GUARDSMAN (drawing her to a dark corner): No fear! No one can see! A MAN (sitting on the ground with others, who have brought their provisions): By coming early, one can eat in comfort. A BURGHER (conducting his son): Let us sit here, son. A CARD-PLAYER: Triple ace! A MAN (taking a bottle from under his cloak, and also seating himself on the floor): A tippler may well quaff his Burgundy (he drinks): in the Burgundy Hotel! THE BURGHER (to his son): 'Faith! A man might think he had fallen in a bad house here! (He points with his cane to the drunkard): What with topers! (One of the fencers in breaking off, jostles him): brawlers! (He stumbles into the midst of the card-players): gamblers! THE GUARDSMAN (behind him, still teasing the shop-girl): Come, one kiss! THE BURGHER (hurriedly pulling his son away): By all the holies! And this, my boy, is the theater where they played Rotrou erewhile. THE YOUNG MAN: Ay, and Corneille! A TROOP OF PAGES (hand-in-hand, enter dancing the farandole, and singing): Tra' a la, la, la, la, la, la, la, lere. . . THE DOORKEEPER (sternly, to the pages): You pages there, none of your tricks!. . . FIRST PAGE (with an air of wounded dignity): Oh, sir!--such a suspicion!. . . (Briskly, to the second page, the moment the doorkeeper's back is turned): Have you string? THE SECOND: Ay, and a fish-hook with it. FIRST PAGE: We can angle for wigs, then, up there i' th' gallery. A PICKPOCKET (gathering about him some evil-looking youths): Hark ye, young cut-purses, lend an ear, while I give you your first lesson in thieving. SECOND PAGE (calling up to others in the top galleries): You there! Have you peashooters? THIRD PAGE (from above): Ay, have we, and peas withal! (He blows, and peppers them with peas.) THE YOUNG MAN (to his father): What piece do they give us? THE BURGHER: 'Clorise.' THE YOUNG MAN: Who may the author be? THE BURGHER: Master Balthazar Baro. It is a play!. . . (He goes arm-in-arm with his son.) THE PICKPOCKET (to his pupils): Have a care, above all, of the lace knee-ruffles--cut them off! A SPECTATOR (to another, showing him a corner in the gallery): I was up there, the first night of the 'Cid.' THE PICKPOCKET (making with his fingers the gesture of filching): Thus for watches-- THE BURGHER (coming down again with his son): Ah! You shall presently see some renowned actors. . . THE PICKPOCKET (making the gestures of one who pulls something stealthily, with little jerks): Thus for handkerchiefs-- THE BURGHER: Montfleury. . . SOME ONE (shouting from the upper gallery): Light up, below there! THE BURGHER: . . .Bellerose, L'Epy, La Beaupre, Jodelet! A PAGE (in the pit): Here comes the buffet-girl! THE BUFFET-GIRL (taking her place behind the buffet): Oranges, milk, raspberry-water, cedar bitters! (A hubbub outside the door is heard.) A FALSETTO VOICE: Make place, brutes! A LACKEY (astonished): The Marquises!--in the pit?. . . ANOTHER LACKEY: Oh! only for a minute or two! (Enter a band of young marquises.) A MARQUIS (seeing that the hall is half empty): What now! So we make our entrance like a pack of woolen-drapers! Peaceably, without disturbing the folk, or treading on their toes!--Oh, fie! Fie! (Recognizing some other gentlemen who have entered a little before him): Cuigy! Brissaille! (Greetings and embraces.) CUIGY: True to our word!. . .Troth, we are here before the candles are lit. THE MARQUIS: Ay, indeed! Enough! I am of an ill humor. ANOTHER: Nay, nay, Marquis! see, for your consolation, they are coming to light up! ALL THE AUDIENCE (welcoming the entrance of the lighter): Ah!. . . (They form in groups round the lusters as they are lit. Some people have taken their seats in the galleries. Ligniere, a distinguished-looking roue, with disordered shirt-front arm-in-arm with christian de Neuvillette. Christian, who is dressed elegantly, but rather behind the fashion, seems preoccupied, and keeps looking at the boxes.) ----------ACT I, SCENE II--------- The same. Christian, Ligniere, then Ragueneau and Le Bret. CUIGY: Ligniere! BRISSAILLE (laughing): Not drunk as yet? LIGNIERE (aside to Christian): I may introduce you? (Christian nods in assent): Baron de Neuvillette. (Bows.) THE AUDIENCE (applauding as the first luster is lighted and drawn up): Ah! CUIGY (to Brissaille, looking at Christian): 'Tis a pretty fellow! FIRST MARQUIS (who has overheard): Pooh! LIGNIERE (introducing them to Christian): My lords De Cuigy. De Brissaille. . . CHRISTIAN (bowing): Delighted!. . . FIRST MARQUIS (to second): He is not ill to look at, but certes, he is not costumed in the latest mode. LIGNIERE (to Cuigy): This gentleman comes from Touraine. CHRISTIAN: Yes, I have scarce been twenty days in Paris; tomorrow I join the Guards, in the Cadets. FIRST MARQUIS (watching the people who are coming into the boxes): There is the wife of the Chief-Justice. THE BUFFET-GIRL: Oranges, milk. . . THE VIOLINISTS (tuning up): La--la-- CUIGY (to Christian, pointing to the hall, which is filling fast): 'Tis crowded. CHRISTIAN: Yes, indeed. FIRST MARQUIS: All the great world! (They recognize and name the different elegantly dressed ladies who enter the boxes, bowing low to them. The ladies send smiles in answer.) SECOND MARQUIS: Madame de Guemenee. CUIGY: Madame de Bois-Dauphin. FIRST MARQUIS: Adored by us all! BRISSAILLE: Madame de Chavigny. . . SECOND MARQUIS: Who sports with our poor hearts!. . . LIGNIERE: Ha! so Monsieur de Corneille has come back from Rouen! THE YOUNG MAN (to his father): Is the Academy here? THE BURGHER: Oh, ay, I see several of them. There is Boudu, Boissat, and Cureau de la Chambre, Porcheres, Colomby, Bourzeys, Bourdon, Arbaud. . .all names that will live! 'Tis fine! FIRST MARQUIS: Attention! Here come our precieuses; Barthenoide, Urimedonte, Cassandace, Felixerie. . . SECOND MARQUIS: Ah! How exquisite their fancy names are! Do you know them all, Marquis? FIRST MARQUIS: Ay, Marquis, I do, every one! LIGNIERE (drawing Christian aside): Friend, I but came here to give you pleasure. The lady comes not. I will betake me again to my pet vice. CHRISTIAN (persuasively): No, no! You, who are ballad-maker to Court and City alike, can tell me better than any who the lady is for whom I die of love. Stay yet awhile. THE FIRST VIOLIN (striking his bow on the desk): Gentlemen violinists! (He raises his bow.) THE BUFFET-GIRL: Macaroons, lemon-drink. . . (The violins begin to play.) CHRISTIAN: Ah! I fear me she is coquettish, and over nice and fastidious! I, who am so poor of wit, how dare I speak to her--how address her? This language that they speak to-day--ay, and write--confounds me; I am but an honest soldier, and timid withal. She has ever her place, there, on the right--the empty box, see you! LIGNIERE (making as if to go): I must go. CHRISTIAN (detaining him): Nay, stay. LIGNIERE: I cannot. D'Assoucy waits me at the tavern, and here one dies of thirst. THE BUFFET-GIRL (passing before him with a tray): Orange drink? LIGNIERE: Ugh! THE BUFFET-GIRL: Milk? LIGNIERE: Pah! THE BUFFET-GIRL: Rivesalte? LIGNIERE: Stay. (To Christian): I will remain awhile.--Let me taste this rivesalte. (He sits by the buffet; the girl pours some out for him.) CRIES (from all the audience, at the entrance of a plump little man, joyously excited): Ah! Ragueneau! LIGNIERE (to Christian): 'Tis the famous tavern-keeper Ragueneau. RAGUENEAU (dressed in the Sunday clothes of a pastry-cook, going up quickly to Ligniere): Sir, have you seen Monsieur de Cyrano? LIGNIERE (introducing him to Christian): The pastry-cook of the actors and the poets! RAGUENEAU (overcome): You do me too great honor. . . LIGNIERE: Nay, hold your peace, Maecenas that you are! RAGUENEAU: True, these gentlemen employ me. . . LIGNIERE: On credit! He is himself a poet of a pretty talent. . . RAGUENEAU: So they tell me. LIGNIERE: --Mad after poetry! RAGUENEAU: 'Tis true that, for a little ode. . . LIGNIERE: You give a tart. . . RAGUENEAU: Oh!--a tartlet! LIGNIERE: Brave fellow! He would fain fain excuse himself! --And for a triolet, now, did you not give in exchange. . . RAGUENEAU: Some little rolls! LIGNIERE (severely): They were milk-rolls! And as for the theater, which you love? RAGUENEAU: Oh! to distraction! LIGNIERE: How pay you your tickets, ha?--with cakes. Your place, to-night, come tell me in my ear, what did it cost you? RAGUENEAU: Four custards, and fifteen cream-puffs. (He looks around on all sides): Monsieur de Cyrano is not here? 'Tis strange. LIGNIERE: Why so? RAGUENEAU: Montfleury plays! LIGNIERE: Ay, 'tis true that that old wine-barrel is to take Phedon's part to-night; but what matter is that to Cyrano? RAGUENEAU: How? Know you not? He has got a hot hate for Montfleury, and so!--has forbid him strictly to show his face on the stage for one whole month. LIGNIERE (drinking his fourth glass): Well? RAGUENEAU: Montfleury will play! CUIGY: He can not hinder that. RAGUENEAU: Oh! oh! that I have come to see! FIRST MARQUIS: Who is this Cyrano? CUIGY: A fellow well skilled in all tricks of fence. SECOND MARQUIS: Is he of noble birth? CUIGY: Ay, noble enough. He is a cadet in the Guards. (Pointing to a gentleman who is going up and down the hall as if searching for some one): But 'tis his friend Le Bret, yonder, who can best tell you. (He calls him): Le Bret! (Le Bret comes towards them): Seek you for De Bergerac? LE BRET: Ay, I am uneasy. . . CUIGY: Is it not true that he is the strangest of men? LE BRET (tenderly): True, that he is the choicest of earthly beings! RAGUENEAU: Poet! CUIGY: Soldier! BRISSAILLE: Philosopher! LE BRET: Musician! LIGNIERE: And of how fantastic a presence! RAGENEAU: Marry, 'twould puzzle even our grim painter Philippe de Champaigne to portray him! Methinks, whimsical, wild, comical as he is, only Jacques Callot, now dead and gone, had succeeded better, and had made of him the maddest fighter of all his visored crew--with his triple-plumed beaver and six-pointed doublet--the sword-point sticking up 'neath his mantle like an insolent cocktail! He's prouder than all the fierce Artabans of whom Gascony has ever been and will ever be the prolific Alma Mater! Above his Toby ruff he carries a nose!--ah, good my lords, what a nose is his! When one sees it one is fain to cry aloud, 'Nay! 'tis too much! He plays a joke on us!' Then one laughs, says 'He will anon take it off.' But no!--Monsieur de Bergerac always keeps it on. LE BRET (throwing back his head): He keeps it on--and cleaves in two any man who dares remark on it! RAGUENEAU (proudly): His sword--'tis one half of the Fates' shears! FIRST MARQUIS (shrugging his shoulders): He will not come! RAGUENEAU: I say he will! and I wager a fowl--a la Ragueneau. THE MARQUIS (laughing): Good! (Murmurs of admiration in hall. Roxane has just appeared in her box. She seats herself in front, the duenna at the back. Christian, who is paying the buffet-girl, does not see her entrance.) SECOND MARQUIS (with little cries of joy): Ah, gentlemen! she is fearfully--terribly--ravishing! FIRST MARQUIS: When one looks at her one thinks of a peach smiling at a strawberry! SECOND MARQUIS: And what freshness! A man approaching her too near might chance to get a bad chill at the heart! CHRISTIAN (raising his head, sees Roxane, and catches Ligniere by the arm): 'Tis she! LIGNIERE: Ah! is it she? CHRISTIAN: Ay, tell me quick--I am afraid. LIGNIERE (tasting his rivesalte in sips): Magdaleine Robin--Roxane, so called! A subtle wit--a precieuse. CHRISTIAN: Woe is me! LIGNIERE: Free. An orphan. The cousin of Cyrano, of whom we were now speaking. (At this moment an elegant nobleman, with blue ribbon across his breast, enters the box, and talks with Roxane, standing.) CHRISTIAN (starting): Who is yonder man? LIGNIERE (who is becoming tipsy, winking at him): Ha! ha! Count de Guiche. Enamored of her. But wedded to the niece of Armand de Richelieu. Would fain marry Roxane to a certain sorry fellow, one Monsieur de Valvert, a viscount--and--accommodating! She will none of that bargain; but De Guiche is powerful, and can persecute the daughter of a plain untitled gentleman. More by token, I myself have exposed this cunning plan of his to the world, in a song which. . .Ho! he must rage at me! The end hit home. . .Listen! (He gets up staggering, and raises his glass, ready to sing.) CHRISTIAN: No. Good-night. LIGNIERE: Where go you? CHRISTIAN: To Monsieur de Valvert! LIGNIERE: Have a care! It is he who will kill you (showing him Roxane by a look): Stay where you are--she is looking at you. CHRISTIAN: It is true! (He stands looking at her. The group of pickpockets seeing him thus, head in air and open-mouthed, draw near to him.) LIGNIERE: 'Tis I who am going. I am athirst! And they expect me--in the taverns! (He goes out, reeling.) LE BRET (who has been all round the hall, coming back to Ragueneau reassured): No sign of Cyrano. RAGUENEAU (incredulously): All the same. . . LE BRET: A hope is left to me--that he has not seen the playbill! THE AUDIENCE: Begin, begin! ----------ACT I, SCENE III--------- The same, all but Ligniere. De Guiche, Valvert, then Montfleury. A marquis (watching De Guiche, who comes down from Roxane's box, and crosses the pit surrounded by obsequious noblemen, among them the Viscount de Valvert): He pays a fine court, your De Guiche! ANOTHER: Faugh!. . .Another Gascon! THE FIRST: Ay, but the cold, supple Gascon--that is the stuff success is made of! Believe me, we had best make our bow to him. (They go toward De Guiche.) SECOND MARQUIS: What fine ribbons! How call you the color, Count de Guiche? 'Kiss me, my darling,' or 'Timid Fawn?' DE GUICHE: 'Tis the color called 'Sick Spaniard.' FIRST MARQUIS: 'Faith! The color speaks truth, for, thanks to your valor, things will soon go ill for Spain in Flanders. DE GUICHE: I go on the stage! Will you come? (He goes toward the stage, followed by the marquises and gentlemen. Turning, he calls): Come you Valvert! CHRISTIAN (who is watching and listening, starts on hearing this name): The Viscount! Ah! I will throw full in his face my. . . (He puts his hand in his pocket, and finds there the hand of a pickpocket who is about to rob him. He turns round): Hey? THE PICKPOCKET: Oh! CHRISTIAN (holding him tightly): I was looking for a glove. THE PICKPOCKET (smiling piteously): And you find a hand. (Changing his tone, quickly and in a whisper): Let me but go, and I will deliver you a secret. CHRISTIAN (still holding him): What is it? THE PICKPOCKET: Ligniere. . .he who has just left you. . . CHRISTIAN (same play): Well? THE PICKPOCKET: His life is in peril. A song writ by him has given offense in high places-- and a hundred men--I am of them--are posted to-night. . . CHRISTIAN: A hundred men! By whom posted? THE PICKPOCKET: I may not say--a secret. . . CHRISTIAN (shrugging his shoulders): Oh! THE PICKPOCKET (with great dignity): . . .Of the profession. CHRISTIAN: Where are they posted? THE PICKPOCKET: At the Porte de Nesle. On his way homeward. Warn him. CHRISTIAN (letting go of his wrists): But where can I find him? THE PICKPOCKET: Run round to all the taverns--The Golden Wine Press, the Pine Cone, The Belt that Bursts, The Two Torches, The Three Funnels, and at each leave a word that shall put him on his guard. CHRISTIAN: Good--I fly! Ah, the scoundrels! A hundred men 'gainst one! (Looking lovingly at Roxane): Ah, to leave her!. . . (looking with rage at Valvert): and him!. . .But save Ligniere I must! (He hurries out. De Guiche, the viscount, the marquises, have all disappeared behind the curtain to take their places on the benches placed on the stage. The pit is quite full; the galleries and boxes are also crowded.) THE AUDIENCE: Begin! A BURGHER (whose wig is drawn up on the end of a string by a page in the upper gallery): My wig! CRIES OF DELIGHT: He is bald! Bravo, pages--ha! ha! ha!. . . THE BURGHER (furious, shaking his fist): Young villain! LAUGHTER AND CRIES (beginning very loud, and dying gradually away): Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! (Total silence.) LE BRET (astonished): What means this sudden silence?. . . (A spectator says something to him in a low voice): Is't true? THE SPECTATOR: I have just heard it on good authority. MURMURS (spreading through the hall): Hush! Is it he? No! Ay, I say! In the box with the bars in front! The Cardinal! The Cardinal! The Cardinal! A PAGE: The devil! We shall have to behave ourselves. . . (A knock is heard upon the stage. Every one is motionless. A pause.) THE VOICE OF A MARQUIS (in the silence, behind the curtain): Snuff that candle! ANOTHER MARQUIS (putting his head through the opening in the curtain): A chair! (A chair is passed from hand to hand, over the heads of the spectators. The marquis takes it and disappears, after blowing some kisses to the boxes.) A SPECTATOR: Silence! (Three knocks are heard on the stage. The curtain opens in the centre Tableau. The marquises in insolent attitudes seated on each side of the stage. The scene represents a pastoral landscape. Four little lusters light the stage; the violins play softly.) LE BRET (in a low voice to Ragueneau): Montfleury comes on the scene? RAGUENEAU (also in a low voice): Ay, 'tis he who begins. LE BRET: Cyrano is not here. RAGUENEAU: I have lost my wager. LE BRET: 'Tis all the better! (An air on the drone-pipes is heard, and Montfleury enters, enormously stout, in an Arcadian shepherd's dress, a hat wreathed with roses drooping over one ear, blowing into a ribboned drone pipe.) THE PIT (applauding): Bravo, Montfleury! Montfleury! MONTFLEURY (after bowing low, begins the part of Phedon): 'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu solitaire, Se prescrit a soi-meme un exil volontaire, Et qui, lorsque Zephire a souffle sur les bois. . .' A VOICE (from the middle of the pit): Villain! Did I not forbid you to show your face here for month? (General stupor. Every one turns round. Murmurs.) DIFFERENT VOICES: Hey?--What?--What is't?. . . (The people stand up in the boxes to look.) CUIGY: 'Tis he! LE BRET (terrified): Cyrano! THE VOICE: King of clowns! Leave the stage this instant! ALL THE AUDIENCE (indignantly): Oh! MONTFLEURY: But. . . THE VOICE: Do you dare defy me? DIFFERENT VOICES (from the pit and the boxes): Peace! Enough!--Play on, Montfleury--fear nothing! MONTFLEURY (in a trembling voice): 'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu sol--' THE VOICE (more fiercely): Well! Chief of all the blackguards, must I come and give you a taste of my cane? (A hand holding a cane starts up over the heads of the spectators.) MONTFLEURY (in a voice that trembles more and more): 'Heureux qui. . .' (The cane is shaken.) THE VOICE: Off the stage! THE PIT: Oh! MONTFLEURY (choking): 'Heureux qui loin des cours. . .' CYRANO (appearing suddenly in the pit, standing on a chair, his arms crossed, his beaver cocked fiercely, his mustache bristling, his nose terrible to see): Ah! I shall be angry in a minute!. . . (Sensation.) ----------ACT I, SCENE V--------- Cyrano, Le Bret. CYRANO (to Le Bret): Now talk--I listen. (He stands at the buffet, and placing before him first the macaroon): Dinner!. . . (then the grapes): Dessert!. . . (then the glass of water): Wine!. . . (he seats himself): So! And now to table! Ah! I was hungry, friend, nay, ravenous! (eating): You said--? LE BRET: These fops, would-be belligerent, Will, if you heed them only, turn your head!. . . Ask people of good sense if you would know The effect of your fine insolence-- CYRANO (finishing his macaroon): Enormous! LE BRET: The Cardinal. . . CYRANO (radiant): The Cardinal--was there? LE BRET: Must have thought it. . . CYRANO: Original, i' faith! LE BRET: But. . . CYRANO: He's an author. 'Twill not fail to please him That I should mar a brother-author's play. LE BRET: You make too many enemies by far! CYRANO (eating his grapes): How many think you I have made to-night? LE BRET: Forty, no less, not counting ladies. CYRANO: Count! LE BRET: Montfleury first, the bourgeois, then De Guiche, The Viscount, Baro, the Academy. . . CYRANO: Enough! I am o'erjoyed! LE BRET: But these strange ways, Where will they lead you, at the end? Explain Your system--come! CYRANO: I in a labyrinth Was lost--too many different paths to choose; I took. . . LE BRET: Which? CYRANO: Oh! by far the simplest path. . . Decided to be admirable in all! LE BRET (shrugging his shoulders): So be it! But the motive of your hate To Montfleury--come, tell me! CYRANO (rising): This Silenus, Big-bellied, coarse, still deems himself a peril-- A danger to the love of lovely ladies, And, while he sputters out his actor's part, Makes sheep's eyes at their boxes--goggling frog! I hate him since the evening he presumed To raise his eyes to hers. . .Meseemed I saw A slug crawl slavering o'er a flower's petals! LE BRET (stupefied): How now? What? Can it be. . .? CYRANO (laughing bitterly): That I should love?. . . (Changing his tone, gravely): I love. LE BRET: And may I know?. . .You never said. . . CYRANO: Come now, bethink you!. . .The fond hope to be Beloved, e'en by some poor graceless lady, Is, by this nose of mine for aye bereft me; --This lengthy nose which, go where'er I will, Pokes yet a quarter-mile ahead of me; But I may love--and who? 'Tis Fate's decree I love the fairest--how were't otherwise? LE BRET: The fairest?. . . CYRANO: Ay, the fairest of the world, Most brilliant--most refined--most golden-haired! LE BRET: Who is this lady? CYRANO: She's a danger mortal, All unsuspicious--full of charms unconscious, Like a sweet perfumed rose--a snare of nature, Within whose petals Cupid lurks in ambush! He who has seen her smile has known perfection, --Instilling into trifles grace's essence, Divinity in every careless gesture; Not Venus' self can mount her conch blown sea-ward, As she can step into her chaise a porteurs, Nor Dian fleet across the woods spring-flowered, Light as my Lady o'er the stones of Paris!. . . LE BRET: Sapristi! all is clear! CYRANO: As spiderwebs! LE BRET: Your cousin, Madeleine Robin? CYRANO: Roxane! LE BRET: Well, but so much the better! Tell her so! She saw your triumph here this very night! CYRANO: Look well at me--then tell me, with what hope This vile protuberance can inspire my heart! I do not lull me with illusions--yet At times I'm weak: in evening hours dim I enter some fair pleasance, perfumed sweet; With my poor ugly devil of a nose I scent spring's essence--in the silver rays I see some knight--a lady on his arm, And think 'To saunter thus 'neath the moonshine, I were fain to have my lady, too, beside!' Thought soars to ecstasy. . .O sudden fall! --The shadow of my profile on the wall! LE BRET (tenderly): My friend!. . . CYRANO: My friend, at times 'tis hard, 'tis bitter, To feel my loneliness--my own ill-favor. . . LE BRET (taking his hand): You weep? CYRANO: No, never! Think, how vilely suited Adown this nose a tear its passage tracing! I never will, while of myself I'm master, let the divinity of tears--their beauty Be wedded to such common ugly grossness. Nothing more solemn than a tear--sublimer; And I would not by weeping turn to laughter The grave emotion that a tear engenders! LE BRET: Never be sad! What's love?--a chance of Fortune! CYRANO (shaking his head): Look I a Caesar to woo Cleopatra? A Tito to aspire to Berenice? LE BRET: Your courage and your wit!--The little maid Who offered you refreshment even now, Her eyes did not abhor you--you saw well! CYRANO (impressed): True! LE BRET: Well, how then?. . .I saw Roxane herself Was death-pale as she watched the duel. CYRANO: Pale? LE BRET: Her heart, her fancy, are already caught! Put it to th' touch! CYRANO: That she may mock my face? That is the one thing on this earth I fear! THE PORTER (introducing some one to Cyrano): Sir, some one asks for you. . . CYRANO (seeing the duenna): God! her duenna! ----------ACT I, SCENE VI--------- Cyrano, Le Bret, the duenna. THE DUENNA (with a low bow): I was bid ask you where a certain lady Could see her valiant cousin--but in secret. CYRANO (overwhelmed): See me? THE DUENNA (courtesying): Ay, Sir! She has somewhat to tell. CYRANO: Somewhat?. . . THE DUENNA (still courtesying): Ay, private matters! CYRANO (staggering): Ah, my God! THE DUENNA: To-morrow, at the early blush of dawn, We go to hear mass at St. Roch. CYRANO (leaning against Le Bret): My God! THE DUENNA: After--what place for a few minutes' speech? CYRANO (confused): Where? Ah!. . .but. . .Ah, my God!. . . THE DUENNA: Say! CYRANO: I reflect!. . . THE DUENNA: Where? CYRANO: At--the pastry-house of Ragueneau. THE DUENNA: Where lodges he? CYRANO: The Rue--God!--St. Honore! THE DUENNA (going): Good. Be you there. At seven. CYRANO: Without fail. (The duenna goes out.)

Cyrano de Bergerac.act ii

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act ii, scene ii using the context provided.

act ii, scene i|act ii, scene ii|act ii, scene iii|act ii, scene iv|act ii, scene v|act ii, scene vi|act ii, scene vii

Two children enter the shop and order three small pies. Ragueneau struggles to find a bag, and a poem, with which he can part. After Lise is out of sight, Ragueneau brings the children back and offers to give them more pastries if they will return the bags that have poetry written on them

----------ACT II, SCENE I--------- Ragueneau, pastry-cooks, then Lise. Ragueneau is writing, with an inspired air, at a small table, and counting on his fingers. FIRST PASTRY-COOK (bringing in an elaborate fancy dish): Fruits in nougat! SECOND PASTRY-COOK (bringing another dish): Custard! THIRD PASTRY-COOK (bringing a roast, decorated with feathers): Peacock! FOURTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a batch of cakes on a slab): Rissoles! FIFTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a sort of pie-dish): Beef jelly! RAGUENEAU (ceasing to write, and raising his head): Aurora's silver rays begin to glint e'en now on the copper pans, and thou, O Ragueneau! must perforce stifle in thy breast the God of Song! Anon shall come the hour of the lute!--now 'tis the hour of the oven! (He rises. To a cook): You, make that sauce longer, 'tis too short! THE COOK: How much too short? RAGUENEAU: Three feet. (He passes on farther.) THE COOK: What means he? FIRST PASTRY-COOK (showing a dish to Ragueneau): The tart! SECOND PASTRY-COOK: The pie! RAGUENEAU (before the fire): My muse, retire, lest thy bright eyes be reddened by the fagot's blaze! (To a cook, showing him some loaves): You have put the cleft o' th' loaves in the wrong place; know you not that the coesura should be between the hemistiches? (To another, showing him an unfinished pasty): To this palace of paste you must add the roof. . . (To a young apprentice, who, seated on the ground, is spitting the fowls): And you, as you put on your lengthy spit the modest fowl and the superb turkey, my son, alternate them, as the old Malherbe loved well to alternate his long lines of verse with the short ones; thus shall your roasts, in strophes, turn before the flame! ANOTHER APPRENTICE (also coming up with a tray covered by a napkin): Master, I bethought me erewhile of your tastes, and made this, which will please you, I hope. (He uncovers the tray, and shows a large lyre made of pastry.) RAGUENEAU (enchanted): A lyre! THE APPRENTICE: 'Tis of brioche pastry. RAGUENEAU (touched): With conserved fruits. THE APPRENTICE: The strings, see, are of sugar. RAGUENEAU (giving him a coin): Go, drink my health! (Seeing Lise enter): Hush! My wife. Bustle, pass on, and hide that money! (To Lise, showing her the lyre, with a conscious look): Is it not beautiful? LISE: 'Tis passing silly! (She puts a pile of papers on the counter.) RAGUENEAU: Bags? Good. I thank you. (He looks at them): Heavens! my cherished leaves! The poems of my friends! Torn, dismembered, to make bags for holding biscuits and cakes!. . .Ah, 'tis the old tale again. . .Orpheus and the Bacchantes! LISE (dryly): And am I not free to turn at last to some use the sole thing that your wretched scribblers of halting lines leave behind them by way of payment? RAGUENEAU: Groveling ant!. . .Insult not the divine grasshoppers, the sweet singers! LISE: Before you were the sworn comrade of all that crew, my friend, you did not call your wife ant and Bacchante! RAGUENEAU: To turn fair verse to such a use! LISE: 'Faith, 'tis all it's good for. RAGUENEAU: Pray then, madam, to what use would you degrade prose? ----------ACT II, SCENE II--------- The same. Two children, who have just trotted into the shop. RAGUENEAU: What would you, little ones? FIRST CHILD: Three pies. RAGUENEAU (serving them): See, hot and well browned. SECOND CHILD: If it please you, Sir, will you wrap them up for us? RAGUENEAU (aside, distressed): Alas! one of my bags! (To the children): What? Must I wrap them up? (He takes a bag, and just as he is about to put in the pies, he reads): 'Ulysses thus, on leaving fair Penelope. . .' Not that one! (He puts it aside, and takes another, and as he is about to put in the pies, he reads): 'The gold-locked Phoebus. . .' Nay, nor that one!. . . (Same play.) LISE (impatiently): What are you dallying for? RAGUENEAU: Here! here! here (He chooses a third, resignedly): The sonnet to Phillis!. . .but 'tis hard to part with it! LISE: By good luck he has made up his mind at last! (Shrugging her shoulders): Nicodemus! (She mounts on a chair, and begins to range plates on a dresser.) RAGUENEAU (taking advantage of the moment she turns her back, calls back the children, who are already at the door): Hist! children!. . .render me back the sonnet to Phillis, and you shall have six pies instead of three. (The children give him back the bag, seize the cakes quickly, and go out.) RAGUENEAU (smoothing out the paper, begins to declaim): 'Phillis!. . .' On that sweet name a smear of butter! 'Phillis!. . .' (Cyrano enters hurriedly.) ----------ACT II, SCENE III--------- Ragueneau, Lise, Cyrano, then the musketeer. CYRANO: What's o'clock? RAGUENEAU (bowing low): Six o'clock. CYRANO (with emotion): In one hour's time! (He paces up and down the shop.) RAGUENEAU (following him): Bravo! I saw. . . CYRANO: Well, what saw you, then? RAGUENEAU: Your combat!. . . CYRANO: Which? RAGUENEAU: That in the Burgundy Hotel, 'faith! CYRANO (contemptuously): Ah!. . .the duel! RAGUENEAU (admiringly): Ay! the duel in verse!. . . LISE: He can talk of naught else! CYRANO: Well! Good! let be! RAGUENEAU (making passes with a spit that he catches up): 'At the envoi's end, I touch!. . .At the envoi's end, I touch!'. . .'Tis fine, fine! (With increasing enthusiasm): 'At the envoi's end--' CYRANO: What hour is it now, Ragueneau? RAGUENEAU (stopping short in the act of thrusting to look at the clock): Five minutes after six!. . .'I touch!' (He straightens himself): . . .Oh! to write a ballade! LISE (to Cyrano, who, as he passes by the counter, has absently shaken hands with her): What's wrong with your hand? CYRANO: Naught; a slight cut. RAGUENEAU: Have you been in some danger? CYRANO: None in the world. LISE (shaking her finger at him): Methinks you speak not the truth in saying that! CYRANO: Did you see my nose quiver when I spoke? 'Faith, it must have been a monstrous lie that should move it! (Changing his tone): I wait some one here. Leave us alone, and disturb us for naught an it were not for crack of doom! RAGUENEAU: But 'tis impossible; my poets are coming. . . LISE (ironically): Oh, ay, for their first meal o' the day! CYRANO: Prythee, take them aside when I shall make you sign to do so. . .What's o'clock? RAGUENEAU: Ten minutes after six. CYRANO (nervously seating himself at Ragueneau's table, and drawing some paper toward him): A pen!. . . RAGUENEAU (giving him the one from behind his ear): Here--a swan's quill. A MUSKETEER (with fierce mustache, enters, and in a stentorian voice): Good-day! (Lise goes up to him quickly.) CYRANO (turning round): Who's that? RAGUENEAU: 'Tis a friend of my wife--a terrible warrior--at least so says he himself. CYRANO (taking up the pen, and motioning Ragueneau away): Hush! (To himself): I will write, fold it, give it her, and fly! (Throws down the pen): Coward!. . .But strike me dead if I dare to speak to her,. . .ay, even one single word! (To Ragueneau): What time is it? RAGUENEAU: A quarter after six!. . . CYRANO (striking his breast): Ay--a single word of all those here! here! But writing, 'tis easier done. . . (He takes up the pen): Go to, I will write it, that love-letter! Oh! I have writ it and rewrit it in my own mind so oft that it lies there ready for pen and ink; and if I lay but my soul by my letter-sheet, 'tis naught to do but to copy from it. (He writes. Through the glass of the door the silhouettes of their figures move uncertainly and hesitatingly.) ----------ACT II, SCENE IV--------- Ragueneau, Lise, the musketeer. Cyrano at the little table writing. The poets, dressed in black, their stockings ungartered, and covered with mud. LISE (entering, to Ragueneau): Here they come, your mud-bespattered friends! FIRST POET (entering, to Ragueneau): Brother in art!. . . SECOND POET (to Ragueneau, shaking his hands): Dear brother! THIRD POET: High soaring eagle among pastry-cooks! (He sniffs): Marry! it smells good here in your eyrie! FOURTH POET: 'Tis at Phoebus' own rays that thy roasts turn! FIFTH POET: Apollo among master-cooks-- RAGUENEAU (whom they surround and embrace): Ah! how quick a man feels at his ease with them!. . . FIRST POET: We were stayed by the mob; they are crowded all round the Porte de Nesle!. . . SECOND POET: Eight bleeding brigand carcasses strew the pavements there--all slit open with sword-gashes! CYRANO (raising his head a minute): Eight?. . .hold, methought seven. (He goes on writing.) RAGUENEAU (to Cyrano): Know you who might be the hero of the fray? CYRANO (carelessly): Not I. LISE (to the musketeer): And you? Know you? THE MUSKETEER (twirling his mustache): Maybe! CYRANO (writing a little way off:--he is heard murmuring a word from time to time): 'I love thee!' FIRST POET: 'Twas one man, say they all, ay, swear to it, one man who, single-handed, put the whole band to the rout! SECOND POET: 'Twas a strange sight!--pikes and cudgels strewed thick upon the ground. CYRANO (writing): . . .'Thine eyes'. . . THIRD POET: And they were picking up hats all the way to the Quai d'Orfevres! FIRST POET: Sapristi! but he must have been a ferocious. . . CYRANO (same play): . . .'Thy lips'. . . FIRST POET: 'Twas a parlous fearsome giant that was the author of such exploits! CYRANO (same play): . . .'And when I see thee come, I faint for fear.' SECOND POET (filching a cake): What hast rhymed of late, Ragueneau? CYRANO (same play): . . .'Who worships thee'. . . (He stops, just as he is about to sign, and gets up, slipping the letter into his doublet): No need I sign, since I give it her myself. RAGUENEAU (to second poet): I have put a recipe into verse. THIRD POET (seating himself by a plate of cream-puffs): Go to! Let us hear these verses! FOURTH POET (looking at a cake which he has taken): Its cap is all a' one side! (He makes one bite of the top.) FIRST POET: See how this gingerbread woos the famished rhymer with its almond eyes, and its eyebrows of angelica! (He takes it.) SECOND POET: We listen. THIRD POET (squeezing a cream-puff gently): How it laughs! Till its very cream runs over! SECOND POET (biting a bit off the great lyre of pastry): This is the first time in my life that ever I drew any means of nourishing me from the lyre! RAGUENEAU (who has put himself ready for reciting, cleared his throat, settled his cap, struck an attitude): A recipe in verse!. . . SECOND POET (to first, nudging him): You are breakfasting? FIRST POET (to second): And you dining, methinks. RAGUENEAU: How almond tartlets are made. Beat your eggs up, light and quick; Froth them thick; Mingle with them while you beat Juice of lemon, essence fine; Then combine The burst milk of almonds sweet. Circle with a custard paste The slim waist Of your tartlet-molds; the top With a skillful finger print, Nick and dint, Round their edge, then, drop by drop, In its little dainty bed Your cream shed: In the oven place each mold: Reappearing, softly browned, The renowned Almond tartlets you behold! THE POETS (with mouths crammed full): Exquisite! Delicious! A POET (choking): Homph! (They go up, eating.) CYRANO (who has been watching, goes toward Ragueneau): Lulled by your voice, did you see how they were stuffing themselves? RAGUENEAU (in a low voice, smiling): Oh, ay! I see well enough, but I never will seem to look, fearing to distress them; thus I gain a double pleasure when I recite to them my poems; for I leave those poor fellows who have not breakfasted free to eat, even while I gratify my own dearest foible, see you? CYRANO (clapping him on the shoulder): Friend, I like you right well!. . . (Ragueneau goes after his friends. Cyrano follows him with his eyes, then, rather sharply): Ho there! Lise! (Lise, who is talking tenderly to the musketeer, starts, and comes down toward Cyrano): So this fine captain is laying siege to you? LISE (offended): One haughty glance of my eye can conquer any man that should dare venture aught 'gainst my virtue. CYRANO: Pooh! Conquering eyes, methinks, are oft conquered eyes. LISE (choking with anger): But-- CYRANO (incisively): I like Ragueneau well, and so--mark me, Dame Lise--I permit not that he be rendered a laughing-stock by any. . . LISE: But. . . CYRANO (who has raised his voice so as to be heard by the gallant): A word to the wise. . . (He bows to the musketeer, and goes to the doorway to watch, after looking at the clock.) LISE (to the musketeer, who has merely bowed in answer to Cyrano's bow): How now? Is this your courage?. . .Why turn you not a jest on his nose? THE MUSKETEER: On his nose?. . .ay, ay. . .his nose. (He goes quickly farther away; Lise follows him.) CYRANO (from the doorway, signing to Ragueneau to draw the poets away): Hist!. . . RAGUENEAU (showing them the door on the right): We shall be more private there. . . CYRANO (impatiently): Hist! Hist!. . . RAGUENEAU (drawing them farther): To read poetry, 'tis better here. . . FIRST POET (despairingly, with his mouth full): What! leave the cakes?. . . SECOND POET: Never! Let's take them with us! (They all follow Ragueneau in procession, after sweeping all the cakes off the trays.) ----------ACT II, SCENE V--------- Cyrano, Roxane, the duenna. CYRANO: Ah! if I see but the faint glimmer of hope, then I draw out my letter! (Roxane, masked, followed by the duenna, appears at the glass pane of the door. He opens quickly): Enter!. . . (Walking up to the duenna): Two words with you, Duenna. THE DUENNA: Four, Sir, an it like you. CYRANO: Are you fond of sweet things? THE DUENNA: Ay, I could eat myself sick on them! CYRANO (catching up some of the paper bags from the counter): Good. See you these two sonnets of Monsieur Beuserade. . . THE DUENNA: Hey? CYRANO: . . .Which I fill for you with cream cakes! THE DUENNA (changing her expression): Ha. CYRANO: What say you to the cake they call a little puff? THE DUENNA: If made with cream, Sir, I love them passing well. CYRANO: Here I plunge six for your eating into the bosom of a poem by Saint Amant! And in these verses of Chapelain I glide a lighter morsel. Stay, love you hot cakes? THE DUENNA: Ay, to the core of my heart! CYRANO (filling her arms with the bags): Pleasure me then; go eat them all in the street. THE DUENNA: But. . . CYRANO (pushing her out): And come not back till the very last crumb be eaten! (He shuts the door, comes down toward Roxane, and, uncovering, stands at a respectful distance from her.) ----------ACT II, SCENE VI--------- Cyrano, Roxane. CYRANO: Blessed be the moment when you condescend-- Remembering that humbly I exist-- To come to meet me, and to say. . .to tell?. . . ROXANE (who has unmasked): To thank you first of all. That dandy count, Whom you checkmated in brave sword-play Last night,. . .he is the man whom a great lord, Desirous of my favor. . . CYRANO: Ha, De Guiche? ROXANE (casting down her eyes): Sought to impose on me. . .for husband. . . CYRANO: Ay! Husband!--dupe-husband!. . .Husband a la mode! (Bowing): Then I fought, happy chance! sweet lady, not For my ill favor--but your favors fair! ROXANE: Confession next!. . .But, ere I make my shrift, You must be once again that brother-friend With whom I used to play by the lake-side!. . . CYRANO: Ay, you would come each spring to Bergerac! ROXANE: Mind you the reeds you cut to make your swords?. . . CYRANO: While you wove corn-straw plaits for your dolls' hair! ROXANE: Those were the days of games!. . . CYRANO: And blackberries!. . . ROXANE: In those days you did everything I bid!. . . CYRANO: Roxane, in her short frock, was Madeleine. . . ROXANE: Was I fair then? CYRANO: You were not ill to see! ROXANE: Ofttimes, with hands all bloody from a fall, You'd run to me! Then--aping mother-ways-- I, in a voice would-be severe, would chide,-- (She takes his hand): 'What is this scratch, again, that I see here?' (She starts, surprised): Oh! 'Tis too much! What's this? (Cyrano tries to draw away his hand): No, let me see! At your age, fie! Where did you get that scratch? CYRANO: I got it--playing at the Porte de Nesle. ROXANE (seating herself by the table, and dipping her handkerchief in a glass of water): Give here! CYRANO (sitting by her): So soft! so gay maternal-sweet! ROXANE: And tell me, while I wipe away the blood, How many 'gainst you? CYRANO: Oh! A hundred--near. ROXANE: Come, tell me! CYRANO: No, let be. But you, come tell The thing, just now, you dared not. . . ROXANE (keeping his hand): Now, I dare! The scent of those old days emboldens me! Yes, now I dare. Listen. I am in love. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: But with one who knows not. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: Not yet. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: But who, if he knows not, soon shall learn. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: A poor youth who all this time has loved Timidly, from afar, and dares not speak. . . CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: Leave your hand; why, it is fever-hot!-- But I have seen love trembling on his lips. CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE (bandaging his hand with her handkerchief): And to think of it! that he by chance-- Yes, cousin, he is of your regiment! CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE (laughing): --Is cadet in your own company! CYRANO: Ah!. . . ROXANE: On his brow he bears the genius-stamp; He is proud, noble, young, intrepid, fair. . . CYRANO (rising suddenly, very pale): Fair! ROXANE: Why, what ails you? CYRANO: Nothing; 'tis. . . (He shows his hand, smiling): This scratch! ROXANE: I love him; all is said. But you must know I have only seen him at the Comedy. . . CYRANO: How? You have never spoken? ROXANE: Eyes can speak. CYRANO: How know you then that he. . .? ROXANE: Oh! people talk 'Neath the limes in the Place Royale. . . Gossip's chat Has let me know. . . CYRANO: He is cadet? ROXANE: In the Guards. CYRANO: His name? ROXANE: Baron Christian de Neuvillette. CYRANO: How now?. . .He is not of the Guards! ROXANE: To-day He is not join your ranks, under Captain Carbon de Castel-Jaloux. CYRANO: Ah, how quick, How quick the heart has flown!. . .But, my poor child. . . THE DUENNA (opening the door): The cakes are eaten, Monsieur Bergerac! CYRANO: Then read the verses printed on the bags! (She goes out): . . .My poor child, you who love but flowing words, Bright wit,--what if he be a lout unskilled? ROXANE: No, his bright locks, like D'Urfe's heroes. . . CYRANO: Ah! A well-curled pate, and witless tongue, perchance! ROXANE: Ah no! I guess--I feel--his words are fair! CYRANO: All words are fair that lurk 'neath fair mustache! --Suppose he were a fool!. . . ROXANE (stamping her foot): Then bury me! CYRANO (after a pause): Was it to tell me this you brought me here? I fail to see what use this serves, Madame. ROXANE: Nay, but I felt a terror, here, in the heart, On learning yesterday you were Gascons All of your company. . . CYRANO: And we provoke All beardless sprigs that favor dares admit 'Midst us pure Gascons--(pure! Heaven save the mark! They told you that as well? ROXANE: Ah! Think how I Trembled for him! CYRANO (between his teeth): Not causelessly! ROXANE: But when Last night I saw you,--brave, invincible,-- Punish that dandy, fearless hold your own Against those brutes, I thought--I thought, if he Whom all fear, all--if he would only. . . CYRANO: Good. I will befriend your little Baron. ROXANE: Ah! You'll promise me you will do this for me? I've always held you as a tender friend. CYRANO: Ay, ay. ROXANE: Then you will be his friend? CYRANO: I swear! ROXANE: And he shall fight no duels, promise! CYRANO: None. ROXANE: You are kind, cousin! Now I must be gone. (She puts on her mask and veil quickly; then, absently): You have not told me of your last night's fray. Ah, but it must have been a hero-fight!. . . --Bid him to write. (She sends him a kiss with her fingers): How good you are! CYRANO: Ay! Ay! ROXANE: A hundred men against you? Now, farewell.-- We are great friends? CYRANO: Ay, ay! ROXANE: Oh, bid him write! You'll tell me all one day--A hundred men!-- Ah, brave!. . .How brave! CYRANO (bowing to her): I have fought better since. (She goes out. Cyrano stands motionless, with eyes on the ground. A silence. The door (right) opens. Ragueneau looks in.) ----------ACT II, SCENE VII--------- Cyrano, Ragueneau, poets, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, a crowd, then De Guiche. RAGUENEAU: Can we come in? CYRANO (without stirring): Yes. . . (Ragueneau signs to his friends, and they come in. At the same time, by door at back, enters Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, in Captain's uniform. He makes gestures of surprise on seeing Cyrano.) CARBON: Here he is! CYRANO (raising his head): Captain!. . . CARBON (delightedly): Our hero! We heard all! Thirty or more Of my cadets are there!. . . CYRANO (shrinking back): But. . . CARBON (trying to draw him away): Come with me! They will not rest until they see you! CYRANO: No! CARBON: They're drinking opposite, at The Bear's Head. CYRANO: I. . . CARBON (going to the door and calling across the street in a voice of thunder): He won't come! The hero's in the sulks! A VOICE (outside): Ah! Sandious! (Tumult outside. Noise of boots and swords is heard approaching.) CARBON (rubbing his hands): They are running 'cross the street! CADETS (entering): Mille dious! Capdedious! Pocapdedious! RAGUENEAU (drawing back startled): Gentlemen, are you all from Gascony? THE CADETS: All! A CADET (to Cyrano): Bravo! CYRANO: Baron! ANOTHER (shaking his hands): Vivat! CYRANO: Baron! THIRD CADET: Come! I must embrace you! CYRANO: Baron! SEVERAL GASCONS: We'll embrace Him, all in turn! CYRANO (not knowing whom to reply to): Baron!. . .Baron!. . .I beg. . . RAGUENEAU: Are you all Barons, Sirs? THE CADETS: Ay, every one! RAGUENEAU: Is it true?. . . FIRST CADET: Ay--why, you could build a tower With nothing but our coronets, my friend! LE BRET (entering, and running up to Cyrano): They're looking for you! Here's a crazy mob Led by the men who followed you last night. . . CYRANO (alarmed): What! Have you told them where to find me? LE BRET (rubbing his hands): Yes! A BURGHER (entering, followed by a group of men): Sir, all the Marais is a-coming here! (Outside the street has filled with people. Chaises a porteurs and carriages have drawn up.) LE BRET (in a low voice, smiling, to Cyrano): And Roxane? CYRANO (quickly): Hush! THE CROWD (calling outside): Cyrano!. . . (A crowd rush into the shop, pushing one another. Acclamations.) RAGUENEAU (standing on a table): Lo! my shop Invaded! They break all! Magnificent! PEOPLE (crowding round Cyrano): My friend!. . .my friend. . . Cyrano: Meseems that yesterday I had not all these friends! LE BRET (delighted): Success! A YOUNG MARQUIS (hurrying up with his hands held out): My friend, Didst thou but know. . . CYRANO: Thou!. . .Marry!. . .thou!. . .Pray when Did we herd swine together, you and I! ANOTHER: I would present you, Sir, to some fair dames Who in my carriage yonder. . . CYRANO (coldly): Ah! and who Will first present you, Sir, to me? LE BRET (astonished): What's wrong? CYRANO: Hush! A MAN OF LETTERS (with writing-board): A few details?. . . CYRANO: No. LE BRET (nudging his elbow): 'Tis Theophrast, Renaudet,. . .of the 'Court Gazette'! CYRANO: Who cares? LE BRET: This paper--but it is of great importance!. . . They say it will be an immense success! A POET (advancing): Sir. . . CYRANO: What, another! THE POET: . . .Pray permit I make A pentacrostic on your name. . . SOME ONE (also advancing): Pray, Sir. . . CYRANO: Enough! Enough! (A movement in the crowd. De Guiche appears, escorted by officers. Cuigy, Brissaille, the officers who went with Cyrano the night before. Cuigy comes rapidly up to Cyrano.) CUIGY (to Cyrano): Here is Monsieur de Guiche? (A murmur--every one makes way): He comes from the Marshal of Gassion! DE GUICHE (bowing to Cyrano): . . .Who would express his admiration, Sir, For your new exploit noised so loud abroad. THE CROWD: Bravo! CYRANO (bowing): The Marshal is a judge of valor. DE GUICHE: He could not have believed the thing, unless These gentlemen had sworn they witnessed it. CUIGY: With our own eyes! LE BRET (aside to Cyrano, who has an absent air): But. . .you. . . CYRANO: Hush! LE BRET: But. . .You suffer? CYRANO (starting): Before this rabble?--I?. . . (He draws himself up, twirls his mustache, and throws back his shoulders): Wait!. . .You shall see! DE GUICHE (to whom Cuigy has spoken in a low voice): In feats of arms, already your career Abounded.--You serve with those crazy pates Of Gascons? CYRANO: Ay, with the Cadets. A CADET (in a terrible voice): With us! DE GUICHE (looking at the cadets, ranged behind Cyrano): Ah!. . .All these gentlemen of haughty mien, Are they the famous?. . . CARBON: Cyrano! CYRANO: Ay, Captain! CARBON: Since all my company's assembled here, Pray favor me,--present them to my lord! CYRANO (making two steps toward De Guiche): My Lord de Guiche, permit that I present-- (pointing to the cadets): The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux! Brawling and swaggering boastfully, The bold Cadets of Gascony! Spouting of Armory, Heraldry, Their veins a-brimming with blood so blue, The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux: Eagle-eye, and spindle-shanks, Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth! Slash-the-rabble and scatter-their-ranks; Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks, With a flaming feather that gayly pranks, Hiding the holes in their hats, forsooth! Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks, Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth! 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk' Are their gentlest sobriquets; With Fame and Glory their soul is drunk! 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk,' In brawl and skirmish they show their spunk, Give rendezvous in broil and fray; 'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk' Are their gentlest sobriquets! What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! All jealous lovers are sport for you! O Woman! dear divinity! What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! Whom scowling husbands quake to see. Blow, 'taratara,' and cry 'Cuckoo.' What, ho! Cadets of Gascony! Husbands and lovers are game for you! DE GUICHE (seated with haughty carelessness in an armchair brought quickly by Ragueneau): A poet! 'Tis the fashion of the hour! --Will you be mine? CYRANO: No, Sir,--no man's! DE GUICHE: Last night Your fancy pleased my uncle Richelieu. I'll gladly say a word to him for you. LE BRET (overjoyed): Great Heavens! DE GUICHE: I imagine you have rhymed Five acts, or so? LE BRET (in Cyrano's ear): Your play!--your 'Agrippine!' You'll see it staged at last! DE GUICHE: Take them to him. CYRANO (beginning to be tempted and attracted): In sooth,--I would. . . DE GUICHE: He is a critic skilled: He may correct a line or two, at most. CYRANO (whose face stiffens at once): Impossible! My blood congeals to think That other hand should change a comma's dot. DE GUICHE: But when a verse approves itself to him He pays it dear, good friend. CYRANO: He pays less dear Than I myself; when a verse pleases me I pay myself, and sing it to myself! DE GUICHE: You are proud. CYRANO: Really? You have noticed that? A CADET (entering, with a string of old battered plumed beaver hats, full of holes, slung on his sword): See, Cyrano,--this morning, on the quay What strange bright-feathered game we caught! The hats O' the fugitives. . . CARBON: 'Spolia opima!' ALL (laughing): Ah! ah! ah! CUIGY: He who laid that ambush, 'faith! Must curse and swear! BRISSAILLE: Who was it? DE GUICHE: I myself. (The laughter stops): I charged them--work too dirty for my sword, To punish and chastise a rhymster sot. (Constrained silence.) The CADET (in a low voice, to Cyrano, showing him the beavers): What do with them? They're full of grease!--a stew? CYRANO (taking the sword and, with a salute, dropping the hats at De Guiche's feet): Sir, pray be good enough to render them Back to your friends. DE GUICHE (rising, sharply): My chair there--quick!--I go! (To Cyrano passionately): As to you, sirrah!. . . VOICE (in the street): Porters for my lord De Guiche! DE GUICHE (who has controlled himself--smiling): Have you read 'Don Quixote'? CYRANO: I have! And doff my hat at th' mad knight-errant's name. DE GUICHE: I counsel you to study. . . A PORTER (appearing at back): My lord's chair! DE GUICHE: . . .The windmill chapter! CYRANO (bowing): Chapter the Thirteenth. DE GUICHE: For when one tilts 'gainst windmills--it may chance. . . CYRANO: Tilt I 'gainst those who change with every breeze? DE GUICHE: . . .That windmill sails may sweep you with their arm Down--in the mire!. . . CYRANO: Or upward--to the stars! (De Guiche goes out, and mounts into his chair. The other lords go away whispering together. Le Bret goes to the door with them. The crowd disperses.)

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act ii, scene ix with the given context.

act ii, scene viii|act ii, scene ix|act ii, scene x|act ii, scene xi|act iii, scene i|act iii, scene ii|act iii, scene iii|act iii, scene iv

The other guardsmen, not privy to Cyrano's vow to Roxane, tease Christian and warn him never to mention Cyrano's nose. Christian, upset that he is being teased, asks Carbon what to do when Gascons grow too boastful. Carbon replies that he must prove a man can be a Norman and still have courage. So when Cyrano begins to tell the story of his fight with the hundred men, Christian repeatedly interrupts him with references to his nose. Cyrano fills with anger, and the cadets expect him to attack Christian. Remembering his promise to protect Christian, however, Cyrano controls himself. Christian's insults continue until at last Cyrano angrily sends away the cadets. Expecting him to kill Christian, they hasten from the room

----------ACT II, SCENE VIII--------- Cyrano, Le Bret, the cadets, who are eating and drinking at the tables right and left. CYRANO (bowing mockingly to those who go out without daring to salute him): Gentlemen. . .Gentlemen. . . LE BRET (coming back, despairingly): Here's a fine coil! CYRANO: Oh! scold away! LE BRET: At least, you will agree That to annihilate each chance of Fate Exaggerates. . . CYRANO: Yes!--I exaggerate! LE BRET (triumphantly): Ah! CYRANO: But for principle--example too,-- I think 'tis well thus to exaggerate. LE BRET: Oh! lay aside that pride of musketeer, Fortune and glory wait you!. . . CYRANO: Ay, and then?. . . Seek a protector, choose a patron out, And like the crawling ivy round a tree That licks the bark to gain the trunk's support, Climb high by creeping ruse instead of force? No, grammercy! What! I, like all the rest Dedicate verse to bankers?--play buffoon In cringing hope to see, at last, a smile Not disapproving, on a patron's lips? Grammercy, no! What! learn to swallow toads? --With frame aweary climbing stairs?--a skin Grown grimed and horny,--here, about the knees? And, acrobat-like, teach my back to bend?-- No, grammercy! Or,--double-faced and sly-- Run with the hare, while hunting with the hounds; And, oily-tongued, to win the oil of praise, Flatter the great man to his very nose? No, grammercy! Steal soft from lap to lap, --A little great man in a circle small, Or navigate, with madrigals for sails, Blown gently windward by old ladies' sighs? No, grammercy! Bribe kindly editors To spread abroad my verses? Grammercy! Or try to be elected as the pope Of tavern-councils held by imbeciles? No, grammercy! Toil to gain reputation By one small sonnet, 'stead of making many? No, grammercy! Or flatter sorry bunglers? Be terrorized by every prating paper? Say ceaselessly, 'Oh, had I but the chance Of a fair notice in the "Mercury"!' Grammercy, no! Grow pale, fear, calculate? Prefer to make a visit to a rhyme? Seek introductions, draw petitions up? No, grammercy! and no! and no again! But--sing? Dream, laugh, go lightly, solitary, free, With eyes that look straight forward--fearless voice! To cock your beaver just the way you choose,-- For 'yes' or 'no' show fight, or turn a rhyme! --To work without one thought of gain or fame, To realize that journey to the moon! Never to pen a line that has not sprung Straight from the heart within. Embracing then Modesty, say to oneself, 'Good my friend, Be thou content with flowers,--fruit,--nay, leaves, But pluck them from no garden but thine own!' And then, if glory come by chance your way, To pay no tribute unto Caesar, none, But keep the merit all your own! In short, Disdaining tendrils of the parasite, To be content, if neither oak nor elm-- Not to mount high, perchance, but mount alone! LE BRET: Alone, an if you will! But not with hand 'Gainst every man! How in the devil's name Have you conceived this lunatic idea, To make foes for yourself at every turn? CYRANO: By dint of seeing you at every turn Make friends,--and fawn upon your frequent friends With mouth wide smiling, slit from ear to ear! I pass, still unsaluted, joyfully, And cry,--What, ho! another enemy? LE BRET: Lunacy! CYRANO: Well, what if it be my vice, My pleasure to displease--to love men hate me! Ah, friend of mine, believe me, I march better 'Neath the cross-fire of glances inimical! How droll the stains one sees on fine-laced doublets, From gall of envy, or the poltroon's drivel! --The enervating friendship which enfolds you Is like an open-laced Italian collar, Floating around your neck in woman's fashion; One is at ease thus,--but less proud the carriage! The forehead, free from mainstay or coercion, Bends here, there, everywhere. But I, embracing Hatred, she lends,--forbidding, stiffly fluted, The ruff's starched folds that hold the head so rigid; Each enemy--another fold--a gopher, Who adds constraint, and adds a ray of glory; For Hatred, like the ruff worn by the Spanish, Grips like a vice, but frames you like a halo! LE BRET (after a silence, taking his arm): Speak proud aloud, and bitter!--In my ear Whisper me simply this,--She loves thee not! CYRANO (vehemently): Hush! (Christian has just entered, and mingled with the cadets, who do not speak to him; he has seated himself at a table, where Lise serves him.) ----------ACT II, SCENE IX--------- Cyrano, Le Bret, the cadets, Christian de Neuvillette. A CADET (seated at a table, glass in hand): Cyrano! (Cyrano turns round): The story! CYRANO: In its time! (He goes up on Le Bret's arm. They talk in low voices.) THE CADET (rising and coming down): The story of the fray! 'Twill lesson well (He stops before the table where Christian is seated): This timid young apprentice! CHRISTIAN (raising his head): 'Prentice! Who? ANOTHER CADET: This sickly Northern greenhorn! CHRISTIAN: Sickly! FIRST CADET (mockingly): Hark! Monsieur de Neuvillette, this in your ear: There's somewhat here, one no more dares to name, Than to say 'rope' to one whose sire was hanged! CHRISTIAN: What may that be? ANOTHER CADET (in a terrible voice): See here! (He puts his finger three times, mysteriously, on his nose): Do you understand? CHRISTIAN: Oh! 'tis the. . . ANOTHER: Hush! oh, never breathe that word, Unless you'd reckon with him yonder! (He points to Cyrano, who is talking with Le Bret.) ANOTHER (who has meanwhile come up noiselessly to sit on the table--whispering behind him): Hark! He put two snuffling men to death, in rage, For the sole reason they spoke through their nose! ANOTHER (in a hollow voice, darting on all-fours from under the table, where he had crept): And if you would not perish in flower o' youth, --Oh, mention not the fatal cartilage! ANOTHER (clapping him on the shoulder): A word? A gesture! For the indiscreet His handkerchief may prove his winding-sheet! (Silence. All, with crossed arms, look at Christian. He rises and goes over to Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is talking to an officer, and feigns to see nothing.) CHRISTIAN: Captain! CARBON (turning and looking at him from head to foot): Sir! CHRISTIAN: Pray, what skills it best to do To Southerners who swagger?. . . CARBON: Give them proof That one may be a Northerner, yet brave! (He turns his back on him.) CHRISTIAN: I thank you. FIRST CADET (to Cyrano): Now the tale! ALL: The tale! CYRANO (coming toward them): The tale?. . . (All bring their stools up, and group round him, listening eagerly. Christian is astride a chair): Well! I went all alone to meet the band. The moon was shining, clock-like, full i' th' sky, When, suddenly, some careful clockwright passed A cloud of cotton-wool across the case That held this silver watch. And, presto! heigh! The night was inky black, and all the quays Were hidden in the murky dark. Gadsooks! One could see nothing further. . . CHRISTIAN: Than one's nose! (Silence. All slowly rise, looking in terror at Cyrano, who has stopped-- dumfounded. Pause.) CYRANO: Who on God's earth is that? A CADET (whispering): It is a man Who joined to-day. CYRANO (making a step toward Christian): To-day? CARBON (in a low voice): Yes. . .his name is The Baron de Neuvil. . . CYRANO (checking himself): Good! It is well. . . (He turns pale, flushes, makes as if to fall on Christian): I. . . (He controls himself): What said I?. . . (With a burst of rage): MORDIOUS!. . . (Then continues calmly): That it was dark. (Astonishment. The cadets reseat themselves, staring at him): On I went, thinking, 'For a knavish cause I may provoke some great man, some great prince, Who certainly could break'. . . CHRISTIAN: My nose!. . . (Every one starts up. Christian balances on his chair.) CYRANO (in a choked voice): . . .'My teeth! Who would break my teeth, and I, imprudent-like, Was poking. . .' CHRISTIAN: My nose!. . . CYRANO: 'My finger,. . .in the crack Between the tree and bark! He may prove strong And rap me. . .' CHRISTIAN: Over the nose. . . CYRANO (wiping his forehead): . . .'O' th' knuckles! Ay,' But I cried, 'Forward, Gascon! Duty calls! On, Cyrano!' And thus I ventured on. . . When, from the shadow, came. . . CHRISTIAN: A crack o' th' nose. CYRANO: I parry it--find myself. . . CHRISTIAN: Nose to nose. . . CYRANO (bounding on to him): Heaven and earth! (All the Gascons leap up to see, but when he is close to Christian he controls himself and continues): . . .With a hundred brawling sots, Who stank. . . CHRISTIAN: A noseful. . . CYRANO (white, but smiling): Onions, brandy-cups! I leapt out, head well down. . . CHRISTIAN: Nosing the wind! CYRANO: I charge!--gore two, impale one--run him through, One aims at me--Paf! and I parry. . . CHRISTIAN: Pif! CYRANO (bursting out): Great God! Out! all of you! (The cadets rush to the doors.) FIRST CADET: The tiger wakes! CYRANO: Every man, out! Leave me alone with him! SECOND CADET: We shall find him minced fine, minced into hash In a big pasty! RAGUENEAU: I am turning pale, And curl up, like a napkin, limp and white! CARBON: Let us be gone. ANOTHER: He will not leave a crumb! ANOTHER: I die of fright to think what will pass here! ANOTHER (shutting door right): Something too horrible! (All have gone out by different doors, some by the staircase. Cyrano and Christian are face to face, looking at each other for a moment.) ----------ACT II, SCENE X--------- Cyrano, Christian. CYRANO: Embrace me now! CHRISTIAN: Sir. . . CYRANO: You are brave. CHRISTIAN: Oh! but. . . CYRANO: Nay, I insist. CHRISTIAN: Pray tell me. . . CYRANO: Come, embrace! I am her brother. CHRISTIAN: Whose brother? CYRANO: Hers i' faith! Roxane's! CHRISTIAN (rushing up to him): O heavens! Her brother. . .? CYRANO: Cousin--brother!. . .the same thing! CHRISTIAN: And she has told you. . .? CYRANO: All! CHRISTIAN: She loves me? say! CYRANO: Maybe! CHRISTIAN (taking his hands): How glad I am to meet you, Sir! CYRANO: That may be called a sudden sentiment! CHRISTIAN: I ask your pardon. . . CYRANO (looking at him, with his hand on his shoulder): True, he's fair, the villain! CHRISTIAN: Ah, Sir! If you but knew my admiration!. . . CYRANO: But all those noses?. . . CHRISTIAN: Oh! I take them back! CYRANO: Roxane expects a letter. CHRISTIAN: Woe the day! CYRANO: How? CHRISTIAN: I am lost if I but ope my lips! CYRANO: Why so? CHRISTIAN: I am a fool--could die for shame! CYRANO: None is a fool who knows himself a fool. And you did not attack me like a fool. CHRISTIAN: Bah! One finds battle-cry to lead th' assault! I have a certain military wit, But, before women, can but hold my tongue. Their eyes! True, when I pass, their eyes are kind. . . CYRANO: And, when you stay, their hearts, methinks, are kinder? CHRISTIAN: No! for I am one of those men--tongue-tied, I know it--who can never tell their love. CYRANO: And I, meseems, had Nature been more kind, More careful, when she fashioned me,--had been One of those men who well could speak their love! CHRISTIAN: Oh, to express one's thoughts with facile grace!. . . CYRANO: . . .To be a musketeer, with handsome face! CHRISTIAN: Roxane is precieuse. I'm sure to prove A disappointment to her! CYRANO (looking at him): Had I but Such an interpreter to speak my soul! CHRISTIAN (with despair): Eloquence! Where to find it? CYRANO (abruptly): That I lend, If you lend me your handsome victor-charms; Blended, we make a hero of romance! CHRISTIAN: How so? CYRANO: Think you you can repeat what things I daily teach your tongue? CHRISTIAN: What do you mean? CYRANO: Roxane shall never have a disillusion! Say, wilt thou that we woo her, double-handed? Wilt thou that we two woo her, both together? Feel'st thou, passing from my leather doublet, Through thy laced doublet, all my soul inspiring? CHRISTIAN: But, Cyrano!. . . CYRANO: Will you, I say? CHRISTIAN: I fear! CYRANO: Since, by yourself, you fear to chill her heart, Will you--to kindle all her heart to flame-- Wed into one my phrases and your lips? CHRISTIAN: Your eyes flash! CYRANO: Will you? CHRISTIAN: Will it please you so? --Give you such pleasure? CYRANO (madly): It!. . . (Then calmly, business-like): It would amuse me! It is an enterprise to tempt a poet. Will you complete me, and let me complete you? You march victorious,--I go in your shadow; Let me be wit for you, be you my beauty! CHRISTIAN: The letter, that she waits for even now! I never can. . . CYRANO (taking out the letter he had written): See! Here it is--your letter! CHRISTIAN: What? CYRANO: Take it! Look, it wants but the address. CHRISTIAN: But I. . . CYRANO: Fear nothing. Send it. It will suit. CHRISTIAN: But have you. . .? CYRANO: Oh! We have our pockets full, We poets, of love-letters, writ to Chloes, Daphnes--creations of our noddle-heads. Our lady-loves,--phantasms of our brains, --Dream-fancies blown into soap-bubbles! Come! Take it, and change feigned love-words into true; I breathed my sighs and moans haphazard-wise; Call all these wandering love-birds home to nest. You'll see that I was in these lettered lines, --Eloquent all the more, the less sincere! --Take it, and make an end! CHRISTIAN: Were it not well To change some words? Written haphazard-wise, Will it fit Roxane? CYRANO: 'Twill fit like a glove! CHRISTIAN: But. . . CYRANO: Ah, credulity of love! Roxane Will think each word inspired by herself! CHRISTIAN: My friend! (He throws himself into Cyrano's arms. They remain thus.) ----------ACT II, SCENE XI--------- Cyrano, Christian, the Gascons, the musketeer, Lise. A CADET (half opening the door): Naught here!. . .The silence of the grave! I dare not look. . . (He puts his head in): Why?. . . ALL THE CADETS (entering, and seeing Cyrano and Christian embracing): Oh!. . . A CADET: This passes all! (Consternation.) THE MUSKETEER (mockingly): Ho, ho!. . . CARBON: Our demon has become a saint? Struck on one nostril--lo! he turns the other! MUSKETEER: Then we may speak about his nose, henceforth!. . . (Calling to Lise, boastfully): --Ah, Lise, see here! (Sniffing ostentatiously): O heavens!. . .what a stink!. . . (Going up to Cyrano): You, sir, without a doubt have sniffed it up! --What is the smell I notice here? CYRANO (cuffing his head): Clove-heads. (General delight. The cadets have found the old Cyrano again! They turn somersaults.) Curtain. ----------ACT III, SCENE I--------- Ragueneau, the duenna. Then Roxane, Cyrano, and two pages. RAGUENEAU: --And then, off she went, with a musketeer! Deserted and ruined too, I would make an end of all, and so hanged myself. My last breath was drawn:-- then in comes Monsieur de Bergerac! He cuts me down, and begs his cousin to take me for her steward. THE DUENNA: Well, but how came it about that you were thus ruined? RAGUENEAU: Oh! Lise loved the warriors, and I loved the poets! What cakes there were that Apollo chanced to leave were quickly snapped up by Mars. Thus ruin was not long a-coming. THE DUENNA (rising, and calling up to the open window): Roxane, are you ready? They wait for us! ROXANE'S VOICE (from the window): I will but put me on a cloak! THE DUENNA (to Ragueneau, showing him the door opposite): They wait us there opposite, at Clomire's house. She receives them all there to-day--the precieuses, the poets; they read a discourse on the Tender Passion. RAGUENEAU: The Tender Passion? THE DUENNA (in a mincing voice): Ay, indeed! (Calling up to the window): Roxane, an you come not down quickly, we shall miss the discourse on the Tender Passion! ROXANE'S VOICE: I come! I come! (A sound of stringed instruments approaching.) CYRANO'S VOICE (behind the scenes, singing): La, la, la, la! THE DUENNA (surprised): They serenade us? CYRANO (followed by two pages with arch-lutes): I tell you they are demi-semi-quavers, demi-semi-fool! FIRST PAGE (ironically): You know then, Sir, to distinguish between semi-quavers and demi-semi- quavers? CYRANO: Is not every disciple of Gassendi a musician? THE PAGE (playing and singing): La, la! CYRANO (snatching the lute from him, and going on with the phrase): In proof of which, I can continue! La, la, la, la! ROXANE (appearing on the balcony): What? 'Tis you? CYRANO (going on with the air, and singing to it): 'Tis I, who come to serenade your lilies, and pay my devoir to your ro-o- oses! ROXANE: I am coming down! (She leaves the balcony.) THE DUENNA (pointing to the pages): How come these two virtuosi here? CYRANO: 'Tis for a wager I won of D'Assoucy. We were disputing a nice point in grammar; contradictions raged hotly--''Tis so!' 'Nay, 'tis so!' when suddenly he shows me these two long-shanks, whom he takes about with him as an escort, and who are skillful in scratching lute-strings with their skinny claws! 'I will wager you a day's music,' says he!--And lost it! Thus, see you, till Phoebus' chariot starts once again, these lute-twangers are at my heels, seeing all I do, hearing all I say, and accompanying all with melody. 'Twas pleasant at the first, but i' faith, I begin to weary of it already! (To the musicians): Ho there! go serenade Montfleury for me! Play a dance to him! (The pages go toward the door. To the duenna): I have come, as is my wont, nightly, to ask Roxane whether. . . (To the pages, who are going out): Play a long time,--and play out of tune! (To the duenna): . . .Whether her soul's elected is ever the same, ever faultless! ROXANE (coming out of the house): Ah! How handsome he is, how brilliant a wit! And--how well I love him! CYRANO (smiling): Christian has so brilliant a wit? ROXANE: Brighter than even your own, cousin! CYRANO: Be it so, with all my heart! ROXANE: Ah! methinks 'twere impossible that there could breathe a man on this earth skilled to say as sweetly as he all the pretty nothings that mean so much-- that mean all! At times his mind seems far away, the Muse says naught--and then, presto! he speaks--bewitchingly! enchantingly! CYRANO (incredulously): No, no! ROXANE: Fie! That is ill said! But lo! men are ever thus! Because he is fair to see, you would have it that he must be dull of speech. CYRANO: He hath an eloquent tongue in telling his love? ROXANE: In telling his love? why, 'tis not simple telling, 'tis dissertation, 'tis analysis! CYRANO: How is he with the pen? ROXANE: Still better! Listen,--here:-- (Reciting): 'The more of my poor heart you take The larger grows my heart!' (Triumphantly to Cyrano): How like you those lines? CYRANO: Pooh! ROXANE: And thus it goes on. . . 'And, since some target I must show For Cupid's cruel dart, Oh, if mine own you deign to keep, Then give me your sweet heart!' CYRANO: Lord! first he has too much, then anon not enough! How much heart does the fellow want? ROXANE: You would vex a saint!. . .But 'tis your jealousy. CYRANO (starting): What mean you? ROXANE: Ay, your poet's jealousy! Hark now, if this again be not tender-sweet?-- 'My heart to yours sounds but one cry: If kisses fast could flee By letter, then with your sweet lips My letters read should be! If kisses could be writ with ink, If kisses fast could flee!' CYRANO (smiling approvingly in spite of himself): Ha! those last lines are,--hm!. . .hm!. . . (Correcting himself--contemptuously): --They are paltry enough! ROXANE: And this. . . CYRANO (enchanted): Then you have his letters by heart? ROXANE: Every one of them! CYRANO: By all oaths that can be sworn,--'tis flattering! ROXANE: They are the lines of a master! CYRANO (modestly): Come, nay. . .a master?. . . ROXANE: Ay, I say it--a master! CYRANO: Good--be it so. THE DUENNA (coming down quickly): Here comes Monsieur de Guiche! (To Cyrano, pushing him toward the house): In with you! 'twere best he see you not; it might perchance put him on the scent. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano): Ay, of my own dear secret! He loves me, and is powerful, and, if he knew, then all were lost! Marry! he could well deal a deathblow to my love! CYRANO (entering the house): Good! good! (De Guiche appears.) ----------ACT III, SCENE II--------- Roxane, De Guiche, the duenna standing a little way off. ROXANE (courtesying to De Guiche): I was going out. DE GUICHE: I come to take my leave. ROXANE: Whither go you? DE GUICHE: To the war. ROXANE: Ah! DE GUICHE: Ay, to-night. ROXANE: Oh! DE GUICHE: I am ordered away. We are to besiege Arras. ROXANE: Ah--to besiege?. . . DE GUICHE: Ay. My going moves you not, meseems. ROXANE: Nay. . . DE GUICHE: I am grieved to the core of the heart. Shall I again behold you?. . .When? I know not. Heard you that I am named commander?. . . ROXANE (indifferently): Bravo! DE GUICHE: Of the Guards regiment. ROXANE (startled): What! the Guards? DE GUICHE: Ay, where serves your cousin, the swaggering boaster. I will find a way to revenge myself on him at Arras. ROXANE (choking): What mean you? The Guards go to Arras? DE GUICHE (laughing): Bethink you, is it not my own regiment? ROXANE (falling seated on the bench--aside): Christian! DE GUICHE: What ails you? ROXANE (moved deeply): Oh--I am in despair! The man one loves!--at the war! DE GUICHE (surprised and delighted): You say such sweet words to me! 'Tis the first time!--and just when I must quit you! ROXANE (collected, and fanning herself): Thus,--you would fain revenge your grudge against my cousin? DE GUICHE: My fair lady is on his side? ROXANE: Nay,--against him! DE GUICHE: Do you see him often? ROXANE: But very rarely. DE GUICHE: He is ever to be met now in company with one of the cadets,. . .one New-- villen--viller-- ROXANE: Of high stature? DE GUICHE: Fair-haired! ROXANE: Ay, a red-headed fellow! DE GUICHE: Handsome!. . . ROXANE: Tut! DE GUICHE: But dull-witted. ROXANE: One would think so, to look at him! (Changing her tone): How mean you to play your revenge on Cyrano? Perchance you think to put him i' the thick of the shots? Nay, believe me, that were a poor vengeance--he would love such a post better than aught else! I know the way to wound his pride far more keenly! DE GUICHE: What then? Tell. . . ROXANE: If, when the regiment march to Arras, he were left here with his beloved boon companions, the Cadets, to sit with crossed arms so long as the war lasted! There is your method, would you enrage a man of his kind; cheat him of his chance of mortal danger, and you punish him right fiercely. DE GUICHE (coming nearer): O woman! woman! Who but a woman had e'er devised so subtle a trick? ROXANE: See you not how he will eat out his heart, while his friends gnaw their thick fists for that they are deprived of the battle? So are you best avenged. DE GUICHE: You love me, then, a little? (She smiles): I would fain--seeing you thus espouse my cause, Roxane--believe it a proof of love! ROXANE: 'Tis a proof of love! DE GUICHE (showing some sealed papers): Here are the marching orders; they will be sent instantly to each company-- except-- (He detaches one): --This one! 'Tis that of the Cadets. (He puts it in his pocket): This I keep. (Laughing): Ha! ha! ha! Cyrano! His love of battle!. . .So you can play tricks on people?. . .you, of all ladies! ROXANE: Sometimes! DE GUICHE (coming close to her): Oh! how I love you!--to distraction! Listen! To-night--true, I ought to start--but--how leave you now that I feel your heart is touched! Hard by, in the Rue d'Orleans, is a convent founded by Father Athanasius, the syndic of the Capuchins. True that no layman may enter--but--I can settle that with the good Fathers! Their habit sleeves are wide enough to hide me in. 'Tis they who serve Richelieu's private chapel: and from respect to the uncle, fear the nephew. All will deem me gone. I will come to you, masked. Give me leave to wait till tomorrow, sweet Lady Fanciful! ROXANE: But, of this be rumored, your glory. . . DE GUICHE: Bah! ROXANE: But the siege--Arras. . . DE GUICHE: 'Twill take its chance. Grant but permission. ROXANE: No! DE GUICHE: Give me leave! ROXANE (tenderly): It were my duty to forbid you! DE GUICHE: Ah! ROXANE: You must go! (Aside): Christian stays here. (Aloud): I would have you heroic--Antoine! DE GUICHE: O heavenly word! You love, then, him?. . . ROXANE: . . .For whom I trembled. DE GUICHE (in an ecstasy): Ah! I go then! (He kisses her hand): Are you content? ROXANE: Yes, my friend! (He goes out.) THE DUENNA (making behind his back a mocking courtesy): Yes, my friend! ROXANE (to the duenna): Not a word of what I have done. Cyrano would never pardon me for stealing his fighting from him! (She calls toward the house): Cousin! ----------ACT III, SCENE III--------- Roxane, The duenna, Cyrano. ROXANE: We are going to Clomire's house. (She points to the door opposite): Alcandre and Lysimon are to discourse! THE DUENNA (putting her little finger in her ear): Yes! But my little finger tells me we shall miss them. CYRANO: 'Twere a pity to miss such apes! (They have come to Clomire's door.) THE DUENNA: Oh, see! The knocker is muffled up! (Speaking to the knocker): So they have gagged that metal tongue of yours, little noisy one, lest it should disturb the fine orators! (She lifts it carefully and knocks with precaution.) ROXANE (seeing that the door opens): Let us enter! (On the threshold, to Cyrano): If Christian comes, as I feel sure he will, bid him wait for me! CYRANO (quickly, as she is going in): Listen! (She turns): What mean you to question him on, as is your wont, to-night? ROXANE: Oh-- CYRANO (eagerly): Well, say. ROXANE: But you will be mute? CYRANO: Mute as a fish. ROXANE: I shall not question him at all, but say: Give rein to your fancy! Prepare not your speeches,--but speak the thoughts as they come! Speak to me of love, and speak splendidly! CYRANO (smiling): Very good! ROXANE: But secret!. . . CYRANO: Secret. ROXANE: Not a word! (She enters and shuts the door.) CYRANO (when the door is shut, bowing to her): A thousand thanks! (The door opens again, and Roxane puts her head out.) ROXANE: Lest he prepare himself! CYRANO: The devil!--no, no! BOTH TOGETHER: Secret. (The door shuts.) CYRANO (calling): Christian! ----------ACT III, SCENE IV--------- Cyrano, Christian. CYRANO: I know all that is needful. Here's occasion For you to deck yourself with glory. Come, Lose no time; put away those sulky looks, Come to your house with me, I'll teach you. . . CHRISTIAN: No! CYRANO: Why? CHRISTIAN: I will wait for Roxane here. CYRANO: How? Crazy? Come quick with me and learn. . . CHRISTIAN: No, no! I say. I am aweary of these borrowed letters, --Borrowed love-makings! Thus to act a part, And tremble all the time!--'Twas well enough At the beginning!--Now I know she loves! I fear no longer!--I will speak myself. CYRANO: Mercy! CHRISTIAN: And how know you I cannot speak?-- I am not such a fool when all is said! I've by your lessons profited. You'll see I shall know how to speak alone! The devil! I know at least to clasp her in my arms! (Seeing Roxane come out from Clomire's house): --It is she! Cyrano, no!--Leave me not! CYRANO (bowing): Speak for yourself, my friend, and take your chance. (He disappears behind the garden wall.)

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act iii, scene xi, utilizing the provided context.

The couple comes out of the house. De Guiche coldly congratulates them but orders Roxane to bid her husband farewell: the guards will go to the war after all, and they will depart immediately. De Guiche triumphantly tells Cyrano that the wedding night will have to wait. Under his breath, Cyrano remarks that the news fails to upset him. Roxane, afraid for Christian, urges Cyrano to promise to keep him safe, to keep him out of dangerous situations, to keep him dry and warm, and to keep him faithful. Cyrano says that he will do what he can but that he cannot promise anything. Roxane begs Cyrano to promise to make Christian write to her every day. Brightening, Cyrano announces confidently that he can promise that.

----------ACT III, SCENE V--------- Ragueneau, the duenna. Then Roxane, Cyrano, and two pages. RAGUENEAU: --And then, off she went, with a musketeer! Deserted and ruined too, I would make an end of all, and so hanged myself. My last breath was drawn:-- then in comes Monsieur de Bergerac! He cuts me down, and begs his cousin to take me for her steward. THE DUENNA: Well, but how came it about that you were thus ruined? RAGUENEAU: Oh! Lise loved the warriors, and I loved the poets! What cakes there were that Apollo chanced to leave were quickly snapped up by Mars. Thus ruin was not long a-coming. THE DUENNA (rising, and calling up to the open window): Roxane, are you ready? They wait for us! ROXANE'S VOICE (from the window): I will but put me on a cloak! THE DUENNA (to Ragueneau, showing him the door opposite): They wait us there opposite, at Clomire's house. She receives them all there to-day--the precieuses, the poets; they read a discourse on the Tender Passion. RAGUENEAU: The Tender Passion? THE DUENNA (in a mincing voice): Ay, indeed! (Calling up to the window): Roxane, an you come not down quickly, we shall miss the discourse on the Tender Passion! ROXANE'S VOICE: I come! I come! (A sound of stringed instruments approaching.) CYRANO'S VOICE (behind the scenes, singing): La, la, la, la! THE DUENNA (surprised): They serenade us? CYRANO (followed by two pages with arch-lutes): I tell you they are demi-semi-quavers, demi-semi-fool! FIRST PAGE (ironically): You know then, Sir, to distinguish between semi-quavers and demi-semi- quavers? CYRANO: Is not every disciple of Gassendi a musician? THE PAGE (playing and singing): La, la! CYRANO (snatching the lute from him, and going on with the phrase): In proof of which, I can continue! La, la, la, la! ROXANE (appearing on the balcony): What? 'Tis you? CYRANO (going on with the air, and singing to it): 'Tis I, who come to serenade your lilies, and pay my devoir to your ro-o- oses! ROXANE: I am coming down! (She leaves the balcony.) THE DUENNA (pointing to the pages): How come these two virtuosi here? CYRANO: 'Tis for a wager I won of D'Assoucy. We were disputing a nice point in grammar; contradictions raged hotly--''Tis so!' 'Nay, 'tis so!' when suddenly he shows me these two long-shanks, whom he takes about with him as an escort, and who are skillful in scratching lute-strings with their skinny claws! 'I will wager you a day's music,' says he!--And lost it! Thus, see you, till Phoebus' chariot starts once again, these lute-twangers are at my heels, seeing all I do, hearing all I say, and accompanying all with melody. 'Twas pleasant at the first, but i' faith, I begin to weary of it already! (To the musicians): Ho there! go serenade Montfleury for me! Play a dance to him! (The pages go toward the door. To the duenna): I have come, as is my wont, nightly, to ask Roxane whether. . . (To the pages, who are going out): Play a long time,--and play out of tune! (To the duenna): . . .Whether her soul's elected is ever the same, ever faultless! ROXANE (coming out of the house): Ah! How handsome he is, how brilliant a wit! And--how well I love him! CYRANO (smiling): Christian has so brilliant a wit? ROXANE: Brighter than even your own, cousin! CYRANO: Be it so, with all my heart! ROXANE: Ah! methinks 'twere impossible that there could breathe a man on this earth skilled to say as sweetly as he all the pretty nothings that mean so much-- that mean all! At times his mind seems far away, the Muse says naught--and then, presto! he speaks--bewitchingly! enchantingly! CYRANO (incredulously): No, no! ROXANE: Fie! That is ill said! But lo! men are ever thus! Because he is fair to see, you would have it that he must be dull of speech. CYRANO: He hath an eloquent tongue in telling his love? ROXANE: In telling his love? why, 'tis not simple telling, 'tis dissertation, 'tis analysis! CYRANO: How is he with the pen? ROXANE: Still better! Listen,--here:-- (Reciting): 'The more of my poor heart you take The larger grows my heart!' (Triumphantly to Cyrano): How like you those lines? CYRANO: Pooh! ROXANE: And thus it goes on. . . 'And, since some target I must show For Cupid's cruel dart, Oh, if mine own you deign to keep, Then give me your sweet heart!' CYRANO: Lord! first he has too much, then anon not enough! How much heart does the fellow want? ROXANE: You would vex a saint!. . .But 'tis your jealousy. CYRANO (starting): What mean you? ROXANE: Ay, your poet's jealousy! Hark now, if this again be not tender-sweet?-- 'My heart to yours sounds but one cry: If kisses fast could flee By letter, then with your sweet lips My letters read should be! If kisses could be writ with ink, If kisses fast could flee!' CYRANO (smiling approvingly in spite of himself): Ha! those last lines are,--hm!. . .hm!. . . (Correcting himself--contemptuously): --They are paltry enough! ROXANE: And this. . . CYRANO (enchanted): Then you have his letters by heart? ROXANE: Every one of them! CYRANO: By all oaths that can be sworn,--'tis flattering! ROXANE: They are the lines of a master! CYRANO (modestly): Come, nay. . .a master?. . . ROXANE: Ay, I say it--a master! CYRANO: Good--be it so. THE DUENNA (coming down quickly): Here comes Monsieur de Guiche! (To Cyrano, pushing him toward the house): In with you! 'twere best he see you not; it might perchance put him on the scent. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano): Ay, of my own dear secret! He loves me, and is powerful, and, if he knew, then all were lost! Marry! he could well deal a deathblow to my love! CYRANO (entering the house): Good! good! (De Guiche appears.) ----------ACT III, SCENE VI--------- Roxane, De Guiche, the duenna standing a little way off. ROXANE (courtesying to De Guiche): I was going out. DE GUICHE: I come to take my leave. ROXANE: Whither go you? DE GUICHE: To the war. ROXANE: Ah! DE GUICHE: Ay, to-night. ROXANE: Oh! DE GUICHE: I am ordered away. We are to besiege Arras. ROXANE: Ah--to besiege?. . . DE GUICHE: Ay. My going moves you not, meseems. ROXANE: Nay. . . DE GUICHE: I am grieved to the core of the heart. Shall I again behold you?. . .When? I know not. Heard you that I am named commander?. . . ROXANE (indifferently): Bravo! DE GUICHE: Of the Guards regiment. ROXANE (startled): What! the Guards? DE GUICHE: Ay, where serves your cousin, the swaggering boaster. I will find a way to revenge myself on him at Arras. ROXANE (choking): What mean you? The Guards go to Arras? DE GUICHE (laughing): Bethink you, is it not my own regiment? ROXANE (falling seated on the bench--aside): Christian! DE GUICHE: What ails you? ROXANE (moved deeply): Oh--I am in despair! The man one loves!--at the war! DE GUICHE (surprised and delighted): You say such sweet words to me! 'Tis the first time!--and just when I must quit you! ROXANE (collected, and fanning herself): Thus,--you would fain revenge your grudge against my cousin? DE GUICHE: My fair lady is on his side? ROXANE: Nay,--against him! DE GUICHE: Do you see him often? ROXANE: But very rarely. DE GUICHE: He is ever to be met now in company with one of the cadets,. . .one New-- villen--viller-- ROXANE: Of high stature? DE GUICHE: Fair-haired! ROXANE: Ay, a red-headed fellow! DE GUICHE: Handsome!. . . ROXANE: Tut! DE GUICHE: But dull-witted. ROXANE: One would think so, to look at him! (Changing her tone): How mean you to play your revenge on Cyrano? Perchance you think to put him i' the thick of the shots? Nay, believe me, that were a poor vengeance--he would love such a post better than aught else! I know the way to wound his pride far more keenly! DE GUICHE: What then? Tell. . . ROXANE: If, when the regiment march to Arras, he were left here with his beloved boon companions, the Cadets, to sit with crossed arms so long as the war lasted! There is your method, would you enrage a man of his kind; cheat him of his chance of mortal danger, and you punish him right fiercely. DE GUICHE (coming nearer): O woman! woman! Who but a woman had e'er devised so subtle a trick? ROXANE: See you not how he will eat out his heart, while his friends gnaw their thick fists for that they are deprived of the battle? So are you best avenged. DE GUICHE: You love me, then, a little? (She smiles): I would fain--seeing you thus espouse my cause, Roxane--believe it a proof of love! ROXANE: 'Tis a proof of love! DE GUICHE (showing some sealed papers): Here are the marching orders; they will be sent instantly to each company-- except-- (He detaches one): --This one! 'Tis that of the Cadets. (He puts it in his pocket): This I keep. (Laughing): Ha! ha! ha! Cyrano! His love of battle!. . .So you can play tricks on people?. . .you, of all ladies! ROXANE: Sometimes! DE GUICHE (coming close to her): Oh! how I love you!--to distraction! Listen! To-night--true, I ought to start--but--how leave you now that I feel your heart is touched! Hard by, in the Rue d'Orleans, is a convent founded by Father Athanasius, the syndic of the Capuchins. True that no layman may enter--but--I can settle that with the good Fathers! Their habit sleeves are wide enough to hide me in. 'Tis they who serve Richelieu's private chapel: and from respect to the uncle, fear the nephew. All will deem me gone. I will come to you, masked. Give me leave to wait till tomorrow, sweet Lady Fanciful! ROXANE: But, of this be rumored, your glory. . . DE GUICHE: Bah! ROXANE: But the siege--Arras. . . DE GUICHE: 'Twill take its chance. Grant but permission. ROXANE: No! DE GUICHE: Give me leave! ROXANE (tenderly): It were my duty to forbid you! DE GUICHE: Ah! ROXANE: You must go! (Aside): Christian stays here. (Aloud): I would have you heroic--Antoine! DE GUICHE: O heavenly word! You love, then, him?. . . ROXANE: . . .For whom I trembled. DE GUICHE (in an ecstasy): Ah! I go then! (He kisses her hand): Are you content? ROXANE: Yes, my friend! (He goes out.) THE DUENNA (making behind his back a mocking courtesy): Yes, my friend! ROXANE (to the duenna): Not a word of what I have done. Cyrano would never pardon me for stealing his fighting from him! (She calls toward the house): Cousin! ----------ACT III, SCENE VII--------- Roxane, The duenna, Cyrano. ROXANE: We are going to Clomire's house. (She points to the door opposite): Alcandre and Lysimon are to discourse! THE DUENNA (putting her little finger in her ear): Yes! But my little finger tells me we shall miss them. CYRANO: 'Twere a pity to miss such apes! (They have come to Clomire's door.) THE DUENNA: Oh, see! The knocker is muffled up! (Speaking to the knocker): So they have gagged that metal tongue of yours, little noisy one, lest it should disturb the fine orators! (She lifts it carefully and knocks with precaution.) ROXANE (seeing that the door opens): Let us enter! (On the threshold, to Cyrano): If Christian comes, as I feel sure he will, bid him wait for me! CYRANO (quickly, as she is going in): Listen! (She turns): What mean you to question him on, as is your wont, to-night? ROXANE: Oh-- CYRANO (eagerly): Well, say. ROXANE: But you will be mute? CYRANO: Mute as a fish. ROXANE: I shall not question him at all, but say: Give rein to your fancy! Prepare not your speeches,--but speak the thoughts as they come! Speak to me of love, and speak splendidly! CYRANO (smiling): Very good! ROXANE: But secret!. . . CYRANO: Secret. ROXANE: Not a word! (She enters and shuts the door.) CYRANO (when the door is shut, bowing to her): A thousand thanks! (The door opens again, and Roxane puts her head out.) ROXANE: Lest he prepare himself! CYRANO: The devil!--no, no! BOTH TOGETHER: Secret. (The door shuts.) CYRANO (calling): Christian! ----------ACT III, SCENE VIII--------- Cyrano, Christian. CYRANO: I know all that is needful. Here's occasion For you to deck yourself with glory. Come, Lose no time; put away those sulky looks, Come to your house with me, I'll teach you. . . CHRISTIAN: No! CYRANO: Why? CHRISTIAN: I will wait for Roxane here. CYRANO: How? Crazy? Come quick with me and learn. . . CHRISTIAN: No, no! I say. I am aweary of these borrowed letters, --Borrowed love-makings! Thus to act a part, And tremble all the time!--'Twas well enough At the beginning!--Now I know she loves! I fear no longer!--I will speak myself. CYRANO: Mercy! CHRISTIAN: And how know you I cannot speak?-- I am not such a fool when all is said! I've by your lessons profited. You'll see I shall know how to speak alone! The devil! I know at least to clasp her in my arms! (Seeing Roxane come out from Clomire's house): --It is she! Cyrano, no!--Leave me not! CYRANO (bowing): Speak for yourself, my friend, and take your chance. (He disappears behind the garden wall.) ----------ACT III, SCENE IX--------- Ragueneau, the duenna. Then Roxane, Cyrano, and two pages. RAGUENEAU: --And then, off she went, with a musketeer! Deserted and ruined too, I would make an end of all, and so hanged myself. My last breath was drawn:-- then in comes Monsieur de Bergerac! He cuts me down, and begs his cousin to take me for her steward. THE DUENNA: Well, but how came it about that you were thus ruined? RAGUENEAU: Oh! Lise loved the warriors, and I loved the poets! What cakes there were that Apollo chanced to leave were quickly snapped up by Mars. Thus ruin was not long a-coming. THE DUENNA (rising, and calling up to the open window): Roxane, are you ready? They wait for us! ROXANE'S VOICE (from the window): I will but put me on a cloak! THE DUENNA (to Ragueneau, showing him the door opposite): They wait us there opposite, at Clomire's house. She receives them all there to-day--the precieuses, the poets; they read a discourse on the Tender Passion. RAGUENEAU: The Tender Passion? THE DUENNA (in a mincing voice): Ay, indeed! (Calling up to the window): Roxane, an you come not down quickly, we shall miss the discourse on the Tender Passion! ROXANE'S VOICE: I come! I come! (A sound of stringed instruments approaching.) CYRANO'S VOICE (behind the scenes, singing): La, la, la, la! THE DUENNA (surprised): They serenade us? CYRANO (followed by two pages with arch-lutes): I tell you they are demi-semi-quavers, demi-semi-fool! FIRST PAGE (ironically): You know then, Sir, to distinguish between semi-quavers and demi-semi- quavers? CYRANO: Is not every disciple of Gassendi a musician? THE PAGE (playing and singing): La, la! CYRANO (snatching the lute from him, and going on with the phrase): In proof of which, I can continue! La, la, la, la! ROXANE (appearing on the balcony): What? 'Tis you? CYRANO (going on with the air, and singing to it): 'Tis I, who come to serenade your lilies, and pay my devoir to your ro-o- oses! ROXANE: I am coming down! (She leaves the balcony.) THE DUENNA (pointing to the pages): How come these two virtuosi here? CYRANO: 'Tis for a wager I won of D'Assoucy. We were disputing a nice point in grammar; contradictions raged hotly--''Tis so!' 'Nay, 'tis so!' when suddenly he shows me these two long-shanks, whom he takes about with him as an escort, and who are skillful in scratching lute-strings with their skinny claws! 'I will wager you a day's music,' says he!--And lost it! Thus, see you, till Phoebus' chariot starts once again, these lute-twangers are at my heels, seeing all I do, hearing all I say, and accompanying all with melody. 'Twas pleasant at the first, but i' faith, I begin to weary of it already! (To the musicians): Ho there! go serenade Montfleury for me! Play a dance to him! (The pages go toward the door. To the duenna): I have come, as is my wont, nightly, to ask Roxane whether. . . (To the pages, who are going out): Play a long time,--and play out of tune! (To the duenna): . . .Whether her soul's elected is ever the same, ever faultless! ROXANE (coming out of the house): Ah! How handsome he is, how brilliant a wit! And--how well I love him! CYRANO (smiling): Christian has so brilliant a wit? ROXANE: Brighter than even your own, cousin! CYRANO: Be it so, with all my heart! ROXANE: Ah! methinks 'twere impossible that there could breathe a man on this earth skilled to say as sweetly as he all the pretty nothings that mean so much-- that mean all! At times his mind seems far away, the Muse says naught--and then, presto! he speaks--bewitchingly! enchantingly! CYRANO (incredulously): No, no! ROXANE: Fie! That is ill said! But lo! men are ever thus! Because he is fair to see, you would have it that he must be dull of speech. CYRANO: He hath an eloquent tongue in telling his love? ROXANE: In telling his love? why, 'tis not simple telling, 'tis dissertation, 'tis analysis! CYRANO: How is he with the pen? ROXANE: Still better! Listen,--here:-- (Reciting): 'The more of my poor heart you take The larger grows my heart!' (Triumphantly to Cyrano): How like you those lines? CYRANO: Pooh! ROXANE: And thus it goes on. . . 'And, since some target I must show For Cupid's cruel dart, Oh, if mine own you deign to keep, Then give me your sweet heart!' CYRANO: Lord! first he has too much, then anon not enough! How much heart does the fellow want? ROXANE: You would vex a saint!. . .But 'tis your jealousy. CYRANO (starting): What mean you? ROXANE: Ay, your poet's jealousy! Hark now, if this again be not tender-sweet?-- 'My heart to yours sounds but one cry: If kisses fast could flee By letter, then with your sweet lips My letters read should be! If kisses could be writ with ink, If kisses fast could flee!' CYRANO (smiling approvingly in spite of himself): Ha! those last lines are,--hm!. . .hm!. . . (Correcting himself--contemptuously): --They are paltry enough! ROXANE: And this. . . CYRANO (enchanted): Then you have his letters by heart? ROXANE: Every one of them! CYRANO: By all oaths that can be sworn,--'tis flattering! ROXANE: They are the lines of a master! CYRANO (modestly): Come, nay. . .a master?. . . ROXANE: Ay, I say it--a master! CYRANO: Good--be it so. THE DUENNA (coming down quickly): Here comes Monsieur de Guiche! (To Cyrano, pushing him toward the house): In with you! 'twere best he see you not; it might perchance put him on the scent. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano): Ay, of my own dear secret! He loves me, and is powerful, and, if he knew, then all were lost! Marry! he could well deal a deathblow to my love! CYRANO (entering the house): Good! good! (De Guiche appears.) ----------ACT III, SCENE X--------- Roxane, De Guiche, the duenna standing a little way off. ROXANE (courtesying to De Guiche): I was going out. DE GUICHE: I come to take my leave. ROXANE: Whither go you? DE GUICHE: To the war. ROXANE: Ah! DE GUICHE: Ay, to-night. ROXANE: Oh! DE GUICHE: I am ordered away. We are to besiege Arras. ROXANE: Ah--to besiege?. . . DE GUICHE: Ay. My going moves you not, meseems. ROXANE: Nay. . . DE GUICHE: I am grieved to the core of the heart. Shall I again behold you?. . .When? I know not. Heard you that I am named commander?. . . ROXANE (indifferently): Bravo! DE GUICHE: Of the Guards regiment. ROXANE (startled): What! the Guards? DE GUICHE: Ay, where serves your cousin, the swaggering boaster. I will find a way to revenge myself on him at Arras. ROXANE (choking): What mean you? The Guards go to Arras? DE GUICHE (laughing): Bethink you, is it not my own regiment? ROXANE (falling seated on the bench--aside): Christian! DE GUICHE: What ails you? ROXANE (moved deeply): Oh--I am in despair! The man one loves!--at the war! DE GUICHE (surprised and delighted): You say such sweet words to me! 'Tis the first time!--and just when I must quit you! ROXANE (collected, and fanning herself): Thus,--you would fain revenge your grudge against my cousin? DE GUICHE: My fair lady is on his side? ROXANE: Nay,--against him! DE GUICHE: Do you see him often? ROXANE: But very rarely. DE GUICHE: He is ever to be met now in company with one of the cadets,. . .one New-- villen--viller-- ROXANE: Of high stature? DE GUICHE: Fair-haired! ROXANE: Ay, a red-headed fellow! DE GUICHE: Handsome!. . . ROXANE: Tut! DE GUICHE: But dull-witted. ROXANE: One would think so, to look at him! (Changing her tone): How mean you to play your revenge on Cyrano? Perchance you think to put him i' the thick of the shots? Nay, believe me, that were a poor vengeance--he would love such a post better than aught else! I know the way to wound his pride far more keenly! DE GUICHE: What then? Tell. . . ROXANE: If, when the regiment march to Arras, he were left here with his beloved boon companions, the Cadets, to sit with crossed arms so long as the war lasted! There is your method, would you enrage a man of his kind; cheat him of his chance of mortal danger, and you punish him right fiercely. DE GUICHE (coming nearer): O woman! woman! Who but a woman had e'er devised so subtle a trick? ROXANE: See you not how he will eat out his heart, while his friends gnaw their thick fists for that they are deprived of the battle? So are you best avenged. DE GUICHE: You love me, then, a little? (She smiles): I would fain--seeing you thus espouse my cause, Roxane--believe it a proof of love! ROXANE: 'Tis a proof of love! DE GUICHE (showing some sealed papers): Here are the marching orders; they will be sent instantly to each company-- except-- (He detaches one): --This one! 'Tis that of the Cadets. (He puts it in his pocket): This I keep. (Laughing): Ha! ha! ha! Cyrano! His love of battle!. . .So you can play tricks on people?. . .you, of all ladies! ROXANE: Sometimes! DE GUICHE (coming close to her): Oh! how I love you!--to distraction! Listen! To-night--true, I ought to start--but--how leave you now that I feel your heart is touched! Hard by, in the Rue d'Orleans, is a convent founded by Father Athanasius, the syndic of the Capuchins. True that no layman may enter--but--I can settle that with the good Fathers! Their habit sleeves are wide enough to hide me in. 'Tis they who serve Richelieu's private chapel: and from respect to the uncle, fear the nephew. All will deem me gone. I will come to you, masked. Give me leave to wait till tomorrow, sweet Lady Fanciful! ROXANE: But, of this be rumored, your glory. . . DE GUICHE: Bah! ROXANE: But the siege--Arras. . . DE GUICHE: 'Twill take its chance. Grant but permission. ROXANE: No! DE GUICHE: Give me leave! ROXANE (tenderly): It were my duty to forbid you! DE GUICHE: Ah! ROXANE: You must go! (Aside): Christian stays here. (Aloud): I would have you heroic--Antoine! DE GUICHE: O heavenly word! You love, then, him?. . . ROXANE: . . .For whom I trembled. DE GUICHE (in an ecstasy): Ah! I go then! (He kisses her hand): Are you content? ROXANE: Yes, my friend! (He goes out.) THE DUENNA (making behind his back a mocking courtesy): Yes, my friend! ROXANE (to the duenna): Not a word of what I have done. Cyrano would never pardon me for stealing his fighting from him! (She calls toward the house): Cousin! ----------ACT III, SCENE XI--------- Roxane, The duenna, Cyrano. ROXANE: We are going to Clomire's house. (She points to the door opposite): Alcandre and Lysimon are to discourse! THE DUENNA (putting her little finger in her ear): Yes! But my little finger tells me we shall miss them. CYRANO: 'Twere a pity to miss such apes! (They have come to Clomire's door.) THE DUENNA: Oh, see! The knocker is muffled up! (Speaking to the knocker): So they have gagged that metal tongue of yours, little noisy one, lest it should disturb the fine orators! (She lifts it carefully and knocks with precaution.) ROXANE (seeing that the door opens): Let us enter! (On the threshold, to Cyrano): If Christian comes, as I feel sure he will, bid him wait for me! CYRANO (quickly, as she is going in): Listen! (She turns): What mean you to question him on, as is your wont, to-night? ROXANE: Oh-- CYRANO (eagerly): Well, say. ROXANE: But you will be mute? CYRANO: Mute as a fish. ROXANE: I shall not question him at all, but say: Give rein to your fancy! Prepare not your speeches,--but speak the thoughts as they come! Speak to me of love, and speak splendidly! CYRANO (smiling): Very good! ROXANE: But secret!. . . CYRANO: Secret. ROXANE: Not a word! (She enters and shuts the door.) CYRANO (when the door is shut, bowing to her): A thousand thanks! (The door opens again, and Roxane puts her head out.) ROXANE: Lest he prepare himself! CYRANO: The devil!--no, no! BOTH TOGETHER: Secret. (The door shuts.) CYRANO (calling): Christian!

Cyrano de Bergerac.act iv

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act iv, scene ii using the context provided.

act iv, scene i|act iv, scene ii|act iv, scene iii|act iv, scene iv|act iv, scene v|act iv, scene vi

Dawn breaks, drums sound, and Cyrano goes off to write another letter. The cadets awaken and complain about their hunger. There is talk of a mutiny, and Carbon asks Cyrano for his help

----------ACT IV, SCENE I--------- Christian, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, Le Bret, the cadets, then Cyrano. LE BRET: 'Tis terrible. CARBON: Not a morsel left. LE BRET: Mordioux! CARBON (making a sign that he should speak lower): Curse under your breath. You will awake them. (To the cadets): Hush! Sleep on. (To Le Bret): He who sleeps, dines! LE BRET: But that is sorry comfort for the sleepless!. . . What starvation! (Firing is heard in the distance.) CARBON: Oh, plague take their firing! 'Twill wake my sons. (To the cadets, who lift up their heads): Sleep on! (Firing is again heard, nearer this time.) A CADET (moving): The devil!. . .Again. CARBON: 'Tis nothing! 'Tis Cyrano coming back! (Those who have lifted up their heads prepare to sleep again.) A SENTINEL (from without): Ventrebieu! Who goes there? THE VOICE Of CYRANO: Bergerac. The SENTINEL (who is on the redoubt): Ventrebieu! Who goes there? CYRANO (appearing at the top): Bergerac, idiot! (He comes down; Le Bret advances anxiously to meet him.) LE BRET: Heavens! CYRANO (making signs that he should not awake the others): Hush! LE BRET: Wounded? CYRANO: Oh! you know it has become their custom to shoot at me every morning and to miss me. LE BRET: This passes all! To take letters at each day's dawn. To risk. . . CYRANO (stopping before Christian): I promised he should write often. (He looks at him): He sleeps. How pale he is! But how handsome still, despite his sufferings. If his poor little lady-love knew that he is dying of hunger. . . LE BRET: Get you quick to bed. CYRANO: Nay, never scold, Le Bret. I ran but little risk. I have found me a spot to pass the Spanish lines, where each night they lie drunk. LE BRET: You should try to bring us back provision. CYRANO: A man must carry no weight who would get by there! But there will be surprise for us this night. The French will eat or die. . .if I mistake not! LE BRET: Oh!. . .tell me!. . . CYRANO: Nay, not yet. I am not certain. . .You will see! CARBON: It is disgraceful that we should starve while we're besieging! LE BRET: Alas, how full of complication is this siege of Arras! To think that while we are besieging, we should ourselves be caught in a trap and besieged by the Cardinal Infante of Spain. CYRANO: It were well done if he should be besieged in his turn. LE BRET: I am in earnest. CYRANO: Oh! indeed! LE BRET: To think you risk a life so precious. . .for the sake of a letter. . .Thankless one. (Seeing him turning to enter the tent): Where are you going? CYRANO: I am going to write another. (He enters the tent and disappears.) ----------ACT IV, SCENE II--------- The same, all but Cyrano. The day is breaking in a rosy light. The town of Arras is golden in the horizon. The report of cannon is heard in the distance, followed immediately by the beating of drums far away to the left. Other drums are heard much nearer. Sounds of stirring in the camp. Voices of officers in the distance. CARBON (sighing): The reveille! (The cadets move and stretch themselves): Nourishing sleep! Thou art at an end!. . .I know well what will be their first cry! A CADET (sitting up): I am so hungry! ANOTHER: I am dying of hunger. TOGETHER: Oh! CARBON: Up with you! THIRD CADET: --Cannot move a limb. FOURTH CADET: Nor can I. THE FIRST (looking at himself in a bit of armor): My tongue is yellow. The air at this season of the year is hard to digest. ANOTHER: My coronet for a bit of Chester! ANOTHER: If none can furnish to my gaster wherewith to make a pint of chyle, I shall retire to my tent--like Achilles! ANOTHER: Oh! something! were it but a crust! CARBON (going to the tent and calling softly): Cyrano! ALL THE CADETS: We are dying! CARBON (continuing to speak under his breath at the opening of the tent): Come to my aid, you, who have the art of quick retort and gay jest. Come, hearten them up. SECOND CADET (rushing toward another who is munching something): What are you crunching there? FIRST CADET: Cannon-wads soaked in axle-grease! 'Tis poor hunting round about Arras! A CADET (entering): I have been after game. ANOTHER (following him): And I after fish. ALL (rushing to the two newcomers): Well! what have you brought?--a pheasant?--a carp?--Come, show us quick! THE ANGLER: A gudgeon! THE SPORTSMAN: A sparrow! ALL TOGETHER (beside themselves): 'Tis more than can be borne! We will mutiny! CARBON: Cyrano! Come to my help. (The daylight has now come.) ----------ACT IV, SCENE III--------- The SAME. Cyrano. CYRANO (appearing from the tent, very calm, with a pen stuck behind his ear and a book in his hand): What is wrong? (Silence. To the first cadet): Why drag you your legs so sorrowfully? THE CADET: I have something in my heels which weighs them down. CYRANO: And what may that be? THE CADET: My stomach! CYRANO: So have I, 'faith! THE CADET: It must be in your way? CYRANO: Nay, I am all the taller. A THIRD: My stomach's hollow. CYRANO: 'Faith, 'twill make a fine drum to sound the assault. ANOTHER: I have a ringing in my ears. CYRANO: No, no, 'tis false; a hungry stomach has no ears. ANOTHER: Oh, to eat something--something oily! CYRANO (pulling off the cadet's helmet and holding it out to him): Behold your salad! ANOTHER: What, in God's name, can we devour? CYRANO (throwing him the book which he is carrying): The 'Iliad'. ANOTHER: The first minister in Paris has his four meals a day! CYRANO: 'Twere courteous an he sent you a few partridges! THE SAME: And why not? with wine, too! CYRANO: A little Burgundy. Richelieu, s'il vous plait! THE SAME: He could send it by one of his friars. CYRANO: Ay! by His Eminence Joseph himself. ANOTHER: I am as ravenous as an ogre! CYRANO: Eat your patience, then. THE FIRST CADET (shrugging his shoulders): Always your pointed word! CYRANO: Ay, pointed words! I would fain die thus, some soft summer eve, Making a pointed word for a good cause. --To make a soldier's end by soldier's sword, Wielded by some brave adversary--die On blood-stained turf, not on a fever-bed, A point upon my lips, a point within my heart. CRIES FROM ALL: I'm hungry! CYRANO (crossing his arms): All your thoughts of meat and drink! Bertrand the fifer!--you were shepherd once,-- Draw from its double leathern case your fife, Play to these greedy, guzzling soldiers. Play Old country airs with plaintive rhythm recurring, Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear home-voices, Each note of which calls like a little sister, Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smoke-wreaths Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets, Their music strikes the ear like Gascon patois!. . . (The old man seats himself, and gets his flute ready): Your flute was now a warrior in durance; But on its stem your fingers are a-dancing A bird-like minuet! O flute! Remember That flutes were made of reeds first, not laburnum; Make us a music pastoral days recalling-- The soul-time of your youth, in country pastures!. . . (The old man begins to play the airs of Languedoc): Hark to the music, Gascons!. . .'Tis no longer The piercing fife of camp--but 'neath his fingers The flute of the woods! No more the call to combat, 'Tis now the love-song of the wandering goat-herds!. . . Hark!. . .'tis the valley, the wet landes, the forest, The sunburnt shepherd-boy with scarlet beret, The dusk of evening on the Dordogne river,-- 'Tis Gascony! Hark, Gascons, to the music! (The cadets sit with bowed heads; their eyes have a far-off look as if dreaming, and they surreptitiously wipe away their tears with their cuffs and the corner of their cloaks.) CARBON (to Cyrano in a whisper): But you make them weep! CYRANO: Ay, for homesickness. A nobler pain than hunger,--'tis of the soul, not of the body! I am well pleased to see their pain change its viscera. Heart-ache is better than stomach-ache. CARBON: But you weaken their courage by playing thus on their heart-strings! CYRANO (making a sign to a drummer to approach): Not I. The hero that sleeps in Gascon blood is ever ready to awake in them. 'Twould suffice. . . (He makes a signal; the drum beats.) ALL THE CADETS (stand up and rush to take arms): What? What is it? CYRANO (smiling): You see! One roll of the drum is enough! Good-by dreams, regrets, native land, love. . .All that the pipe called forth the drum has chased away! A CADET (looking toward the back of the stage): Ho! here comes Monsieur de Guiche. ALL THE CADETS (muttering): Ugh!. . .Ugh!. . . CYRANO (smiling): A flattering welcome! A CADET: We are sick to death of him! ANOTHER CADET: --With his lace collar over his armor, playing the fine gentleman! ANOTHER: As if one wore linen over steel! THE FIRST: It were good for a bandage had he boils on his neck. THE SECOND: Another plotting courtier! ANOTHER CADET: His uncle's own nephew! CARBON: For all that--a Gascon. THE FIRST: Ay, false Gascon!. . .trust him not. . . Gascons should ever be crack-brained. . . Naught more dangerous than a rational Gascon. LE BRET: How pale he is! ANOTHER: Oh! he is hungry, just like us poor devils; but under his cuirass, with its fine gilt nails, his stomach-ache glitters brave in the sun. CYRANO (hurriedly): Let us not seem to suffer either! Out with your cards, pipes, and dice. . . (All begin spreading out the games on the drums, the stools, the ground, and on their cloaks, and light long pipes): And I shall read Descartes. (He walks up and down, reading a little book which he has drawn from his pocket. Tableau. Enter De Guiche. All appear absorbed and happy. He is very pale. He goes up to Carbon.) ----------ACT IV, SCENE IV--------- The same. De Guiche. DE GUICHE (to Carbon): Good-day! (They examine each other. Aside, with satisfaction): He's green. CARBON (aside): He has nothing left but eyes. DE GUICHE (looking at the cadets): Here are the rebels! Ay, Sirs, on all sides I hear that in your ranks you scoff at me; That the Cadets, these loutish, mountain-bred, Poor country squires, and barons of Perigord, Scarce find for me--their Colonel--a disdain Sufficient! call me plotter, wily courtier! It does not please their mightiness to see A point-lace collar on my steel cuirass,-- And they enrage, because a man, in sooth, May be no ragged-robin, yet a Gascon! (Silence. All smoke and play): Shall I command your Captain punish you? No. CARBON: I am free, moreover,--will not punish-- DE GUICHE: Ah! CARBON: I have paid my company--'tis mine. I bow but to headquarters. DE GUICHE: So?--in faith! That will suffice. (Addressing himself to the cadets): I can despise your taunts 'Tis well known how I bear me in the war; At Bapaume, yesterday, they saw the rage With which I beat back the Count of Bucquoi; Assembling my own men, I fell on his, And charged three separate times! CYRANO (without lifting his eyes from his book): And your white scarf? DE GUICHE (surprised and gratified): You know that detail?. . .Troth! It happened thus: While caracoling to recall the troops For the third charge, a band of fugitives Bore me with them, close by the hostile ranks: I was in peril--capture, sudden death!-- When I thought of the good expedient To loosen and let fall the scarf which told My military rank; thus I contrived --Without attention waked--to leave the foes, And suddenly returning, reinforced With my own men, to scatter them! And now, --What say you, Sir? (The cadets pretend not to be listening, but the cards and the dice-boxes remain suspended in their hands, the smoke of their pipes in their cheeks. They wait.) CYRANO: I say, that Henri Quatre Had not, by any dangerous odds, been forced To strip himself of his white helmet plume. (Silent delight. The cards fall, the dice rattle. The smoke is puffed.) DE GUICHE: The ruse succeeded, though! (Same suspension of play, etc.) CYRANO: Oh, may be! But One does not lightly abdicate the honor To serve as target to the enemy (Cards, dice, fall again, and the cadets smoke with evident delight): Had I been present when your scarf fell low, --Our courage, Sir, is of a different sort-- I would have picked it up and put it on. DE GUICHE: Oh, ay! Another Gascon boast! CYRANO: A boast? Lend it to me. I pledge myself, to-night, --With it across my breast,--to lead th' assault. DE GUICHE: Another Gascon vaunt! You know the scarf Lies with the enemy, upon the brink Of the stream,. . .the place is riddled now with shot,-- No one can fetch it hither! CYRANO (drawing the scarf from his pocket, and holding it out to him): Here it is. (Silence. The cadets stifle their laughter in their cards and dice-boxes. De Guiche turns and looks at them; they instantly become grave, and set to play. One of them whistles indifferently the air just played by the fifer.) DE GUICHE (taking the scarf): I thank you. It will now enable me To make a signal,--that I had forborne To make--till now. (He goes to the rampart, climbs it, and waves the scarf thrice.) ALL: What's that? THE SENTINEL (from the top of the rampart): See you yon man Down there, who runs?. . . DE GUICHE (descending): 'Tis a false Spanish spy Who is extremely useful to my ends. The news he carries to the enemy Are those I prompt him with--so, in a word, We have an influence on their decisions! CYRANO: Scoundrel! DE GUICHE (carelessly knotting on his scarf): 'Tis opportune. What were we saying? Ah! I have news for you. Last evening --To victual us--the Marshal did attempt A final effort:--secretly he went To Dourlens, where the King's provisions be. But--to return to camp more easily-- He took with him a goodly force of troops. Those who attacked us now would have fine sport! Half of the army's absent from the camp! CARBON: Ay, if the Spaniards knew, 'twere ill for us, But they know nothing of it? DE GUICHE: Oh! they know. They will attack us. CARBON: Ah! DE GUICHE: For my false spy Came to warn me of their attack. He said, 'I can decide the point for their assault; Where would you have it? I will tell them 'tis The least defended--they'll attempt you there.' I answered, 'Good. Go out of camp, but watch My signal. Choose the point from whence it comes.' CARBON (to cadets): Make ready! (All rise; sounds of swords and belts being buckled.) DE GUICHE: 'Twill be in an hour. FIRST CADET: Good!. . . (They all sit down again and take up their games.) DE GUICHE (to Carbon): Time must be gained. The Marshal will return. CARBON: How gain it? DE GUICHE: You will all be good enough To let yourselves to be killed. CYRANO: Vengeance! oho! DE GUICHE: I do not say that, if I loved you well, I had chosen you and yours,--but, as things stand,-- Your courage yielding to no corps the palm-- I serve my King, and serve my grudge as well. CYRANO: Permit that I express my gratitude. . . DE GUICHE: I know you love to fight against five score; You will not now complain of paltry odds. (He goes up with Carbon.) CYRANO (to the cadets): We shall add to the Gascon coat of arms, With its six bars of blue and gold, one more-- The blood-red bar that was a-missing there! (De Guiche speaks in a low voice with Carbon at the back. Orders are given. Preparations go forward. Cyrano goes up to Christian, who stands with crossed arms.) CYRANO (putting his hand on Christian's shoulder): Christian! CHRISTIAN (shaking his head): Roxane! CYRANO: Alas! CHRISTIAN: At least, I'd send My heart's farewell to her in a fair letter!. . . CYRANO: I had suspicion it would be to-day, (He draws a letter out of his doublet): And had already writ. . . CHRISTIAN: Show! CYRANO: Will you. . .? CHRISTIAN (taking the letter): Ay! (He opens and reads it): Hold! CYRANO: What? CHRISTIAN: This little spot! CYRANO (taking the letter, with an innocent look): A spot? CHRISTIAN: A tear! CYRANO: Poets, at last,--by dint of counterfeiting-- Take counterfeit for true--that is the charm! This farewell letter,--it was passing sad, I wept myself in writing it! CHRISTIAN: Wept? why? CYRANO: Oh!. . .death itself is hardly terrible,. . . --But, ne'er to see her more! That is death's sting! --For. . .I shall never. . . (Christian looks at him): We shall. . . (Quickly): I mean, you. . . CHRISTIAN (snatching the letter from him): Give me that letter! (A rumor, far off in the camp.) VOICE Of SENTINEL: Who goes there? Halloo! (Shots--voices--carriage-bells.) CARBON: What is it? A SENTINEL (on the rampart): 'Tis a carriage! (All rush to see.) CRIES: In the camp? It enters!--It comes from the enemy! --Fire!--No!--The coachman cries!--What does he say? --'On the King's service!' (Everyone is on the rampart, staring. The bells come nearer.) DE GUICHE: The King's service? How? (All descend and draw up in line.) CARBON: Uncover, all! DE GUICHE: The King's! Draw up in line! Let him describe his curve as it befits! (The carriage enters at full speed covered with dust and mud. The curtains are drawn close. Two lackeys behind. It is pulled up suddenly.) CARBON: Beat a salute! (A roll of drums. The cadets uncover.) DE GUICHE: Lower the carriage-steps! (Two cadets rush forward. The door opens.) ROXANE (jumping down from the carriage): Good-day! (All are bowing to the ground, but at the sound of a woman's voice every head is instantly raised.) ----------ACT IV, SCENE V--------- The same. Roxane. DE GUICHE: On the King's service! You? ROXANE: Ay,--King Love's! What other king? CYRANO: Great God! CHRISTIAN (rushing forward): Why have you come? ROXANE: This siege--'tis too long! CHRISTIAN: But why?. . . ROXANE: I will tell you all! CYRANO (who, at the sound of her voice, has stood still, rooted to the ground, afraid to raise his eyes): My God! dare I look at her? DE GUICHE: You cannot remain here! ROXANE (merrily): But I say yes! Who will push a drum hither for me? (She seats herself on the drum they roll forward): So! I thank you. (She laughs): My carriage was fired at (proudly): by the patrol! Look! would you not think 'twas made of a pumpkin, like Cinderella's chariot in the tale,--and the footmen out of rats? (Sending a kiss with her lips to Christian): Good-morrow! (Examining them all): You look not merry, any of you! Ah! know you that 'tis a long road to get to Arras? (Seeing Cyrano): Cousin, delighted! CYRANO (coming up to her): But how, in Heaven's name?. . . ROXANE: How found I the way to the army? It was simple enough, for I had but to pass on and on, as far as I saw the country laid waste. Ah, what horrors were there! Had I not seen, then I could never have believed it! Well, gentlemen, if such be the service of your King, I would fainer serve mine! CYRANO: But 'tis sheer madness! Where in the fiend's name did you get through? ROXANE: Where? Through the Spanish lines. FIRST CADET: --For subtle craft, give me a woman! DE GUICHE: But how did you pass through their lines? LE BRET: Faith! that must have been a hard matter!. . . ROXANE: None too hard. I but drove quietly forward in my carriage, and when some hidalgo of haughty mien would have stayed me, lo! I showed at the window my sweetest smile, and these Senors being (with no disrespect to you) the most gallant gentlemen in the world,--I passed on! CARBON: True, that smile is a passport! But you must have been asked frequently to give an account of where you were going, Madame? ROXANE: Yes, frequently. Then I would answer, 'I go to see my lover.' At that word the very fiercest Spaniard of them all would gravely shut the carriage-door, and, with a gesture that a king might envy, make signal to his men to lower the muskets leveled at me;--then, with melancholy but withal very graceful dignity--his beaver held to the wind that the plumes might flutter bravely, he would bow low, saying to me, 'Pass on, Senorita!' CHRISTIAN: But, Roxane. . . ROXANE: Forgive me that I said, 'my lover!' But bethink you, had I said 'my husband,' not one of them had let me pass! CHRISTIAN: But. . . ROXANE: What ails you? DE GUICHE: You must leave this place! ROXANE: I? CYRANO: And that instantly! LE BRET: No time to lose. CHRISTIAN: Indeed, you must. ROXANE: But wherefore must I? CHRISTIAN (embarrassed): 'Tis that. . . CYRANO (the same): --In three quarters of an hour. . . DE GUICHE (the same): --Or for. . . CARBON (the same): It were best. . . LE BRET (the same): You might. . . ROXANE: You are going to fight?--I stay here. ALL: No, no! ROXANE: He is my husband! (She throws herself into Christian's arms): They shall kill us both together! CHRISTIAN: Why do you look at me thus? ROXANE: I will tell you why! DE GUICHE (in despair): 'Tis a post of mortal danger! ROXANE (turning round): Mortal danger! CYRANO: Proof enough, that he has put us here! ROXANE (to De Guiche): So, Sir, you would have made a widow of me? DE GUICHE: Nay, on my oath. . . ROXANE: I will not go! I am reckless now, and I shall not stir from here!--Besides, 'tis amusing! CYRANO: Oh-ho! So our precieuse is a heroine! ROXANE: Monsieur de Bergerac, I am your cousin. A CADET: We will defend you well! ROXANE (more and more excited): I have no fear of that, my friends! ANOTHER (in ecstasy): The whole camp smells sweet of orris-root! ROXANE: And, by good luck, I have chosen a hat that will suit well with the battlefield! (Looking at De Guiche): But were it not wisest that the Count retire? They may begin the attack. DE GUICHE: That is not to be brooked! I go to inspect the cannon, and shall return. You have still time--think better of it! ROXANE: Never! (De Guiche goes out.) ----------ACT IV, SCENE VI--------- The same, all but De Guiche. CHRISTIAN (entreatingly): Roxane! ROXANE: No! FIRST CADET (to the others): She stays! ALL (hurrying, hustling each other, tidying themselves): A comb!--Soap!--My uniform is torn!--A needle!--A ribbon!--Lend your mirror!--My cuffs!--Your curling-iron!--A razor!. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano, who still pleads with her): No! Naught shall make me stir from this spot! CARBON (who, like the others, has been buckling, dusting, brushing his hat, settling his plume, and drawing on his cuffs, advances to Roxane, and ceremoniously): It is perchance more seemly, since things are thus, that I present to you some of these gentlemen who are about to have the honor of dying before your eyes. (Roxane bows, and stands leaning on Christian's arm, while Carbon introduces the cadets to her): Baron de Peyrescous de Colignac! THE CADET (with a low reverence): Madame. . . CARBON (continuing): Baron de Casterac de Cahuzac,--Vidame de Malgouyre Estressac Lesbas d'Escarabiot, Chevalier d'Antignac-Juzet, Baron Hillot de Blagnac-Salechan de Castel Crabioules. . . ROXANE: But how many names have you each? BARON HILLOT: Scores! CARBON (to Roxane): Pray, upon the hand that holds your kerchief. ROXANE (opens her hand, and the handkerchief falls): Why? (The whole company start forward to pick it up.) CARBON (quickly raising it): My company had no flag. But now, by my faith, they will have the fairest in all the camp! ROXANE (smiling): 'Tis somewhat small. CARBON (tying the handkerchief on the staff of his lance): But--'tis of lace! A CADET (to the rest): I could die happy, having seen so sweet a face, if I had something in my stomach--were it but a nut! CARBON (who has overheard, indignantly): Shame on you! What, talk of eating when a lovely woman!. . . ROXANE: But your camp air is keen; I myself am famished. Pasties, cold fricassee, old wines--there is my bill of fare? Pray bring it all here. (Consternation.) A CADET: All that? ANOTHER: But where on earth find it? ROXANE (quietly): In my carriage. ALL: How? ROXANE: Now serve up--carve! Look a little closer at my coachman, gentlemen, and you will recognize a man most welcome. All the sauces can be sent to table hot, if we will! THE CADETS (rushing pellmell to the carriage): 'Tis Ragueneau! (Acclamations): Oh, oh! ROXANE (looking after them): Poor fellows! CYRANO (kissing her hand): Kind fairy! RAGUENEAU (standing on the box like a quack doctor at a fair): Gentlemen!. . . (General delight.) THE CADETS: Bravo! bravo! RAGUENEAU: . . .The Spaniards, gazing on a lady so dainty fair, overlooked the fare so dainty!. . . (Applause.) CYRANO (in a whisper to Christian): Hark, Christian! RAGUENEAU: . . .And, occupied with gallantry, perceived not-- (His draws a plate from under the seat, and holds it up): --The galantine!. . . (Applause. The galantine passes from hand to hand.) CYRANO (still whispering to Christian): Prythee, one word! RAGUENEAU: And Venus so attracted their eyes that Diana could secretly pass by with-- (He holds up a shoulder of mutton): --her fawn! (Enthusiasm. Twenty hands are held out to seize the shoulder of mutton.) CYRANO (in a low whisper to Christian): I must speak to you! ROXANE (to the cadets, who come down, their arms laden with food): Put it all on the ground! (She lays all out on the grass, aided by the two imperturbable lackeys who were behind the carriage.) ROXANE (to Christian, just as Cyrano is drawing him apart): Come, make yourself of use! (Christian comes to help her. Cyrano's uneasiness increases.) RAGUENEAU: Truffled peacock! FIRST CADET (radiant, coming down, cutting a big slice of ham): By the mass! We shall not brave the last hazard without having had a gullet-full!-- (quickly correcting himself on seeing Roxane): --Pardon! A Balthazar feast! RAGUENEAU (throwing down the carriage cushions): The cushions are stuffed with ortolans! (Hubbub. They tear open and turn out the contents of the cushions. Bursts of laughter--merriment.) THIRD CADET: Ah! Viedaze! RAGUENEAU (throwing down to the cadets bottles of red wine): Flasks of rubies!-- (and white wine): --Flasks of topaz! ROXANE (throwing a folded tablecloth at Cyrano's head): Unfold me that napkin!--Come, come! be nimble! RAGUENEAU (waving a lantern): Each of the carriage-lamps is a little larder! CYRANO (in a low voice to Christian, as they arrange the cloth together): I must speak with you ere you speak to her. RAGUENEAU: My whip-handle is an Arles sausage! ROXANE (pouring out wine, helping): Since we are to die, let the rest of the army shift for itself. All for the Gascons! And mark! if De Guiche comes, let no one invite him! (Going from one to the other): There! there! You have time enough! Do not eat too fast!--Drink a little.- -Why are you crying? FIRST CADET: It is all so good!. . . ROXANE: Tut!--Red or white?--Some bread for Monsieur de Carbon!--a knife! Pass your plate!--a little of the crust? Some more? Let me help you!--Some champagne?- -A wing? CYRANO (who follows her, his arms laden with dishes, helping her to wait on everybody): How I worship her! ROXANE (going up to Christian): What will you? CHRISTIAN: Nothing. ROXANE: Nay, nay, take this biscuit, steeped in muscat; come!. . .but two drops! CHRISTIAN (trying to detain her): Oh! tell me why you came? ROXANE: Wait; my first duty is to these poor fellows.--Hush! In a few minutes. . . LE BRET (who had gone up to pass a loaf on the end of a lance to the sentry on the rampart): De Guiche! CYRANO: Quick! hide flasks, plates, pie-dishes, game-baskets! Hurry!--Let us all look unconscious! (To Ragueneau): Up on your seat!--Is everything covered up? (In an instant all has been pushed into the tents, or hidden under doublets, cloaks, and beavers. De Guiche enters hurriedly--stops suddenly, sniffing the air. Silence.)

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act iv, scene x with the given context.

The men run off to fight, and Roxane collapses over Christian's body. Cyrano leans down and whispers into Christian's ear that he told Roxane the secret, and that she chose Christian. The battle breaks out all around them and Christian closes his eyes, dead. Next to Christian's heart, Roxane finds the farewell letter that Cyrano wrote for Christian to give her. She faints with grief, and Cyrano sends Ragueneau and de Guiche to take her away and protect her. Carbon emerges from the fighting, twice wounded. But the army has returned, and the men will win if they can hold out only a little longer. Cyrano tells Carbon not to worry. Now, he says, he has two deaths to avenge: Christian's and his own. Cyrano charges into battle. When he hears a Spaniard ask, "Who are these men who are so eager for death. he begins to sing the song of the Cadets of Gascoyne. Cyrano charges off into a hail of bullets, singing as he fights.

----------ACT IV, SCENE VII--------- The same. De Guiche. DE GUICHE: It smells good here. A CADET (humming): Lo! Lo-lo! DE GUICHE (looking at him): What is the matter?--You are very red. THE CADET: The matter?--Nothing!--'Tis my blood--boiling at the thought of the coming battle! ANOTHER: Poum, poum--poum. . . DE GUICHE (turning round): What's that? THE CADET (slightly drunk): Nothing!. . .'Tis a song!--a little. . . DE GUICHE: You are merry, my friend! THE CADET: The approach of danger is intoxicating! DE GUICHE (calling Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, to give him an order): Captain! I. . . (He stops short on seeing him): Plague take me! but you look bravely, too! CARBON (crimson in the face, hiding a bottle behind his back, with an evasive movement): Oh!. . . DE GUICHE: I have one cannon left, and have had it carried there-- (he points behind the scenes): --in that corner. . .Your men can use it in case of need. A CADET (reeling slightly): Charming attention! ANOTHER (with a gracious smile): Kind solicitude! DE GUICHE: How? they are all gone crazy? (Drily): As you are not used to cannon, beware of the recoil. FIRST CADET: Pooh! DE GUICHE (furious, going up to him): But. . . THE CADET: Gascon cannons never recoil! DE GUICHE (taking him by the arm and shaking him): You are tipsy!--but what with? THE CADET (grandiloquently): --With the smell of powder! DE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders and pushing him away, then going quickly to Roxane): Briefly, Madame, what decision do you deign to take? ROXANE: I stay here. DE GUICHE: You must fly! ROXANE: No! I will stay. DE GUICHE: Since things are thus, give me a musket, one of you! CARBON: Wherefore? DE GUICHE: Because I too--mean to remain. CYRANO: At last! This is true valor, Sir! FIRST CADET: Then you are Gascon after all, spite of your lace collar? ROXANE: What is all this? DE GUICHE: I leave no woman in peril. SECOND CADET (to the first): Hark you! Think you not we might give him something to eat? (All the viands reappear as if by magic.) DE GUICHE (whose eyes sparkle): Victuals! THE THIRD CADET: Yes, you'll see them coming from under every coat! DE GUICHE (controlling himself, haughtily): Do you think I will eat your leavings? CYRANO (saluting him): You make progress. DE GUICHE (proudly, with a light touch of accent on the word 'breaking'): I will fight without br-r-eaking my fast! FIRST CADET (with wild delight): Br-r-r-eaking! He has got the accent! DE GUICHE (laughing): I? THE CADET: 'Tis a Gascon! (All begin to dance.) CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX (who had disappeared behind the rampart, reappearing on the ridge): I have drawn my pikemen up in line. They are a resolute troop. (He points to a row of pikes, the tops of which are seen over the ridge.) DE GUICHE (bowing to Roxane): Will you accept my hand, and accompany me while I review them? (She takes it, and they go up toward the rampart. All uncover and follow them.) CHRISTIAN (going to Cyrano, eagerly): Tell me quickly! (As Roxane appears on the ridge, the tops of the lances disappear, lowered for the salute, and a shout is raised. She bows.) THE PIKEMEN (outside): Vivat! CHRISTIAN: What is this secret? CYRANO: If Roxane should. . . CHRISTIAN: Should?. . . CYRANO: Speak of the letters?. . . CHRISTIAN: Yes, I know!. . . CYRANO: Do not spoil all by seeming surprised. . . CHRISTIAN: At what? CYRANO: I must explain to you!. . .Oh! 'tis no great matter--I but thought of it to- day on seeing her. You have. . . CHRISTIAN: Tell quickly! CYRANO: You have. . .written to her oftener than you think. . . CHRISTIAN: How so? CYRANO: Thus, 'faith! I had taken it in hand to express your flame for you!. . .At times I wrote without saying, 'I am writing!' CHRISTIAN: Ah!. . . CYRANO: 'Tis simple enough! CHRISTIAN: But how did you contrive, since we have been cut off, thus. . .to?. . . CYRANO: . . .Oh! before dawn. . .I was able to get through. . . CHRISTIAN (folding his arms): That was simple, too? And how oft, pray you, have I written?. . .Twice in the week?. . .Three times?. . .Four?. . . CYRANO: More often still. CHRISTIAN: What! Every day? CYRANO: Yes, every day,--twice. CHRISTIAN (violently): And that became so mad a joy for you, that you braved death. . . CYRANO (seeing Roxane returning): Hush! Not before her! (He goes hurriedly into his tent.) ----------ACT IV, SCENE VIII--------- Roxane, Christian. In the distance cadets coming and going. Carbon and De Guiche give orders. ROXANE (running up to Christian): Ah, Christian, at last!. . . CHRISTIAN (taking her hands): Now tell me why-- Why, by these fearful paths so perilous-- Across these ranks of ribald soldiery, You have come? ROXANE: Love, your letters brought me here! CHRISTIAN: What say you? ROXANE: 'Tis your fault if I ran risks! Your letters turned my head! Ah! all this month, How many!--and the last one ever bettered The one that went before! CHRISTIAN: What!--for a few Inconsequent love-letters! ROXANE: Hold your peace! Ah! you cannot conceive it! Ever since That night, when, in a voice all new to me, Under my window you revealed your soul-- Ah! ever since I have adored you! Now Your letters all this whole month long!--meseemed As if I heard that voice so tender, true, Sheltering, close! Thy fault, I say! It drew me, The voice o' th' night! Oh! wise Penelope Would ne'er have stayed to broider on her hearthstone, If her Ulysses could have writ such letters! But would have cast away her silken bobbins, And fled to join him, mad for love as Helen! CHRISTIAN: But. . . ROXANE: I read, read again--grew faint for love; I was thine utterly. Each separate page Was like a fluttering flower-petal, loosed From your own soul, and wafted thus to mine. Imprinted in each burning word was love Sincere, all-powerful. . . CHRISTIAN: A love sincere! Can that be felt, Roxane! ROXANE: Ay, that it can! CHRISTIAN: You come. . .? ROXANE: O, Christian, my true lord, I come-- (Were I to throw myself, here, at your knees, You would raise me--but 'tis my soul I lay At your feet--you can raise it nevermore!) --I come to crave your pardon. (Ay, 'tis time To sue for pardon, now that death may come!) For the insult done to you when, frivolous, At first I loved you only for your face! CHRISTIAN (horror-stricken): Roxane! ROXANE: And later, love--less frivolous-- Like a bird that spreads its wings, but can not fly-- Arrested by your beauty, by your soul Drawn close--I loved for both at once! CHRISTIAN: And now? ROXANE: Ah! you yourself have triumphed o'er yourself, And now, I love you only for your soul! CHRISTIAN (stepping backward): Roxane! ROXANE: Be happy. To be loved for beauty-- A poor disguise that time so soon wears threadbare-- Must be to noble souls--to souls aspiring-- A torture. Your dear thoughts have now effaced That beauty that so won me at the outset. Now I see clearer--and I no more see it! CHRISTIAN: Oh!. . . ROXANE: You are doubtful of such victory? CHRISTIAN (pained): Roxane! ROXANE: I see you cannot yet believe it. Such love. . .? CHRISTIAN: I do not ask such love as that! I would be loved more simply; for. . . ROXANE: For that Which they have all in turns loved in thee?-- Shame! Oh! be loved henceforth in a better way! CHRISTIAN: No! the first love was best! ROXANE: Ah! how you err! 'Tis now that I love best--love well! 'Tis that Which is thy true self, see!--that I adore! Were your brilliance dimmed. . . CHRISTIAN: Hush! ROXANE: I should love still! Ay, if your beauty should to-day depart. . . CHRISTIAN: Say not so! ROXANE: Ay, I say it! CHRISTIAN: Ugly? How? ROXANE: Ugly! I swear I'd love you still! CHRISTIAN: My God! ROXANE: Are you content at last? CHRISTIAN (in a choked voice): Ay!. . . ROXANE: What is wrong? CHRISTIAN (gently pushing her away): Nothing. . .I have two words to say:--one second. . . ROXANE: But?. . . CHRISTIAN (pointing to the cadets): Those poor fellows, shortly doomed to death,-- My love deprives them of the sight of you: Go,--speak to them--smile on them ere they die! ROXANE (deeply affected): Dear Christian!. . . (She goes up to the cadets, who respectfully crowd round her.) ----------ACT IV, SCENE IX--------- Christian, Cyrano. At back Roxane talking to Carbon and some cadets. CHRISTIAN (calling toward Cyrano's tent): Cyrano! CYRANO (reappearing, fully armed): What? Why so pale? CHRISTIAN: She does not love me! CYRANO: What? CHRISTIAN: 'Tis you she loves! CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: --For she loves me only for my soul! CYRANO: Truly? CHRISTIAN: Yes! Thus--you see, that soul is you,. . . Therefore, 'tis you she loves!--And you--love her! CYRANO: I? CHRISTIAN: Oh, I know it! CYRANO: Ay, 'tis true! CHRISTIAN: You love To madness! CYRANO: Ay! and worse! CHRISTIAN: Then tell her so! CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: And why not? CYRANO: Look at my face!--be answered! CHRISTIAN: She'd love me--were I ugly. CYRANO: Said she so? CHRISTIAN: Ay! in those words! CYRANO: I'm glad she told you that! But pooh!--believe it not! I am well pleased She thought to tell you. Take it not for truth. Never grow ugly:--she'd reproach me then! CHRISTIAN: That I intend discovering! CYRANO: No! I beg! CHRISTIAN: Ay! she shall choose between us!--Tell her all! CYRANO: No! no! I will not have it! Spare me this! CHRISTIAN: Because my face is haply fair, shall I Destroy your happiness? 'Twere too unjust! CYRANO: And I,--because by Nature's freak I have The gift to say--all that perchance you feel. Shall I be fatal to your happiness? CHRISTIAN: Tell all! CYRANO: It is ill done to tempt me thus! CHRISTIAN: Too long I've borne about within myself A rival to myself--I'll make an end! CYRANO: Christian! CHRISTIAN: Our union, without witness--secret-- Clandestine--can be easily dissolved If we survive. CYRANO: My God!--he still persists! CHRISTIAN: I will be loved myself--or not at all! --I'll go see what they do--there, at the end Of the post: speak to her, and then let her choose One of us two! CYRANO: It will be you. CHRISTIAN: Pray God! (He calls): Roxane! CYRANO: No! no! ROXANE (coming up quickly): What? CHRISTIAN: Cyrano has things Important for your ear. . . (She hastens to Cyrano. Christian goes out.) ----------ACT IV, SCENE X--------- Roxane, Cyrano. Then Le Bret, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, Ragueneau, De Guiche, etc. ROXANE: Important, how? CYRANO (in despair. to Roxane): He's gone! 'Tis naught!--Oh, you know how he sees Importance in a trifle! ROXANE (warmly): Did he doubt Of what I said?--Ah, yes, I saw he doubted! CYRANO (taking her hand): But are you sure you told him all the truth? ROXANE: Yes, I would love him were he. . . (She hesitates.) CYRANO: Does that word Embarrass you before my face, Roxane? ROXANE: I. . . CYRANO (smiling sadly): 'Twill not hurt me! Say it! If he were Ugly!. . . ROXANE: Yes, ugly! (Musket report outside): Hark! I hear a shot! CYRANO (ardently): Hideous! ROXANE: Hideous! yes! CYRANO: Disfigured. ROXANE: Ay! CYRANO: Grotesque? ROXANE: He could not be grotesque to me! CYRANO: You'd love the same?. . . ROXANE: The same--nay, even more! CYRANO (losing command over himself--aside): My God! it's true, perchance, love waits me there! (To Roxane): I. . .Roxane. . .listen. . . LE BRET (entering hurriedly--to Cyrano): Cyrano! CYRANO (turning round): What? LE BRET: Hush! (He whispers something to him.) CYRANO (letting go Roxane's hand and exclaiming): Ah, God! ROXANE: What is it? CYRANO (to himself--stunned): All is over now. (Renewed reports.) ROXANE: What is the matter? Hark! another shot! (She goes up to look outside.) CYRANO: It is too late, now I can never tell! ROXANE (trying to rush out): What has chanced? CYRANO (rushing to stop her): Nothing! (Some cadets enter, trying to hide something they are carrying, and close round it to prevent Roxane approaching.) ROXANE: And those men? (Cyrano draws her away): What were you just about to say before. . .? CYRANO: What was I saying? Nothing now, I swear! (Solemnly): I swear that Christian's soul, his nature, were. . . (Hastily correcting himself): Nay, that they are, the noblest, greatest. . . ROXANE: Were? (With a loud scream): Oh! (She rushes up, pushing every one aside.) CYRANO: All is over now! ROXANE (seeing Christian lying on the ground, wrapped in his cloak): O Christian! LE BRET (to Cyrano): Struck by first shot of the enemy! (Roxane flings herself down by Christian. Fresh reports of cannon--clash of arms--clamor--beating of drums.) CARBON (with sword in the air): O come! Your muskets. (Followed by the cadets, he passes to the other side of the ramparts.) ROXANE: Christian! THE VOICE OF CARBON (from the other side): Ho! make haste! ROXANE: Christian! CARBON: FORM LINE! ROXANE: Christian! CARBON: HANDLE YOUR MATCH! (Ragueneau rushes up, bringing water in a helmet.) CHRISTIAN (in a dying voice): Roxane! CYRANO (quickly, whispering into Christian's ear, while Roxane distractedly tears a piece of linen from his breast, which she dips into the water, trying to stanch the bleeding): I told her all. She loves you still. (Christian closes his eyes.) ROXANE: How, my sweet love? CARBON: DRAW RAMRODS! ROXANE (to Cyrano): He is not dead? CARBON: OPEN YOUR CHARGES WITH YOUR TEETH! ROXANE: His cheek Grows cold against my own! CARBON: READY! PRESENT! ROXANE (seeing a letter in Christian's doublet): A letter!. . . 'Tis for me! (She opens it.) CYRANO (aside): My letter! CARBON: FIRE! (Musket reports--shouts--noise of battle.) CYRANO (trying to disengage his hand, which Roxane on her knees is holding): But, Roxane, hark, they fight! ROXANE (detaining him): Stay yet awhile. For he is dead. You knew him, you alone. (Weeping quietly): Ah, was not his a beauteous soul, a soul Wondrous! CYRANO (standing up--bareheaded): Ay, Roxane. ROXANE: An inspired poet? CYRANO: Ay, Roxane. ROXANE: And a mind sublime? CYRANO: Oh, yes! ROXANE: A heart too deep for common minds to plumb, A spirit subtle, charming? CYRANO (firmly): Ay, Roxane. ROXANE (flinging herself on the dead body): Dead, my love! CYRANO (aside--drawing his sword): Ay, and let me die to-day, Since, all unconscious, she mourns me--in him! (Sounds of trumpets in the distance.) DE GUICHE (appearing on the ramparts--bareheaded--with a wound on his forehead--in a voice of thunder): It is the signal! Trumpet flourishes! The French bring the provisions into camp! Hold but the place awhile! ROXANE: See, there is blood Upon the letter--tears! A VOICE (outside--shouting): Surrender! VOICE OF CADETS: No! RAGUENEAU (standing on the top of his carriage, watches the battle over the edge of the ramparts): The danger's ever greater! CYRANO (to De Guiche--pointing to Roxane): I will charge! Take her away! ROXANE (kissing the letter--in a half-extinguished voice): O God! his tears! his blood!. . . RAGUENEAU (jumping down from the carriage and rushing toward her): She's swooned away! DE GUICHE (on the rampart--to the cadets--with fury): Stand fast! A VOICE (outside): Lay down your arms! THE CADETS: No! CYRANO (to De Guiche): Now that you have proved your valor, Sir, (Pointing to Roxane): Fly, and save her! DE GUICHE (rushing to Roxane, and carrying her away in his arms): So be it! Gain but time, The victory's ours! CYRANO: Good. (Calling out to Roxane, whom De Guiche, aided by Ragueneau, is bearing away in a fainting condition): Farewell, Roxane! (Tumult. Shouts. Cadets reappear, wounded, falling on the scene. Cyrano, rushing to the battle, is stopped by Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is streaming with blood.) CARBON: We are breaking! I am wounded--wounded twice! CYRANO (shouting to the Gascons): GASCONS! HO, GASCONS! NEVER TURN YOUR BACKS! (To Carbon, whom he is supporting): Have no fear! I have two deaths to avenge: My friend who's slain;--and my dead happiness! (They come down, Cyrano brandishing the lance to which is attached Roxane's handkerchief): Float there! laced kerchief broidered with her name! (He sticks it in the ground and shouts to the cadets): FALL ON THEM, GASCONS! CRUSH THEM! (To the fifer): Fifer, play! (The fife plays. The wounded try to rise. Some cadets, falling one over the other down the slope, group themselves round Cyrano and the little flag. The carriage is crowded with men inside and outside, and, bristling with arquebuses, is turned into a fortress.) A CADET (appearing on the crest, beaten backward, but still fighting, cries): They're climbing the redoubt! (and falls dead.) CYRANO: Let us salute them! (The rampart is covered instantly by a formidable row of enemies. The standards of the Imperialists are raised): Fire! (General discharge.) A CRY IN THE ENEMY'S RANKS: Fire! (A deadly answering volley. The cadets fall on all sides.) A SPANISH OFFICER (uncovering): Who are these men who rush on death? CYRANO (reciting, erect, amid a storm of bullets): The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux! Brawling, swaggering boastfully, (He rushes forward, followed by a few survivors): The bold Cadets. . . (His voice is drowned in the battle.) Curtain.

Cyrano de Bergerac.act v.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act v, scene iv with the given context.

After they leave, Roxane reemerges and sits down beneath an autumn tree to sew. A nun announces Cyrano's arrival

----------ACT V, SCENE I--------- Mother Marguerite, Sister Martha, Sister Claire, other sisters. SISTER MARTHA (to Mother Marguerite): Sister Claire glanced in the mirror, once--nay, twice, to see if her coif suited. MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Claire): 'Tis not well. SISTER CLAIRE: But I saw Sister Martha take a plum Out of the tart. MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Martha): That was ill done, my sister. SISTER CLAIRE: A little glance! SISTER MARTHA: And such a little plum! MOTHER MARGUERITE: I shall tell this to Monsieur Cyrano. SISTER CLAIRE: Nay, prithee do not!--he will mock! SISTER MARTHA: He'll say we nuns are vain! SISTER CLAIRE: And greedy! MOTHER MARGUERITE (smiling): Ay, and kind! SISTER CLAIRE: Is it not true, pray, Mother Marguerite, That he has come, each week, on Saturday For ten years, to the convent? MOTHER MARGUERITE: Ay! and more! Ever since--fourteen years ago--the day His cousin brought here, 'midst our woolen coifs, The worldly mourning of her widow's veil, Like a blackbird's wing among the convent doves! SISTER MARTHA: He only has the skill to turn her mind From grief--unsoftened yet by Time--unhealed! ALL THE SISTERS: He is so droll!--It's cheerful when he comes!-- He teases us!--But we all like him well!-- --We make him pasties of angelica! SISTER MARTHA: But, he is not a faithful Catholic! SISTER CLAIRE: We will convert him! THE SISTERS: Yes! Yes! MOTHER MARGUERITE: I forbid, My daughters, you attempt that subject. Nay, Weary him not--he might less oft come here! SISTER MARTHA: But. . .God. . . MOTHER MARGUERITE: Nay, never fear! God knows him well! SISTER MARTHA: But--every Saturday, when he arrives, He tells me, 'Sister, I eat meat on Friday!' MOTHER MARGUERITE: Ah! says he so? Well, the last time he came Food had not passed his lips for two whole days! SISTER MARTHA: Mother! MOTHER MARGUERITE: He's poor. SISTER MARTHA: Who told you so, dear Mother? MOTHER MARGUERITE: Monsieur Le Bret. SISTER MARTHA: None help him? MOTHER MARGUERITE: He permits not. (In an alley at the back Roxane appears, dressed in black, with a widow's coif and veil. De Guiche, imposing-looking and visibly aged, walks by her side. They saunter slowly. Mother Marguerite rises): 'Tis time we go in; Madame Madeleine Walks in the garden with a visitor. SISTER MARTHA (to Sister Claire, in a low voice): The Marshal of Grammont? SISTER CLAIRE (looking at him): 'Tis he, I think. SISTER MARTHA: 'Tis many months now since he came to see her. THE SISTERS: He is so busy!--The Court,--the camp!. . . SISTER CLAIRE: The world! (They go out. De Guiche and Roxane come forward in silence, and stop close to the embroidery frame.) ----------ACT V, SCENE II--------- Roxane; the Duke de Grammont, formerly Count de Guiche. Then Le Bret and Ragueneau. THE DUKE: And you stay here still--ever vainly fair, Ever in weeds? ROXANE: Ever. THE DUKE: Still faithful? ROXANE: Still. THE DUKE (after a pause): Am I forgiven? ROXANE: Ay, since I am here. (Another pause.) THE DUKE: His was a soul, you say?. . . ROXANE: Ah!--when you knew him! THE DUKE: Ah, may be!. . .I, perchance, too little knew him! . . .And his last letter, ever next your heart? ROXANE: Hung from this chain, a gentle scapulary. THE DUKE: And, dead, you love him still? ROXANE: At times,--meseems He is but partly dead--our hearts still speak, As if his love, still living, wrapped me round! THE DUKE (after another pause): Cyrano comes to see you? ROXANE: Often, ay. Dear, kind old friend! We call him my 'Gazette.' He never fails to come: beneath this tree They place his chair, if it be fine:--I wait, I broider;--the clock strikes;--at the last stroke I hear,--for now I never turn to look-- Too sure to hear his cane tap down the steps; He seats himself:--with gentle raillery He mocks my tapestry that's never done; He tells me all the gossip of the week. . . (Le Bret appears on the steps): Why, here's Le Bret! (Le Bret descends): How goes it with our friend? LE BRET: Ill!--very ill. THE DUKE: How? ROXANE (to the Duke): He exaggerates! LE BRET: All that I prophesied: desertion, want!. . . His letters now make him fresh enemies!-- Attacking the sham nobles, sham devout, Sham brave,--the thieving authors,--all the world! ROXANE: Ah! but his sword still holds them all in check; None get the better of him. THE DUKE (shaking his head): Time will show! LE BRET: Ah, but I fear for him--not man's attack,-- Solitude--hunger--cold December days, That wolf-like steal into his chamber drear:-- Lo! the assassins that I fear for him! Each day he tightens by one hole his belt: That poor nose--tinted like old ivory: He has retained one shabby suit of serge. THE DUKE: Ay, there is one who has no prize of Fortune!-- Yet is not to be pitied! LE BRET (with a bitter smile): My Lord Marshal!. . . THE DUKE: Pity him not! He has lived out his vows, Free in his thoughts, as in his actions free! LE BRET (in the same tone): My Lord!. . . THE DUKE (haughtily): True! I have all, and he has naught;. . . Yet I were proud to take his hand! (Bowing to Roxane): Adieu! ROXANE: I go with you. (The Duke bows to Le Bret, and goes with Roxane toward the steps.) THE DUKE (pausing, while she goes up): Ay, true,--I envy him. Look you, when life is brimful of success --Though the past hold no action foul--one feels A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest; And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame, The Duke's furred mantles trail within their folds A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets, A rustle--scarce a whisper--like as when, Mounting the terrace steps, by your mourning robe Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves. ROXANE (ironically): You are pensive? THE DUKE: True! I am! (As he is going out, suddenly): Monsieur Le Bret! (To Roxane): A word, with your permission? (He goes to Le Bret, and in a low voice): True, that none Dare to attack your friend;--but many hate him; Yesterday, at the Queen's card-play, 'twas said 'That Cyrano may die--by accident!' Let him stay in--be prudent! LE BRET (raising his arms to heaven): Prudent! He!. . . He's coming here. I'll warn him--but!. . . ROXANE (who has stayed on the steps, to a sister who comes toward her): What is it? THE SISTER: Ragueneau would see you, Madame. ROXANE: Let him come. (To the Duke and Le Bret): He comes to tell his troubles. Having been An author (save the mark!)--poor fellow--now By turns he's singer. . . LE BRET: Bathing-man. . . ROXANE: Then actor. . . LE BRET: Beadle. . . ROXANE: Wig-maker. . . LE BRET: Teacher of the lute. . . ROXANE: What will he be to-day, by chance? RAGUENEAU (entering hurriedly): Ah! Madame! (He sees Le Bret): Ah! you here, Sir! ROXANE (smiling): Tell all your miseries To him; I will return anon. RAGUENEAU: But, Madame. . . (Roxane goes out with the Duke. Ragueneau goes toward Le Bret.) ----------ACT V, SCENE III--------- Le Bret, Ragueneau. RAGUENEAU: Since you are here, 'tis best she should not know! I was going to your friend just now--was but A few steps from the house, when I saw him Go out. I hurried to him. Saw him turn The corner. . .suddenly, from out a window Where he was passing--was it chance?. . .may be! A lackey let fall a large piece of wood. LE BRET: Cowards! O Cyrano! RAGUENEAU: I ran--I saw. . . LE BRET: 'Tis hideous! RAGUENEAU: Saw our poet, Sir--our friend-- Struck to the ground--a large wound in his head! LE BRET: He's dead? RAGUENEAU: No--but--I bore him to his room. . . Ah! his room! What a thing to see!--that garret! LE BRET: He suffers? RAGUENEAU: No, his consciousness has flown. LE BRET: Saw you a doctor? RAGUENEAU: One was kind--he came. LE BRET: My poor Cyrano!--We must not tell this To Roxane suddenly.--What said this leech?-- RAGUENEAU: Said,--what, I know not--fever, meningitis!-- Ah! could you see him--all his head bound up!-- But let us haste!--There's no one by his bed!-- And if he try to rise, Sir, he might die! LE BRET (dragging him toward the right): Come! Through the chapel! 'Tis the quickest way! ROXANE (appearing on the steps, and seeing Le Bret go away by the colonnade leading to the chapel door): Monsieur le Bret! (Le Bret and Ragueneau disappear without answering): Le Bret goes--when I call! 'Tis some new trouble of good Ragueneau's. (She descends the steps.) ----------ACT V, SCENE IV--------- Roxane alone. Two sisters, for a moment. ROXANE: Ah! what a beauty in September's close! My sorrow's eased. April's joy dazzled it, But autumn wins it with her dying calm. (She seats herself at the embroidery frame. Two sisters come out of the house, and bring a large armchair under the tree): There comes the famous armchair where he sits, Dear faithful friend! SISTER MARTHA: It is the parlor's best! ROXANE: Thanks, sister. (The sisters go): He'll be here now. (She seats herself. A clock strikes): The hour strikes. --My silks?--Why, now, the hour's struck! How strange To be behind his time, at last, to-day! Perhaps the portress--where's my thimble?. . . Here!--Is preaching to him. (A pause): Yes, she must be preaching! Surely he must come soon!--Ah, a dead leaf!-- (She brushes off the leaf from her work): Nothing, besides, could--scissors?--In my bag! --Could hinder him. . . A SISTER (coming to the steps): Monsieur de Bergerac. ----------ACT V, SCENE V--------- Roxane, Cyrano and, for a moment, Sister Martha. ROXANE (without turning round): What was I saying?. . . (She embroiders. Cyrano, very pale, his hat pulled down over his eyes, appears. The sister who had announced him retires. He descends the steps slowly, with a visible difficulty in holding himself upright, bearing heavily on his cane. Roxane still works at her tapestry): Time has dimmed the tints. . . How harmonize them now? (To Cyrano, with playful reproach): For the first time Late!--For the first time, all these fourteen years! CYRANO (who has succeeded in reaching the chair, and has seated himself--in a lively voice, which is in great contrast with his pale face): Ay! It is villainous! I raged--was stayed. . . ROXANE: By?. . . CYRANO: By a bold, unwelcome visitor. ROXANE (absently, working): Some creditor? CYRANO: Ay, cousin,--the last creditor Who has a debt to claim from me. ROXANE: And you Have paid it? CYRANO: No, not yet! I put it off; --Said, 'Cry you mercy; this is Saturday, When I have get a standing rendezvous That naught defers. Call in an hour's time!' ROXANE (carelessly): Oh, well, a creditor can always wait! I shall not let you go ere twilight falls. CYRANO: Haply, perforce, I quit you ere it falls! (He shuts his eyes, and is silent for a moment. Sister Martha crosses the park from the chapel to the flight of steps. Roxane, seeing her, signs to her to approach.) ROXANE (to Cyrano): How now? You have not teased the Sister? CYRANO (hastily opening his eyes): True! (In a comically loud voice): Sister! come here! (The sister glides up to him): Ha! ha! What? Those bright eyes Bent ever on the ground? SISTER MARTHA (who makes a movement of astonishment on seeing his face): Oh! CYRANO (in a whisper, pointing to Roxane): Hush! 'tis naught!-- (Loudly, in a blustering voice): I broke fast yesterday! SISTER MARTHA (aside): I know, I know! That's how he is so pale! Come presently To the refectory, I'll make you drink A famous bowl of soup. . .You'll come? CYRANO: Ay, ay! SISTER MARTHA: There, see! You are more reasonable to-day! ROXANE (who hears them whispering): The Sister would convert you? SISTER MARTHA: Nay, not I! CYRANO: Hold! but it's true! You preach to me no more, You, once so glib with holy words! I am Astonished!. . . (With burlesque fury): Stay, I will surprise you too! Hark! I permit you. . . (He pretends to be seeking for something to tease her with, and to have found it): . . .It is something new!-- To--pray for me, to-night, at chapel-time! ROXANE: Oh! oh! CYRANO (laughing): Good Sister Martha is struck dumb! SISTER MARTHA (gently): I did not wait your leave to pray for you. (She goes out.) CYRANO (turning to Roxane, who is still bending over her work): That tapestry! Beshrew me if my eyes Will ever see it finished! ROXANE: I was sure To hear that well-known jest! (A light breeze causes the leaves to fall.) CYRANO: The autumn leaves! ROXANE (lifting her head, and looking down the distant alley): Soft golden brown, like a Venetian's hair. --See how they fall! CYRANO: Ay, see how brave they fall, In their last journey downward from the bough, To rot within the clay; yet, lovely still, Hiding the horror of the last decay, With all the wayward grace of careless flight! ROXANE: What, melancholy--you? CYRANO (collecting himself): Nay, nay, Roxane! ROXANE: Then let the dead leaves fall the way they will. . . And chat. What, have you nothing new to tell, My Court Gazette? CYRANO: Listen. ROXANE: Ah! CYRANO (growing whiter and whiter): Saturday The nineteenth: having eaten to excess Of pear-conserve, the King felt feverish; The lancet quelled this treasonable revolt, And the august pulse beats at normal pace. At the Queen's ball on Sunday thirty score Of best white waxen tapers were consumed. Our troops, they say, have chased the Austrians. Four sorcerers were hanged. The little dog Of Madame d'Athis took a dose. . . ROXANE: I bid You hold your tongue, Monsieur de Bergerac! CYRANO: Monday--not much--Claire changed protector. ROXANE: Oh! CYRANO (whose face changes more and more): Tuesday, the Court repaired to Fontainebleau. Wednesday, the Montglat said to Comte de Fiesque. . . No! Thursday--Mancini, Queen of France! (almost!) Friday, the Monglat to Count Fiesque said--'Yes!' And Saturday the twenty-sixth. . . (He closes his eyes. His head falls forward. Silence.) ROXANE (surprised at his voice ceasing, turns round, looks at him, and rising, terrified): He swoons! (She runs toward him crying): Cyrano! CYRANO (opening his eyes, in an unconcerned voice): What is this? (He sees Roxane bending over him, and, hastily pressing his hat on his head, and shrinking back in his chair): Nay, on my word 'Tis nothing! Let me be! ROXANE: But. . . CYRANO: That old wound Of Arras, sometimes,--as you know. . . ROXANE: Dear friend! CYRANO: 'Tis nothing, 'twill pass soon; (He smiles with an effort): See!--it has passed! ROXANE: Each of us has his wound; ay, I have mine,-- Never healed up--not healed yet, my old wound! (She puts her hand on her breast): 'Tis here, beneath this letter brown with age, All stained with tear-drops, and still stained with blood. (Twilight begins to fall.) CYRANO: His letter! Ah! you promised me one day That I should read it. ROXANE: What would you?--His letter? CYRANO: Yes, I would fain,--to-day. . . ROXANE (giving the bag hung at her neck): See! here it is! CYRANO (taking it): Have I your leave to open? ROXANE: Open--read! (She comes back to her tapestry frame, folds it up, sorts her wools.) CYRANO (reading): 'Roxane, adieu! I soon must die! This very night, beloved; and I Feel my soul heavy with love untold. I die! No more, as in days of old, My loving, longing eyes will feast On your least gesture--ay, the least! I mind me the way you touch your cheek With your finger, softly, as you speak! Ah me! I know that gesture well! My heart cries out!--I cry "Farewell"!' ROXANE: But how you read that letter! One would think. . . CYRANO (continuing to read): 'My life, my love, my jewel, my sweet, My heart has been yours in every beat!' (The shades of evening fall imperceptibly.) ROXANE: You read in such a voice--so strange--and yet-- It is not the first time I hear that voice! (She comes nearer very softly, without his perceiving it, passes behind his chair, and, noiselessly leaning over him, looks at the letter. The darkness deepens.) CYRANO: 'Here, dying, and there, in the land on high, I am he who loved, who loves you,--I. . .' ROXANE (putting her hand on his shoulder): How can you read? It is too dark to see! (He starts, turns, sees her close to him. Suddenly alarmed, he holds his head down. Then in the dusk, which has now completely enfolded them, she says, very slowly, with clasped hands): And, fourteen years long, he has played this part Of the kind old friend who comes to laugh and chat. CYRANO: Roxane! ROXANE: 'Twas you! CYRANO: No, never; Roxane, no! ROXANE: I should have guessed, each time he said my name! CYRANO: No, it was not I! ROXANE: It was you! CYRANO: I swear! ROXANE: I see through all the generous counterfeit-- The letters--you! CYRANO: No. ROXANE: The sweet, mad love-words! You! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: The voice that thrilled the night--you, you! CYRANO: I swear you err. ROXANE: The soul--it was your soul! CYRANO: I loved you not. ROXANE: You loved me not? CYRANO: 'Twas he! ROXANE: You loved me! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: See! how you falter now! CYRANO: No, my sweet love, I never loved you! ROXANE: Ah! Things dead, long dead, see! how they rise again! --Why, why keep silence all these fourteen years, When, on this letter, which he never wrote, The tears were your tears? CYRANO (holding out the letter to her): The bloodstains were his. ROXANE: Why, then, that noble silence,--kept so long-- Broken to-day for the first time--why? CYRANO: Why?. . . (Le Bret and Ragueneau enter running.) ----------ACT V, SCENE VI--------- The same. Le Bret and Ragueneau. LE BRET: What madness! Here? I knew it well! CYRANO (smiling and sitting up): What now? LE BRET: He has brought his death by coming, Madame. ROXANE: God! Ah, then! that faintness of a moment since. . .? CYRANO: Why, true! It interrupted the 'Gazette:' . . .Saturday, twenty-sixth, at dinner-time, Assassination of De Bergerac. (He takes off his hat; they see his head bandaged.) ROXANE: What says he? Cyrano!--His head all bound! Ah, what has chanced? How?--Who?. . . CYRANO: 'To be struck down, Pierced by sword i' the heart, from a hero's hand!' That I had dreamed. O mockery of Fate! --Killed, I! of all men--in an ambuscade! Struck from behind, and by a lackey's hand! 'Tis very well. I am foiled, foiled in all, Even in my death. RAGUENEAU: Ah, Monsieur!. . . CYRANO (holding out his hand to him): Ragueneau, Weep not so bitterly!. . .What do you now, Old comrade? RAGUENEAU (amid his tears): Trim the lights for Moliere's stage. CYRANO: Moliere! RAGUENEAU: Yes; but I shall leave to-morrow. I cannot bear it!--Yesterday, they played 'Scapin'--I saw he'd thieved a scene from you! LE BRET: What! a whole scene? RAGUENEAU: Oh, yes, indeed, Monsieur, The famous one, 'Que Diable allait-il faire?' LE BRET: Moliere has stolen that? CYRANO: Tut! He did well!. . . (to Ragueneau): How went the scene? It told--I think it told? RAGUENEAU (sobbing): Ah! how they laughed! CYRANO: Look you, it was my life To be the prompter every one forgets! (To Roxane): That night when 'neath your window Christian spoke --Under your balcony, you remember? Well! There was the allegory of my whole life: I, in the shadow, at the ladder's foot, While others lightly mount to Love and Fame! Just! very just! Here on the threshold drear Of death, I pay my tribute with the rest, To Moliere's genius,--Christian's fair face! (The chapel-bell chimes. The nuns are seen passing down the alley at the back, to say their office): Let them go pray, go pray, when the bell rings! ROXANE (rising and calling): Sister! Sister! CYRANO (holding her fast): Call no one. Leave me not; When you come back, I should be gone for aye. (The nuns have all entered the chapel. The organ sounds): I was somewhat fain for music--hark! 'tis come. ROXANE: Live, for I love you! CYRANO: No, In fairy tales When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast-- But I remain the same, up to the last! ROXANE: I have marred your life--I, I! CYRANO: You blessed my life! Never on me had rested woman's love. My mother even could not find me fair: I had no sister; and, when grown a man, I feared the mistress who would mock at me. But I have had your friendship--grace to you A woman's charm has passed across my path. LE BRET (pointing to the moon, which is seen between the trees): Your other lady-love is come. CYRANO (smiling): I see. ROXANE: I loved but once, yet twice I lose my love! CYRANO: Hark you, Le Bret! I soon shall reach the moon. To-night, alone, with no projectile's aid!. . . LE BRET: What are you saying? CYRANO: I tell you, it is there, There, that they send me for my Paradise, There I shall find at last the souls I love, In exile,--Galileo--Socrates! LE BRET (rebelliously): No, no! It is too clumsy, too unjust! So great a heart! So great a poet! Die Like this? what, die. . .? CYRANO: Hark to Le Bret, who scolds! LE BRET (weeping): Dear friend. . . CYRANO (starting up, his eyes wild): What ho! Cadets of Gascony! The elemental mass--ah yes! The hic. . . LE BRET: His science still--he raves! CYRANO: Copernicus Said. . . ROXANE: Oh! CYRANO: Mais que diable allait-il faire, Mais que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere?. . . Philosopher, metaphysician, Rhymer, brawler, and musician, Famed for his lunar expedition, And the unnumbered duels he fought,-- And lover also,--by interposition!-- Here lies Hercule Savinien De Cyrano de Bergerac, Who was everything, yet was naught. I cry you pardon, but I may not stay; See, the moon-ray that comes to call me hence! (He has fallen back in his chair; the sobs of Roxane recall him to reality; he looks long at her, and, touching her veil): I would not bid you mourn less faithfully That good, brave Christian: I would only ask That when my body shall be cold in clay You wear those sable mourning weeds for two, And mourn awhile for me, in mourning him. ROXANE: I swear it you!. . . CYRANO (shivering violently, then suddenly rising): Not there! what, seated?--no! (They spring toward him): Let no one hold me up-- (He props himself against the tree): Only the tree! (Silence): It comes. E'en now my feet have turned to stone, My hands are gloved with lead! (He stands erect): But since Death comes, I meet him still afoot, (He draws his sword): And sword in hand! LE BRET: Cyrano! ROXANE (half fainting): Cyrano! (All shrink back in terror.) CYRANO: Why, I well believe He dares to mock my nose? Ho! insolent! (He raises his sword): What say you? It is useless? Ay, I know But who fights ever hoping for success? I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest! You there, who are you!--You are thousands! Ah! I know you now, old enemies of mine! Falsehood! (He strikes in air with his sword): Have at you! Ha! and Compromise! Prejudice, Treachery!. . . (He strikes): Surrender, I? Parley? No, never! You too, Folly,--you? I know that you will lay me low at last; Let be! Yet I fall fighting, fighting still! (He makes passes in the air, and stops, breathless): You strip from me the laurel and the rose! Take all! Despite you there is yet one thing I hold against you all, and when, to-night, I enter Christ's fair courts, and, lowly bowed, Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue, One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch, I bear away despite you. (He springs forward, his sword raised; it falls from his hand; he staggers, falls back into the arms of Le Bret and Ragueneau.) ROXANE (bending and kissing his forehead): 'Tis?. . . CYRANO (opening his eyes, recognizing her, and smiling): MY PANACHE. Curtain.

David Copperfield.chapter

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 56 using the context provided.

chapter 53|chapter 56

Having seen Steerforth's drowned body, David remembers the last thing Steerforth said to him: "Think of me at my best!" . David can't help but do that, even now. The fishermen bring Steerforth's body to the same room in which Ham's body has been laid, but they decide that's kind of wrong. So, they move Steerforth's body to the inn where David is staying. Needing to break the news to Steerforth's mother himself, David calls on Joram to help him transport the body to London. David arrives at Mrs. Steerforth's house and knocks on the door. The parlor-maid answers and asks if David is all right? He looks sick. David admits that he is tired. He asks if Mrs. Steerforth is at home. Mrs. Steerforth receives David. She is not well. Next to Mrs. Steerforth sits Miss Rosa Dartle. Mrs. Steerforth notices that David is dressed all in black. David replies that he is in mourning for his wife. Mrs. Steerforth offers her condolences. From the look on David's face, Steerforth's mother guesses that something is wrong with her son. Miss Dartle has already put two and two together: she clearly knows that Steerforth is dead. But David has to clarify for Mrs. Steerforth. Mrs. Steerforth asks Miss Dartle for help, but Miss Dartle immediately starts to quarrel with her. Miss Dartle points to the scar on her lip and asks Mrs. Steerforth if she remembers how Miss Dartle got it . Miss Dartle blames Steerforth's bad temper on the way Mrs. Steerforth spoiled him. David tries to stop Miss Dartle, but she refuses to be quiet. Miss Dartle screams that she has always loved Steerforth better than his mother has. After he disfigured her face, neither Mrs. Steerforth nor her son ever really believed that Miss Dartle had true feelings. Miss Dartle blames all of Steerforth's faults on his mother. David replies that, if Miss Dartle can't forget his faults even at this moment, at least she should help his mother. Miss Dartle kneels next to Mrs. Steerforth and curses David. David leaves the house and brings Mrs. Steerforth the body of her son. Mrs. Steerforth is comatose; she doesn't respond to her doctors at all. David finds the house completely silent and death-like except for the occasional cry from Mrs. Steerforth.

----------CHAPTER 53--------- I must pause yet once again. O, my child-wife, there is a figure in the moving crowd before my memory, quiet and still, saying in its innocent love and childish beauty, Stop to think of me--turn to look upon the Little Blossom, as it flutters to the ground! I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora, in our cottage. I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used to it in feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeks or months; but, in my usage and experience, it is a weary, weary while. They have left off telling me to 'wait a few days more'. I have begun to fear, remotely, that the day may never shine, when I shall see my child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip. He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be that he misses in his mistress, something that enlivened him and made him younger; but he mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects to her no more, but creeps near her as he lies on Dora's bed--she sitting at the bedside--and mildly licks her hand. Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty or complaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that her dear old careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows; that my aunt has no sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes, the little bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about our wedding-day, and all that happy time. What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be--and in all life, within doors and without--when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderly room, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me, and her little fingers twining round my hand! Many and many an hour I sit thus; but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind. It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt's hands, shows me how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an how long and bright it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears. 'Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,' she says, when I smile; 'but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it. Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!' 'That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was.' 'Ah! but I didn't like to tell you,' says Dora, 'then, how I had cried over them, because I believed you really liked me! When I can run about again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those places where we were such a silly couple, shall we? And take some of the old walks? And not forget poor papa?' 'Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must make haste to get well, my dear.' 'Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don't know!' It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with the same face turned towards me. We have been silent, and there is a smile upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairs now. She lies here all the day. 'Doady!' 'My dear Dora!' 'You won't think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what you told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield's not being well? I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.' 'I will write to her, my dear.' 'Will you?' 'Directly.' 'What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my dear, it's not a whim. It's not a foolish fancy. I want, very much indeed, to see her!' 'I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to come.' 'You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?' Dora whispers, with her arm about my neck. 'How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?' 'My empty chair!' She clings to me for a little while, in silence. 'And you really miss me, Doady?' looking up, and brightly smiling. 'Even poor, giddy, stupid me?' 'My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?' 'Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!' creeping closer to me, and folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet, and quite happy. 'Quite!' she says. 'Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I want very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for.' 'Except to get well again, Dora.' 'Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think--you know I always was a silly little thing!--that that will never be!' 'Don't say so, Dora! Dearest love, don't think so!' 'I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife's empty chair!' It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; has been among us for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat with Dora since the morning, all together. We have not talked much, but Dora has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone. Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me? They have told me so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts--but I am far from sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot master it. I have withdrawn by myself, many times today, to weep. I have remembered Who wept for a parting between the living and the dead. I have bethought me of all that gracious and compassionate history. I have tried to resign myself, and to console myself; and that, I hope, I may have done imperfectly; but what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I see her love for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared. 'I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I have often thought of saying, lately. You won't mind?' with a gentle look. 'Mind, my darling?' 'Because I don't know what you will think, or what you may have thought sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I am afraid I was too young.' I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes, and speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a stricken heart, that she is speaking of herself as past. 'I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don't mean in years only, but in experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was such a silly little creature! I am afraid it would have been better, if we had only loved each other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it. I have begun to think I was not fit to be a wife.' I try to stay my tears, and to reply, 'Oh, Dora, love, as fit as I to be a husband!' 'I don't know,' with the old shake of her curls. 'Perhaps! But if I had been more fit to be married I might have made you more so, too. Besides, you are very clever, and I never was.' 'We have been very happy, my sweet Dora.' 'I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would have wearied of his child-wife. She would have been less and less a companion for him. He would have been more and more sensible of what was wanting in his home. She wouldn't have improved. It is better as it is.' 'Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every word seems a reproach!' 'No, not a syllable!' she answers, kissing me. 'Oh, my dear, you never deserved it, and I loved you far too well to say a reproachful word to you, in earnest--it was all the merit I had, except being pretty--or you thought me so. Is it lonely, down-stairs, Doady?' 'Very! Very!' 'Don't cry! Is my chair there?' 'In its old place.' 'Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! Now, make me one promise. I want to speak to Agnes. When you go downstairs, tell Agnes so, and send her up to me; and while I speak to her, let no one come--not even aunt. I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes, quite alone.' I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for my grief. 'I said that it was better as it is!' she whispers, as she holds me in her arms. 'Oh, Doady, after more years, you never could have loved your child-wife better than you do; and, after more years, she would so have tried and disappointed you, that you might not have been able to love her half so well! I know I was too young and foolish. It is much better as it is!' Agnes is downstairs, when I go into the parlour; and I give her the message. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip. His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within it, on his bed of flannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high and clear. As I look out on the night, my tears fall fast, and my undisciplined heart is chastened heavily--heavily. I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all those secret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I think of every little trifle between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that trifles make the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my remembrance, is the image of the dear child as I knew her first, graced by my young love, and by her own, with every fascination wherein such love is rich. Would it, indeed, have been better if we had loved each other as a boy and a girl, and forgotten it? Undisciplined heart, reply! How the time wears, I know not; until I am recalled by my child-wife's old companion. More restless than he was, he crawls out of his house, and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and whines to go upstairs. 'Not tonight, Jip! Not tonight!' He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and lifts his dim eyes to my face. 'Oh, Jip! It may be, never again!' He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and with a plaintive cry, is dead. 'Oh, Agnes! Look, look, here!' --That face, so full of pity, and of grief, that rain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised towards Heaven! 'Agnes?' It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, all things are blotted out of my remembrance. ----------CHAPTER 56--------- No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we last spoke together, in that hour which I so little deemed to be our parting-hour--no need to have said, 'Think of me at my best!' I had done that ever; and could I change now, looking on this sight! They brought a hand-bier, and laid him on it, and covered him with a flag, and took him up and bore him on towards the houses. All the men who carried him had known him, and gone sailing with him, and seen him merry and bold. They carried him through the wild roar, a hush in the midst of all the tumult; and took him to the cottage where Death was already. But when they set the bier down on the threshold, they looked at one another, and at me, and whispered. I knew why. They felt as if it were not right to lay him down in the same quiet room. We went into the town, and took our burden to the inn. So soon as I could at all collect my thoughts, I sent for Joram, and begged him to provide me a conveyance in which it could be got to London in the night. I knew that the care of it, and the hard duty of preparing his mother to receive it, could only rest with me; and I was anxious to discharge that duty as faithfully as I could. I chose the night for the journey, that there might be less curiosity when I left the town. But, although it was nearly midnight when I came out of the yard in a chaise, followed by what I had in charge, there were many people waiting. At intervals, along the town, and even a little way out upon the road, I saw more: but at length only the bleak night and the open country were around me, and the ashes of my youthful friendship. Upon a mellow autumn day, about noon, when the ground was perfumed by fallen leaves, and many more, in beautiful tints of yellow, red, and brown, yet hung upon the trees, through which the sun was shining, I arrived at Highgate. I walked the last mile, thinking as I went along of what I had to do; and left the carriage that had followed me all through the night, awaiting orders to advance. The house, when I came up to it, looked just the same. Not a blind was raised; no sign of life was in the dull paved court, with its covered way leading to the disused door. The wind had quite gone down, and nothing moved. I had not, at first, the courage to ring at the gate; and when I did ring, my errand seemed to me to be expressed in the very sound of the bell. The little parlour-maid came out, with the key in her hand; and looking earnestly at me as she unlocked the gate, said: 'I beg your pardon, sir. Are you ill?' 'I have been much agitated, and am fatigued.' 'Is anything the matter, sir?---Mr. James?--' 'Hush!' said I. 'Yes, something has happened, that I have to break to Mrs. Steerforth. She is at home?' The girl anxiously replied that her mistress was very seldom out now, even in a carriage; that she kept her room; that she saw no company, but would see me. Her mistress was up, she said, and Miss Dartle was with her. What message should she take upstairs? Giving her a strict charge to be careful of her manner, and only to carry in my card and say I waited, I sat down in the drawing-room (which we had now reached) until she should come back. Its former pleasant air of occupation was gone, and the shutters were half closed. The harp had not been used for many and many a day. His picture, as a boy, was there. The cabinet in which his mother had kept his letters was there. I wondered if she ever read them now; if she would ever read them more! The house was so still that I heard the girl's light step upstairs. On her return, she brought a message, to the effect that Mrs. Steerforth was an invalid and could not come down; but that if I would excuse her being in her chamber, she would be glad to see me. In a few moments I stood before her. She was in his room; not in her own. I felt, of course, that she had taken to occupy it, in remembrance of him; and that the many tokens of his old sports and accomplishments, by which she was surrounded, remained there, just as he had left them, for the same reason. She murmured, however, even in her reception of me, that she was out of her own chamber because its aspect was unsuited to her infirmity; and with her stately look repelled the least suspicion of the truth. At her chair, as usual, was Rosa Dartle. From the first moment of her dark eyes resting on me, I saw she knew I was the bearer of evil tidings. The scar sprung into view that instant. She withdrew herself a step behind the chair, to keep her own face out of Mrs. Steerforth's observation; and scrutinized me with a piercing gaze that never faltered, never shrunk. 'I am sorry to observe you are in mourning, sir,' said Mrs. Steerforth. 'I am unhappily a widower,' said I. 'You are very young to know so great a loss,' she returned. 'I am grieved to hear it. I am grieved to hear it. I hope Time will be good to you.' 'I hope Time,' said I, looking at her, 'will be good to all of us. Dear Mrs. Steerforth, we must all trust to that, in our heaviest misfortunes.' The earnestness of my manner, and the tears in my eyes, alarmed her. The whole course of her thoughts appeared to stop, and change. I tried to command my voice in gently saying his name, but it trembled. She repeated it to herself, two or three times, in a low tone. Then, addressing me, she said, with enforced calmness: 'My son is ill.' 'Very ill.' 'You have seen him?' 'I have.' 'Are you reconciled?' I could not say Yes, I could not say No. She slightly turned her head towards the spot where Rosa Dartle had been standing at her elbow, and in that moment I said, by the motion of my lips, to Rosa, 'Dead!' That Mrs. Steerforth might not be induced to look behind her, and read, plainly written, what she was not yet prepared to know, I met her look quickly; but I had seen Rosa Dartle throw her hands up in the air with vehemence of despair and horror, and then clasp them on her face. The handsome lady--so like, oh so like!--regarded me with a fixed look, and put her hand to her forehead. I besought her to be calm, and prepare herself to bear what I had to tell; but I should rather have entreated her to weep, for she sat like a stone figure. 'When I was last here,' I faltered, 'Miss Dartle told me he was sailing here and there. The night before last was a dreadful one at sea. If he were at sea that night, and near a dangerous coast, as it is said he was; and if the vessel that was seen should really be the ship which--' 'Rosa!' said Mrs. Steerforth, 'come to me!' She came, but with no sympathy or gentleness. Her eyes gleamed like fire as she confronted his mother, and broke into a frightful laugh. 'Now,' she said, 'is your pride appeased, you madwoman? Now has he made atonement to you--with his life! Do you hear?---His life!' Mrs. Steerforth, fallen back stiffly in her chair, and making no sound but a moan, cast her eyes upon her with a wide stare. 'Aye!' cried Rosa, smiting herself passionately on the breast, 'look at me! Moan, and groan, and look at me! Look here!' striking the scar, 'at your dead child's handiwork!' The moan the mother uttered, from time to time, went to My heart. Always the same. Always inarticulate and stifled. Always accompanied with an incapable motion of the head, but with no change of face. Always proceeding from a rigid mouth and closed teeth, as if the jaw were locked and the face frozen up in pain. 'Do you remember when he did this?' she proceeded. 'Do you remember when, in his inheritance of your nature, and in your pampering of his pride and passion, he did this, and disfigured me for life? Look at me, marked until I die with his high displeasure; and moan and groan for what you made him!' 'Miss Dartle,' I entreated her. 'For Heaven's sake--' 'I WILL speak!' she said, turning on me with her lightning eyes. 'Be silent, you! Look at me, I say, proud mother of a proud, false son! Moan for your nurture of him, moan for your corruption of him, moan for your loss of him, moan for mine!' She clenched her hand, and trembled through her spare, worn figure, as if her passion were killing her by inches. 'You, resent his self-will!' she exclaimed. 'You, injured by his haughty temper! You, who opposed to both, when your hair was grey, the qualities which made both when you gave him birth! YOU, who from his cradle reared him to be what he was, and stunted what he should have been! Are you rewarded, now, for your years of trouble?' 'Oh, Miss Dartle, shame! Oh cruel!' 'I tell you,' she returned, 'I WILL speak to her. No power on earth should stop me, while I was standing here! Have I been silent all these years, and shall I not speak now? I loved him better than you ever loved him!' turning on her fiercely. 'I could have loved him, and asked no return. If I had been his wife, I could have been the slave of his caprices for a word of love a year. I should have been. Who knows it better than I? You were exacting, proud, punctilious, selfish. My love would have been devoted--would have trod your paltry whimpering under foot!' With flashing eyes, she stamped upon the ground as if she actually did it. 'Look here!' she said, striking the scar again, with a relentless hand. 'When he grew into the better understanding of what he had done, he saw it, and repented of it! I could sing to him, and talk to him, and show the ardour that I felt in all he did, and attain with labour to such knowledge as most interested him; and I attracted him. When he was freshest and truest, he loved me. Yes, he did! Many a time, when you were put off with a slight word, he has taken Me to his heart!' She said it with a taunting pride in the midst of her frenzy--for it was little less--yet with an eager remembrance of it, in which the smouldering embers of a gentler feeling kindled for the moment. 'I descended--as I might have known I should, but that he fascinated me with his boyish courtship--into a doll, a trifle for the occupation of an idle hour, to be dropped, and taken up, and trifled with, as the inconstant humour took him. When he grew weary, I grew weary. As his fancy died out, I would no more have tried to strengthen any power I had, than I would have married him on his being forced to take me for his wife. We fell away from one another without a word. Perhaps you saw it, and were not sorry. Since then, I have been a mere disfigured piece of furniture between you both; having no eyes, no ears, no feelings, no remembrances. Moan? Moan for what you made him; not for your love. I tell you that the time was, when I loved him better than you ever did!' She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the wide stare, and the set face; and softened no more, when the moaning was repeated, than if the face had been a picture. 'Miss Dartle,' said I, 'if you can be so obdurate as not to feel for this afflicted mother--' 'Who feels for me?' she sharply retorted. 'She has sown this. Let her moan for the harvest that she reaps today!' 'And if his faults--' I began. 'Faults!' she cried, bursting into passionate tears. 'Who dares malign him? He had a soul worth millions of the friends to whom he stooped!' 'No one can have loved him better, no one can hold him in dearer remembrance than I,' I replied. 'I meant to say, if you have no compassion for his mother; or if his faults--you have been bitter on them--' 'It's false,' she cried, tearing her black hair; 'I loved him!' '--if his faults cannot,' I went on, 'be banished from your remembrance, in such an hour; look at that figure, even as one you have never seen before, and render it some help!' All this time, the figure was unchanged, and looked unchangeable. Motionless, rigid, staring; moaning in the same dumb way from time to time, with the same helpless motion of the head; but giving no other sign of life. Miss Dartle suddenly kneeled down before it, and began to loosen the dress. 'A curse upon you!' she said, looking round at me, with a mingled expression of rage and grief. 'It was in an evil hour that you ever came here! A curse upon you! Go!' After passing out of the room, I hurried back to ring the bell, the sooner to alarm the servants. She had then taken the impassive figure in her arms, and, still upon her knees, was weeping over it, kissing it, calling to it, rocking it to and fro upon her bosom like a child, and trying every tender means to rouse the dormant senses. No longer afraid of leaving her, I noiselessly turned back again; and alarmed the house as I went out. Later in the day, I returned, and we laid him in his mother's room. She was just the same, they told me; Miss Dartle never left her; doctors were in attendance, many things had been tried; but she lay like a statue, except for the low sound now and then. I went through the dreary house, and darkened the windows. The windows of the chamber where he lay, I darkened last. I lifted up the leaden hand, and held it to my heart; and all the world seemed death and silence, broken only by his mother's moaning.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 64 using the context provided.

chapter 58|chapter 64

David is starting on his last chapter, and he's going to spend it looking back one last time at all of the characters of his story. He sees Agnes sitting next to him, surrounded by family and friends. He sees Miss Betsey, 80 years old but tough as ever, with Peggotty by her side. Miss Betsey has finally become a godmother to Betsey Trotwood - David's daughter. Peggotty always carries the old book David used to read with her, the Crocodile Book, to show to David's children. During the summer holidays, David's sons fly kites with Mr. Dick. Mr. Dick continues to promise that the Memorial will be finished when he has time. David sees a senile old woman who doesn't recognize him any more: Mrs. Steerforth. She is accompanied by Miss Dartle, as spiteful as ever, but still looking after Mrs. Steerforth. David sees Julia Mills, the woman who helped him meet up with Dora in secret all of those years ago. Miss Mills has gotten over her broken heart and married a rich man from Scotland. She has become spoiled and irritable with too much money. Julia has become a member of the dry, barren society that also controls Mr. Jack Maldon - the kind of society that looks down on good men like Doctor Strong. Doctor Strong continues to work on his dictionary. He lives happily with Annie. Mrs. Markleham also continues to live with the Strongs, but she's not so powerful now. Tommy Traddles has become bald and prosperous: he's going to be a judge soon. David attends family dinner with Traddles and Sophy, where he sees all of Traddles's Crewler sisters-in-law with their husbands and children. Traddles sits at the head of the table like a proper head of this giant family. The only unlucky Crewler has been the eldest, the Beauty, who has been left a widow with one child. She is living with Sophy and Traddles. All of these faces from his past fade from his memory except one, which shines before him like a light from heaven. That face is the one beside him now: Agnes, who continues to guide David to be a better man.

----------CHAPTER 58--------- It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me, haunted by the ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, many errors, many unavailing sorrows and regrets. I went away from England; not knowing, even then, how great the shock was, that I had to bear. I left all who were dear to me, and went away; and believed that I had borne it, and it was past. As a man upon a field of battle will receive a mortal hurt, and scarcely know that he is struck, so I, when I was left alone with my undisciplined heart, had no conception of the wound with which it had to strive. The knowledge came upon me, not quickly, but little by little, and grain by grain. The desolate feeling with which I went abroad, deepened and widened hourly. At first it was a heavy sense of loss and sorrow, wherein I could distinguish little else. By imperceptible degrees, it became a hopeless consciousness of all that I had lost--love, friendship, interest; of all that had been shattered--my first trust, my first affection, the whole airy castle of my life; of all that remained--a ruined blank and waste, lying wide around me, unbroken, to the dark horizon. If my grief were selfish, I did not know it to be so. I mourned for my child-wife, taken from her blooming world, so young. I mourned for him who might have won the love and admiration of thousands, as he had won mine long ago. I mourned for the broken heart that had found rest in the stormy sea; and for the wandering remnants of the simple home, where I had heard the night-wind blowing, when I was a child. From the accumulated sadness into which I fell, I had at length no hope of ever issuing again. I roamed from place to place, carrying my burden with me everywhere. I felt its whole weight now; and I drooped beneath it, and I said in my heart that it could never be lightened. When this despondency was at its worst, I believed that I should die. Sometimes, I thought that I would like to die at home; and actually turned back on my road, that I might get there soon. At other times, I passed on farther away,--from city to city, seeking I know not what, and trying to leave I know not what behind. It is not in my power to retrace, one by one, all the weary phases of distress of mind through which I passed. There are some dreams that can only be imperfectly and vaguely described; and when I oblige myself to look back on this time of my life, I seem to be recalling such a dream. I see myself passing on among the novelties of foreign towns, palaces, cathedrals, temples, pictures, castles, tombs, fantastic streets--the old abiding places of History and Fancy--as a dreamer might; bearing my painful load through all, and hardly conscious of the objects as they fade before me. Listlessness to everything, but brooding sorrow, was the night that fell on my undisciplined heart. Let me look up from it--as at last I did, thank Heaven!--and from its long, sad, wretched dream, to dawn. For many months I travelled with this ever-darkening cloud upon my mind. Some blind reasons that I had for not returning home--reasons then struggling within me, vainly, for more distinct expression--kept me on my pilgrimage. Sometimes, I had proceeded restlessly from place to place, stopping nowhere; sometimes, I had lingered long in one spot. I had had no purpose, no sustaining soul within me, anywhere. I was in Switzerland. I had come out of Italy, over one of the great passes of the Alps, and had since wandered with a guide among the by-ways of the mountains. If those awful solitudes had spoken to my heart, I did not know it. I had found sublimity and wonder in the dread heights and precipices, in the roaring torrents, and the wastes of ice and snow; but as yet, they had taught me nothing else. I came, one evening before sunset, down into a valley, where I was to rest. In the course of my descent to it, by the winding track along the mountain-side, from which I saw it shining far below, I think some long-unwonted sense of beauty and tranquillity, some softening influence awakened by its peace, moved faintly in my breast. I remember pausing once, with a kind of sorrow that was not all oppressive, not quite despairing. I remember almost hoping that some better change was possible within me. I came into the valley, as the evening sun was shining on the remote heights of snow, that closed it in, like eternal clouds. The bases of the mountains forming the gorge in which the little village lay, were richly green; and high above this gentler vegetation, grew forests of dark fir, cleaving the wintry snow-drift, wedge-like, and stemming the avalanche. Above these, were range upon range of craggy steeps, grey rock, bright ice, and smooth verdure-specks of pasture, all gradually blending with the crowning snow. Dotted here and there on the mountain's-side, each tiny dot a home, were lonely wooden cottages, so dwarfed by the towering heights that they appeared too small for toys. So did even the clustered village in the valley, with its wooden bridge across the stream, where the stream tumbled over broken rocks, and roared away among the trees. In the quiet air, there was a sound of distant singing--shepherd voices; but, as one bright evening cloud floated midway along the mountain's-side, I could almost have believed it came from there, and was not earthly music. All at once, in this serenity, great Nature spoke to me; and soothed me to lay down my weary head upon the grass, and weep as I had not wept yet, since Dora died! I had found a packet of letters awaiting me but a few minutes before, and had strolled out of the village to read them while my supper was making ready. Other packets had missed me, and I had received none for a long time. Beyond a line or two, to say that I was well, and had arrived at such a place, I had not had fortitude or constancy to write a letter since I left home. The packet was in my hand. I opened it, and read the writing of Agnes. She was happy and useful, was prospering as she had hoped. That was all she told me of herself. The rest referred to me. She gave me no advice; she urged no duty on me; she only told me, in her own fervent manner, what her trust in me was. She knew (she said) how such a nature as mine would turn affliction to good. She knew how trial and emotion would exalt and strengthen it. She was sure that in my every purpose I should gain a firmer and a higher tendency, through the grief I had undergone. She, who so gloried in my fame, and so looked forward to its augmentation, well knew that I would labour on. She knew that in me, sorrow could not be weakness, but must be strength. As the endurance of my childish days had done its part to make me what I was, so greater calamities would nerve me on, to be yet better than I was; and so, as they had taught me, would I teach others. She commended me to God, who had taken my innocent darling to His rest; and in her sisterly affection cherished me always, and was always at my side go where I would; proud of what I had done, but infinitely prouder yet of what I was reserved to do. I put the letter in my breast, and thought what had I been an hour ago! When I heard the voices die away, and saw the quiet evening cloud grow dim, and all the colours in the valley fade, and the golden snow upon the mountain-tops become a remote part of the pale night sky, yet felt that the night was passing from my mind, and all its shadows clearing, there was no name for the love I bore her, dearer to me, henceforward, than ever until then. I read her letter many times. I wrote to her before I slept. I told her that I had been in sore need of her help; that without her I was not, and I never had been, what she thought me; but that she inspired me to be that, and I would try. I did try. In three months more, a year would have passed since the beginning of my sorrow. I determined to make no resolutions until the expiration of those three months, but to try. I lived in that valley, and its neighbourhood, all the time. The three months gone, I resolved to remain away from home for some time longer; to settle myself for the present in Switzerland, which was growing dear to me in the remembrance of that evening; to resume my pen; to work. I resorted humbly whither Agnes had commended me; I sought out Nature, never sought in vain; and I admitted to my breast the human interest I had lately shrunk from. It was not long, before I had almost as many friends in the valley as in Yarmouth: and when I left it, before the winter set in, for Geneva, and came back in the spring, their cordial greetings had a homely sound to me, although they were not conveyed in English words. I worked early and late, patiently and hard. I wrote a Story, with a purpose growing, not remotely, out of my experience, and sent it to Traddles, and he arranged for its publication very advantageously for me; and the tidings of my growing reputation began to reach me from travellers whom I encountered by chance. After some rest and change, I fell to work, in my old ardent way, on a new fancy, which took strong possession of me. As I advanced in the execution of this task, I felt it more and more, and roused my utmost energies to do it well. This was my third work of fiction. It was not half written, when, in an interval of rest, I thought of returning home. For a long time, though studying and working patiently, I had accustomed myself to robust exercise. My health, severely impaired when I left England, was quite restored. I had seen much. I had been in many countries, and I hope I had improved my store of knowledge. I have now recalled all that I think it needful to recall here, of this term of absence--with one reservation. I have made it, thus far, with no purpose of suppressing any of my thoughts; for, as I have elsewhere said, this narrative is my written memory. I have desired to keep the most secret current of my mind apart, and to the last. I enter on it now. I cannot so completely penetrate the mystery of my own heart, as to know when I began to think that I might have set its earliest and brightest hopes on Agnes. I cannot say at what stage of my grief it first became associated with the reflection, that, in my wayward boyhood, I had thrown away the treasure of her love. I believe I may have heard some whisper of that distant thought, in the old unhappy loss or want of something never to be realized, of which I had been sensible. But the thought came into my mind as a new reproach and new regret, when I was left so sad and lonely in the world. If, at that time, I had been much with her, I should, in the weakness of my desolation, have betrayed this. It was what I remotely dreaded when I was first impelled to stay away from England. I could not have borne to lose the smallest portion of her sisterly affection; yet, in that betrayal, I should have set a constraint between us hitherto unknown. I could not forget that the feeling with which she now regarded me had grown up in my own free choice and course. That if she had ever loved me with another love--and I sometimes thought the time was when she might have done so--I had cast it away. It was nothing, now, that I had accustomed myself to think of her, when we were both mere children, as one who was far removed from my wild fancies. I had bestowed my passionate tenderness upon another object; and what I might have done, I had not done; and what Agnes was to me, I and her own noble heart had made her. In the beginning of the change that gradually worked in me, when I tried to get a better understanding of myself and be a better man, I did glance, through some indefinite probation, to a period when I might possibly hope to cancel the mistaken past, and to be so blessed as to marry her. But, as time wore on, this shadowy prospect faded, and departed from me. If she had ever loved me, then, I should hold her the more sacred; remembering the confidences I had reposed in her, her knowledge of my errant heart, the sacrifice she must have made to be my friend and sister, and the victory she had won. If she had never loved me, could I believe that she would love me now? I had always felt my weakness, in comparison with her constancy and fortitude; and now I felt it more and more. Whatever I might have been to her, or she to me, if I had been more worthy of her long ago, I was not now, and she was not. The time was past. I had let it go by, and had deservedly lost her. That I suffered much in these contentions, that they filled me with unhappiness and remorse, and yet that I had a sustaining sense that it was required of me, in right and honour, to keep away from myself, with shame, the thought of turning to the dear girl in the withering of my hopes, from whom I had frivolously turned when they were bright and fresh--which consideration was at the root of every thought I had concerning her--is all equally true. I made no effort to conceal from myself, now, that I loved her, that I was devoted to her; but I brought the assurance home to myself, that it was now too late, and that our long-subsisting relation must be undisturbed. I had thought, much and often, of my Dora's shadowing out to me what might have happened, in those years that were destined not to try us; I had considered how the things that never happen, are often as much realities to us, in their effects, as those that are accomplished. The very years she spoke of, were realities now, for my correction; and would have been, one day, a little later perhaps, though we had parted in our earliest folly. I endeavoured to convert what might have been between myself and Agnes, into a means of making me more self-denying, more resolved, more conscious of myself, and my defects and errors. Thus, through the reflection that it might have been, I arrived at the conviction that it could never be. These, with their perplexities and inconsistencies, were the shifting quicksands of my mind, from the time of my departure to the time of my return home, three years afterwards. Three years had elapsed since the sailing of the emigrant ship; when, at that same hour of sunset, and in the same place, I stood on the deck of the packet vessel that brought me home, looking on the rosy water where I had seen the image of that ship reflected. Three years. Long in the aggregate, though short as they went by. And home was very dear to me, and Agnes too--but she was not mine--she was never to be mine. She might have been, but that was past! ----------CHAPTER 64--------- And now my written story ends. I look back, once more--for the last time--before I close these leaves. I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life. I see our children and our friends around us; and I hear the roar of many voices, not indifferent to me as I travel on. What faces are the most distinct to me in the fleeting crowd? Lo, these; all turning to me as I ask my thoughts the question! Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of four-score years and more, but upright yet, and a steady walker of six miles at a stretch in winter weather. Always with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise in spectacles, accustomed to do needle-work at night very close to the lamp, but never sitting down to it without a bit of wax candle, a yard-measure in a little house, and a work-box with a picture of St. Paul's upon the lid. The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my childish days, when I wondered why the birds didn't peck her in preference to apples, are shrivelled now; and her eyes, that used to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face, are fainter (though they glitter still); but her rough forefinger, which I once associated with a pocket nutmeg-grater, is just the same, and when I see my least child catching at it as it totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little parlour at home, when I could scarcely walk. My aunt's old disappointment is set right, now. She is godmother to a real living Betsey Trotwood; and Dora (the next in order) says she spoils her. There is something bulky in Peggotty's pocket. It is nothing smaller than the Crocodile Book, which is in rather a dilapidated condition by this time, with divers of the leaves torn and stitched across, but which Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious relic. I find it very curious to see my own infant face, looking up at me from the Crocodile stories; and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance Brooks of Sheffield. Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old man making giant kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a delight for which there are no words. He greets me rapturously, and whispers, with many nods and winks, 'Trotwood, you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunt's the most extraordinary woman in the world, sir!' Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showing me a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and beauty, feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wandering of the mind? She is in a garden; and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered woman, with a white scar on her lip. Let me hear what they say. 'Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman's name.' Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, 'Mr. Copperfield.' 'I am glad to see you, sir. I am sorry to observe you are in mourning. I hope Time will be good to you.' Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourning, bids her look again, tries to rouse her. 'You have seen my son, sir,' says the elder lady. 'Are you reconciled?' Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and moans. Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, 'Rosa, come to me. He is dead!' Rosa kneeling at her feet, by turns caresses her, and quarrels with her; now fiercely telling her, 'I loved him better than you ever did!'--now soothing her to sleep on her breast, like a sick child. Thus I leave them; thus I always find them; thus they wear their time away, from year to year. What ship comes sailing home from India, and what English lady is this, married to a growling old Scotch Croesus with great flaps of ears? Can this be Julia Mills? Indeed it is Julia Mills, peevish and fine, with a black man to carry cards and letters to her on a golden salver, and a copper-coloured woman in linen, with a bright handkerchief round her head, to serve her Tiffin in her dressing-room. But Julia keeps no diary in these days; never sings Affection's Dirge; eternally quarrels with the old Scotch Croesus, who is a sort of yellow bear with a tanned hide. Julia is steeped in money to the throat, and talks and thinks of nothing else. I liked her better in the Desert of Sahara. Or perhaps this IS the Desert of Sahara! For, though Julia has a stately house, and mighty company, and sumptuous dinners every day, I see no green growth near her; nothing that can ever come to fruit or flower. What Julia calls 'society', I see; among it Mr. Jack Maldon, from his Patent Place, sneering at the hand that gave it him, and speaking to me of the Doctor as 'so charmingly antique'. But when society is the name for such hollow gentlemen and ladies, Julia, and when its breeding is professed indifference to everything that can advance or can retard mankind, I think we must have lost ourselves in that same Desert of Sahara, and had better find the way out. And lo, the Doctor, always our good friend, labouring at his Dictionary (somewhere about the letter D), and happy in his home and wife. Also the Old Soldier, on a considerably reduced footing, and by no means so influential as in days of yore! Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy aspect, and his hair (where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by the constant friction of his lawyer's-wig, I come, in a later time, upon my dear old Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles of papers; and I say, as I look around me: 'If Sophy were your clerk, now, Traddles, she would have enough to do!' 'You may say that, my dear Copperfield! But those were capital days, too, in Holborn Court! Were they not?' 'When she told you you would be a judge? But it was not the town talk then!' 'At all events,' says Traddles, 'if I ever am one--' 'Why, you know you will be.' 'Well, my dear Copperfield, WHEN I am one, I shall tell the story, as I said I would.' We walk away, arm in arm. I am going to have a family dinner with Traddles. It is Sophy's birthday; and, on our road, Traddles discourses to me of the good fortune he has enjoyed. 'I really have been able, my dear Copperfield, to do all that I had most at heart. There's the Reverend Horace promoted to that living at four hundred and fifty pounds a year; there are our two boys receiving the very best education, and distinguishing themselves as steady scholars and good fellows; there are three of the girls married very comfortably; there are three more living with us; there are three more keeping house for the Reverend Horace since Mrs. Crewler's decease; and all of them happy.' 'Except--' I suggest. 'Except the Beauty,' says Traddles. 'Yes. It was very unfortunate that she should marry such a vagabond. But there was a certain dash and glare about him that caught her. However, now we have got her safe at our house, and got rid of him, we must cheer her up again.' Traddles's house is one of the very houses--or it easily may have been--which he and Sophy used to parcel out, in their evening walks. It is a large house; but Traddles keeps his papers in his dressing-room and his boots with his papers; and he and Sophy squeeze themselves into upper rooms, reserving the best bedrooms for the Beauty and the girls. There is no room to spare in the house; for more of 'the girls' are here, and always are here, by some accident or other, than I know how to count. Here, when we go in, is a crowd of them, running down to the door, and handing Traddles about to be kissed, until he is out of breath. Here, established in perpetuity, is the poor Beauty, a widow with a little girl; here, at dinner on Sophy's birthday, are the three married girls with their three husbands, and one of the husband's brothers, and another husband's cousin, and another husband's sister, who appears to me to be engaged to the cousin. Traddles, exactly the same simple, unaffected fellow as he ever was, sits at the foot of the large table like a Patriarch; and Sophy beams upon him, from the head, across a cheerful space that is certainly not glittering with Britannia metal. And now, as I close my task, subduing my desire to linger yet, these faces fade away. But one face, shining on me like a Heavenly light by which I see all other objects, is above them and beyond them all. And that remains. I turn my head, and see it, in its beautiful serenity, beside me. My lamp burns low, and I have written far into the night; but the dear presence, without which I were nothing, bears me company. O Agnes, O my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close my life indeed; so may I, when realities are melting from me, like the shadows which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing upward!

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter liii, utilizing the provided context.

chapter liii|chapter lvi

Another Retrospect Dora becomes very ill and is confined to her bed. David misses her company terribly. Agnes comes to visit. As Dora realizes that she is dying, she confides to David that she was too young to be married when she was. David wonders whether it would have been better if they had loved each other as children and then forgotten about their affair. While Agnes is upstairs, the little dog, Jip, whines at the stairs to go up to his mistress. Jip comes to David, licks his hand, and dies in front of him. When Agnes comes down, she says that Dora has died too

----------CHAPTER LIII--------- I must pause yet once again. O, my child-wife, there is a figure in the moving crowd before my memory, quiet and still, saying in its innocent love and childish beauty, Stop to think of me--turn to look upon the Little Blossom, as it flutters to the ground! I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora, in our cottage. I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used to it in feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeks or months; but, in my usage and experience, it is a weary, weary while. They have left off telling me to 'wait a few days more'. I have begun to fear, remotely, that the day may never shine, when I shall see my child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip. He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be that he misses in his mistress, something that enlivened him and made him younger; but he mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects to her no more, but creeps near her as he lies on Dora's bed--she sitting at the bedside--and mildly licks her hand. Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty or complaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that her dear old careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows; that my aunt has no sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes, the little bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about our wedding-day, and all that happy time. What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be--and in all life, within doors and without--when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderly room, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me, and her little fingers twining round my hand! Many and many an hour I sit thus; but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind. It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt's hands, shows me how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an how long and bright it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears. 'Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,' she says, when I smile; 'but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it. Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!' 'That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was.' 'Ah! but I didn't like to tell you,' says Dora, 'then, how I had cried over them, because I believed you really liked me! When I can run about again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those places where we were such a silly couple, shall we? And take some of the old walks? And not forget poor papa?' 'Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must make haste to get well, my dear.' 'Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don't know!' It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with the same face turned towards me. We have been silent, and there is a smile upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairs now. She lies here all the day. 'Doady!' 'My dear Dora!' 'You won't think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what you told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield's not being well? I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.' 'I will write to her, my dear.' 'Will you?' 'Directly.' 'What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my dear, it's not a whim. It's not a foolish fancy. I want, very much indeed, to see her!' 'I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to come.' 'You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?' Dora whispers, with her arm about my neck. 'How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?' 'My empty chair!' She clings to me for a little while, in silence. 'And you really miss me, Doady?' looking up, and brightly smiling. 'Even poor, giddy, stupid me?' 'My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?' 'Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!' creeping closer to me, and folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet, and quite happy. 'Quite!' she says. 'Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I want very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for.' 'Except to get well again, Dora.' 'Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think--you know I always was a silly little thing!--that that will never be!' 'Don't say so, Dora! Dearest love, don't think so!' 'I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife's empty chair!' It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; has been among us for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat with Dora since the morning, all together. We have not talked much, but Dora has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone. Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me? They have told me so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts--but I am far from sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot master it. I have withdrawn by myself, many times today, to weep. I have remembered Who wept for a parting between the living and the dead. I have bethought me of all that gracious and compassionate history. I have tried to resign myself, and to console myself; and that, I hope, I may have done imperfectly; but what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I see her love for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared. 'I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I have often thought of saying, lately. You won't mind?' with a gentle look. 'Mind, my darling?' 'Because I don't know what you will think, or what you may have thought sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I am afraid I was too young.' I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes, and speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a stricken heart, that she is speaking of herself as past. 'I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don't mean in years only, but in experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was such a silly little creature! I am afraid it would have been better, if we had only loved each other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it. I have begun to think I was not fit to be a wife.' I try to stay my tears, and to reply, 'Oh, Dora, love, as fit as I to be a husband!' 'I don't know,' with the old shake of her curls. 'Perhaps! But if I had been more fit to be married I might have made you more so, too. Besides, you are very clever, and I never was.' 'We have been very happy, my sweet Dora.' 'I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would have wearied of his child-wife. She would have been less and less a companion for him. He would have been more and more sensible of what was wanting in his home. She wouldn't have improved. It is better as it is.' 'Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every word seems a reproach!' 'No, not a syllable!' she answers, kissing me. 'Oh, my dear, you never deserved it, and I loved you far too well to say a reproachful word to you, in earnest--it was all the merit I had, except being pretty--or you thought me so. Is it lonely, down-stairs, Doady?' 'Very! Very!' 'Don't cry! Is my chair there?' 'In its old place.' 'Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! Now, make me one promise. I want to speak to Agnes. When you go downstairs, tell Agnes so, and send her up to me; and while I speak to her, let no one come--not even aunt. I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes, quite alone.' I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for my grief. 'I said that it was better as it is!' she whispers, as she holds me in her arms. 'Oh, Doady, after more years, you never could have loved your child-wife better than you do; and, after more years, she would so have tried and disappointed you, that you might not have been able to love her half so well! I know I was too young and foolish. It is much better as it is!' Agnes is downstairs, when I go into the parlour; and I give her the message. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip. His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within it, on his bed of flannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high and clear. As I look out on the night, my tears fall fast, and my undisciplined heart is chastened heavily--heavily. I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all those secret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I think of every little trifle between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that trifles make the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my remembrance, is the image of the dear child as I knew her first, graced by my young love, and by her own, with every fascination wherein such love is rich. Would it, indeed, have been better if we had loved each other as a boy and a girl, and forgotten it? Undisciplined heart, reply! How the time wears, I know not; until I am recalled by my child-wife's old companion. More restless than he was, he crawls out of his house, and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and whines to go upstairs. 'Not tonight, Jip! Not tonight!' He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and lifts his dim eyes to my face. 'Oh, Jip! It may be, never again!' He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and with a plaintive cry, is dead. 'Oh, Agnes! Look, look, here!' --That face, so full of pity, and of grief, that rain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised towards Heaven! 'Agnes?' It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, all things are blotted out of my remembrance. ----------CHAPTER LVI--------- No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we last spoke together, in that hour which I so little deemed to be our parting-hour--no need to have said, 'Think of me at my best!' I had done that ever; and could I change now, looking on this sight! They brought a hand-bier, and laid him on it, and covered him with a flag, and took him up and bore him on towards the houses. All the men who carried him had known him, and gone sailing with him, and seen him merry and bold. They carried him through the wild roar, a hush in the midst of all the tumult; and took him to the cottage where Death was already. But when they set the bier down on the threshold, they looked at one another, and at me, and whispered. I knew why. They felt as if it were not right to lay him down in the same quiet room. We went into the town, and took our burden to the inn. So soon as I could at all collect my thoughts, I sent for Joram, and begged him to provide me a conveyance in which it could be got to London in the night. I knew that the care of it, and the hard duty of preparing his mother to receive it, could only rest with me; and I was anxious to discharge that duty as faithfully as I could. I chose the night for the journey, that there might be less curiosity when I left the town. But, although it was nearly midnight when I came out of the yard in a chaise, followed by what I had in charge, there were many people waiting. At intervals, along the town, and even a little way out upon the road, I saw more: but at length only the bleak night and the open country were around me, and the ashes of my youthful friendship. Upon a mellow autumn day, about noon, when the ground was perfumed by fallen leaves, and many more, in beautiful tints of yellow, red, and brown, yet hung upon the trees, through which the sun was shining, I arrived at Highgate. I walked the last mile, thinking as I went along of what I had to do; and left the carriage that had followed me all through the night, awaiting orders to advance. The house, when I came up to it, looked just the same. Not a blind was raised; no sign of life was in the dull paved court, with its covered way leading to the disused door. The wind had quite gone down, and nothing moved. I had not, at first, the courage to ring at the gate; and when I did ring, my errand seemed to me to be expressed in the very sound of the bell. The little parlour-maid came out, with the key in her hand; and looking earnestly at me as she unlocked the gate, said: 'I beg your pardon, sir. Are you ill?' 'I have been much agitated, and am fatigued.' 'Is anything the matter, sir?---Mr. James?--' 'Hush!' said I. 'Yes, something has happened, that I have to break to Mrs. Steerforth. She is at home?' The girl anxiously replied that her mistress was very seldom out now, even in a carriage; that she kept her room; that she saw no company, but would see me. Her mistress was up, she said, and Miss Dartle was with her. What message should she take upstairs? Giving her a strict charge to be careful of her manner, and only to carry in my card and say I waited, I sat down in the drawing-room (which we had now reached) until she should come back. Its former pleasant air of occupation was gone, and the shutters were half closed. The harp had not been used for many and many a day. His picture, as a boy, was there. The cabinet in which his mother had kept his letters was there. I wondered if she ever read them now; if she would ever read them more! The house was so still that I heard the girl's light step upstairs. On her return, she brought a message, to the effect that Mrs. Steerforth was an invalid and could not come down; but that if I would excuse her being in her chamber, she would be glad to see me. In a few moments I stood before her. She was in his room; not in her own. I felt, of course, that she had taken to occupy it, in remembrance of him; and that the many tokens of his old sports and accomplishments, by which she was surrounded, remained there, just as he had left them, for the same reason. She murmured, however, even in her reception of me, that she was out of her own chamber because its aspect was unsuited to her infirmity; and with her stately look repelled the least suspicion of the truth. At her chair, as usual, was Rosa Dartle. From the first moment of her dark eyes resting on me, I saw she knew I was the bearer of evil tidings. The scar sprung into view that instant. She withdrew herself a step behind the chair, to keep her own face out of Mrs. Steerforth's observation; and scrutinized me with a piercing gaze that never faltered, never shrunk. 'I am sorry to observe you are in mourning, sir,' said Mrs. Steerforth. 'I am unhappily a widower,' said I. 'You are very young to know so great a loss,' she returned. 'I am grieved to hear it. I am grieved to hear it. I hope Time will be good to you.' 'I hope Time,' said I, looking at her, 'will be good to all of us. Dear Mrs. Steerforth, we must all trust to that, in our heaviest misfortunes.' The earnestness of my manner, and the tears in my eyes, alarmed her. The whole course of her thoughts appeared to stop, and change. I tried to command my voice in gently saying his name, but it trembled. She repeated it to herself, two or three times, in a low tone. Then, addressing me, she said, with enforced calmness: 'My son is ill.' 'Very ill.' 'You have seen him?' 'I have.' 'Are you reconciled?' I could not say Yes, I could not say No. She slightly turned her head towards the spot where Rosa Dartle had been standing at her elbow, and in that moment I said, by the motion of my lips, to Rosa, 'Dead!' That Mrs. Steerforth might not be induced to look behind her, and read, plainly written, what she was not yet prepared to know, I met her look quickly; but I had seen Rosa Dartle throw her hands up in the air with vehemence of despair and horror, and then clasp them on her face. The handsome lady--so like, oh so like!--regarded me with a fixed look, and put her hand to her forehead. I besought her to be calm, and prepare herself to bear what I had to tell; but I should rather have entreated her to weep, for she sat like a stone figure. 'When I was last here,' I faltered, 'Miss Dartle told me he was sailing here and there. The night before last was a dreadful one at sea. If he were at sea that night, and near a dangerous coast, as it is said he was; and if the vessel that was seen should really be the ship which--' 'Rosa!' said Mrs. Steerforth, 'come to me!' She came, but with no sympathy or gentleness. Her eyes gleamed like fire as she confronted his mother, and broke into a frightful laugh. 'Now,' she said, 'is your pride appeased, you madwoman? Now has he made atonement to you--with his life! Do you hear?---His life!' Mrs. Steerforth, fallen back stiffly in her chair, and making no sound but a moan, cast her eyes upon her with a wide stare. 'Aye!' cried Rosa, smiting herself passionately on the breast, 'look at me! Moan, and groan, and look at me! Look here!' striking the scar, 'at your dead child's handiwork!' The moan the mother uttered, from time to time, went to My heart. Always the same. Always inarticulate and stifled. Always accompanied with an incapable motion of the head, but with no change of face. Always proceeding from a rigid mouth and closed teeth, as if the jaw were locked and the face frozen up in pain. 'Do you remember when he did this?' she proceeded. 'Do you remember when, in his inheritance of your nature, and in your pampering of his pride and passion, he did this, and disfigured me for life? Look at me, marked until I die with his high displeasure; and moan and groan for what you made him!' 'Miss Dartle,' I entreated her. 'For Heaven's sake--' 'I WILL speak!' she said, turning on me with her lightning eyes. 'Be silent, you! Look at me, I say, proud mother of a proud, false son! Moan for your nurture of him, moan for your corruption of him, moan for your loss of him, moan for mine!' She clenched her hand, and trembled through her spare, worn figure, as if her passion were killing her by inches. 'You, resent his self-will!' she exclaimed. 'You, injured by his haughty temper! You, who opposed to both, when your hair was grey, the qualities which made both when you gave him birth! YOU, who from his cradle reared him to be what he was, and stunted what he should have been! Are you rewarded, now, for your years of trouble?' 'Oh, Miss Dartle, shame! Oh cruel!' 'I tell you,' she returned, 'I WILL speak to her. No power on earth should stop me, while I was standing here! Have I been silent all these years, and shall I not speak now? I loved him better than you ever loved him!' turning on her fiercely. 'I could have loved him, and asked no return. If I had been his wife, I could have been the slave of his caprices for a word of love a year. I should have been. Who knows it better than I? You were exacting, proud, punctilious, selfish. My love would have been devoted--would have trod your paltry whimpering under foot!' With flashing eyes, she stamped upon the ground as if she actually did it. 'Look here!' she said, striking the scar again, with a relentless hand. 'When he grew into the better understanding of what he had done, he saw it, and repented of it! I could sing to him, and talk to him, and show the ardour that I felt in all he did, and attain with labour to such knowledge as most interested him; and I attracted him. When he was freshest and truest, he loved me. Yes, he did! Many a time, when you were put off with a slight word, he has taken Me to his heart!' She said it with a taunting pride in the midst of her frenzy--for it was little less--yet with an eager remembrance of it, in which the smouldering embers of a gentler feeling kindled for the moment. 'I descended--as I might have known I should, but that he fascinated me with his boyish courtship--into a doll, a trifle for the occupation of an idle hour, to be dropped, and taken up, and trifled with, as the inconstant humour took him. When he grew weary, I grew weary. As his fancy died out, I would no more have tried to strengthen any power I had, than I would have married him on his being forced to take me for his wife. We fell away from one another without a word. Perhaps you saw it, and were not sorry. Since then, I have been a mere disfigured piece of furniture between you both; having no eyes, no ears, no feelings, no remembrances. Moan? Moan for what you made him; not for your love. I tell you that the time was, when I loved him better than you ever did!' She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the wide stare, and the set face; and softened no more, when the moaning was repeated, than if the face had been a picture. 'Miss Dartle,' said I, 'if you can be so obdurate as not to feel for this afflicted mother--' 'Who feels for me?' she sharply retorted. 'She has sown this. Let her moan for the harvest that she reaps today!' 'And if his faults--' I began. 'Faults!' she cried, bursting into passionate tears. 'Who dares malign him? He had a soul worth millions of the friends to whom he stooped!' 'No one can have loved him better, no one can hold him in dearer remembrance than I,' I replied. 'I meant to say, if you have no compassion for his mother; or if his faults--you have been bitter on them--' 'It's false,' she cried, tearing her black hair; 'I loved him!' '--if his faults cannot,' I went on, 'be banished from your remembrance, in such an hour; look at that figure, even as one you have never seen before, and render it some help!' All this time, the figure was unchanged, and looked unchangeable. Motionless, rigid, staring; moaning in the same dumb way from time to time, with the same helpless motion of the head; but giving no other sign of life. Miss Dartle suddenly kneeled down before it, and began to loosen the dress. 'A curse upon you!' she said, looking round at me, with a mingled expression of rage and grief. 'It was in an evil hour that you ever came here! A curse upon you! Go!' After passing out of the room, I hurried back to ring the bell, the sooner to alarm the servants. She had then taken the impassive figure in her arms, and, still upon her knees, was weeping over it, kissing it, calling to it, rocking it to and fro upon her bosom like a child, and trying every tender means to rouse the dormant senses. No longer afraid of leaving her, I noiselessly turned back again; and alarmed the house as I went out. Later in the day, I returned, and we laid him in his mother's room. She was just the same, they told me; Miss Dartle never left her; doctors were in attendance, many things had been tried; but she lay like a statue, except for the low sound now and then. I went through the dreary house, and darkened the windows. The windows of the chamber where he lay, I darkened last. I lifted up the leaden hand, and held it to my heart; and all the world seemed death and silence, broken only by his mother's moaning.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter lviii with the given context.

chapter lviii|chapter lxiv

Absence David travels abroad and eventually settles in Switzerland. He mourns the deaths of Dora, Steerforth, and Ham and begins to feel the weight of his sorrows for the first time. David receives a letter from Agnes and reflects how much he loves her. He resolves not to make any decisions about love or marriage until a full year has passed since Dora's death. He decides to try to make himself a better man in the meantime.

----------CHAPTER LVIII--------- It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me, haunted by the ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, many errors, many unavailing sorrows and regrets. I went away from England; not knowing, even then, how great the shock was, that I had to bear. I left all who were dear to me, and went away; and believed that I had borne it, and it was past. As a man upon a field of battle will receive a mortal hurt, and scarcely know that he is struck, so I, when I was left alone with my undisciplined heart, had no conception of the wound with which it had to strive. The knowledge came upon me, not quickly, but little by little, and grain by grain. The desolate feeling with which I went abroad, deepened and widened hourly. At first it was a heavy sense of loss and sorrow, wherein I could distinguish little else. By imperceptible degrees, it became a hopeless consciousness of all that I had lost--love, friendship, interest; of all that had been shattered--my first trust, my first affection, the whole airy castle of my life; of all that remained--a ruined blank and waste, lying wide around me, unbroken, to the dark horizon. If my grief were selfish, I did not know it to be so. I mourned for my child-wife, taken from her blooming world, so young. I mourned for him who might have won the love and admiration of thousands, as he had won mine long ago. I mourned for the broken heart that had found rest in the stormy sea; and for the wandering remnants of the simple home, where I had heard the night-wind blowing, when I was a child. From the accumulated sadness into which I fell, I had at length no hope of ever issuing again. I roamed from place to place, carrying my burden with me everywhere. I felt its whole weight now; and I drooped beneath it, and I said in my heart that it could never be lightened. When this despondency was at its worst, I believed that I should die. Sometimes, I thought that I would like to die at home; and actually turned back on my road, that I might get there soon. At other times, I passed on farther away,--from city to city, seeking I know not what, and trying to leave I know not what behind. It is not in my power to retrace, one by one, all the weary phases of distress of mind through which I passed. There are some dreams that can only be imperfectly and vaguely described; and when I oblige myself to look back on this time of my life, I seem to be recalling such a dream. I see myself passing on among the novelties of foreign towns, palaces, cathedrals, temples, pictures, castles, tombs, fantastic streets--the old abiding places of History and Fancy--as a dreamer might; bearing my painful load through all, and hardly conscious of the objects as they fade before me. Listlessness to everything, but brooding sorrow, was the night that fell on my undisciplined heart. Let me look up from it--as at last I did, thank Heaven!--and from its long, sad, wretched dream, to dawn. For many months I travelled with this ever-darkening cloud upon my mind. Some blind reasons that I had for not returning home--reasons then struggling within me, vainly, for more distinct expression--kept me on my pilgrimage. Sometimes, I had proceeded restlessly from place to place, stopping nowhere; sometimes, I had lingered long in one spot. I had had no purpose, no sustaining soul within me, anywhere. I was in Switzerland. I had come out of Italy, over one of the great passes of the Alps, and had since wandered with a guide among the by-ways of the mountains. If those awful solitudes had spoken to my heart, I did not know it. I had found sublimity and wonder in the dread heights and precipices, in the roaring torrents, and the wastes of ice and snow; but as yet, they had taught me nothing else. I came, one evening before sunset, down into a valley, where I was to rest. In the course of my descent to it, by the winding track along the mountain-side, from which I saw it shining far below, I think some long-unwonted sense of beauty and tranquillity, some softening influence awakened by its peace, moved faintly in my breast. I remember pausing once, with a kind of sorrow that was not all oppressive, not quite despairing. I remember almost hoping that some better change was possible within me. I came into the valley, as the evening sun was shining on the remote heights of snow, that closed it in, like eternal clouds. The bases of the mountains forming the gorge in which the little village lay, were richly green; and high above this gentler vegetation, grew forests of dark fir, cleaving the wintry snow-drift, wedge-like, and stemming the avalanche. Above these, were range upon range of craggy steeps, grey rock, bright ice, and smooth verdure-specks of pasture, all gradually blending with the crowning snow. Dotted here and there on the mountain's-side, each tiny dot a home, were lonely wooden cottages, so dwarfed by the towering heights that they appeared too small for toys. So did even the clustered village in the valley, with its wooden bridge across the stream, where the stream tumbled over broken rocks, and roared away among the trees. In the quiet air, there was a sound of distant singing--shepherd voices; but, as one bright evening cloud floated midway along the mountain's-side, I could almost have believed it came from there, and was not earthly music. All at once, in this serenity, great Nature spoke to me; and soothed me to lay down my weary head upon the grass, and weep as I had not wept yet, since Dora died! I had found a packet of letters awaiting me but a few minutes before, and had strolled out of the village to read them while my supper was making ready. Other packets had missed me, and I had received none for a long time. Beyond a line or two, to say that I was well, and had arrived at such a place, I had not had fortitude or constancy to write a letter since I left home. The packet was in my hand. I opened it, and read the writing of Agnes. She was happy and useful, was prospering as she had hoped. That was all she told me of herself. The rest referred to me. She gave me no advice; she urged no duty on me; she only told me, in her own fervent manner, what her trust in me was. She knew (she said) how such a nature as mine would turn affliction to good. She knew how trial and emotion would exalt and strengthen it. She was sure that in my every purpose I should gain a firmer and a higher tendency, through the grief I had undergone. She, who so gloried in my fame, and so looked forward to its augmentation, well knew that I would labour on. She knew that in me, sorrow could not be weakness, but must be strength. As the endurance of my childish days had done its part to make me what I was, so greater calamities would nerve me on, to be yet better than I was; and so, as they had taught me, would I teach others. She commended me to God, who had taken my innocent darling to His rest; and in her sisterly affection cherished me always, and was always at my side go where I would; proud of what I had done, but infinitely prouder yet of what I was reserved to do. I put the letter in my breast, and thought what had I been an hour ago! When I heard the voices die away, and saw the quiet evening cloud grow dim, and all the colours in the valley fade, and the golden snow upon the mountain-tops become a remote part of the pale night sky, yet felt that the night was passing from my mind, and all its shadows clearing, there was no name for the love I bore her, dearer to me, henceforward, than ever until then. I read her letter many times. I wrote to her before I slept. I told her that I had been in sore need of her help; that without her I was not, and I never had been, what she thought me; but that she inspired me to be that, and I would try. I did try. In three months more, a year would have passed since the beginning of my sorrow. I determined to make no resolutions until the expiration of those three months, but to try. I lived in that valley, and its neighbourhood, all the time. The three months gone, I resolved to remain away from home for some time longer; to settle myself for the present in Switzerland, which was growing dear to me in the remembrance of that evening; to resume my pen; to work. I resorted humbly whither Agnes had commended me; I sought out Nature, never sought in vain; and I admitted to my breast the human interest I had lately shrunk from. It was not long, before I had almost as many friends in the valley as in Yarmouth: and when I left it, before the winter set in, for Geneva, and came back in the spring, their cordial greetings had a homely sound to me, although they were not conveyed in English words. I worked early and late, patiently and hard. I wrote a Story, with a purpose growing, not remotely, out of my experience, and sent it to Traddles, and he arranged for its publication very advantageously for me; and the tidings of my growing reputation began to reach me from travellers whom I encountered by chance. After some rest and change, I fell to work, in my old ardent way, on a new fancy, which took strong possession of me. As I advanced in the execution of this task, I felt it more and more, and roused my utmost energies to do it well. This was my third work of fiction. It was not half written, when, in an interval of rest, I thought of returning home. For a long time, though studying and working patiently, I had accustomed myself to robust exercise. My health, severely impaired when I left England, was quite restored. I had seen much. I had been in many countries, and I hope I had improved my store of knowledge. I have now recalled all that I think it needful to recall here, of this term of absence--with one reservation. I have made it, thus far, with no purpose of suppressing any of my thoughts; for, as I have elsewhere said, this narrative is my written memory. I have desired to keep the most secret current of my mind apart, and to the last. I enter on it now. I cannot so completely penetrate the mystery of my own heart, as to know when I began to think that I might have set its earliest and brightest hopes on Agnes. I cannot say at what stage of my grief it first became associated with the reflection, that, in my wayward boyhood, I had thrown away the treasure of her love. I believe I may have heard some whisper of that distant thought, in the old unhappy loss or want of something never to be realized, of which I had been sensible. But the thought came into my mind as a new reproach and new regret, when I was left so sad and lonely in the world. If, at that time, I had been much with her, I should, in the weakness of my desolation, have betrayed this. It was what I remotely dreaded when I was first impelled to stay away from England. I could not have borne to lose the smallest portion of her sisterly affection; yet, in that betrayal, I should have set a constraint between us hitherto unknown. I could not forget that the feeling with which she now regarded me had grown up in my own free choice and course. That if she had ever loved me with another love--and I sometimes thought the time was when she might have done so--I had cast it away. It was nothing, now, that I had accustomed myself to think of her, when we were both mere children, as one who was far removed from my wild fancies. I had bestowed my passionate tenderness upon another object; and what I might have done, I had not done; and what Agnes was to me, I and her own noble heart had made her. In the beginning of the change that gradually worked in me, when I tried to get a better understanding of myself and be a better man, I did glance, through some indefinite probation, to a period when I might possibly hope to cancel the mistaken past, and to be so blessed as to marry her. But, as time wore on, this shadowy prospect faded, and departed from me. If she had ever loved me, then, I should hold her the more sacred; remembering the confidences I had reposed in her, her knowledge of my errant heart, the sacrifice she must have made to be my friend and sister, and the victory she had won. If she had never loved me, could I believe that she would love me now? I had always felt my weakness, in comparison with her constancy and fortitude; and now I felt it more and more. Whatever I might have been to her, or she to me, if I had been more worthy of her long ago, I was not now, and she was not. The time was past. I had let it go by, and had deservedly lost her. That I suffered much in these contentions, that they filled me with unhappiness and remorse, and yet that I had a sustaining sense that it was required of me, in right and honour, to keep away from myself, with shame, the thought of turning to the dear girl in the withering of my hopes, from whom I had frivolously turned when they were bright and fresh--which consideration was at the root of every thought I had concerning her--is all equally true. I made no effort to conceal from myself, now, that I loved her, that I was devoted to her; but I brought the assurance home to myself, that it was now too late, and that our long-subsisting relation must be undisturbed. I had thought, much and often, of my Dora's shadowing out to me what might have happened, in those years that were destined not to try us; I had considered how the things that never happen, are often as much realities to us, in their effects, as those that are accomplished. The very years she spoke of, were realities now, for my correction; and would have been, one day, a little later perhaps, though we had parted in our earliest folly. I endeavoured to convert what might have been between myself and Agnes, into a means of making me more self-denying, more resolved, more conscious of myself, and my defects and errors. Thus, through the reflection that it might have been, I arrived at the conviction that it could never be. These, with their perplexities and inconsistencies, were the shifting quicksands of my mind, from the time of my departure to the time of my return home, three years afterwards. Three years had elapsed since the sailing of the emigrant ship; when, at that same hour of sunset, and in the same place, I stood on the deck of the packet vessel that brought me home, looking on the rosy water where I had seen the image of that ship reflected. Three years. Long in the aggregate, though short as they went by. And home was very dear to me, and Agnes too--but she was not mine--she was never to be mine. She might have been, but that was past! ----------CHAPTER LXIV--------- And now my written story ends. I look back, once more--for the last time--before I close these leaves. I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life. I see our children and our friends around us; and I hear the roar of many voices, not indifferent to me as I travel on. What faces are the most distinct to me in the fleeting crowd? Lo, these; all turning to me as I ask my thoughts the question! Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of four-score years and more, but upright yet, and a steady walker of six miles at a stretch in winter weather. Always with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise in spectacles, accustomed to do needle-work at night very close to the lamp, but never sitting down to it without a bit of wax candle, a yard-measure in a little house, and a work-box with a picture of St. Paul's upon the lid. The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my childish days, when I wondered why the birds didn't peck her in preference to apples, are shrivelled now; and her eyes, that used to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face, are fainter (though they glitter still); but her rough forefinger, which I once associated with a pocket nutmeg-grater, is just the same, and when I see my least child catching at it as it totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little parlour at home, when I could scarcely walk. My aunt's old disappointment is set right, now. She is godmother to a real living Betsey Trotwood; and Dora (the next in order) says she spoils her. There is something bulky in Peggotty's pocket. It is nothing smaller than the Crocodile Book, which is in rather a dilapidated condition by this time, with divers of the leaves torn and stitched across, but which Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious relic. I find it very curious to see my own infant face, looking up at me from the Crocodile stories; and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance Brooks of Sheffield. Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old man making giant kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a delight for which there are no words. He greets me rapturously, and whispers, with many nods and winks, 'Trotwood, you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunt's the most extraordinary woman in the world, sir!' Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showing me a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and beauty, feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wandering of the mind? She is in a garden; and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered woman, with a white scar on her lip. Let me hear what they say. 'Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman's name.' Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, 'Mr. Copperfield.' 'I am glad to see you, sir. I am sorry to observe you are in mourning. I hope Time will be good to you.' Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourning, bids her look again, tries to rouse her. 'You have seen my son, sir,' says the elder lady. 'Are you reconciled?' Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and moans. Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, 'Rosa, come to me. He is dead!' Rosa kneeling at her feet, by turns caresses her, and quarrels with her; now fiercely telling her, 'I loved him better than you ever did!'--now soothing her to sleep on her breast, like a sick child. Thus I leave them; thus I always find them; thus they wear their time away, from year to year. What ship comes sailing home from India, and what English lady is this, married to a growling old Scotch Croesus with great flaps of ears? Can this be Julia Mills? Indeed it is Julia Mills, peevish and fine, with a black man to carry cards and letters to her on a golden salver, and a copper-coloured woman in linen, with a bright handkerchief round her head, to serve her Tiffin in her dressing-room. But Julia keeps no diary in these days; never sings Affection's Dirge; eternally quarrels with the old Scotch Croesus, who is a sort of yellow bear with a tanned hide. Julia is steeped in money to the throat, and talks and thinks of nothing else. I liked her better in the Desert of Sahara. Or perhaps this IS the Desert of Sahara! For, though Julia has a stately house, and mighty company, and sumptuous dinners every day, I see no green growth near her; nothing that can ever come to fruit or flower. What Julia calls 'society', I see; among it Mr. Jack Maldon, from his Patent Place, sneering at the hand that gave it him, and speaking to me of the Doctor as 'so charmingly antique'. But when society is the name for such hollow gentlemen and ladies, Julia, and when its breeding is professed indifference to everything that can advance or can retard mankind, I think we must have lost ourselves in that same Desert of Sahara, and had better find the way out. And lo, the Doctor, always our good friend, labouring at his Dictionary (somewhere about the letter D), and happy in his home and wife. Also the Old Soldier, on a considerably reduced footing, and by no means so influential as in days of yore! Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy aspect, and his hair (where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by the constant friction of his lawyer's-wig, I come, in a later time, upon my dear old Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles of papers; and I say, as I look around me: 'If Sophy were your clerk, now, Traddles, she would have enough to do!' 'You may say that, my dear Copperfield! But those were capital days, too, in Holborn Court! Were they not?' 'When she told you you would be a judge? But it was not the town talk then!' 'At all events,' says Traddles, 'if I ever am one--' 'Why, you know you will be.' 'Well, my dear Copperfield, WHEN I am one, I shall tell the story, as I said I would.' We walk away, arm in arm. I am going to have a family dinner with Traddles. It is Sophy's birthday; and, on our road, Traddles discourses to me of the good fortune he has enjoyed. 'I really have been able, my dear Copperfield, to do all that I had most at heart. There's the Reverend Horace promoted to that living at four hundred and fifty pounds a year; there are our two boys receiving the very best education, and distinguishing themselves as steady scholars and good fellows; there are three of the girls married very comfortably; there are three more living with us; there are three more keeping house for the Reverend Horace since Mrs. Crewler's decease; and all of them happy.' 'Except--' I suggest. 'Except the Beauty,' says Traddles. 'Yes. It was very unfortunate that she should marry such a vagabond. But there was a certain dash and glare about him that caught her. However, now we have got her safe at our house, and got rid of him, we must cheer her up again.' Traddles's house is one of the very houses--or it easily may have been--which he and Sophy used to parcel out, in their evening walks. It is a large house; but Traddles keeps his papers in his dressing-room and his boots with his papers; and he and Sophy squeeze themselves into upper rooms, reserving the best bedrooms for the Beauty and the girls. There is no room to spare in the house; for more of 'the girls' are here, and always are here, by some accident or other, than I know how to count. Here, when we go in, is a crowd of them, running down to the door, and handing Traddles about to be kissed, until he is out of breath. Here, established in perpetuity, is the poor Beauty, a widow with a little girl; here, at dinner on Sophy's birthday, are the three married girls with their three husbands, and one of the husband's brothers, and another husband's cousin, and another husband's sister, who appears to me to be engaged to the cousin. Traddles, exactly the same simple, unaffected fellow as he ever was, sits at the foot of the large table like a Patriarch; and Sophy beams upon him, from the head, across a cheerful space that is certainly not glittering with Britannia metal. And now, as I close my task, subduing my desire to linger yet, these faces fade away. But one face, shining on me like a Heavenly light by which I see all other objects, is above them and beyond them all. And that remains. I turn my head, and see it, in its beautiful serenity, beside me. My lamp burns low, and I have written far into the night; but the dear presence, without which I were nothing, bears me company. O Agnes, O my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close my life indeed; so may I, when realities are melting from me, like the shadows which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing upward!

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter lvi with the given context.

chapter liii|chapter lvi

The new wound, and the old. David still thinks of Steerforth at his best. He volunteers to take Steerforth's body to his mother's house and break the news to her. When he arrives, he learns that Mrs. Steerforth is now an invalid and confined to her room. David goes to see her, and finds that she is occupying her son's room. Rosa Dartle is with her. David tells them of Steerforth's death. Bitterly, Mrs. Steerforth asks Rosa if she now feels that Steerforth has now made atonement to her. Rosa lashes out furiously at Mrs. Steerforth, accusing her of pampering her son's pride and creating the monster who disfigured her for life. Rosa says that she herself loved Steerforth better than his mother ever did. Mrs. Steerforth goes rigid with shock. Rosa hurls a curse at David and, taking Mrs. Steerforth in her arms, bursts into tears. David leaves, and later learns that Mrs. Steerforth has not recovered

----------CHAPTER LIII--------- I must pause yet once again. O, my child-wife, there is a figure in the moving crowd before my memory, quiet and still, saying in its innocent love and childish beauty, Stop to think of me--turn to look upon the Little Blossom, as it flutters to the ground! I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora, in our cottage. I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used to it in feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeks or months; but, in my usage and experience, it is a weary, weary while. They have left off telling me to 'wait a few days more'. I have begun to fear, remotely, that the day may never shine, when I shall see my child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip. He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be that he misses in his mistress, something that enlivened him and made him younger; but he mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects to her no more, but creeps near her as he lies on Dora's bed--she sitting at the bedside--and mildly licks her hand. Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty or complaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that her dear old careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows; that my aunt has no sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes, the little bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about our wedding-day, and all that happy time. What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be--and in all life, within doors and without--when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderly room, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me, and her little fingers twining round my hand! Many and many an hour I sit thus; but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind. It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt's hands, shows me how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an how long and bright it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears. 'Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,' she says, when I smile; 'but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it. Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!' 'That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was.' 'Ah! but I didn't like to tell you,' says Dora, 'then, how I had cried over them, because I believed you really liked me! When I can run about again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those places where we were such a silly couple, shall we? And take some of the old walks? And not forget poor papa?' 'Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must make haste to get well, my dear.' 'Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don't know!' It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with the same face turned towards me. We have been silent, and there is a smile upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairs now. She lies here all the day. 'Doady!' 'My dear Dora!' 'You won't think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what you told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield's not being well? I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.' 'I will write to her, my dear.' 'Will you?' 'Directly.' 'What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my dear, it's not a whim. It's not a foolish fancy. I want, very much indeed, to see her!' 'I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to come.' 'You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?' Dora whispers, with her arm about my neck. 'How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?' 'My empty chair!' She clings to me for a little while, in silence. 'And you really miss me, Doady?' looking up, and brightly smiling. 'Even poor, giddy, stupid me?' 'My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?' 'Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!' creeping closer to me, and folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet, and quite happy. 'Quite!' she says. 'Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I want very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for.' 'Except to get well again, Dora.' 'Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think--you know I always was a silly little thing!--that that will never be!' 'Don't say so, Dora! Dearest love, don't think so!' 'I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife's empty chair!' It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; has been among us for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat with Dora since the morning, all together. We have not talked much, but Dora has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone. Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me? They have told me so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts--but I am far from sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot master it. I have withdrawn by myself, many times today, to weep. I have remembered Who wept for a parting between the living and the dead. I have bethought me of all that gracious and compassionate history. I have tried to resign myself, and to console myself; and that, I hope, I may have done imperfectly; but what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I see her love for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared. 'I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I have often thought of saying, lately. You won't mind?' with a gentle look. 'Mind, my darling?' 'Because I don't know what you will think, or what you may have thought sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I am afraid I was too young.' I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes, and speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a stricken heart, that she is speaking of herself as past. 'I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don't mean in years only, but in experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was such a silly little creature! I am afraid it would have been better, if we had only loved each other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it. I have begun to think I was not fit to be a wife.' I try to stay my tears, and to reply, 'Oh, Dora, love, as fit as I to be a husband!' 'I don't know,' with the old shake of her curls. 'Perhaps! But if I had been more fit to be married I might have made you more so, too. Besides, you are very clever, and I never was.' 'We have been very happy, my sweet Dora.' 'I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would have wearied of his child-wife. She would have been less and less a companion for him. He would have been more and more sensible of what was wanting in his home. She wouldn't have improved. It is better as it is.' 'Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every word seems a reproach!' 'No, not a syllable!' she answers, kissing me. 'Oh, my dear, you never deserved it, and I loved you far too well to say a reproachful word to you, in earnest--it was all the merit I had, except being pretty--or you thought me so. Is it lonely, down-stairs, Doady?' 'Very! Very!' 'Don't cry! Is my chair there?' 'In its old place.' 'Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! Now, make me one promise. I want to speak to Agnes. When you go downstairs, tell Agnes so, and send her up to me; and while I speak to her, let no one come--not even aunt. I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes, quite alone.' I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for my grief. 'I said that it was better as it is!' she whispers, as she holds me in her arms. 'Oh, Doady, after more years, you never could have loved your child-wife better than you do; and, after more years, she would so have tried and disappointed you, that you might not have been able to love her half so well! I know I was too young and foolish. It is much better as it is!' Agnes is downstairs, when I go into the parlour; and I give her the message. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip. His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within it, on his bed of flannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high and clear. As I look out on the night, my tears fall fast, and my undisciplined heart is chastened heavily--heavily. I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all those secret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I think of every little trifle between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that trifles make the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my remembrance, is the image of the dear child as I knew her first, graced by my young love, and by her own, with every fascination wherein such love is rich. Would it, indeed, have been better if we had loved each other as a boy and a girl, and forgotten it? Undisciplined heart, reply! How the time wears, I know not; until I am recalled by my child-wife's old companion. More restless than he was, he crawls out of his house, and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and whines to go upstairs. 'Not tonight, Jip! Not tonight!' He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and lifts his dim eyes to my face. 'Oh, Jip! It may be, never again!' He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and with a plaintive cry, is dead. 'Oh, Agnes! Look, look, here!' --That face, so full of pity, and of grief, that rain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised towards Heaven! 'Agnes?' It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, all things are blotted out of my remembrance. ----------CHAPTER LVI--------- No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we last spoke together, in that hour which I so little deemed to be our parting-hour--no need to have said, 'Think of me at my best!' I had done that ever; and could I change now, looking on this sight! They brought a hand-bier, and laid him on it, and covered him with a flag, and took him up and bore him on towards the houses. All the men who carried him had known him, and gone sailing with him, and seen him merry and bold. They carried him through the wild roar, a hush in the midst of all the tumult; and took him to the cottage where Death was already. But when they set the bier down on the threshold, they looked at one another, and at me, and whispered. I knew why. They felt as if it were not right to lay him down in the same quiet room. We went into the town, and took our burden to the inn. So soon as I could at all collect my thoughts, I sent for Joram, and begged him to provide me a conveyance in which it could be got to London in the night. I knew that the care of it, and the hard duty of preparing his mother to receive it, could only rest with me; and I was anxious to discharge that duty as faithfully as I could. I chose the night for the journey, that there might be less curiosity when I left the town. But, although it was nearly midnight when I came out of the yard in a chaise, followed by what I had in charge, there were many people waiting. At intervals, along the town, and even a little way out upon the road, I saw more: but at length only the bleak night and the open country were around me, and the ashes of my youthful friendship. Upon a mellow autumn day, about noon, when the ground was perfumed by fallen leaves, and many more, in beautiful tints of yellow, red, and brown, yet hung upon the trees, through which the sun was shining, I arrived at Highgate. I walked the last mile, thinking as I went along of what I had to do; and left the carriage that had followed me all through the night, awaiting orders to advance. The house, when I came up to it, looked just the same. Not a blind was raised; no sign of life was in the dull paved court, with its covered way leading to the disused door. The wind had quite gone down, and nothing moved. I had not, at first, the courage to ring at the gate; and when I did ring, my errand seemed to me to be expressed in the very sound of the bell. The little parlour-maid came out, with the key in her hand; and looking earnestly at me as she unlocked the gate, said: 'I beg your pardon, sir. Are you ill?' 'I have been much agitated, and am fatigued.' 'Is anything the matter, sir?---Mr. James?--' 'Hush!' said I. 'Yes, something has happened, that I have to break to Mrs. Steerforth. She is at home?' The girl anxiously replied that her mistress was very seldom out now, even in a carriage; that she kept her room; that she saw no company, but would see me. Her mistress was up, she said, and Miss Dartle was with her. What message should she take upstairs? Giving her a strict charge to be careful of her manner, and only to carry in my card and say I waited, I sat down in the drawing-room (which we had now reached) until she should come back. Its former pleasant air of occupation was gone, and the shutters were half closed. The harp had not been used for many and many a day. His picture, as a boy, was there. The cabinet in which his mother had kept his letters was there. I wondered if she ever read them now; if she would ever read them more! The house was so still that I heard the girl's light step upstairs. On her return, she brought a message, to the effect that Mrs. Steerforth was an invalid and could not come down; but that if I would excuse her being in her chamber, she would be glad to see me. In a few moments I stood before her. She was in his room; not in her own. I felt, of course, that she had taken to occupy it, in remembrance of him; and that the many tokens of his old sports and accomplishments, by which she was surrounded, remained there, just as he had left them, for the same reason. She murmured, however, even in her reception of me, that she was out of her own chamber because its aspect was unsuited to her infirmity; and with her stately look repelled the least suspicion of the truth. At her chair, as usual, was Rosa Dartle. From the first moment of her dark eyes resting on me, I saw she knew I was the bearer of evil tidings. The scar sprung into view that instant. She withdrew herself a step behind the chair, to keep her own face out of Mrs. Steerforth's observation; and scrutinized me with a piercing gaze that never faltered, never shrunk. 'I am sorry to observe you are in mourning, sir,' said Mrs. Steerforth. 'I am unhappily a widower,' said I. 'You are very young to know so great a loss,' she returned. 'I am grieved to hear it. I am grieved to hear it. I hope Time will be good to you.' 'I hope Time,' said I, looking at her, 'will be good to all of us. Dear Mrs. Steerforth, we must all trust to that, in our heaviest misfortunes.' The earnestness of my manner, and the tears in my eyes, alarmed her. The whole course of her thoughts appeared to stop, and change. I tried to command my voice in gently saying his name, but it trembled. She repeated it to herself, two or three times, in a low tone. Then, addressing me, she said, with enforced calmness: 'My son is ill.' 'Very ill.' 'You have seen him?' 'I have.' 'Are you reconciled?' I could not say Yes, I could not say No. She slightly turned her head towards the spot where Rosa Dartle had been standing at her elbow, and in that moment I said, by the motion of my lips, to Rosa, 'Dead!' That Mrs. Steerforth might not be induced to look behind her, and read, plainly written, what she was not yet prepared to know, I met her look quickly; but I had seen Rosa Dartle throw her hands up in the air with vehemence of despair and horror, and then clasp them on her face. The handsome lady--so like, oh so like!--regarded me with a fixed look, and put her hand to her forehead. I besought her to be calm, and prepare herself to bear what I had to tell; but I should rather have entreated her to weep, for she sat like a stone figure. 'When I was last here,' I faltered, 'Miss Dartle told me he was sailing here and there. The night before last was a dreadful one at sea. If he were at sea that night, and near a dangerous coast, as it is said he was; and if the vessel that was seen should really be the ship which--' 'Rosa!' said Mrs. Steerforth, 'come to me!' She came, but with no sympathy or gentleness. Her eyes gleamed like fire as she confronted his mother, and broke into a frightful laugh. 'Now,' she said, 'is your pride appeased, you madwoman? Now has he made atonement to you--with his life! Do you hear?---His life!' Mrs. Steerforth, fallen back stiffly in her chair, and making no sound but a moan, cast her eyes upon her with a wide stare. 'Aye!' cried Rosa, smiting herself passionately on the breast, 'look at me! Moan, and groan, and look at me! Look here!' striking the scar, 'at your dead child's handiwork!' The moan the mother uttered, from time to time, went to My heart. Always the same. Always inarticulate and stifled. Always accompanied with an incapable motion of the head, but with no change of face. Always proceeding from a rigid mouth and closed teeth, as if the jaw were locked and the face frozen up in pain. 'Do you remember when he did this?' she proceeded. 'Do you remember when, in his inheritance of your nature, and in your pampering of his pride and passion, he did this, and disfigured me for life? Look at me, marked until I die with his high displeasure; and moan and groan for what you made him!' 'Miss Dartle,' I entreated her. 'For Heaven's sake--' 'I WILL speak!' she said, turning on me with her lightning eyes. 'Be silent, you! Look at me, I say, proud mother of a proud, false son! Moan for your nurture of him, moan for your corruption of him, moan for your loss of him, moan for mine!' She clenched her hand, and trembled through her spare, worn figure, as if her passion were killing her by inches. 'You, resent his self-will!' she exclaimed. 'You, injured by his haughty temper! You, who opposed to both, when your hair was grey, the qualities which made both when you gave him birth! YOU, who from his cradle reared him to be what he was, and stunted what he should have been! Are you rewarded, now, for your years of trouble?' 'Oh, Miss Dartle, shame! Oh cruel!' 'I tell you,' she returned, 'I WILL speak to her. No power on earth should stop me, while I was standing here! Have I been silent all these years, and shall I not speak now? I loved him better than you ever loved him!' turning on her fiercely. 'I could have loved him, and asked no return. If I had been his wife, I could have been the slave of his caprices for a word of love a year. I should have been. Who knows it better than I? You were exacting, proud, punctilious, selfish. My love would have been devoted--would have trod your paltry whimpering under foot!' With flashing eyes, she stamped upon the ground as if she actually did it. 'Look here!' she said, striking the scar again, with a relentless hand. 'When he grew into the better understanding of what he had done, he saw it, and repented of it! I could sing to him, and talk to him, and show the ardour that I felt in all he did, and attain with labour to such knowledge as most interested him; and I attracted him. When he was freshest and truest, he loved me. Yes, he did! Many a time, when you were put off with a slight word, he has taken Me to his heart!' She said it with a taunting pride in the midst of her frenzy--for it was little less--yet with an eager remembrance of it, in which the smouldering embers of a gentler feeling kindled for the moment. 'I descended--as I might have known I should, but that he fascinated me with his boyish courtship--into a doll, a trifle for the occupation of an idle hour, to be dropped, and taken up, and trifled with, as the inconstant humour took him. When he grew weary, I grew weary. As his fancy died out, I would no more have tried to strengthen any power I had, than I would have married him on his being forced to take me for his wife. We fell away from one another without a word. Perhaps you saw it, and were not sorry. Since then, I have been a mere disfigured piece of furniture between you both; having no eyes, no ears, no feelings, no remembrances. Moan? Moan for what you made him; not for your love. I tell you that the time was, when I loved him better than you ever did!' She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the wide stare, and the set face; and softened no more, when the moaning was repeated, than if the face had been a picture. 'Miss Dartle,' said I, 'if you can be so obdurate as not to feel for this afflicted mother--' 'Who feels for me?' she sharply retorted. 'She has sown this. Let her moan for the harvest that she reaps today!' 'And if his faults--' I began. 'Faults!' she cried, bursting into passionate tears. 'Who dares malign him? He had a soul worth millions of the friends to whom he stooped!' 'No one can have loved him better, no one can hold him in dearer remembrance than I,' I replied. 'I meant to say, if you have no compassion for his mother; or if his faults--you have been bitter on them--' 'It's false,' she cried, tearing her black hair; 'I loved him!' '--if his faults cannot,' I went on, 'be banished from your remembrance, in such an hour; look at that figure, even as one you have never seen before, and render it some help!' All this time, the figure was unchanged, and looked unchangeable. Motionless, rigid, staring; moaning in the same dumb way from time to time, with the same helpless motion of the head; but giving no other sign of life. Miss Dartle suddenly kneeled down before it, and began to loosen the dress. 'A curse upon you!' she said, looking round at me, with a mingled expression of rage and grief. 'It was in an evil hour that you ever came here! A curse upon you! Go!' After passing out of the room, I hurried back to ring the bell, the sooner to alarm the servants. She had then taken the impassive figure in her arms, and, still upon her knees, was weeping over it, kissing it, calling to it, rocking it to and fro upon her bosom like a child, and trying every tender means to rouse the dormant senses. No longer afraid of leaving her, I noiselessly turned back again; and alarmed the house as I went out. Later in the day, I returned, and we laid him in his mother's room. She was just the same, they told me; Miss Dartle never left her; doctors were in attendance, many things had been tried; but she lay like a statue, except for the low sound now and then. I went through the dreary house, and darkened the windows. The windows of the chamber where he lay, I darkened last. I lifted up the leaden hand, and held it to my heart; and all the world seemed death and silence, broken only by his mother's moaning.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter lxiv using the context provided.

A last retrospect. David reflects on his life at the time when he finished writing his story. He sees himself and Agnes surrounded by their children; Betsey, over eighty years old but still active and upright; and Peggotty, still doing her needlework just as she did when David was a child. Betsey, who for so long compared David with his non-existent imaginary sister, Betsey Trotwood, is now godmother to a real Betsey Trotwood, one of David and Agnes's daughters. Rosa Dartle is still quarreling with Mrs. Steerforth. Julia Mills is married to a rich man and thinks of nothing but money. Jack Maldon continues to sneer at Dr. Strong. Dr. Strong is working on his dictionary and still happily married to Annie. Traddles, now a successful lawyer, lives in marital bliss with Sophy and as many of her sisters as are visiting. David ends his story with a prayer that his dear Agnes may be with him all his life.

----------CHAPTER LVIII--------- It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me, haunted by the ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, many errors, many unavailing sorrows and regrets. I went away from England; not knowing, even then, how great the shock was, that I had to bear. I left all who were dear to me, and went away; and believed that I had borne it, and it was past. As a man upon a field of battle will receive a mortal hurt, and scarcely know that he is struck, so I, when I was left alone with my undisciplined heart, had no conception of the wound with which it had to strive. The knowledge came upon me, not quickly, but little by little, and grain by grain. The desolate feeling with which I went abroad, deepened and widened hourly. At first it was a heavy sense of loss and sorrow, wherein I could distinguish little else. By imperceptible degrees, it became a hopeless consciousness of all that I had lost--love, friendship, interest; of all that had been shattered--my first trust, my first affection, the whole airy castle of my life; of all that remained--a ruined blank and waste, lying wide around me, unbroken, to the dark horizon. If my grief were selfish, I did not know it to be so. I mourned for my child-wife, taken from her blooming world, so young. I mourned for him who might have won the love and admiration of thousands, as he had won mine long ago. I mourned for the broken heart that had found rest in the stormy sea; and for the wandering remnants of the simple home, where I had heard the night-wind blowing, when I was a child. From the accumulated sadness into which I fell, I had at length no hope of ever issuing again. I roamed from place to place, carrying my burden with me everywhere. I felt its whole weight now; and I drooped beneath it, and I said in my heart that it could never be lightened. When this despondency was at its worst, I believed that I should die. Sometimes, I thought that I would like to die at home; and actually turned back on my road, that I might get there soon. At other times, I passed on farther away,--from city to city, seeking I know not what, and trying to leave I know not what behind. It is not in my power to retrace, one by one, all the weary phases of distress of mind through which I passed. There are some dreams that can only be imperfectly and vaguely described; and when I oblige myself to look back on this time of my life, I seem to be recalling such a dream. I see myself passing on among the novelties of foreign towns, palaces, cathedrals, temples, pictures, castles, tombs, fantastic streets--the old abiding places of History and Fancy--as a dreamer might; bearing my painful load through all, and hardly conscious of the objects as they fade before me. Listlessness to everything, but brooding sorrow, was the night that fell on my undisciplined heart. Let me look up from it--as at last I did, thank Heaven!--and from its long, sad, wretched dream, to dawn. For many months I travelled with this ever-darkening cloud upon my mind. Some blind reasons that I had for not returning home--reasons then struggling within me, vainly, for more distinct expression--kept me on my pilgrimage. Sometimes, I had proceeded restlessly from place to place, stopping nowhere; sometimes, I had lingered long in one spot. I had had no purpose, no sustaining soul within me, anywhere. I was in Switzerland. I had come out of Italy, over one of the great passes of the Alps, and had since wandered with a guide among the by-ways of the mountains. If those awful solitudes had spoken to my heart, I did not know it. I had found sublimity and wonder in the dread heights and precipices, in the roaring torrents, and the wastes of ice and snow; but as yet, they had taught me nothing else. I came, one evening before sunset, down into a valley, where I was to rest. In the course of my descent to it, by the winding track along the mountain-side, from which I saw it shining far below, I think some long-unwonted sense of beauty and tranquillity, some softening influence awakened by its peace, moved faintly in my breast. I remember pausing once, with a kind of sorrow that was not all oppressive, not quite despairing. I remember almost hoping that some better change was possible within me. I came into the valley, as the evening sun was shining on the remote heights of snow, that closed it in, like eternal clouds. The bases of the mountains forming the gorge in which the little village lay, were richly green; and high above this gentler vegetation, grew forests of dark fir, cleaving the wintry snow-drift, wedge-like, and stemming the avalanche. Above these, were range upon range of craggy steeps, grey rock, bright ice, and smooth verdure-specks of pasture, all gradually blending with the crowning snow. Dotted here and there on the mountain's-side, each tiny dot a home, were lonely wooden cottages, so dwarfed by the towering heights that they appeared too small for toys. So did even the clustered village in the valley, with its wooden bridge across the stream, where the stream tumbled over broken rocks, and roared away among the trees. In the quiet air, there was a sound of distant singing--shepherd voices; but, as one bright evening cloud floated midway along the mountain's-side, I could almost have believed it came from there, and was not earthly music. All at once, in this serenity, great Nature spoke to me; and soothed me to lay down my weary head upon the grass, and weep as I had not wept yet, since Dora died! I had found a packet of letters awaiting me but a few minutes before, and had strolled out of the village to read them while my supper was making ready. Other packets had missed me, and I had received none for a long time. Beyond a line or two, to say that I was well, and had arrived at such a place, I had not had fortitude or constancy to write a letter since I left home. The packet was in my hand. I opened it, and read the writing of Agnes. She was happy and useful, was prospering as she had hoped. That was all she told me of herself. The rest referred to me. She gave me no advice; she urged no duty on me; she only told me, in her own fervent manner, what her trust in me was. She knew (she said) how such a nature as mine would turn affliction to good. She knew how trial and emotion would exalt and strengthen it. She was sure that in my every purpose I should gain a firmer and a higher tendency, through the grief I had undergone. She, who so gloried in my fame, and so looked forward to its augmentation, well knew that I would labour on. She knew that in me, sorrow could not be weakness, but must be strength. As the endurance of my childish days had done its part to make me what I was, so greater calamities would nerve me on, to be yet better than I was; and so, as they had taught me, would I teach others. She commended me to God, who had taken my innocent darling to His rest; and in her sisterly affection cherished me always, and was always at my side go where I would; proud of what I had done, but infinitely prouder yet of what I was reserved to do. I put the letter in my breast, and thought what had I been an hour ago! When I heard the voices die away, and saw the quiet evening cloud grow dim, and all the colours in the valley fade, and the golden snow upon the mountain-tops become a remote part of the pale night sky, yet felt that the night was passing from my mind, and all its shadows clearing, there was no name for the love I bore her, dearer to me, henceforward, than ever until then. I read her letter many times. I wrote to her before I slept. I told her that I had been in sore need of her help; that without her I was not, and I never had been, what she thought me; but that she inspired me to be that, and I would try. I did try. In three months more, a year would have passed since the beginning of my sorrow. I determined to make no resolutions until the expiration of those three months, but to try. I lived in that valley, and its neighbourhood, all the time. The three months gone, I resolved to remain away from home for some time longer; to settle myself for the present in Switzerland, which was growing dear to me in the remembrance of that evening; to resume my pen; to work. I resorted humbly whither Agnes had commended me; I sought out Nature, never sought in vain; and I admitted to my breast the human interest I had lately shrunk from. It was not long, before I had almost as many friends in the valley as in Yarmouth: and when I left it, before the winter set in, for Geneva, and came back in the spring, their cordial greetings had a homely sound to me, although they were not conveyed in English words. I worked early and late, patiently and hard. I wrote a Story, with a purpose growing, not remotely, out of my experience, and sent it to Traddles, and he arranged for its publication very advantageously for me; and the tidings of my growing reputation began to reach me from travellers whom I encountered by chance. After some rest and change, I fell to work, in my old ardent way, on a new fancy, which took strong possession of me. As I advanced in the execution of this task, I felt it more and more, and roused my utmost energies to do it well. This was my third work of fiction. It was not half written, when, in an interval of rest, I thought of returning home. For a long time, though studying and working patiently, I had accustomed myself to robust exercise. My health, severely impaired when I left England, was quite restored. I had seen much. I had been in many countries, and I hope I had improved my store of knowledge. I have now recalled all that I think it needful to recall here, of this term of absence--with one reservation. I have made it, thus far, with no purpose of suppressing any of my thoughts; for, as I have elsewhere said, this narrative is my written memory. I have desired to keep the most secret current of my mind apart, and to the last. I enter on it now. I cannot so completely penetrate the mystery of my own heart, as to know when I began to think that I might have set its earliest and brightest hopes on Agnes. I cannot say at what stage of my grief it first became associated with the reflection, that, in my wayward boyhood, I had thrown away the treasure of her love. I believe I may have heard some whisper of that distant thought, in the old unhappy loss or want of something never to be realized, of which I had been sensible. But the thought came into my mind as a new reproach and new regret, when I was left so sad and lonely in the world. If, at that time, I had been much with her, I should, in the weakness of my desolation, have betrayed this. It was what I remotely dreaded when I was first impelled to stay away from England. I could not have borne to lose the smallest portion of her sisterly affection; yet, in that betrayal, I should have set a constraint between us hitherto unknown. I could not forget that the feeling with which she now regarded me had grown up in my own free choice and course. That if she had ever loved me with another love--and I sometimes thought the time was when she might have done so--I had cast it away. It was nothing, now, that I had accustomed myself to think of her, when we were both mere children, as one who was far removed from my wild fancies. I had bestowed my passionate tenderness upon another object; and what I might have done, I had not done; and what Agnes was to me, I and her own noble heart had made her. In the beginning of the change that gradually worked in me, when I tried to get a better understanding of myself and be a better man, I did glance, through some indefinite probation, to a period when I might possibly hope to cancel the mistaken past, and to be so blessed as to marry her. But, as time wore on, this shadowy prospect faded, and departed from me. If she had ever loved me, then, I should hold her the more sacred; remembering the confidences I had reposed in her, her knowledge of my errant heart, the sacrifice she must have made to be my friend and sister, and the victory she had won. If she had never loved me, could I believe that she would love me now? I had always felt my weakness, in comparison with her constancy and fortitude; and now I felt it more and more. Whatever I might have been to her, or she to me, if I had been more worthy of her long ago, I was not now, and she was not. The time was past. I had let it go by, and had deservedly lost her. That I suffered much in these contentions, that they filled me with unhappiness and remorse, and yet that I had a sustaining sense that it was required of me, in right and honour, to keep away from myself, with shame, the thought of turning to the dear girl in the withering of my hopes, from whom I had frivolously turned when they were bright and fresh--which consideration was at the root of every thought I had concerning her--is all equally true. I made no effort to conceal from myself, now, that I loved her, that I was devoted to her; but I brought the assurance home to myself, that it was now too late, and that our long-subsisting relation must be undisturbed. I had thought, much and often, of my Dora's shadowing out to me what might have happened, in those years that were destined not to try us; I had considered how the things that never happen, are often as much realities to us, in their effects, as those that are accomplished. The very years she spoke of, were realities now, for my correction; and would have been, one day, a little later perhaps, though we had parted in our earliest folly. I endeavoured to convert what might have been between myself and Agnes, into a means of making me more self-denying, more resolved, more conscious of myself, and my defects and errors. Thus, through the reflection that it might have been, I arrived at the conviction that it could never be. These, with their perplexities and inconsistencies, were the shifting quicksands of my mind, from the time of my departure to the time of my return home, three years afterwards. Three years had elapsed since the sailing of the emigrant ship; when, at that same hour of sunset, and in the same place, I stood on the deck of the packet vessel that brought me home, looking on the rosy water where I had seen the image of that ship reflected. Three years. Long in the aggregate, though short as they went by. And home was very dear to me, and Agnes too--but she was not mine--she was never to be mine. She might have been, but that was past! ----------CHAPTER LXIV--------- And now my written story ends. I look back, once more--for the last time--before I close these leaves. I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life. I see our children and our friends around us; and I hear the roar of many voices, not indifferent to me as I travel on. What faces are the most distinct to me in the fleeting crowd? Lo, these; all turning to me as I ask my thoughts the question! Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of four-score years and more, but upright yet, and a steady walker of six miles at a stretch in winter weather. Always with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise in spectacles, accustomed to do needle-work at night very close to the lamp, but never sitting down to it without a bit of wax candle, a yard-measure in a little house, and a work-box with a picture of St. Paul's upon the lid. The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my childish days, when I wondered why the birds didn't peck her in preference to apples, are shrivelled now; and her eyes, that used to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face, are fainter (though they glitter still); but her rough forefinger, which I once associated with a pocket nutmeg-grater, is just the same, and when I see my least child catching at it as it totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little parlour at home, when I could scarcely walk. My aunt's old disappointment is set right, now. She is godmother to a real living Betsey Trotwood; and Dora (the next in order) says she spoils her. There is something bulky in Peggotty's pocket. It is nothing smaller than the Crocodile Book, which is in rather a dilapidated condition by this time, with divers of the leaves torn and stitched across, but which Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious relic. I find it very curious to see my own infant face, looking up at me from the Crocodile stories; and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance Brooks of Sheffield. Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old man making giant kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a delight for which there are no words. He greets me rapturously, and whispers, with many nods and winks, 'Trotwood, you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunt's the most extraordinary woman in the world, sir!' Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showing me a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and beauty, feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wandering of the mind? She is in a garden; and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered woman, with a white scar on her lip. Let me hear what they say. 'Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman's name.' Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, 'Mr. Copperfield.' 'I am glad to see you, sir. I am sorry to observe you are in mourning. I hope Time will be good to you.' Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourning, bids her look again, tries to rouse her. 'You have seen my son, sir,' says the elder lady. 'Are you reconciled?' Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and moans. Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, 'Rosa, come to me. He is dead!' Rosa kneeling at her feet, by turns caresses her, and quarrels with her; now fiercely telling her, 'I loved him better than you ever did!'--now soothing her to sleep on her breast, like a sick child. Thus I leave them; thus I always find them; thus they wear their time away, from year to year. What ship comes sailing home from India, and what English lady is this, married to a growling old Scotch Croesus with great flaps of ears? Can this be Julia Mills? Indeed it is Julia Mills, peevish and fine, with a black man to carry cards and letters to her on a golden salver, and a copper-coloured woman in linen, with a bright handkerchief round her head, to serve her Tiffin in her dressing-room. But Julia keeps no diary in these days; never sings Affection's Dirge; eternally quarrels with the old Scotch Croesus, who is a sort of yellow bear with a tanned hide. Julia is steeped in money to the throat, and talks and thinks of nothing else. I liked her better in the Desert of Sahara. Or perhaps this IS the Desert of Sahara! For, though Julia has a stately house, and mighty company, and sumptuous dinners every day, I see no green growth near her; nothing that can ever come to fruit or flower. What Julia calls 'society', I see; among it Mr. Jack Maldon, from his Patent Place, sneering at the hand that gave it him, and speaking to me of the Doctor as 'so charmingly antique'. But when society is the name for such hollow gentlemen and ladies, Julia, and when its breeding is professed indifference to everything that can advance or can retard mankind, I think we must have lost ourselves in that same Desert of Sahara, and had better find the way out. And lo, the Doctor, always our good friend, labouring at his Dictionary (somewhere about the letter D), and happy in his home and wife. Also the Old Soldier, on a considerably reduced footing, and by no means so influential as in days of yore! Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy aspect, and his hair (where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by the constant friction of his lawyer's-wig, I come, in a later time, upon my dear old Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles of papers; and I say, as I look around me: 'If Sophy were your clerk, now, Traddles, she would have enough to do!' 'You may say that, my dear Copperfield! But those were capital days, too, in Holborn Court! Were they not?' 'When she told you you would be a judge? But it was not the town talk then!' 'At all events,' says Traddles, 'if I ever am one--' 'Why, you know you will be.' 'Well, my dear Copperfield, WHEN I am one, I shall tell the story, as I said I would.' We walk away, arm in arm. I am going to have a family dinner with Traddles. It is Sophy's birthday; and, on our road, Traddles discourses to me of the good fortune he has enjoyed. 'I really have been able, my dear Copperfield, to do all that I had most at heart. There's the Reverend Horace promoted to that living at four hundred and fifty pounds a year; there are our two boys receiving the very best education, and distinguishing themselves as steady scholars and good fellows; there are three of the girls married very comfortably; there are three more living with us; there are three more keeping house for the Reverend Horace since Mrs. Crewler's decease; and all of them happy.' 'Except--' I suggest. 'Except the Beauty,' says Traddles. 'Yes. It was very unfortunate that she should marry such a vagabond. But there was a certain dash and glare about him that caught her. However, now we have got her safe at our house, and got rid of him, we must cheer her up again.' Traddles's house is one of the very houses--or it easily may have been--which he and Sophy used to parcel out, in their evening walks. It is a large house; but Traddles keeps his papers in his dressing-room and his boots with his papers; and he and Sophy squeeze themselves into upper rooms, reserving the best bedrooms for the Beauty and the girls. There is no room to spare in the house; for more of 'the girls' are here, and always are here, by some accident or other, than I know how to count. Here, when we go in, is a crowd of them, running down to the door, and handing Traddles about to be kissed, until he is out of breath. Here, established in perpetuity, is the poor Beauty, a widow with a little girl; here, at dinner on Sophy's birthday, are the three married girls with their three husbands, and one of the husband's brothers, and another husband's cousin, and another husband's sister, who appears to me to be engaged to the cousin. Traddles, exactly the same simple, unaffected fellow as he ever was, sits at the foot of the large table like a Patriarch; and Sophy beams upon him, from the head, across a cheerful space that is certainly not glittering with Britannia metal. And now, as I close my task, subduing my desire to linger yet, these faces fade away. But one face, shining on me like a Heavenly light by which I see all other objects, is above them and beyond them all. And that remains. I turn my head, and see it, in its beautiful serenity, beside me. My lamp burns low, and I have written far into the night; but the dear presence, without which I were nothing, bears me company. O Agnes, O my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close my life indeed; so may I, when realities are melting from me, like the shadows which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing upward!

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.c

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 3, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 1|chapter 3|chapter 4

Two weeks later, Dr. Jekyll is holding a dinner party at which Mr. Utterson is a guest. After the guests leave, Utterson confronts Jekyll over the matter of his will and tells him that he has been learning about Mr. Hyde. Jekyll becomes upset when he hears of this and tells Utterson to drop the subject. Utterson urges Hyde to confide in him, but again Jekyll tells Utterson to leave the subject alone and assures him that he can be rid of Mr. Hyde at any point. As Mr. Utterson gets up to leave, Jekyll tells him that he does have a great interest in "poor Hyde" and apologizes for his rude behavior, but begs him to make sure that he takes care of Hyde when Jekyll is no longer there.

----------CHAPTER 1--------- STORY OF THE DOOR MR. UTTERSON the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. 2) "I incline to Cain's heresy," he used to say quaintly: "I let my brother go to the devil in his own way." In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour. No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and would hail with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but even resisted the calls 3) of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted. It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the week-days. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased the eye of the passenger. Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point, a certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It was two stories high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower story and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on 4) the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their ravages. Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and pointed. "Did you ever remark that door?" he asked; and when his companion had replied in the affirmative, "It is connected in my mind," added he, "with a very odd story." "Indeed?" said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, "and what was that?" "Well, it was this way," returned Mr. Enfield: "I was coming home from some place at the end of the world, about three o'clock of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street, and all the folks asleep--street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church--till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the 5) corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the child's body and left her screaming on the ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn't like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a view-halloa, took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had turned out were the girl's own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child's family, which was only natural. But the doctor's case was what struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent, and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question, we did the next best. We told the man we could 6) and would make such a scandal out of this, as should make his name stink from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black, sneering coolness--frightened too, I could see that--but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. 'If you choose to make capital out of this accident,' said he, 'I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene,' says he. 'Name your figure.' Well, we screwed him up to a hundred pounds for the child's family; he would have clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with the door?-- whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts's, drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can't mention, though it's one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the signature was good for more than that, if it was only genuine. I took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole 7) business looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out of it with another man's cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering. 'Set your mind at rest,' says he, 'I will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.' So we all set off, the doctor, and the child's father, and our friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the check myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine." "Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson. "I see you feel as I do," said Mr. Enfield. "Yes, it's a bad story. For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good. Black-mail, I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black-Mail House is what I call that place with the door, in consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all," he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing. From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: "And you don't know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?" 8) "A likely place, isn't it?" returned Mr. Enfield. "But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other." "And you never asked about the--place with the door?" said Mr. Utterson. "No, sir: I had a delicacy," was the reply. "I feel very strongly about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of judgment. You start a question, and it's like starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own back-garden and the family have to change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask." "A very good rule, too," said the lawyer. "But I have studied the place for myself," continued Mr. Enfield. "It seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they're clean. And then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must live there. And yet it's not so sure; for the buildings are so packed together about that court, that it's hard to say where one ends and another begins." 9) The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then, "Enfield," said Mr. Utterson, "that's a good rule of yours." "Yes, I think it is," returned Enfield. "But for all that," continued the lawyer, "there's one point I want to ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child." "Well," said Mr. Enfield, "I can't see what harm it would do. It was a man of the name of Hyde." "H'm," said Mr. Utterson. "What sort of a man is he to see?" "He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn't specify the point. He's an extraordinary-looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can't describe him. And it's not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment." Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a weight of consideration. "You are sure he used a key?" he inquired at last. "My dear sir..." began Enfield, surprised out of himself. 10) "Yes, I know," said Utterson; "I know it must seem strange. The fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have been inexact in any point, you had better correct it." "I think you might have warned me," returned the other, with a touch of sullenness. "But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The fellow had a key; and what's more, he has it still. I saw him use it, not a week ago." Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man presently resumed. "Here is another lesson to say nothing," said he. "I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to this again." "With all my heart," said the lawyer. "I shake hands on that, Richard." ----------CHAPTER 3--------- DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE A FORTNIGHT later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, all intelligent, reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so contrived that he remained behind after the others had departed. This was no new arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of times. Where Utterson was liked, he was liked well. Hosts loved to detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and the loose-tongued had already their foot on the threshold; they liked to sit a while in his unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering their minds in the man's rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. To this rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite side of the fire--a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a slyish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness--you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson a sincere and warm affection. 25) "I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll," began the latter. "You know that will of yours?" A close observer might have gathered that the topic was distasteful; but the doctor carried it off gaily. "My poor Utterson," said he, "you are unfortunate in such a client. I never saw a man so distressed as you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at what he called my scientific heresies. Oh, I know he's a good fellow--you needn't frown--an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see more of him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant, blatant pedant. I was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon." "You know I never approved of it," pursued Utterson, ruthlessly disregarding the fresh topic. "My will? Yes, certainly, I know that," said the doctor, a trifle sharply. "You have told me so." "Well, I tell you so again," continued the lawyer. "I have been learning something of young Hyde." The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and there came a blackness about his eyes. "I do not care to hear more," said he. "This is a matter I thought we had agreed to drop." "What I heard was abominable," said Utterson. "It can make no change. You do not under- 26) stand my position," returned the doctor, with a certain incoherency of manner. "I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange--a very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking." "Jekyll," said Utterson, "you know me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a clean breast of this in confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you out of it." "My good Utterson," said the doctor, "this is very good of you, this is downright good of you, and I cannot find words to thank you in. I believe you fully; I would trust you before any man alive, ay, before myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn't what you fancy; it is not so bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. Hyde. I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I will just add one little word, Utterson, that I'm sure you'll take in good part: this is a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep." Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fire. "I have no doubt you are perfectly right," he said at last, getting to his feet. "Well, but since we have touched upon this business, and for the last time I hope," continued the doctor, "there is one point I should like you to understand. I have really a very great interest in poor Hyde. I know you have seen 27) him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. But, I do sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; and if I am taken away, Utterson, I wish you to promise me that you will bear with him and get his rights for him. I think you would, if you knew all; and it would be a weight off my mind if you would promise." "I can't pretend that I shall ever like him," said the lawyer. "I don't ask that," pleaded Jekyll, laying his hand upon the other's arm; "I only ask for justice; I only ask you to help him for my sake, when I am no longer here." Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. "Well," said he, "I promise." ----------CHAPTER 4--------- THE CAREW MURDER CASE NEARLY a year later, in the month of October, 18---, London was startled by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more notable by the high position of the victim. The details were few and startling. A maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone up-stairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in the small hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the lane, which the maid's window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the full moon. It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediately under the window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never (she used to say, with streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became aware of an aged and beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman, to whom at first she 29) paid less attention. When they had come within speech (which was just under the maid's eyes) the older man bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr. Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she had conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling; but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke out in a great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old gentleman took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to the earth. And next moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling his victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. At the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted. 30) It was two o'clock when she came to herself and called for the police. The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter--the other, without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and a gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson. This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of bed; and he had no sooner seen it, and been told the circumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. "I shall say nothing till I have seen the body," said he; "this may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait while I dress." And with the same grave countenance he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body had been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded. "Yes," said he, "I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir Danvers Carew." "Good God, sir," exclaimed the officer, "is it possible?" And the next moment his eye 31) lighted up with professional ambition. "This will make a deal of noise," he said. "And perhaps you can help us to the man." And he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken stick. Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself presented many years before to Henry Jekyll. "Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?" he inquired. "Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid calls him," said the officer. Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, "If you will come with me in my cab," he said, "I think I can take you to his house." It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a marvellous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be dark like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich, lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft 32) of daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The dismal quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful re-invasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer's eyes, like a district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, were of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive, he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law's officers, which may at times assail the most honest. As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating-house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll's favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling. An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were excellent. Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde's, but he was not at home; he had been in that night very late, 33) but had gone away again in less than an hour; there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she had seen him till yesterday. "Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms," said the lawyer; and when the woman began to declare it was impossible, "I had better tell you who this person is," he added. "This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard." A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman's face. "Ah!" said she, "he is in trouble! What has he done?" Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. "He don't seem a very popular character," observed the latter. "And now, my good woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look about us." In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets inside out; 34) lock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt-end of a green cheque-book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the murderer's credit, completed his gratification. "You may depend upon it, sir," he told Mr. Utterson: "I have him in my hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Why, money's life to the man. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the handbills." This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had numbered few familiars--even the master of the servant-maid had only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as common observers will. Only on one point, were they agreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 6 based on the provided context.

chapter 5|chapter 6|chapter 7

At the beginning of Chapter 6, we learn that "time has passed" and no one has been able to capture Hyde. Jekyll, however, free from the evil influence of Hyde, has become a new man. He entertains, devotes himself to charity, and is highly sociable. In early January, Utterson attends a dinner party at Jekyll's home, at which Dr. Lanyon is also present. All were jovial and friendly, and had a wonderful time. Only days afterwards, Utterson pays Jekyll a visit and learns from Poole that the doctor has secluded himself and will see no one. After a week of this seclusion, Utterson visits Dr. Lanyon to see if he might be aware of Utterson's reason for withdrawing from the world so suddenly. Dr. Lanyon greets Utterson, who describes his and Jekyll's friend as though, "he had his death-warrant written upon his face. Lanyon explains that he has suffered a terrible shock, and "shall never recover. When Utterson mentions that Jekyll is also ill, Lanyon adamantly replies that he never wishes to speak of Jekyll again. Confused and shaken, Utterson returns home and writes Jekyll a letter, asking for an explanation for his mysterious behavior. Jekyll's reply, which arrives the next day, states, "I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. One week later, Dr. Lanyon dies and leaves Mr. Utterson a letter with instructions only to read it following the death or disappearance of Dr. Jekyll. An honorable man who respects his friends' and client's wishes, Utterson does not open the letter.

----------CHAPTER 5--------- INCIDENT OF THE LETTER IT was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr. Jekyll's door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden, to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or the dissecting-rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend's quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; 36) and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the doctor's cabinet. It was a large room, fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred with iron. A fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deadly sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice. "And now," said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, "you have heard the news?" The doctor shuddered. "They were crying it in the square," he said. "I heard them in my dining-room." "One word," said the lawyer. "Carew was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?" "Utterson, I swear to God," cried the doctor, "I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of." The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend's feverish manner. "You seem pretty 37) sure of him," said he; "and for your sake, I hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear." "I am quite sure of him," replied Jekyll; "I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing on which you may advise me. I have--I have received a letter; and I am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so great a trust in you." "You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?" asked the lawyer. "No," said the other. "I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed." Utterson ruminated a while; he was surprised at his friend's selfishness, and yet relieved by it. "Well," said he, at last, "let me see the letter." The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed "Edward Hyde": and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer's benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions. 38) "Have you the envelope?" he asked. "I burned it," replied Jekyll, "before I thought what I was about. But it bore no postmark. The note was handed in." "Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?" asked Utterson. "I wish you to judge for me entirely," was the reply. "I have lost confidence in myself." "Well, I shall consider," returned the lawyer. "And now one word more: it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that disappearance?" The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness: he shut his mouth tight and nodded. "I knew it," said Utterson. "He meant to murder you. You have had a fine escape." "I have had what is far more to the purpose," returned the doctor solemnly: "I have had a lesson--O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!" And he covered his face for a moment with his hands. On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole. "By the by," said he, "there was a letter handed in to-day: what was the messenger like?" But Poole was positive nothing had come except by post; "and only circulars by that," he added. This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been 39) written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went, were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: "Special edition. Shocking murder of an M. P." That was the funeral oration of one friend and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it might be fished for. Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town's life was still rolling in through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, As the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside vineyards was ready to be set free 40) and to disperse the fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the doctor's; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr. Hyde's familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery to rights? and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he would scarce read so strange a document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utterson might shape his future course. "This is a sad business about Sir Danvers," he said. "Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling," returned Guest. "The man, of course, was mad." "I should like to hear your views on that," replied Utterson. "I have a document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. But there it is; quite in your way a murderer's autograph." Guest's eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with passion. "No, sir," he said: "not mad; but it is an odd hand." 41) "And by all accounts a very odd writer," added the lawyer. Just then the servant entered with a note. "Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?" inquired the clerk. "I thought I knew the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?" "Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?" "One moment. I thank you, sir"; and the clerk laid the two sheets of paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. "Thank you, sir," he said at last, returning both; "it's a very interesting autograph." There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself. "Why did you compare them, Guest?" he inquired suddenly. "Well, sir," returned the clerk, "there's a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only differently sloped." "Rather quaint," said Utterson. "It is, as you say, rather quaint," returned Guest. "I wouldn't speak of this note, you know," said the master. "No, sir," said the clerk. "I understand." But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night than he locked the note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. "What!" he thought. "Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!" And his blood ran cold in his veins. 42) ----------CHAPTER 6--------- REMARKABLE INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON TIME ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never existed. Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable: tales came out of the man's cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of his vile life, of his strange associates, of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded his career; but of his present whereabouts, not a whisper. From the time he had left the house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on, Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to his way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde. Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his friends, became once more their familiar guest 43) and entertainer; and whilst he had always been known for charities, he was now no less distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was much in the open air, he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as if with an inward consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor was at peace. On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor's with a small party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had looked from one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against the lawyer. "The doctor was confined to the house," Poole said, "and saw no one." On the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almost daily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr. Lanyon's. There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he was shocked at the change which had taken place in the doctor's appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly balder and older; and yet it was not so much, these tokens of a swift physical decay that arrested the lawyer's notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to testify to 44) some deep-seated terror of the mind. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect. "Yes," he thought; "he is a doctor, he must know his own state and that his days are counted; and the knowledge is more than he can bear." And yet when Utterson remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an air of greatness that Lanyon declared himself a doomed man. "I have had a shock," he said, "and I shall never recover. It is a question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir, I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more glad to get away." "Jekyll is ill, too," observed Utterson. "Have you seen him?" But Lanyon's face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. "I wish to see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll," he said in a loud, unsteady voice. "I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any allusion to one whom I regard as dead." "Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause, "Can't I do anything?" he inquired. "We are three very old friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make others." "Nothing can be done," returned Lanyon; "ask himself." "He will not see me," said the lawyer. "I am not surprised at that," was the reply. "Some day, Utterson, after I am dead, you may 45) perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me of other things, for God's sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep clear of this accursed topic, then, in God's name, go, for I cannot bear it." As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll, complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. "I do not blame our old friend," Jekyll wrote, "but I share his view that we must never meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this destiny, and that is to respect my silence." Utterson was amazed; the dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; 46) and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness; but in view of Lanyon's manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper ground. A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, at which he had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room, and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal of his dead friend. "PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE and in case of his predecease to be destroyed unread," so it was emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the contents. "I have buried one friend to-day," he thought: "what if this should cost me another?" And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure, likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as "not to be opened till the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll." Utterson could not trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketed. But in the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of 47) the man Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible. Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept in the inmost corner of his private safe. It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart, he preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable recluse. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off little by little in the frequency of his visits. 48) ----------CHAPTER 7--------- INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW IT chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it. "Well," said Enfield, "that story's at an end at least. We shall never see more of Mr. Hyde." "I hope not," said Utterson. "Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?" "It was impossible to do the one without the other," returned Enfield. "And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll's! It was partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did." "So you found it out, did you?" said Utterson. "But if that be so, we may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him good." 49) The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll. "What! Jekyll!" he cried. "I trust you are better." "I am very low, Utterson," replied the doctor, drearily, "very low. It will not last long, thank God." "You stay too much indoors," said the lawyer. "You should be out, whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my cousin--Mr. Enfield--Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your hat and take a quick turn with us." "You are very good," sighed the other. "I should like to very much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit." "Why then," said the lawyer, good-naturedly, "the best thing we can do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are." "That is just what I was about to venture to propose," returned the doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded 50) by an expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a glimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion. They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes. "God forgive us, God forgive us," said Mr. Utterson. But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on once more in silence. 51)

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 4, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 1|chapter 3|chapter 4

This Chapter begins almost a year later and recounts the details of the murder of Sir Danvers Carew, a well-known and highly respected London gentleman. Carew was murdered near midnight on a foggy, full-moon night in October, and his murder was witnessed by a maid who worked and lived in a house not far from the Thames. That night, she went upstairs to bed about eleven o'clock and, because the night was so mysteriously romantic, she sat gazing out of her bedroom window for a time, "in a dream of musing." Never, she tells the police, had she felt happier and more at peace with the world. Ironically, her mood of languid revery is broken, for as she gazes down beneath her window, she recognizes the "small" figure of Mr. Hyde, a man who had once visited her master and for whom she had immediately taken an instant dislike. From her window that October night, the woman saw the detestable Mr. Hyde meet "an aged and beautiful gentleman with white hair"; then suddenly, after a few words, Mr. Hyde lifted his heavy walking stick and clubbed the old gentleman to death. Indeed, the blows which he struck were so thunderous that "bones were audibly shattered," and then, "with ape-like fury," Hyde trampled the old gentleman underfoot. At the horror of what she saw, the maid suddenly fainted. When the police arrive on the scene, they find no identification on the body, and they are puzzled that neither the victim's gold watch nor his wallet was taken. The only bit of evidence they discover concerning the man's identity is a sealed envelope addressed to Mr. Utterson. Thus, they call Utterson, and he is able to identify the corpse. The police are visibly stunned. "This will make a deal of noise," they comment, meaning that the case will draw a lot of publicity because Sir Danvers was such a well-known figure in London society and politics. When Utterson is shown the murder weapon, he recognizes it immediately. It is the battered half of a walking cane which he gave Dr. Jekyll many years ago. He reflects for a moment and then tells the police officer to come with him; he can lead them to the murderer's quarters. On the way to Hyde's apartment, the narrator describes in much detail the "chocolate-colored wreaths" of fog that they drive through on their way to "the dismal quarter" where Hyde lives. This district, says the narrator, seems "like a district of some city in a nightmare." Yet this is where Edward Hyde, heir to Jekyll's quarter of a million pounds, lives. The woman who answers their knock tells them that Hyde is not at home; in fact, last night was the first night that he had been home in nearly two months; "his habits were very irregular." When Utterson introduces the officer as being from Scotland Yard, he is sure that the old silver-haired woman seems almost to relish the prospect of Hyde's being in trouble. They search Hyde's apartment and immediately see that Hyde left in a hurry. Clothes are thrown here and there, drawers are pulled out, and on the hearth is a pile of grey ashes. The inspector stirs the embers and finds half of a checkbook. Behind a door, he also discovers the other half of the murder weapon, the heavy walking stick. Delighted with what he has found, the inspector and Utterson visit Hyde's bank and ascertain that Hyde's account contains several thousand pounds. The officer is sure that Hyde can be captured now because "money's life to the man." All he has to do now, he says, is post handbills with Hyde's picture and a description of the man. However, this proves to be an almost impossible task because Hyde has no family, and seemingly, he was never photographed. Moreover, of those who have seen him, no one has seen him more than two times. The only thing that everyone agrees on is that Hyde carries "a haunting sense of unexpressed deformity."

----------CHAPTER 1--------- STORY OF THE DOOR MR. UTTERSON the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. 2) "I incline to Cain's heresy," he used to say quaintly: "I let my brother go to the devil in his own way." In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour. No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and would hail with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but even resisted the calls 3) of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted. It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the week-days. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased the eye of the passenger. Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point, a certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It was two stories high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower story and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on 4) the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their ravages. Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and pointed. "Did you ever remark that door?" he asked; and when his companion had replied in the affirmative, "It is connected in my mind," added he, "with a very odd story." "Indeed?" said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, "and what was that?" "Well, it was this way," returned Mr. Enfield: "I was coming home from some place at the end of the world, about three o'clock of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street, and all the folks asleep--street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church--till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the 5) corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the child's body and left her screaming on the ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn't like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a view-halloa, took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had turned out were the girl's own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child's family, which was only natural. But the doctor's case was what struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent, and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question, we did the next best. We told the man we could 6) and would make such a scandal out of this, as should make his name stink from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black, sneering coolness--frightened too, I could see that--but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. 'If you choose to make capital out of this accident,' said he, 'I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene,' says he. 'Name your figure.' Well, we screwed him up to a hundred pounds for the child's family; he would have clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with the door?-- whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts's, drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can't mention, though it's one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the signature was good for more than that, if it was only genuine. I took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole 7) business looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out of it with another man's cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering. 'Set your mind at rest,' says he, 'I will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.' So we all set off, the doctor, and the child's father, and our friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the check myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine." "Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson. "I see you feel as I do," said Mr. Enfield. "Yes, it's a bad story. For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good. Black-mail, I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black-Mail House is what I call that place with the door, in consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all," he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing. From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: "And you don't know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?" 8) "A likely place, isn't it?" returned Mr. Enfield. "But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other." "And you never asked about the--place with the door?" said Mr. Utterson. "No, sir: I had a delicacy," was the reply. "I feel very strongly about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of judgment. You start a question, and it's like starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own back-garden and the family have to change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask." "A very good rule, too," said the lawyer. "But I have studied the place for myself," continued Mr. Enfield. "It seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they're clean. And then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must live there. And yet it's not so sure; for the buildings are so packed together about that court, that it's hard to say where one ends and another begins." 9) The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then, "Enfield," said Mr. Utterson, "that's a good rule of yours." "Yes, I think it is," returned Enfield. "But for all that," continued the lawyer, "there's one point I want to ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child." "Well," said Mr. Enfield, "I can't see what harm it would do. It was a man of the name of Hyde." "H'm," said Mr. Utterson. "What sort of a man is he to see?" "He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn't specify the point. He's an extraordinary-looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can't describe him. And it's not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment." Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a weight of consideration. "You are sure he used a key?" he inquired at last. "My dear sir..." began Enfield, surprised out of himself. 10) "Yes, I know," said Utterson; "I know it must seem strange. The fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have been inexact in any point, you had better correct it." "I think you might have warned me," returned the other, with a touch of sullenness. "But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The fellow had a key; and what's more, he has it still. I saw him use it, not a week ago." Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man presently resumed. "Here is another lesson to say nothing," said he. "I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to this again." "With all my heart," said the lawyer. "I shake hands on that, Richard." ----------CHAPTER 3--------- DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE A FORTNIGHT later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, all intelligent, reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so contrived that he remained behind after the others had departed. This was no new arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of times. Where Utterson was liked, he was liked well. Hosts loved to detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and the loose-tongued had already their foot on the threshold; they liked to sit a while in his unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering their minds in the man's rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. To this rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite side of the fire--a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a slyish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness--you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson a sincere and warm affection. 25) "I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll," began the latter. "You know that will of yours?" A close observer might have gathered that the topic was distasteful; but the doctor carried it off gaily. "My poor Utterson," said he, "you are unfortunate in such a client. I never saw a man so distressed as you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at what he called my scientific heresies. Oh, I know he's a good fellow--you needn't frown--an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see more of him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant, blatant pedant. I was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon." "You know I never approved of it," pursued Utterson, ruthlessly disregarding the fresh topic. "My will? Yes, certainly, I know that," said the doctor, a trifle sharply. "You have told me so." "Well, I tell you so again," continued the lawyer. "I have been learning something of young Hyde." The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and there came a blackness about his eyes. "I do not care to hear more," said he. "This is a matter I thought we had agreed to drop." "What I heard was abominable," said Utterson. "It can make no change. You do not under- 26) stand my position," returned the doctor, with a certain incoherency of manner. "I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange--a very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking." "Jekyll," said Utterson, "you know me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a clean breast of this in confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you out of it." "My good Utterson," said the doctor, "this is very good of you, this is downright good of you, and I cannot find words to thank you in. I believe you fully; I would trust you before any man alive, ay, before myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn't what you fancy; it is not so bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. Hyde. I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I will just add one little word, Utterson, that I'm sure you'll take in good part: this is a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep." Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fire. "I have no doubt you are perfectly right," he said at last, getting to his feet. "Well, but since we have touched upon this business, and for the last time I hope," continued the doctor, "there is one point I should like you to understand. I have really a very great interest in poor Hyde. I know you have seen 27) him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. But, I do sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; and if I am taken away, Utterson, I wish you to promise me that you will bear with him and get his rights for him. I think you would, if you knew all; and it would be a weight off my mind if you would promise." "I can't pretend that I shall ever like him," said the lawyer. "I don't ask that," pleaded Jekyll, laying his hand upon the other's arm; "I only ask for justice; I only ask you to help him for my sake, when I am no longer here." Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. "Well," said he, "I promise." ----------CHAPTER 4--------- THE CAREW MURDER CASE NEARLY a year later, in the month of October, 18---, London was startled by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more notable by the high position of the victim. The details were few and startling. A maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone up-stairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in the small hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the lane, which the maid's window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the full moon. It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediately under the window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never (she used to say, with streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became aware of an aged and beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman, to whom at first she 29) paid less attention. When they had come within speech (which was just under the maid's eyes) the older man bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr. Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she had conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling; but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke out in a great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old gentleman took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to the earth. And next moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling his victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. At the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted. 30) It was two o'clock when she came to herself and called for the police. The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter--the other, without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and a gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson. This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of bed; and he had no sooner seen it, and been told the circumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. "I shall say nothing till I have seen the body," said he; "this may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait while I dress." And with the same grave countenance he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body had been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded. "Yes," said he, "I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir Danvers Carew." "Good God, sir," exclaimed the officer, "is it possible?" And the next moment his eye 31) lighted up with professional ambition. "This will make a deal of noise," he said. "And perhaps you can help us to the man." And he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken stick. Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself presented many years before to Henry Jekyll. "Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?" he inquired. "Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid calls him," said the officer. Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, "If you will come with me in my cab," he said, "I think I can take you to his house." It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a marvellous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be dark like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich, lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft 32) of daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The dismal quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful re-invasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer's eyes, like a district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, were of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive, he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law's officers, which may at times assail the most honest. As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating-house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll's favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling. An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were excellent. Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde's, but he was not at home; he had been in that night very late, 33) but had gone away again in less than an hour; there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she had seen him till yesterday. "Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms," said the lawyer; and when the woman began to declare it was impossible, "I had better tell you who this person is," he added. "This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard." A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman's face. "Ah!" said she, "he is in trouble! What has he done?" Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. "He don't seem a very popular character," observed the latter. "And now, my good woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look about us." In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets inside out; 34) lock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt-end of a green cheque-book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the murderer's credit, completed his gratification. "You may depend upon it, sir," he told Mr. Utterson: "I have him in my hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Why, money's life to the man. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the handbills." This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had numbered few familiars--even the master of the servant-maid had only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as common observers will. Only on one point, were they agreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 5, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 5|chapter 6|chapter 7

Mr. Utterson goes immediately to Dr. Jekyll's residence and is admitted by Poole, who takes him out of the house and across a former garden to the "dissecting rooms." They enter, climb a flight of stairs, enter a door covered with imitation red felt and, at last, Utterson sees Dr. Jekyll, "looking deadly sick." He is alone and sitting beside a fireplace in a dim, dusty-windowed room. Utterson asks him if he has heard the news about Sir Danvers. Jekyll says that he heard the paperboys yelling about it earlier. Utterson is firm. He asks only one question of the doctor: Surely his old friend has not been "mad enough" to have hidden Hyde. Jekyll assures Utterson that he will never again set eyes on Hyde, that Hyde is "quite safe," and that he will never be heard of again. Utterson is concerned, however, and betrays his anxiety for his old friend Jekyll. At this, Jekyll takes out a note and asks Utterson to study it and keep it for him. Utterson opens the note. It is from Hyde, assuring Jekyll that he should not worry about Hyde's safety, for he, Hyde, has a sure means of escape. Utterson asks Jekyll bluntly if Hyde dictated the terms of Jekyll's will, particularly the clause that contains the words, "the possibility of Jekyll's disappearance." When Jekyll is seized with "a qualm of faintness," Utterson's mouth grows tight. He was sure of Hyde's part in making the terms of the doctor's will. He asks Jekyll if there was an envelope for the note, and the doctor tells him that there was, but that he burned the envelope. It bore no postmark, however. Utterson tells the doctor that he has had a narrow escape, for Hyde obviously meant to murder the doctor. Jekyll covers his face with his hands, moaning about the horrible lesson he has learned. As Utterson is leaving, he questions Poole about the note that Jekyll gave him: What sort of messenger delivered it? Poole tells the lawyer that there has been no messenger. Furthermore, nothing came in the mail except some circulars. This news alarms Utterson. Clearly, the note came from Hyde. Thus, Hyde must have given it to Jekyll in the dissecting rooms. Utterson leaves amidst the shouting of newsboys, still hawking papers about the murder of Sir Danvers. When he is at last at home, alone except for his head clerk, Mr. Guest, Utterson sits pondering the details of the case. And then, "insensibly," according to the narrator, the lawyer asks Guest, who happens to be a "great student and critic of handwriting," if he will study the note which Jekyll gave him and if he will comment on it. As the clerk is studying the note, he comments that the man who wrote it is "not mad" , but that the note is written in "an odd hand." Just then, a servant enters, carrying an invitation from Jekyll to Utterson, asking the lawyer to dinner. Guest asks Utterson if he may see the invitation and compare the handwriting to the handwriting on the note. After a pause, Utterson asks why Guest is comparing the two specimens of handwriting. Guest tells him that "there's a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical; only differently sloped." When Utterson is alone, he locks the note in his safe. He is horrified. Henry Jekyll, he is sure, forged the note that was supposedly written by Edward Hyde, the murderer of Sir Danvers. His old friend, the doctor, forged a note to cover up for a murderer!

----------CHAPTER 5--------- INCIDENT OF THE LETTER IT was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr. Jekyll's door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden, to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or the dissecting-rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend's quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; 36) and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the doctor's cabinet. It was a large room, fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred with iron. A fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deadly sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice. "And now," said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, "you have heard the news?" The doctor shuddered. "They were crying it in the square," he said. "I heard them in my dining-room." "One word," said the lawyer. "Carew was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?" "Utterson, I swear to God," cried the doctor, "I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of." The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend's feverish manner. "You seem pretty 37) sure of him," said he; "and for your sake, I hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear." "I am quite sure of him," replied Jekyll; "I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing on which you may advise me. I have--I have received a letter; and I am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so great a trust in you." "You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?" asked the lawyer. "No," said the other. "I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed." Utterson ruminated a while; he was surprised at his friend's selfishness, and yet relieved by it. "Well," said he, at last, "let me see the letter." The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed "Edward Hyde": and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer's benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions. 38) "Have you the envelope?" he asked. "I burned it," replied Jekyll, "before I thought what I was about. But it bore no postmark. The note was handed in." "Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?" asked Utterson. "I wish you to judge for me entirely," was the reply. "I have lost confidence in myself." "Well, I shall consider," returned the lawyer. "And now one word more: it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that disappearance?" The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness: he shut his mouth tight and nodded. "I knew it," said Utterson. "He meant to murder you. You have had a fine escape." "I have had what is far more to the purpose," returned the doctor solemnly: "I have had a lesson--O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!" And he covered his face for a moment with his hands. On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole. "By the by," said he, "there was a letter handed in to-day: what was the messenger like?" But Poole was positive nothing had come except by post; "and only circulars by that," he added. This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been 39) written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went, were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: "Special edition. Shocking murder of an M. P." That was the funeral oration of one friend and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it might be fished for. Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town's life was still rolling in through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, As the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside vineyards was ready to be set free 40) and to disperse the fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the doctor's; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr. Hyde's familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery to rights? and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he would scarce read so strange a document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utterson might shape his future course. "This is a sad business about Sir Danvers," he said. "Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling," returned Guest. "The man, of course, was mad." "I should like to hear your views on that," replied Utterson. "I have a document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. But there it is; quite in your way a murderer's autograph." Guest's eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with passion. "No, sir," he said: "not mad; but it is an odd hand." 41) "And by all accounts a very odd writer," added the lawyer. Just then the servant entered with a note. "Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?" inquired the clerk. "I thought I knew the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?" "Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?" "One moment. I thank you, sir"; and the clerk laid the two sheets of paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. "Thank you, sir," he said at last, returning both; "it's a very interesting autograph." There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself. "Why did you compare them, Guest?" he inquired suddenly. "Well, sir," returned the clerk, "there's a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only differently sloped." "Rather quaint," said Utterson. "It is, as you say, rather quaint," returned Guest. "I wouldn't speak of this note, you know," said the master. "No, sir," said the clerk. "I understand." But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night than he locked the note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. "What!" he thought. "Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!" And his blood ran cold in his veins. 42) ----------CHAPTER 6--------- REMARKABLE INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON TIME ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never existed. Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable: tales came out of the man's cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of his vile life, of his strange associates, of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded his career; but of his present whereabouts, not a whisper. From the time he had left the house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on, Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to his way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde. Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his friends, became once more their familiar guest 43) and entertainer; and whilst he had always been known for charities, he was now no less distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was much in the open air, he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as if with an inward consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor was at peace. On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor's with a small party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had looked from one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against the lawyer. "The doctor was confined to the house," Poole said, "and saw no one." On the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almost daily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr. Lanyon's. There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he was shocked at the change which had taken place in the doctor's appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly balder and older; and yet it was not so much, these tokens of a swift physical decay that arrested the lawyer's notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to testify to 44) some deep-seated terror of the mind. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect. "Yes," he thought; "he is a doctor, he must know his own state and that his days are counted; and the knowledge is more than he can bear." And yet when Utterson remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an air of greatness that Lanyon declared himself a doomed man. "I have had a shock," he said, "and I shall never recover. It is a question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir, I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more glad to get away." "Jekyll is ill, too," observed Utterson. "Have you seen him?" But Lanyon's face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. "I wish to see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll," he said in a loud, unsteady voice. "I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any allusion to one whom I regard as dead." "Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause, "Can't I do anything?" he inquired. "We are three very old friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make others." "Nothing can be done," returned Lanyon; "ask himself." "He will not see me," said the lawyer. "I am not surprised at that," was the reply. "Some day, Utterson, after I am dead, you may 45) perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me of other things, for God's sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep clear of this accursed topic, then, in God's name, go, for I cannot bear it." As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll, complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. "I do not blame our old friend," Jekyll wrote, "but I share his view that we must never meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this destiny, and that is to respect my silence." Utterson was amazed; the dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; 46) and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness; but in view of Lanyon's manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper ground. A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, at which he had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room, and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal of his dead friend. "PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE and in case of his predecease to be destroyed unread," so it was emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the contents. "I have buried one friend to-day," he thought: "what if this should cost me another?" And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure, likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as "not to be opened till the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll." Utterson could not trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketed. But in the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of 47) the man Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible. Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept in the inmost corner of his private safe. It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart, he preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable recluse. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off little by little in the frequency of his visits. 48) ----------CHAPTER 7--------- INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW IT chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it. "Well," said Enfield, "that story's at an end at least. We shall never see more of Mr. Hyde." "I hope not," said Utterson. "Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?" "It was impossible to do the one without the other," returned Enfield. "And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll's! It was partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did." "So you found it out, did you?" said Utterson. "But if that be so, we may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him good." 49) The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll. "What! Jekyll!" he cried. "I trust you are better." "I am very low, Utterson," replied the doctor, drearily, "very low. It will not last long, thank God." "You stay too much indoors," said the lawyer. "You should be out, whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my cousin--Mr. Enfield--Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your hat and take a quick turn with us." "You are very good," sighed the other. "I should like to very much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit." "Why then," said the lawyer, good-naturedly, "the best thing we can do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are." "That is just what I was about to venture to propose," returned the doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded 50) by an expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a glimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion. They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes. "God forgive us, God forgive us," said Mr. Utterson. But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on once more in silence. 51)

cliffnotes

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chapter 9|chapter 1 "story of the door"

Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance . . . the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. Mr. Utterson is a wealthy, well-respected London lawyer, a reserved and perhaps even boring man who nevertheless inspires a strange fondness in those who know him. Despite his eminent respectabili-ty, he never abandons a friend whose reputation has been sullied or ruined. Utterson nurtures a close friendship with Mr. Enfield, his distant relative and likewise a respectable London gentleman. The two seem to have little in common, and when they take their weekly walk together they often go for quite a distance without saying anything to one another; nevertheless, they look forward to these strolls as one of the high points of the week. As the story begins, Utterson and Enfield are taking their regular Sunday stroll and walking down a particularly prosperous-looking street. They come upon a neglected building, which seems out of place in the neighborhood, and Enfield relates a story in connection with it. Enfield was walking in the same neighborhood late one night, when he witnessed a shrunken, misshapen man crash into and trample a young girl. He collared the man before he could get away, and then brought him back to the girl, around whom an angry crowd had gathered. The captured man appeared so overwhelmingly ugly that the crowd immediately despised him. United, the crowd threatened to ruin the ugly man's good name unless he did something to make amends; the man, seeing himself trapped, bought them off with one hundred pounds, which he obtained upon entering the neglected building through its only door. Strangely enough, the check bore the name of a very reputable man; furthermore, and in spite of Enfield's suspicions, it proved to be legitimate and not a forgery. Enfield hypothesizes that the ugly culprit had somehow blackmailed the man whose name appeared on the check. Spurning gossip, however, Enfield refuses to reveal that name. Utterson then asks several pointed questions confirming the details of the incident. Enfield tries to describe the nature of the mysterious man's ugliness but cannot express it, stating, "I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why." He divulges that the culprit's name was Hyde, and, at this point, Utterson declares that he knows the man, and notes that he can now guess the name on the check. But, as the men have just been discussing the virtue of minding one's own business, they promptly agree never to discuss the matter again. He is not easy to describe. . . . And it's not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment.

----------CHAPTER 9--------- DR. LANYON'S NARRATIVE ON the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague and old school-companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal surprised by this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could imagine nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of registration. The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the letter ran: "10th December, 18--- "DEAR LANYON, You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day when, if you had said to me, 'Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason, depend upon you,' I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my honour my reason, are all at your mercy; 71) if you fail me to-night I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface, that I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge for yourself. "I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night--ay, even if you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless your carriage should be actually at the door; and with this letter in your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my butler, has his orders; you will find, him waiting your arrival with a locksmith. The door of my cabinet is then to be forced: and you are to go in alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand, breaking the lock if it be shut; and to draw out, with all its contents as they stand, the fourth drawer from the top or (which is the same thing) the third from the bottom. In my extreme distress of wind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I am in error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands. "That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of this, long before midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not only in the fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor fore- 72) seen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be preferred for what will then remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to ask you to be alone in your consulting-room, to admit with your own hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought with you from my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned my gratitude completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an explanation, you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or the shipwreck of my reason. "Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility. Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away like a story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon, and save "Your friend, "H. J. "P. S. I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my soul. It is possible that the postoffice may fail me, and this letter 73) not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that case, dear Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It may then already be too late; and if that night passes without event, you will know that you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll." Upon the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane; but till that was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound to do as he requested. The less I understood of this farrago, the less I was in a position to judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded could not be set aside without a grave responsibility. I rose accordingly from table, got into a hansom, and drove straight to Jekyll's house. The butler was awaiting my arrival; he had received by the same post as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent at once for a locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen came while we were yet speaking; and we moved in a body to old Dr. Denman's surgical theatre, from which (as you are doubtless aware) Jekyll's private cabinet is most conveniently entered. The door was very strong, the lock excellent; the carpenter avowed he would have great trouble and have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the locksmith was near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, 74) and after two hours' work, the door stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took out the drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and returned with it to Cavendish Square. Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly enough made up, but not with the nicety of the dispensing chemist; so that it was plain they were of Jekyll's private manufacture; and when I opened one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple crystalline salt of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned my attention, might have been about half-full of a blood-red liquor, which was highly pungent to the sense of smell and seemed to me to contain phosphorus and some volatile ether. At the other ingredients I could make no guess. The book was an ordinary version-book and contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period of many years, but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year ago and quite abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date, usually no more than a single word: "double" occurring perhaps six times in a total of several hundred entries; and once very early in the list and followed by several marks of exclamation, "total failure!!!" All this, though it whetted my curiosity, told me little that was definite. Here were a phial of some tincture, a paper of some salt, and the record of a series of experi- 75) ments that had led (like too many of Jekyll's investigations) to no end of practical usefulness. How could the presence of these articles in my house affect either the honour, the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his messenger could go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even granting some impediment, why was this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The more I reflected the more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a case of cerebral disease: and though I dismissed my servants to bed, I loaded an old revolver, that I might be found in some posture of self-defence. Twelve o'clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the knocker sounded very gently on the door. I went myself at the summons, and found a small man crouching against the pillars of the portico. "Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?" I asked. He told me "yes" by a constrained gesture; and when I had bidden him enter, he did not obey me without a searching backward glance into the darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, advancing with his bull's eye open; and at the sight, I thought my visitor started and made greater haste. These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably; and as I followed him into the bright light of the consulting-room, I kept my hand ready on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a 76) chance of clearly seeing him. I had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as I have said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his face, with his remarkable combination of great muscular activity and great apparent debility of constitution, and--last but not least-- with the odd, subjective disturbance caused by his neighbourhood. This bore some resemblance to incipient rigour, and was accompanied by a marked sinking of the pulse. At the time, I set it down to some idiosyncratic, personal distaste, and merely wondered at the acuteness of the symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than the principle of hatred. This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his entrance, struck in me what I can only describe as a disgustful curiosity) was dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person laughable; his clothes, that is to say, although they were of rich and sober fabric, were enormously too large for him in every measurement--the trousers hanging on his legs and rolled up to keep them from the ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this ludicrous accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rather, as there was something abnormal and misbe- 77) gotten in the very essence of the creature that now faced me-- something seizing, surprising, and revolting--this fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to my interest in the man's nature and character, there was added a curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the world. These observations, though they have taken so great a space to be set down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on fire with sombre excitement. "Have you got it?" he cried. "Have you got it?" And so lively was his impatience that he even laid his hand upon my arm and sought to shake me. I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy pang along my blood. "Come, sir," said I. "You forget that I have not yet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please." And I showed him an example, and sat down myself in my customary seat and with as fair an imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness of the hour, the nature of my pre-occupations, and the horror I had of my visitor, would suffer me to muster. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon," he replied civilly enough. "What you say is very well founded; and my impatience has shown its heels to my politeness. I come here at the instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a piece of business of some moment; and I under- 78) stood..." He paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his collected manner, that he was wrestling against the approaches of the hysteria--"I understood, a drawer..." But here I took pity on my visitor's suspense, and some perhaps on my own growing curiosity. "There it is, sir," said I, pointing to the drawer, where it lay on the floor behind a table and still covered with the sheet. He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon his heart: I could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive action of his jaws; and his face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for his life and reason. "Compose yourself," said I. He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision of despair, plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, he uttered one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat petrified. And the next moment, in a voice that was already fairly well under control, "Have you a graduated glass?" he asked. I rose from my place with something of an effort and gave him what he asked. He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few minims of the red tincture and added one of the powders. The mixture, which was at first of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small 79) fumes of vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and the compound changed to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to a watery green. My visitor, who had watched these metamorphoses with a keen eye, smiled, set down the glass upon the table, and then turned and looked upon me with an air of scrutiny. "And now," said he, "to settle what remains. Will you be wise? will you be guided? will you suffer me to take this glass in my hand and to go forth from your house without further parley? or has the greed of curiosity too much command of you? Think before you answer, for it shall be done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you were before, and neither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of riches of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan." "Sir," said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly possessing, "you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps not wonder that I hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I have gone too far in the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the end." "It is well," replied my visitor. "Lanyon, 80) you remember your vows: what follows is under the seal of our profession. And now, you who have so long been bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have derided your superiors-- behold!" He put the glass to his lips and drank at one gulp. A cry followed; he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, staring with injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there came, I thought, a change--he seemed to swell-- his face became suddenly black and the features seemed to melt and alter--and the next moment, I had sprung to my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arm raised to shield me from that prodigy, my mind submerged in terror. "O God!" I screamed, and "O God!" again and again; for there before my eyes--pale and shaken, and half-fainting, and groping before him with his hands, like a man restored from death-- there stood Henry Jekyll! What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my soul sickened at it; and yet now when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if I believe it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots; sleep has left me; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the day and night; I feel that my days are numbered, and that I 81) must die; and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that man unveiled to me, even with tears of penitence, I cannot, even in memory, dwell on it without a start of horror. I will say but one thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to credit it) will be more than enough. The creature who crept into my house that night was, on Jekyll's own confession, known by the name of Hyde and hunted for in every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew. HASTIE LANYON 82) ----------CHAPTER 1 "STORY OF THE DOOR"--------- STORY OF THE DOOR MR. UTTERSON the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. 2) "I incline to Cain's heresy," he used to say quaintly: "I let my brother go to the devil in his own way." In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour. No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and would hail with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but even resisted the calls 3) of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted. It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the week-days. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased the eye of the passenger. Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point, a certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It was two stories high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower story and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on 4) the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their ravages. Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and pointed. "Did you ever remark that door?" he asked; and when his companion had replied in the affirmative, "It is connected in my mind," added he, "with a very odd story." "Indeed?" said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, "and what was that?" "Well, it was this way," returned Mr. Enfield: "I was coming home from some place at the end of the world, about three o'clock of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street, and all the folks asleep--street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church--till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the 5) corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the child's body and left her screaming on the ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn't like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a view-halloa, took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had turned out were the girl's own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child's family, which was only natural. But the doctor's case was what struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent, and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question, we did the next best. We told the man we could 6) and would make such a scandal out of this, as should make his name stink from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black, sneering coolness--frightened too, I could see that--but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. 'If you choose to make capital out of this accident,' said he, 'I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene,' says he. 'Name your figure.' Well, we screwed him up to a hundred pounds for the child's family; he would have clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with the door?-- whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts's, drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can't mention, though it's one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the signature was good for more than that, if it was only genuine. I took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole 7) business looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out of it with another man's cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering. 'Set your mind at rest,' says he, 'I will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.' So we all set off, the doctor, and the child's father, and our friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the check myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine." "Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson. "I see you feel as I do," said Mr. Enfield. "Yes, it's a bad story. For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good. Black-mail, I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black-Mail House is what I call that place with the door, in consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all," he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing. From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: "And you don't know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?" 8) "A likely place, isn't it?" returned Mr. Enfield. "But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other." "And you never asked about the--place with the door?" said Mr. Utterson. "No, sir: I had a delicacy," was the reply. "I feel very strongly about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of judgment. You start a question, and it's like starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own back-garden and the family have to change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask." "A very good rule, too," said the lawyer. "But I have studied the place for myself," continued Mr. Enfield. "It seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they're clean. And then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must live there. And yet it's not so sure; for the buildings are so packed together about that court, that it's hard to say where one ends and another begins." 9) The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then, "Enfield," said Mr. Utterson, "that's a good rule of yours." "Yes, I think it is," returned Enfield. "But for all that," continued the lawyer, "there's one point I want to ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child." "Well," said Mr. Enfield, "I can't see what harm it would do. It was a man of the name of Hyde." "H'm," said Mr. Utterson. "What sort of a man is he to see?" "He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn't specify the point. He's an extraordinary-looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can't describe him. And it's not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment." Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a weight of consideration. "You are sure he used a key?" he inquired at last. "My dear sir..." began Enfield, surprised out of himself. 10) "Yes, I know," said Utterson; "I know it must seem strange. The fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have been inexact in any point, you had better correct it." "I think you might have warned me," returned the other, with a touch of sullenness. "But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The fellow had a key; and what's more, he has it still. I saw him use it, not a week ago." Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man presently resumed. "Here is another lesson to say nothing," said he. "I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to this again." "With all my heart," said the lawyer. "I shake hands on that, Richard."

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 4 with the given context.

chapter 3|chapter 4|chapter 5

"The Carew Murder Case" Approximately one year later, the scene opens on a maid who, sitting at her window in the wee hours of the morning, witnesses a murder take place in the street below. She sees a small, evil-looking man, whom she recognizes as Mr. Hyde, encounter a polite, aged gentleman; when the gentleman offers Hyde a greeting, Hyde suddenly turns on him with a stick, beating him to death. The police find a letter addressed to Utterson on the dead body, and they consequently summon the lawyer. He identifies the body as Sir Danvers Carew, a popular member of Parliament and one of his clients. Utterson still has Hyde's address, and he accompanies the police to a set of rooms located in a poor, evil-looking part of town. Utterson reflects on how odd it is that a man who lives in such squalor is the heir to Henry Jekyll's fortune. Hyde's villainous-looking landlady lets the men in, but the suspected murderer is not at home. The police find the murder weapon and the burned remains of Hyde's checkbook. Upon a subsequent visit to the bank, the police inspector learns that Hyde still has an account there. The officer assumes that he need only wait for Hyde to go and withdraw money. In the days and weeks that follow, however, no sign of Hyde turns up; he has no family, no friends, and those who have seen him are unable to give accurate descriptions, differ on details, and agree only on the evil aspect of his appearance

----------CHAPTER 3--------- DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE A FORTNIGHT later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, all intelligent, reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so contrived that he remained behind after the others had departed. This was no new arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of times. Where Utterson was liked, he was liked well. Hosts loved to detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and the loose-tongued had already their foot on the threshold; they liked to sit a while in his unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering their minds in the man's rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. To this rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite side of the fire--a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a slyish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness--you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson a sincere and warm affection. 25) "I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll," began the latter. "You know that will of yours?" A close observer might have gathered that the topic was distasteful; but the doctor carried it off gaily. "My poor Utterson," said he, "you are unfortunate in such a client. I never saw a man so distressed as you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at what he called my scientific heresies. Oh, I know he's a good fellow--you needn't frown--an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see more of him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant, blatant pedant. I was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon." "You know I never approved of it," pursued Utterson, ruthlessly disregarding the fresh topic. "My will? Yes, certainly, I know that," said the doctor, a trifle sharply. "You have told me so." "Well, I tell you so again," continued the lawyer. "I have been learning something of young Hyde." The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and there came a blackness about his eyes. "I do not care to hear more," said he. "This is a matter I thought we had agreed to drop." "What I heard was abominable," said Utterson. "It can make no change. You do not under- 26) stand my position," returned the doctor, with a certain incoherency of manner. "I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange--a very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking." "Jekyll," said Utterson, "you know me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a clean breast of this in confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you out of it." "My good Utterson," said the doctor, "this is very good of you, this is downright good of you, and I cannot find words to thank you in. I believe you fully; I would trust you before any man alive, ay, before myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn't what you fancy; it is not so bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. Hyde. I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I will just add one little word, Utterson, that I'm sure you'll take in good part: this is a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep." Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fire. "I have no doubt you are perfectly right," he said at last, getting to his feet. "Well, but since we have touched upon this business, and for the last time I hope," continued the doctor, "there is one point I should like you to understand. I have really a very great interest in poor Hyde. I know you have seen 27) him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. But, I do sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; and if I am taken away, Utterson, I wish you to promise me that you will bear with him and get his rights for him. I think you would, if you knew all; and it would be a weight off my mind if you would promise." "I can't pretend that I shall ever like him," said the lawyer. "I don't ask that," pleaded Jekyll, laying his hand upon the other's arm; "I only ask for justice; I only ask you to help him for my sake, when I am no longer here." Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. "Well," said he, "I promise." ----------CHAPTER 4--------- THE CAREW MURDER CASE NEARLY a year later, in the month of October, 18---, London was startled by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more notable by the high position of the victim. The details were few and startling. A maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone up-stairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in the small hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the lane, which the maid's window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the full moon. It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediately under the window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never (she used to say, with streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became aware of an aged and beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman, to whom at first she 29) paid less attention. When they had come within speech (which was just under the maid's eyes) the older man bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr. Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she had conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling; but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke out in a great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old gentleman took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to the earth. And next moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling his victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. At the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted. 30) It was two o'clock when she came to herself and called for the police. The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter--the other, without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and a gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson. This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of bed; and he had no sooner seen it, and been told the circumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. "I shall say nothing till I have seen the body," said he; "this may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait while I dress." And with the same grave countenance he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body had been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded. "Yes," said he, "I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir Danvers Carew." "Good God, sir," exclaimed the officer, "is it possible?" And the next moment his eye 31) lighted up with professional ambition. "This will make a deal of noise," he said. "And perhaps you can help us to the man." And he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken stick. Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself presented many years before to Henry Jekyll. "Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?" he inquired. "Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid calls him," said the officer. Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, "If you will come with me in my cab," he said, "I think I can take you to his house." It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a marvellous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be dark like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich, lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft 32) of daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The dismal quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful re-invasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer's eyes, like a district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, were of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive, he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law's officers, which may at times assail the most honest. As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating-house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll's favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling. An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were excellent. Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde's, but he was not at home; he had been in that night very late, 33) but had gone away again in less than an hour; there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she had seen him till yesterday. "Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms," said the lawyer; and when the woman began to declare it was impossible, "I had better tell you who this person is," he added. "This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard." A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman's face. "Ah!" said she, "he is in trouble! What has he done?" Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. "He don't seem a very popular character," observed the latter. "And now, my good woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look about us." In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets inside out; 34) lock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt-end of a green cheque-book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the murderer's credit, completed his gratification. "You may depend upon it, sir," he told Mr. Utterson: "I have him in my hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Why, money's life to the man. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the handbills." This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had numbered few familiars--even the master of the servant-maid had only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as common observers will. Only on one point, were they agreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders. ----------CHAPTER 5--------- INCIDENT OF THE LETTER IT was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr. Jekyll's door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden, to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or the dissecting-rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend's quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; 36) and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the doctor's cabinet. It was a large room, fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred with iron. A fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deadly sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice. "And now," said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, "you have heard the news?" The doctor shuddered. "They were crying it in the square," he said. "I heard them in my dining-room." "One word," said the lawyer. "Carew was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?" "Utterson, I swear to God," cried the doctor, "I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of." The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend's feverish manner. "You seem pretty 37) sure of him," said he; "and for your sake, I hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear." "I am quite sure of him," replied Jekyll; "I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing on which you may advise me. I have--I have received a letter; and I am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so great a trust in you." "You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?" asked the lawyer. "No," said the other. "I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed." Utterson ruminated a while; he was surprised at his friend's selfishness, and yet relieved by it. "Well," said he, at last, "let me see the letter." The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed "Edward Hyde": and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer's benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions. 38) "Have you the envelope?" he asked. "I burned it," replied Jekyll, "before I thought what I was about. But it bore no postmark. The note was handed in." "Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?" asked Utterson. "I wish you to judge for me entirely," was the reply. "I have lost confidence in myself." "Well, I shall consider," returned the lawyer. "And now one word more: it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that disappearance?" The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness: he shut his mouth tight and nodded. "I knew it," said Utterson. "He meant to murder you. You have had a fine escape." "I have had what is far more to the purpose," returned the doctor solemnly: "I have had a lesson--O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!" And he covered his face for a moment with his hands. On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole. "By the by," said he, "there was a letter handed in to-day: what was the messenger like?" But Poole was positive nothing had come except by post; "and only circulars by that," he added. This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been 39) written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went, were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: "Special edition. Shocking murder of an M. P." That was the funeral oration of one friend and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it might be fished for. Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town's life was still rolling in through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, As the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside vineyards was ready to be set free 40) and to disperse the fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the doctor's; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr. Hyde's familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery to rights? and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he would scarce read so strange a document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utterson might shape his future course. "This is a sad business about Sir Danvers," he said. "Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling," returned Guest. "The man, of course, was mad." "I should like to hear your views on that," replied Utterson. "I have a document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. But there it is; quite in your way a murderer's autograph." Guest's eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with passion. "No, sir," he said: "not mad; but it is an odd hand." 41) "And by all accounts a very odd writer," added the lawyer. Just then the servant entered with a note. "Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?" inquired the clerk. "I thought I knew the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?" "Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?" "One moment. I thank you, sir"; and the clerk laid the two sheets of paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. "Thank you, sir," he said at last, returning both; "it's a very interesting autograph." There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself. "Why did you compare them, Guest?" he inquired suddenly. "Well, sir," returned the clerk, "there's a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only differently sloped." "Rather quaint," said Utterson. "It is, as you say, rather quaint," returned Guest. "I wouldn't speak of this note, you know," said the master. "No, sir," said the clerk. "I understand." But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night than he locked the note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. "What!" he thought. "Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!" And his blood ran cold in his veins. 42)

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 9 "dr. lanyon's narrative" using the context provided.

chapter 6|chapter 7|chapter 9 "dr. lanyon's narrative"

He put the glass to his lips, and drank at one gulp. . . . there before my eyes . . . there stood Henry Jekyll! This chapter constitutes a word-for-word transcription of the letter Lanyon intends Utterson to open after Lanyon's and Jekyll's deaths. Lanyon writes that after Jekyll's last dinner party, he received a strange letter from Jekyll. The letter asked Lanyon to go to Jekyll's home and, with the help of Poole, break into the upper room--or "cabinet"--of Jekyll's laboratory. The letter instructed Lanyon then to remove a specific drawer and all its contents from the laboratory, return with this drawer to his own home, and wait for a man who would come to claim it precisely at midnight. The letter seemed to Lanyon to have been written in a mood of desperation. It offered no explanation for the orders it gave but promised Lanyon that if he did as it bade, he would soon understand everything. Lanyon duly went to Jekyll's home, where Poole and a locksmith met him. The locksmith broke into the lab, and Lanyon returned home with the drawer. Within the drawer, Lanyon found several vials, one containing what seemed to be salt and another holding a peculiar red liquid. The drawer also contained a notebook recording what seemed to be years of experiments, with little notations such as "double" or "total failure!!!" scattered amid a long list of dates. However, the notebooks offered no hints as to what the experiments involved. Lanyon waited for his visitor, increasingly certain that Jekyll must be insane. As promised, at the stroke of midnight, a small, evil-looking man appeared, dressed in clothes much too large for him. It was, of course, Mr. Hyde, but Lanyon, never having seen the man before, did not recognize him. Hyde seemed nervous and excited. He avoided polite conversation, interested only in the contents of the drawer. Lanyon directed him to it, and Hyde then asked for a graduated glass. In it, he mixed the ingredients from the drawer to form a purple liquid, which then became green. Hyde paused and asked Lanyon whether he should leave and take the glass with him, or whether he should stay and drink it in front of Lanyon, allowing the doctor to witness something that he claimed would "stagger the unbelief of Satan." Lanyon, irritated, declared that he had already become so involved in the matter that he wanted to see the end of it. Taking up the glass, Hyde told Lanyon that his skepticism of "transcendental medicine" would now be disproved. Before Lanyon's eyes, the deformed man drank the glass in one gulp and then seemed to swell, his body expanding, his face melting and shifting, until, shockingly, Hyde was gone and Dr. Jekyll stood in his place. Lanyon here ends his letter, stating that what Jekyll told him afterward is too shocking to repeat and that the horror of the event has so wrecked his constitution that he will soon die.

----------CHAPTER 6--------- REMARKABLE INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON TIME ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never existed. Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable: tales came out of the man's cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of his vile life, of his strange associates, of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded his career; but of his present whereabouts, not a whisper. From the time he had left the house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on, Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to his way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde. Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his friends, became once more their familiar guest 43) and entertainer; and whilst he had always been known for charities, he was now no less distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was much in the open air, he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as if with an inward consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor was at peace. On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor's with a small party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had looked from one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against the lawyer. "The doctor was confined to the house," Poole said, "and saw no one." On the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almost daily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr. Lanyon's. There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he was shocked at the change which had taken place in the doctor's appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly balder and older; and yet it was not so much, these tokens of a swift physical decay that arrested the lawyer's notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to testify to 44) some deep-seated terror of the mind. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect. "Yes," he thought; "he is a doctor, he must know his own state and that his days are counted; and the knowledge is more than he can bear." And yet when Utterson remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an air of greatness that Lanyon declared himself a doomed man. "I have had a shock," he said, "and I shall never recover. It is a question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir, I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more glad to get away." "Jekyll is ill, too," observed Utterson. "Have you seen him?" But Lanyon's face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. "I wish to see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll," he said in a loud, unsteady voice. "I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any allusion to one whom I regard as dead." "Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause, "Can't I do anything?" he inquired. "We are three very old friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make others." "Nothing can be done," returned Lanyon; "ask himself." "He will not see me," said the lawyer. "I am not surprised at that," was the reply. "Some day, Utterson, after I am dead, you may 45) perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me of other things, for God's sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep clear of this accursed topic, then, in God's name, go, for I cannot bear it." As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll, complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. "I do not blame our old friend," Jekyll wrote, "but I share his view that we must never meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this destiny, and that is to respect my silence." Utterson was amazed; the dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; 46) and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness; but in view of Lanyon's manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper ground. A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, at which he had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room, and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal of his dead friend. "PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE and in case of his predecease to be destroyed unread," so it was emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the contents. "I have buried one friend to-day," he thought: "what if this should cost me another?" And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure, likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as "not to be opened till the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll." Utterson could not trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketed. But in the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of 47) the man Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible. Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept in the inmost corner of his private safe. It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart, he preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable recluse. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off little by little in the frequency of his visits. 48) ----------CHAPTER 7--------- INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW IT chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it. "Well," said Enfield, "that story's at an end at least. We shall never see more of Mr. Hyde." "I hope not," said Utterson. "Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?" "It was impossible to do the one without the other," returned Enfield. "And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll's! It was partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did." "So you found it out, did you?" said Utterson. "But if that be so, we may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him good." 49) The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll. "What! Jekyll!" he cried. "I trust you are better." "I am very low, Utterson," replied the doctor, drearily, "very low. It will not last long, thank God." "You stay too much indoors," said the lawyer. "You should be out, whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my cousin--Mr. Enfield--Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your hat and take a quick turn with us." "You are very good," sighed the other. "I should like to very much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit." "Why then," said the lawyer, good-naturedly, "the best thing we can do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are." "That is just what I was about to venture to propose," returned the doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded 50) by an expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a glimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion. They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes. "God forgive us, God forgive us," said Mr. Utterson. But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on once more in silence. 51) ----------CHAPTER 9 "DR. LANYON'S NARRATIVE"--------- DR. LANYON'S NARRATIVE ON the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague and old school-companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal surprised by this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could imagine nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of registration. The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the letter ran: "10th December, 18--- "DEAR LANYON, You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day when, if you had said to me, 'Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason, depend upon you,' I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my honour my reason, are all at your mercy; 71) if you fail me to-night I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface, that I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge for yourself. "I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night--ay, even if you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless your carriage should be actually at the door; and with this letter in your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my butler, has his orders; you will find, him waiting your arrival with a locksmith. The door of my cabinet is then to be forced: and you are to go in alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand, breaking the lock if it be shut; and to draw out, with all its contents as they stand, the fourth drawer from the top or (which is the same thing) the third from the bottom. In my extreme distress of wind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I am in error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands. "That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of this, long before midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not only in the fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor fore- 72) seen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be preferred for what will then remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to ask you to be alone in your consulting-room, to admit with your own hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought with you from my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned my gratitude completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an explanation, you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or the shipwreck of my reason. "Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility. Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away like a story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon, and save "Your friend, "H. J. "P. S. I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my soul. It is possible that the postoffice may fail me, and this letter 73) not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that case, dear Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It may then already be too late; and if that night passes without event, you will know that you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll." Upon the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane; but till that was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound to do as he requested. The less I understood of this farrago, the less I was in a position to judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded could not be set aside without a grave responsibility. I rose accordingly from table, got into a hansom, and drove straight to Jekyll's house. The butler was awaiting my arrival; he had received by the same post as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent at once for a locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen came while we were yet speaking; and we moved in a body to old Dr. Denman's surgical theatre, from which (as you are doubtless aware) Jekyll's private cabinet is most conveniently entered. The door was very strong, the lock excellent; the carpenter avowed he would have great trouble and have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the locksmith was near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, 74) and after two hours' work, the door stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took out the drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and returned with it to Cavendish Square. Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly enough made up, but not with the nicety of the dispensing chemist; so that it was plain they were of Jekyll's private manufacture; and when I opened one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple crystalline salt of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned my attention, might have been about half-full of a blood-red liquor, which was highly pungent to the sense of smell and seemed to me to contain phosphorus and some volatile ether. At the other ingredients I could make no guess. The book was an ordinary version-book and contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period of many years, but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year ago and quite abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date, usually no more than a single word: "double" occurring perhaps six times in a total of several hundred entries; and once very early in the list and followed by several marks of exclamation, "total failure!!!" All this, though it whetted my curiosity, told me little that was definite. Here were a phial of some tincture, a paper of some salt, and the record of a series of experi- 75) ments that had led (like too many of Jekyll's investigations) to no end of practical usefulness. How could the presence of these articles in my house affect either the honour, the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his messenger could go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even granting some impediment, why was this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The more I reflected the more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a case of cerebral disease: and though I dismissed my servants to bed, I loaded an old revolver, that I might be found in some posture of self-defence. Twelve o'clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the knocker sounded very gently on the door. I went myself at the summons, and found a small man crouching against the pillars of the portico. "Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?" I asked. He told me "yes" by a constrained gesture; and when I had bidden him enter, he did not obey me without a searching backward glance into the darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, advancing with his bull's eye open; and at the sight, I thought my visitor started and made greater haste. These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably; and as I followed him into the bright light of the consulting-room, I kept my hand ready on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a 76) chance of clearly seeing him. I had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as I have said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his face, with his remarkable combination of great muscular activity and great apparent debility of constitution, and--last but not least-- with the odd, subjective disturbance caused by his neighbourhood. This bore some resemblance to incipient rigour, and was accompanied by a marked sinking of the pulse. At the time, I set it down to some idiosyncratic, personal distaste, and merely wondered at the acuteness of the symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than the principle of hatred. This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his entrance, struck in me what I can only describe as a disgustful curiosity) was dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person laughable; his clothes, that is to say, although they were of rich and sober fabric, were enormously too large for him in every measurement--the trousers hanging on his legs and rolled up to keep them from the ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this ludicrous accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rather, as there was something abnormal and misbe- 77) gotten in the very essence of the creature that now faced me-- something seizing, surprising, and revolting--this fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to my interest in the man's nature and character, there was added a curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the world. These observations, though they have taken so great a space to be set down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on fire with sombre excitement. "Have you got it?" he cried. "Have you got it?" And so lively was his impatience that he even laid his hand upon my arm and sought to shake me. I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy pang along my blood. "Come, sir," said I. "You forget that I have not yet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please." And I showed him an example, and sat down myself in my customary seat and with as fair an imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness of the hour, the nature of my pre-occupations, and the horror I had of my visitor, would suffer me to muster. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon," he replied civilly enough. "What you say is very well founded; and my impatience has shown its heels to my politeness. I come here at the instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a piece of business of some moment; and I under- 78) stood..." He paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his collected manner, that he was wrestling against the approaches of the hysteria--"I understood, a drawer..." But here I took pity on my visitor's suspense, and some perhaps on my own growing curiosity. "There it is, sir," said I, pointing to the drawer, where it lay on the floor behind a table and still covered with the sheet. He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon his heart: I could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive action of his jaws; and his face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for his life and reason. "Compose yourself," said I. He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision of despair, plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, he uttered one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat petrified. And the next moment, in a voice that was already fairly well under control, "Have you a graduated glass?" he asked. I rose from my place with something of an effort and gave him what he asked. He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few minims of the red tincture and added one of the powders. The mixture, which was at first of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small 79) fumes of vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and the compound changed to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to a watery green. My visitor, who had watched these metamorphoses with a keen eye, smiled, set down the glass upon the table, and then turned and looked upon me with an air of scrutiny. "And now," said he, "to settle what remains. Will you be wise? will you be guided? will you suffer me to take this glass in my hand and to go forth from your house without further parley? or has the greed of curiosity too much command of you? Think before you answer, for it shall be done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you were before, and neither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of riches of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan." "Sir," said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly possessing, "you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps not wonder that I hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I have gone too far in the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the end." "It is well," replied my visitor. "Lanyon, 80) you remember your vows: what follows is under the seal of our profession. And now, you who have so long been bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have derided your superiors-- behold!" He put the glass to his lips and drank at one gulp. A cry followed; he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, staring with injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there came, I thought, a change--he seemed to swell-- his face became suddenly black and the features seemed to melt and alter--and the next moment, I had sprung to my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arm raised to shield me from that prodigy, my mind submerged in terror. "O God!" I screamed, and "O God!" again and again; for there before my eyes--pale and shaken, and half-fainting, and groping before him with his hands, like a man restored from death-- there stood Henry Jekyll! What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my soul sickened at it; and yet now when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if I believe it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots; sleep has left me; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the day and night; I feel that my days are numbered, and that I 81) must die; and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that man unveiled to me, even with tears of penitence, I cannot, even in memory, dwell on it without a start of horror. I will say but one thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to credit it) will be more than enough. The creature who crept into my house that night was, on Jekyll's own confession, known by the name of Hyde and hunted for in every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew. HASTIE LANYON 82)

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 3: dr. jekyll was quiet at ease, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 1: story of the door|chapter 3: dr. jekyll was quiet at ease|chapter 4: the carewmurder case

Two weeks later, Dr. Jekyll has some friends for dinner. After dinner, when the other guests have departed, Utterson remains, as he often done on previous occasions. Jekyll has a warm and sincere regard for his friend. Utterson talks about Dr. Jekyll's will. Though the topic is distasteful to Jekyll, he hides his displeasure and jokingly sympathizes with Mr. Utterson for having a client like himself. He tells him the last time he saw a man so distressed was when Lanyon took offense at his experiments. Lanyon is a good man, he says, but a "hide-bound pedant." Utterson tries to persuade Jekyll to change his will, but Jekyll turns pale and asks that they drop the topic. When Utterson further presses him, Jekyll says that he cannot make any changes. "My position is a strange one," he says, and "cannot be mended by talking." Utterson asks Jekyll to confide in him and offers his help. Jekyll expresses his gratitude and says that he trusts him more than "any man alive," but that he cannot discuss the matter. Then, to put his friend at ease, he says that he can get rid of Hyde anytime. He again asks Utterson to drop the matter. Utterson is silent a moment, then reluctantly agrees. Jekyll then says that he "has a very great interest in poor Hyde" and asks that, should anything happen to himself, Utterson will ensure that Hyde is provided for. Utterson says that he cannot pretend that he will ever like Hyde, but promises to carry out Jekyll's wish.

----------CHAPTER 1: STORY OF THE DOOR--------- STORY OF THE DOOR MR. UTTERSON the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. 2) "I incline to Cain's heresy," he used to say quaintly: "I let my brother go to the devil in his own way." In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour. No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and would hail with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but even resisted the calls 3) of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted. It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the week-days. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased the eye of the passenger. Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point, a certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It was two stories high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower story and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on 4) the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their ravages. Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and pointed. "Did you ever remark that door?" he asked; and when his companion had replied in the affirmative, "It is connected in my mind," added he, "with a very odd story." "Indeed?" said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, "and what was that?" "Well, it was this way," returned Mr. Enfield: "I was coming home from some place at the end of the world, about three o'clock of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street, and all the folks asleep--street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church--till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the 5) corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the child's body and left her screaming on the ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn't like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a view-halloa, took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had turned out were the girl's own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child's family, which was only natural. But the doctor's case was what struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent, and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question, we did the next best. We told the man we could 6) and would make such a scandal out of this, as should make his name stink from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black, sneering coolness--frightened too, I could see that--but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. 'If you choose to make capital out of this accident,' said he, 'I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene,' says he. 'Name your figure.' Well, we screwed him up to a hundred pounds for the child's family; he would have clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with the door?-- whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts's, drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can't mention, though it's one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the signature was good for more than that, if it was only genuine. I took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole 7) business looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out of it with another man's cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering. 'Set your mind at rest,' says he, 'I will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.' So we all set off, the doctor, and the child's father, and our friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the check myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine." "Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson. "I see you feel as I do," said Mr. Enfield. "Yes, it's a bad story. For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good. Black-mail, I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black-Mail House is what I call that place with the door, in consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all," he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing. From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: "And you don't know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?" 8) "A likely place, isn't it?" returned Mr. Enfield. "But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other." "And you never asked about the--place with the door?" said Mr. Utterson. "No, sir: I had a delicacy," was the reply. "I feel very strongly about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of judgment. You start a question, and it's like starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own back-garden and the family have to change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask." "A very good rule, too," said the lawyer. "But I have studied the place for myself," continued Mr. Enfield. "It seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they're clean. And then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must live there. And yet it's not so sure; for the buildings are so packed together about that court, that it's hard to say where one ends and another begins." 9) The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then, "Enfield," said Mr. Utterson, "that's a good rule of yours." "Yes, I think it is," returned Enfield. "But for all that," continued the lawyer, "there's one point I want to ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child." "Well," said Mr. Enfield, "I can't see what harm it would do. It was a man of the name of Hyde." "H'm," said Mr. Utterson. "What sort of a man is he to see?" "He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn't specify the point. He's an extraordinary-looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can't describe him. And it's not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment." Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a weight of consideration. "You are sure he used a key?" he inquired at last. "My dear sir..." began Enfield, surprised out of himself. 10) "Yes, I know," said Utterson; "I know it must seem strange. The fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have been inexact in any point, you had better correct it." "I think you might have warned me," returned the other, with a touch of sullenness. "But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The fellow had a key; and what's more, he has it still. I saw him use it, not a week ago." Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man presently resumed. "Here is another lesson to say nothing," said he. "I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to this again." "With all my heart," said the lawyer. "I shake hands on that, Richard." ----------CHAPTER 3: DR. JEKYLL WAS QUIET AT EASE--------- DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE A FORTNIGHT later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, all intelligent, reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so contrived that he remained behind after the others had departed. This was no new arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of times. Where Utterson was liked, he was liked well. Hosts loved to detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and the loose-tongued had already their foot on the threshold; they liked to sit a while in his unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering their minds in the man's rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. To this rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite side of the fire--a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a slyish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness--you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson a sincere and warm affection. 25) "I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll," began the latter. "You know that will of yours?" A close observer might have gathered that the topic was distasteful; but the doctor carried it off gaily. "My poor Utterson," said he, "you are unfortunate in such a client. I never saw a man so distressed as you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at what he called my scientific heresies. Oh, I know he's a good fellow--you needn't frown--an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see more of him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant, blatant pedant. I was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon." "You know I never approved of it," pursued Utterson, ruthlessly disregarding the fresh topic. "My will? Yes, certainly, I know that," said the doctor, a trifle sharply. "You have told me so." "Well, I tell you so again," continued the lawyer. "I have been learning something of young Hyde." The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and there came a blackness about his eyes. "I do not care to hear more," said he. "This is a matter I thought we had agreed to drop." "What I heard was abominable," said Utterson. "It can make no change. You do not under- 26) stand my position," returned the doctor, with a certain incoherency of manner. "I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange--a very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking." "Jekyll," said Utterson, "you know me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a clean breast of this in confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you out of it." "My good Utterson," said the doctor, "this is very good of you, this is downright good of you, and I cannot find words to thank you in. I believe you fully; I would trust you before any man alive, ay, before myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn't what you fancy; it is not so bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. Hyde. I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I will just add one little word, Utterson, that I'm sure you'll take in good part: this is a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep." Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fire. "I have no doubt you are perfectly right," he said at last, getting to his feet. "Well, but since we have touched upon this business, and for the last time I hope," continued the doctor, "there is one point I should like you to understand. I have really a very great interest in poor Hyde. I know you have seen 27) him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. But, I do sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; and if I am taken away, Utterson, I wish you to promise me that you will bear with him and get his rights for him. I think you would, if you knew all; and it would be a weight off my mind if you would promise." "I can't pretend that I shall ever like him," said the lawyer. "I don't ask that," pleaded Jekyll, laying his hand upon the other's arm; "I only ask for justice; I only ask you to help him for my sake, when I am no longer here." Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. "Well," said he, "I promise." ----------CHAPTER 4: THE CAREWMURDER CASE--------- THE CAREW MURDER CASE NEARLY a year later, in the month of October, 18---, London was startled by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more notable by the high position of the victim. The details were few and startling. A maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone up-stairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in the small hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the lane, which the maid's window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the full moon. It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediately under the window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never (she used to say, with streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became aware of an aged and beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman, to whom at first she 29) paid less attention. When they had come within speech (which was just under the maid's eyes) the older man bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr. Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she had conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling; but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke out in a great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old gentleman took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to the earth. And next moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling his victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. At the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted. 30) It was two o'clock when she came to herself and called for the police. The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter--the other, without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and a gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson. This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of bed; and he had no sooner seen it, and been told the circumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. "I shall say nothing till I have seen the body," said he; "this may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait while I dress." And with the same grave countenance he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body had been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded. "Yes," said he, "I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir Danvers Carew." "Good God, sir," exclaimed the officer, "is it possible?" And the next moment his eye 31) lighted up with professional ambition. "This will make a deal of noise," he said. "And perhaps you can help us to the man." And he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken stick. Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself presented many years before to Henry Jekyll. "Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?" he inquired. "Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid calls him," said the officer. Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, "If you will come with me in my cab," he said, "I think I can take you to his house." It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a marvellous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be dark like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich, lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft 32) of daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The dismal quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful re-invasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer's eyes, like a district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, were of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive, he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law's officers, which may at times assail the most honest. As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating-house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll's favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling. An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were excellent. Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde's, but he was not at home; he had been in that night very late, 33) but had gone away again in less than an hour; there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she had seen him till yesterday. "Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms," said the lawyer; and when the woman began to declare it was impossible, "I had better tell you who this person is," he added. "This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard." A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman's face. "Ah!" said she, "he is in trouble! What has he done?" Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. "He don't seem a very popular character," observed the latter. "And now, my good woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look about us." In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets inside out; 34) lock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt-end of a green cheque-book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the murderer's credit, completed his gratification. "You may depend upon it, sir," he told Mr. Utterson: "I have him in my hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Why, money's life to the man. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the handbills." This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had numbered few familiars--even the master of the servant-maid had only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as common observers will. Only on one point, were they agreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 5: indicent of the letter with the given context.

chapter 5: indicent of the letter|chapter 6: remarkable incident of dr. lanyon|chapter 7: incident at the window

Late in the afternoon, Mr. Utterson visits Dr. Jekyll. He is admitted by Poole and led to the laboratory, a part of the house he has not seen before. Dr. Jekyll is gloomily sitting there looking very sick. He holds out his cold hands as a gesture of welcome to Utterson. Utterson asks him whether he has heard about the murder, and Jekyll responds that he has. He tells him that Sir Danvers Carew was his client. He also hopes that Dr. Jekyll has not been "mad enough" to hide Hyde. Dr. Jekyll swears that he is "done with" Hyde: the latter is safe and will not be heard of again. Utterson says that he hopes this is the case, as a trial might sully Jekyll's name. Jekyll then tells him about a letter that Hyde had hand delivered; he is not sure whether he should show it to the police, not because he cares about what happens to Hyde, but because he is worried about his own character. Utterson is surprised at his friend's selfishness, but he is somewhat relieved by it. The letter thanks Dr. Jekyll for his generosity and states that he need not worry about him, as he has a proper means of escape. Jekyll gives the letter to Utterson to do with as he wishes, as he feels that he has lost the ability to make any judgments. When Utterson asks him if Hyde had dictated the terms of the will, Jekyll nods in affirmation. Utterson then tells him he has had a lucky escape, and Jekyll moans that he has learned a terrible lesson. On his way out, Utterson talks to Poole, who is sure that no letters had come, except by post. This concerns Utterson, who believes that the letter may have been written in the house itself, which would make things much more delicate for Jekyll. That evening, Utterson is sitting at home with his head clerk and most trusted companion, Mr. Guest, who is a handwriting expert, pondering whether he ought to confide in him. Finally, he decides to do so: He brings up the murder of Danvers, and Guest remarks that the murderer must have been mad. Utterson then shows him the letter, and Guest, after studying it, says that the murderer was not mad, but had "odd hand." Just then a servant enters with a letter. It is an invitation from Dr. Jekyll for dinner. Guest thinks that he recognizes the handwriting and asks if he may see it. After studying the two notes, he declares the handwriting is quite similar, only differently sloped. Utterson asks Guest not to say a word about this, and he agrees. As soon as Utterson is left alone, he locks the note in his safe. He is terrified to think that Dr. Jekyll has forged a note to protect a murderer.

----------CHAPTER 5: INDICENT OF THE LETTER--------- INCIDENT OF THE LETTER IT was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr. Jekyll's door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden, to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or the dissecting-rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend's quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; 36) and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the doctor's cabinet. It was a large room, fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred with iron. A fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deadly sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice. "And now," said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, "you have heard the news?" The doctor shuddered. "They were crying it in the square," he said. "I heard them in my dining-room." "One word," said the lawyer. "Carew was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?" "Utterson, I swear to God," cried the doctor, "I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of." The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend's feverish manner. "You seem pretty 37) sure of him," said he; "and for your sake, I hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear." "I am quite sure of him," replied Jekyll; "I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing on which you may advise me. I have--I have received a letter; and I am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so great a trust in you." "You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?" asked the lawyer. "No," said the other. "I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed." Utterson ruminated a while; he was surprised at his friend's selfishness, and yet relieved by it. "Well," said he, at last, "let me see the letter." The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed "Edward Hyde": and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer's benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions. 38) "Have you the envelope?" he asked. "I burned it," replied Jekyll, "before I thought what I was about. But it bore no postmark. The note was handed in." "Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?" asked Utterson. "I wish you to judge for me entirely," was the reply. "I have lost confidence in myself." "Well, I shall consider," returned the lawyer. "And now one word more: it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that disappearance?" The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness: he shut his mouth tight and nodded. "I knew it," said Utterson. "He meant to murder you. You have had a fine escape." "I have had what is far more to the purpose," returned the doctor solemnly: "I have had a lesson--O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!" And he covered his face for a moment with his hands. On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole. "By the by," said he, "there was a letter handed in to-day: what was the messenger like?" But Poole was positive nothing had come except by post; "and only circulars by that," he added. This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been 39) written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went, were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: "Special edition. Shocking murder of an M. P." That was the funeral oration of one friend and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it might be fished for. Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town's life was still rolling in through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, As the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside vineyards was ready to be set free 40) and to disperse the fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the doctor's; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr. Hyde's familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery to rights? and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he would scarce read so strange a document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utterson might shape his future course. "This is a sad business about Sir Danvers," he said. "Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling," returned Guest. "The man, of course, was mad." "I should like to hear your views on that," replied Utterson. "I have a document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. But there it is; quite in your way a murderer's autograph." Guest's eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with passion. "No, sir," he said: "not mad; but it is an odd hand." 41) "And by all accounts a very odd writer," added the lawyer. Just then the servant entered with a note. "Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?" inquired the clerk. "I thought I knew the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?" "Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?" "One moment. I thank you, sir"; and the clerk laid the two sheets of paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. "Thank you, sir," he said at last, returning both; "it's a very interesting autograph." There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself. "Why did you compare them, Guest?" he inquired suddenly. "Well, sir," returned the clerk, "there's a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only differently sloped." "Rather quaint," said Utterson. "It is, as you say, rather quaint," returned Guest. "I wouldn't speak of this note, you know," said the master. "No, sir," said the clerk. "I understand." But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night than he locked the note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. "What!" he thought. "Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!" And his blood ran cold in his veins. 42) ----------CHAPTER 6: REMARKABLE INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON--------- REMARKABLE INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON TIME ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never existed. Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable: tales came out of the man's cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of his vile life, of his strange associates, of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded his career; but of his present whereabouts, not a whisper. From the time he had left the house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on, Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to his way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde. Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his friends, became once more their familiar guest 43) and entertainer; and whilst he had always been known for charities, he was now no less distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was much in the open air, he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as if with an inward consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor was at peace. On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor's with a small party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had looked from one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against the lawyer. "The doctor was confined to the house," Poole said, "and saw no one." On the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almost daily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr. Lanyon's. There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he was shocked at the change which had taken place in the doctor's appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly balder and older; and yet it was not so much, these tokens of a swift physical decay that arrested the lawyer's notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to testify to 44) some deep-seated terror of the mind. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect. "Yes," he thought; "he is a doctor, he must know his own state and that his days are counted; and the knowledge is more than he can bear." And yet when Utterson remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an air of greatness that Lanyon declared himself a doomed man. "I have had a shock," he said, "and I shall never recover. It is a question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir, I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more glad to get away." "Jekyll is ill, too," observed Utterson. "Have you seen him?" But Lanyon's face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. "I wish to see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll," he said in a loud, unsteady voice. "I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any allusion to one whom I regard as dead." "Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause, "Can't I do anything?" he inquired. "We are three very old friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make others." "Nothing can be done," returned Lanyon; "ask himself." "He will not see me," said the lawyer. "I am not surprised at that," was the reply. "Some day, Utterson, after I am dead, you may 45) perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me of other things, for God's sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep clear of this accursed topic, then, in God's name, go, for I cannot bear it." As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll, complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. "I do not blame our old friend," Jekyll wrote, "but I share his view that we must never meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this destiny, and that is to respect my silence." Utterson was amazed; the dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; 46) and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness; but in view of Lanyon's manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper ground. A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, at which he had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room, and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal of his dead friend. "PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE and in case of his predecease to be destroyed unread," so it was emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the contents. "I have buried one friend to-day," he thought: "what if this should cost me another?" And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure, likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as "not to be opened till the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll." Utterson could not trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketed. But in the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of 47) the man Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible. Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept in the inmost corner of his private safe. It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart, he preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable recluse. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off little by little in the frequency of his visits. 48) ----------CHAPTER 7: INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW--------- INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW IT chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it. "Well," said Enfield, "that story's at an end at least. We shall never see more of Mr. Hyde." "I hope not," said Utterson. "Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?" "It was impossible to do the one without the other," returned Enfield. "And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll's! It was partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did." "So you found it out, did you?" said Utterson. "But if that be so, we may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him good." 49) The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll. "What! Jekyll!" he cried. "I trust you are better." "I am very low, Utterson," replied the doctor, drearily, "very low. It will not last long, thank God." "You stay too much indoors," said the lawyer. "You should be out, whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my cousin--Mr. Enfield--Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your hat and take a quick turn with us." "You are very good," sighed the other. "I should like to very much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit." "Why then," said the lawyer, good-naturedly, "the best thing we can do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are." "That is just what I was about to venture to propose," returned the doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded 50) by an expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a glimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion. They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes. "God forgive us, God forgive us," said Mr. Utterson. But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on once more in silence. 51)

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 1 using the context provided.

chapter 9: dr. lanyon's narrative|chapter 1

Stevenson's first chapter is a combination of three character profiles added to a brief account of a horrible atrocity. The first description is of Mr. Utterson, the main character and protagonist for much of the story. He is said to possess a "rugged countenance," yet somehow he is "loveable" and well received by all the people he meets. For a more detailed character outline, see the Character Profile section. The second characterization is that of Mr. Richard Enfield, also in the Character Profile section. Despite the busy nature of both man's professions, both never postpone their weekly Sunday afternoon walk through town. Walking one Sunday, the two men pass "a sinister block of building" which interrupts the natural flow of houses on the street. Soon Mr. Enfield reveals to Utterson a very haunting tale which relates to this building. He says that one time in the middle of the night he saw a small girl and a little man converging perpendicularly at the crossroads of a street. Enfield accounts, "Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the child's body and left her screaming on the ground." Soon there is a big scene around the girl's body. Enfield helps catch the little man and brings him back to the corner, where a doctor and the girl's parents have gathered. The man quickly apologizes and tells them he will pay damages, asking them to name any amount of money. Finally the man retreats to the strange house which juts out on the street and comes back with gold and a check to cover the expense of the doctor and other such things. The check is in the name of a well respected man of the community which Enfield refuses to name. Finally Enfield describes the little man, named Mr. Hyde, in such a strangely evil way, the reader is almost overcome by suspicion of this man. Enfield admits, "There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn't specify the point. He's an extraordinary-looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way."

----------CHAPTER 9: DR. LANYON'S NARRATIVE--------- DR. LANYON'S NARRATIVE ON the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague and old school-companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal surprised by this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could imagine nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of registration. The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the letter ran: "10th December, 18--- "DEAR LANYON, You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day when, if you had said to me, 'Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason, depend upon you,' I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my honour my reason, are all at your mercy; 71) if you fail me to-night I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface, that I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge for yourself. "I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night--ay, even if you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless your carriage should be actually at the door; and with this letter in your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my butler, has his orders; you will find, him waiting your arrival with a locksmith. The door of my cabinet is then to be forced: and you are to go in alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand, breaking the lock if it be shut; and to draw out, with all its contents as they stand, the fourth drawer from the top or (which is the same thing) the third from the bottom. In my extreme distress of wind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I am in error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands. "That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of this, long before midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not only in the fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor fore- 72) seen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be preferred for what will then remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to ask you to be alone in your consulting-room, to admit with your own hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought with you from my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned my gratitude completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an explanation, you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or the shipwreck of my reason. "Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility. Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away like a story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon, and save "Your friend, "H. J. "P. S. I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my soul. It is possible that the postoffice may fail me, and this letter 73) not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that case, dear Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It may then already be too late; and if that night passes without event, you will know that you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll." Upon the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane; but till that was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound to do as he requested. The less I understood of this farrago, the less I was in a position to judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded could not be set aside without a grave responsibility. I rose accordingly from table, got into a hansom, and drove straight to Jekyll's house. The butler was awaiting my arrival; he had received by the same post as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent at once for a locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen came while we were yet speaking; and we moved in a body to old Dr. Denman's surgical theatre, from which (as you are doubtless aware) Jekyll's private cabinet is most conveniently entered. The door was very strong, the lock excellent; the carpenter avowed he would have great trouble and have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the locksmith was near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, 74) and after two hours' work, the door stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took out the drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and returned with it to Cavendish Square. Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly enough made up, but not with the nicety of the dispensing chemist; so that it was plain they were of Jekyll's private manufacture; and when I opened one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple crystalline salt of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned my attention, might have been about half-full of a blood-red liquor, which was highly pungent to the sense of smell and seemed to me to contain phosphorus and some volatile ether. At the other ingredients I could make no guess. The book was an ordinary version-book and contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period of many years, but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year ago and quite abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date, usually no more than a single word: "double" occurring perhaps six times in a total of several hundred entries; and once very early in the list and followed by several marks of exclamation, "total failure!!!" All this, though it whetted my curiosity, told me little that was definite. Here were a phial of some tincture, a paper of some salt, and the record of a series of experi- 75) ments that had led (like too many of Jekyll's investigations) to no end of practical usefulness. How could the presence of these articles in my house affect either the honour, the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his messenger could go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even granting some impediment, why was this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The more I reflected the more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a case of cerebral disease: and though I dismissed my servants to bed, I loaded an old revolver, that I might be found in some posture of self-defence. Twelve o'clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the knocker sounded very gently on the door. I went myself at the summons, and found a small man crouching against the pillars of the portico. "Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?" I asked. He told me "yes" by a constrained gesture; and when I had bidden him enter, he did not obey me without a searching backward glance into the darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, advancing with his bull's eye open; and at the sight, I thought my visitor started and made greater haste. These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably; and as I followed him into the bright light of the consulting-room, I kept my hand ready on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a 76) chance of clearly seeing him. I had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as I have said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his face, with his remarkable combination of great muscular activity and great apparent debility of constitution, and--last but not least-- with the odd, subjective disturbance caused by his neighbourhood. This bore some resemblance to incipient rigour, and was accompanied by a marked sinking of the pulse. At the time, I set it down to some idiosyncratic, personal distaste, and merely wondered at the acuteness of the symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than the principle of hatred. This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his entrance, struck in me what I can only describe as a disgustful curiosity) was dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person laughable; his clothes, that is to say, although they were of rich and sober fabric, were enormously too large for him in every measurement--the trousers hanging on his legs and rolled up to keep them from the ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this ludicrous accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rather, as there was something abnormal and misbe- 77) gotten in the very essence of the creature that now faced me-- something seizing, surprising, and revolting--this fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to my interest in the man's nature and character, there was added a curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the world. These observations, though they have taken so great a space to be set down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on fire with sombre excitement. "Have you got it?" he cried. "Have you got it?" And so lively was his impatience that he even laid his hand upon my arm and sought to shake me. I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy pang along my blood. "Come, sir," said I. "You forget that I have not yet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please." And I showed him an example, and sat down myself in my customary seat and with as fair an imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness of the hour, the nature of my pre-occupations, and the horror I had of my visitor, would suffer me to muster. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon," he replied civilly enough. "What you say is very well founded; and my impatience has shown its heels to my politeness. I come here at the instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a piece of business of some moment; and I under- 78) stood..." He paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his collected manner, that he was wrestling against the approaches of the hysteria--"I understood, a drawer..." But here I took pity on my visitor's suspense, and some perhaps on my own growing curiosity. "There it is, sir," said I, pointing to the drawer, where it lay on the floor behind a table and still covered with the sheet. He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon his heart: I could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive action of his jaws; and his face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for his life and reason. "Compose yourself," said I. He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision of despair, plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, he uttered one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat petrified. And the next moment, in a voice that was already fairly well under control, "Have you a graduated glass?" he asked. I rose from my place with something of an effort and gave him what he asked. He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few minims of the red tincture and added one of the powders. The mixture, which was at first of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small 79) fumes of vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and the compound changed to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to a watery green. My visitor, who had watched these metamorphoses with a keen eye, smiled, set down the glass upon the table, and then turned and looked upon me with an air of scrutiny. "And now," said he, "to settle what remains. Will you be wise? will you be guided? will you suffer me to take this glass in my hand and to go forth from your house without further parley? or has the greed of curiosity too much command of you? Think before you answer, for it shall be done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you were before, and neither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of riches of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan." "Sir," said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly possessing, "you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps not wonder that I hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I have gone too far in the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the end." "It is well," replied my visitor. "Lanyon, 80) you remember your vows: what follows is under the seal of our profession. And now, you who have so long been bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have derided your superiors-- behold!" He put the glass to his lips and drank at one gulp. A cry followed; he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, staring with injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there came, I thought, a change--he seemed to swell-- his face became suddenly black and the features seemed to melt and alter--and the next moment, I had sprung to my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arm raised to shield me from that prodigy, my mind submerged in terror. "O God!" I screamed, and "O God!" again and again; for there before my eyes--pale and shaken, and half-fainting, and groping before him with his hands, like a man restored from death-- there stood Henry Jekyll! What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my soul sickened at it; and yet now when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if I believe it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots; sleep has left me; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the day and night; I feel that my days are numbered, and that I 81) must die; and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that man unveiled to me, even with tears of penitence, I cannot, even in memory, dwell on it without a start of horror. I will say but one thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to credit it) will be more than enough. The creature who crept into my house that night was, on Jekyll's own confession, known by the name of Hyde and hunted for in every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew. HASTIE LANYON 82) ----------CHAPTER 1--------- STORY OF THE DOOR MR. UTTERSON the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. 2) "I incline to Cain's heresy," he used to say quaintly: "I let my brother go to the devil in his own way." In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour. No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and would hail with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but even resisted the calls 3) of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted. It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the week-days. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased the eye of the passenger. Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point, a certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It was two stories high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower story and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on 4) the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their ravages. Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and pointed. "Did you ever remark that door?" he asked; and when his companion had replied in the affirmative, "It is connected in my mind," added he, "with a very odd story." "Indeed?" said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, "and what was that?" "Well, it was this way," returned Mr. Enfield: "I was coming home from some place at the end of the world, about three o'clock of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street, and all the folks asleep--street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church--till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the 5) corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the child's body and left her screaming on the ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn't like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a view-halloa, took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had turned out were the girl's own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child's family, which was only natural. But the doctor's case was what struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent, and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question, we did the next best. We told the man we could 6) and would make such a scandal out of this, as should make his name stink from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black, sneering coolness--frightened too, I could see that--but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. 'If you choose to make capital out of this accident,' said he, 'I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene,' says he. 'Name your figure.' Well, we screwed him up to a hundred pounds for the child's family; he would have clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with the door?-- whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts's, drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can't mention, though it's one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the signature was good for more than that, if it was only genuine. I took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole 7) business looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out of it with another man's cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering. 'Set your mind at rest,' says he, 'I will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.' So we all set off, the doctor, and the child's father, and our friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the check myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine." "Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson. "I see you feel as I do," said Mr. Enfield. "Yes, it's a bad story. For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good. Black-mail, I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black-Mail House is what I call that place with the door, in consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all," he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing. From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: "And you don't know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?" 8) "A likely place, isn't it?" returned Mr. Enfield. "But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other." "And you never asked about the--place with the door?" said Mr. Utterson. "No, sir: I had a delicacy," was the reply. "I feel very strongly about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of judgment. You start a question, and it's like starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own back-garden and the family have to change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask." "A very good rule, too," said the lawyer. "But I have studied the place for myself," continued Mr. Enfield. "It seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they're clean. And then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must live there. And yet it's not so sure; for the buildings are so packed together about that court, that it's hard to say where one ends and another begins." 9) The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then, "Enfield," said Mr. Utterson, "that's a good rule of yours." "Yes, I think it is," returned Enfield. "But for all that," continued the lawyer, "there's one point I want to ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child." "Well," said Mr. Enfield, "I can't see what harm it would do. It was a man of the name of Hyde." "H'm," said Mr. Utterson. "What sort of a man is he to see?" "He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn't specify the point. He's an extraordinary-looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can't describe him. And it's not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment." Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a weight of consideration. "You are sure he used a key?" he inquired at last. "My dear sir..." began Enfield, surprised out of himself. 10) "Yes, I know," said Utterson; "I know it must seem strange. The fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have been inexact in any point, you had better correct it." "I think you might have warned me," returned the other, with a touch of sullenness. "But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The fellow had a key; and what's more, he has it still. I saw him use it, not a week ago." Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man presently resumed. "Here is another lesson to say nothing," said he. "I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to this again." "With all my heart," said the lawyer. "I shake hands on that, Richard."

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 5 using the context provided.

chapter 3|chapter 4|chapter 5

In this chapter, Utterson goes to the door of Jekyll, is admitted by Poole, the butler, and quickly confronts Jekyll with the news of Carew's murder. Dr. Jekyll's response is quite unusual. Instead of saying that he will do his best to find Hyde, the doctor tries to dismiss the whole situation, saying, "he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of." . Utterson then warns Jekyll that if Hyde is brought before a judge in a trial, the doctor may be accused of concealing the whereabouts of the murderer. Dr. Jekyll dismisses this also, repeating that he is done with Mr. Hyde for good. Utterson leaves Jekyll's home after the doctor gives him a letter written by Hyde to himself. The doctor admits that he's lost confidence in himself and wishes his lawyer, Utterson, to consider the letter. . At home, Utterson invites two guests whom he trusts to help solve this puzzling murder and letter from the murderer. After briefly considering the letter, the three compare the writing to that of another letter, a dinner invitation, written by Dr. Jekyll. Startlingly, they notice that the two letters have remarkably similar writing. This further confuses Utterson, who now thinks that Jekyll is forging the letter from Hyde. For what reason, he isn't sure.

----------CHAPTER 3--------- DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE A FORTNIGHT later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, all intelligent, reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so contrived that he remained behind after the others had departed. This was no new arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of times. Where Utterson was liked, he was liked well. Hosts loved to detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and the loose-tongued had already their foot on the threshold; they liked to sit a while in his unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering their minds in the man's rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. To this rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite side of the fire--a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a slyish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness--you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson a sincere and warm affection. 25) "I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll," began the latter. "You know that will of yours?" A close observer might have gathered that the topic was distasteful; but the doctor carried it off gaily. "My poor Utterson," said he, "you are unfortunate in such a client. I never saw a man so distressed as you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at what he called my scientific heresies. Oh, I know he's a good fellow--you needn't frown--an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see more of him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant, blatant pedant. I was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon." "You know I never approved of it," pursued Utterson, ruthlessly disregarding the fresh topic. "My will? Yes, certainly, I know that," said the doctor, a trifle sharply. "You have told me so." "Well, I tell you so again," continued the lawyer. "I have been learning something of young Hyde." The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and there came a blackness about his eyes. "I do not care to hear more," said he. "This is a matter I thought we had agreed to drop." "What I heard was abominable," said Utterson. "It can make no change. You do not under- 26) stand my position," returned the doctor, with a certain incoherency of manner. "I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange--a very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking." "Jekyll," said Utterson, "you know me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a clean breast of this in confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you out of it." "My good Utterson," said the doctor, "this is very good of you, this is downright good of you, and I cannot find words to thank you in. I believe you fully; I would trust you before any man alive, ay, before myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn't what you fancy; it is not so bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. Hyde. I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I will just add one little word, Utterson, that I'm sure you'll take in good part: this is a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep." Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fire. "I have no doubt you are perfectly right," he said at last, getting to his feet. "Well, but since we have touched upon this business, and for the last time I hope," continued the doctor, "there is one point I should like you to understand. I have really a very great interest in poor Hyde. I know you have seen 27) him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. But, I do sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; and if I am taken away, Utterson, I wish you to promise me that you will bear with him and get his rights for him. I think you would, if you knew all; and it would be a weight off my mind if you would promise." "I can't pretend that I shall ever like him," said the lawyer. "I don't ask that," pleaded Jekyll, laying his hand upon the other's arm; "I only ask for justice; I only ask you to help him for my sake, when I am no longer here." Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. "Well," said he, "I promise." ----------CHAPTER 4--------- THE CAREW MURDER CASE NEARLY a year later, in the month of October, 18---, London was startled by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more notable by the high position of the victim. The details were few and startling. A maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone up-stairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in the small hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the lane, which the maid's window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the full moon. It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediately under the window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never (she used to say, with streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became aware of an aged and beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman, to whom at first she 29) paid less attention. When they had come within speech (which was just under the maid's eyes) the older man bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr. Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she had conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling; but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke out in a great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old gentleman took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to the earth. And next moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling his victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. At the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted. 30) It was two o'clock when she came to herself and called for the police. The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter--the other, without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and a gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson. This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of bed; and he had no sooner seen it, and been told the circumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. "I shall say nothing till I have seen the body," said he; "this may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait while I dress." And with the same grave countenance he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body had been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded. "Yes," said he, "I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir Danvers Carew." "Good God, sir," exclaimed the officer, "is it possible?" And the next moment his eye 31) lighted up with professional ambition. "This will make a deal of noise," he said. "And perhaps you can help us to the man." And he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken stick. Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself presented many years before to Henry Jekyll. "Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?" he inquired. "Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid calls him," said the officer. Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, "If you will come with me in my cab," he said, "I think I can take you to his house." It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a marvellous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be dark like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich, lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft 32) of daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The dismal quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful re-invasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer's eyes, like a district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, were of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive, he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law's officers, which may at times assail the most honest. As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating-house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll's favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling. An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were excellent. Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde's, but he was not at home; he had been in that night very late, 33) but had gone away again in less than an hour; there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she had seen him till yesterday. "Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms," said the lawyer; and when the woman began to declare it was impossible, "I had better tell you who this person is," he added. "This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard." A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman's face. "Ah!" said she, "he is in trouble! What has he done?" Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. "He don't seem a very popular character," observed the latter. "And now, my good woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look about us." In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets inside out; 34) lock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt-end of a green cheque-book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the murderer's credit, completed his gratification. "You may depend upon it, sir," he told Mr. Utterson: "I have him in my hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Why, money's life to the man. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the handbills." This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had numbered few familiars--even the master of the servant-maid had only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as common observers will. Only on one point, were they agreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders. ----------CHAPTER 5--------- INCIDENT OF THE LETTER IT was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr. Jekyll's door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden, to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or the dissecting-rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend's quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; 36) and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the doctor's cabinet. It was a large room, fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred with iron. A fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deadly sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice. "And now," said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, "you have heard the news?" The doctor shuddered. "They were crying it in the square," he said. "I heard them in my dining-room." "One word," said the lawyer. "Carew was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?" "Utterson, I swear to God," cried the doctor, "I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of." The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend's feverish manner. "You seem pretty 37) sure of him," said he; "and for your sake, I hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear." "I am quite sure of him," replied Jekyll; "I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing on which you may advise me. I have--I have received a letter; and I am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so great a trust in you." "You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?" asked the lawyer. "No," said the other. "I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed." Utterson ruminated a while; he was surprised at his friend's selfishness, and yet relieved by it. "Well," said he, at last, "let me see the letter." The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed "Edward Hyde": and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer's benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions. 38) "Have you the envelope?" he asked. "I burned it," replied Jekyll, "before I thought what I was about. But it bore no postmark. The note was handed in." "Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?" asked Utterson. "I wish you to judge for me entirely," was the reply. "I have lost confidence in myself." "Well, I shall consider," returned the lawyer. "And now one word more: it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that disappearance?" The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness: he shut his mouth tight and nodded. "I knew it," said Utterson. "He meant to murder you. You have had a fine escape." "I have had what is far more to the purpose," returned the doctor solemnly: "I have had a lesson--O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!" And he covered his face for a moment with his hands. On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole. "By the by," said he, "there was a letter handed in to-day: what was the messenger like?" But Poole was positive nothing had come except by post; "and only circulars by that," he added. This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been 39) written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went, were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: "Special edition. Shocking murder of an M. P." That was the funeral oration of one friend and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it might be fished for. Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town's life was still rolling in through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, As the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside vineyards was ready to be set free 40) and to disperse the fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the doctor's; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr. Hyde's familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery to rights? and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he would scarce read so strange a document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utterson might shape his future course. "This is a sad business about Sir Danvers," he said. "Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling," returned Guest. "The man, of course, was mad." "I should like to hear your views on that," replied Utterson. "I have a document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. But there it is; quite in your way a murderer's autograph." Guest's eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with passion. "No, sir," he said: "not mad; but it is an odd hand." 41) "And by all accounts a very odd writer," added the lawyer. Just then the servant entered with a note. "Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?" inquired the clerk. "I thought I knew the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?" "Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?" "One moment. I thank you, sir"; and the clerk laid the two sheets of paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. "Thank you, sir," he said at last, returning both; "it's a very interesting autograph." There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself. "Why did you compare them, Guest?" he inquired suddenly. "Well, sir," returned the clerk, "there's a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only differently sloped." "Rather quaint," said Utterson. "It is, as you say, rather quaint," returned Guest. "I wouldn't speak of this note, you know," said the master. "No, sir," said the clerk. "I understand." But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night than he locked the note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. "What!" he thought. "Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!" And his blood ran cold in his veins. 42)

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 6, utilizing the provided context.

Stevenson's sixth chapter continues with a little narrative about the murder of Sir Danvers and the disappearance of Mr. Hyde. Apparently Mr. Hyde was spoken about in the press, which uncovered much of his "disreputable" past. At the same time, "a new life began for Dr. Jekyll." The doctor returned to his normal public image, and seemed to be at peace for over two months. However, when Mr. Utterson calls on Dr. Jekyll, he is not admitted inside. This happens several days in a row, so Utterson decides to go to the home of Dr. Lanyon instead. Lanyon, who Stevenson describes as looking as if he's about to die, has harsh words for Jekyll, saying, "I wish to see or hear no more from Dr. Jekyll. I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any allusion to one whom I regard as dead." A week later Lanyon was dead. Jekyll responds to Lanyon in a written note to Utterson, saying, "I share his view that we should never meet.... I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name." . Soon after Lanyon's death, Utterson gets a sealed envelope from the deceased doctor, saying not to open it until after the death of Dr. Jekyll. Utterson is confused and very suspicious of the letter, but loyally agrees not to open it until the specified time.

----------CHAPTER 6--------- REMARKABLE INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON TIME ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never existed. Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable: tales came out of the man's cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of his vile life, of his strange associates, of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded his career; but of his present whereabouts, not a whisper. From the time he had left the house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on, Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to his way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde. Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his friends, became once more their familiar guest 43) and entertainer; and whilst he had always been known for charities, he was now no less distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was much in the open air, he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as if with an inward consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor was at peace. On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor's with a small party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had looked from one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against the lawyer. "The doctor was confined to the house," Poole said, "and saw no one." On the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almost daily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr. Lanyon's. There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he was shocked at the change which had taken place in the doctor's appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly balder and older; and yet it was not so much, these tokens of a swift physical decay that arrested the lawyer's notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to testify to 44) some deep-seated terror of the mind. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect. "Yes," he thought; "he is a doctor, he must know his own state and that his days are counted; and the knowledge is more than he can bear." And yet when Utterson remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an air of greatness that Lanyon declared himself a doomed man. "I have had a shock," he said, "and I shall never recover. It is a question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir, I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more glad to get away." "Jekyll is ill, too," observed Utterson. "Have you seen him?" But Lanyon's face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. "I wish to see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll," he said in a loud, unsteady voice. "I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any allusion to one whom I regard as dead." "Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause, "Can't I do anything?" he inquired. "We are three very old friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make others." "Nothing can be done," returned Lanyon; "ask himself." "He will not see me," said the lawyer. "I am not surprised at that," was the reply. "Some day, Utterson, after I am dead, you may 45) perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me of other things, for God's sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep clear of this accursed topic, then, in God's name, go, for I cannot bear it." As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll, complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. "I do not blame our old friend," Jekyll wrote, "but I share his view that we must never meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this destiny, and that is to respect my silence." Utterson was amazed; the dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; 46) and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness; but in view of Lanyon's manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper ground. A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, at which he had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room, and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal of his dead friend. "PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE and in case of his predecease to be destroyed unread," so it was emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the contents. "I have buried one friend to-day," he thought: "what if this should cost me another?" And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure, likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as "not to be opened till the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll." Utterson could not trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketed. But in the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of 47) the man Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible. Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept in the inmost corner of his private safe. It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart, he preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable recluse. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off little by little in the frequency of his visits. 48) ----------CHAPTER 7--------- INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW IT chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it. "Well," said Enfield, "that story's at an end at least. We shall never see more of Mr. Hyde." "I hope not," said Utterson. "Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?" "It was impossible to do the one without the other," returned Enfield. "And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll's! It was partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did." "So you found it out, did you?" said Utterson. "But if that be so, we may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him good." 49) The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll. "What! Jekyll!" he cried. "I trust you are better." "I am very low, Utterson," replied the doctor, drearily, "very low. It will not last long, thank God." "You stay too much indoors," said the lawyer. "You should be out, whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my cousin--Mr. Enfield--Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your hat and take a quick turn with us." "You are very good," sighed the other. "I should like to very much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit." "Why then," said the lawyer, good-naturedly, "the best thing we can do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are." "That is just what I was about to venture to propose," returned the doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded 50) by an expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a glimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion. They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes. "God forgive us, God forgive us," said Mr. Utterson. But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on once more in silence. 51) ----------CHAPTER 9--------- DR. LANYON'S NARRATIVE ON the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague and old school-companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal surprised by this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could imagine nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of registration. The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the letter ran: "10th December, 18--- "DEAR LANYON, You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day when, if you had said to me, 'Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason, depend upon you,' I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my honour my reason, are all at your mercy; 71) if you fail me to-night I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface, that I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge for yourself. "I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night--ay, even if you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless your carriage should be actually at the door; and with this letter in your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my butler, has his orders; you will find, him waiting your arrival with a locksmith. The door of my cabinet is then to be forced: and you are to go in alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand, breaking the lock if it be shut; and to draw out, with all its contents as they stand, the fourth drawer from the top or (which is the same thing) the third from the bottom. In my extreme distress of wind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I am in error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands. "That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of this, long before midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not only in the fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor fore- 72) seen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be preferred for what will then remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to ask you to be alone in your consulting-room, to admit with your own hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought with you from my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned my gratitude completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an explanation, you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or the shipwreck of my reason. "Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility. Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away like a story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon, and save "Your friend, "H. J. "P. S. I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my soul. It is possible that the postoffice may fail me, and this letter 73) not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that case, dear Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It may then already be too late; and if that night passes without event, you will know that you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll." Upon the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane; but till that was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound to do as he requested. The less I understood of this farrago, the less I was in a position to judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded could not be set aside without a grave responsibility. I rose accordingly from table, got into a hansom, and drove straight to Jekyll's house. The butler was awaiting my arrival; he had received by the same post as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent at once for a locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen came while we were yet speaking; and we moved in a body to old Dr. Denman's surgical theatre, from which (as you are doubtless aware) Jekyll's private cabinet is most conveniently entered. The door was very strong, the lock excellent; the carpenter avowed he would have great trouble and have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the locksmith was near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, 74) and after two hours' work, the door stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took out the drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and returned with it to Cavendish Square. Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly enough made up, but not with the nicety of the dispensing chemist; so that it was plain they were of Jekyll's private manufacture; and when I opened one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple crystalline salt of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned my attention, might have been about half-full of a blood-red liquor, which was highly pungent to the sense of smell and seemed to me to contain phosphorus and some volatile ether. At the other ingredients I could make no guess. The book was an ordinary version-book and contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period of many years, but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year ago and quite abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date, usually no more than a single word: "double" occurring perhaps six times in a total of several hundred entries; and once very early in the list and followed by several marks of exclamation, "total failure!!!" All this, though it whetted my curiosity, told me little that was definite. Here were a phial of some tincture, a paper of some salt, and the record of a series of experi- 75) ments that had led (like too many of Jekyll's investigations) to no end of practical usefulness. How could the presence of these articles in my house affect either the honour, the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his messenger could go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even granting some impediment, why was this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The more I reflected the more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a case of cerebral disease: and though I dismissed my servants to bed, I loaded an old revolver, that I might be found in some posture of self-defence. Twelve o'clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the knocker sounded very gently on the door. I went myself at the summons, and found a small man crouching against the pillars of the portico. "Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?" I asked. He told me "yes" by a constrained gesture; and when I had bidden him enter, he did not obey me without a searching backward glance into the darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, advancing with his bull's eye open; and at the sight, I thought my visitor started and made greater haste. These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably; and as I followed him into the bright light of the consulting-room, I kept my hand ready on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a 76) chance of clearly seeing him. I had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as I have said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his face, with his remarkable combination of great muscular activity and great apparent debility of constitution, and--last but not least-- with the odd, subjective disturbance caused by his neighbourhood. This bore some resemblance to incipient rigour, and was accompanied by a marked sinking of the pulse. At the time, I set it down to some idiosyncratic, personal distaste, and merely wondered at the acuteness of the symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than the principle of hatred. This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his entrance, struck in me what I can only describe as a disgustful curiosity) was dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person laughable; his clothes, that is to say, although they were of rich and sober fabric, were enormously too large for him in every measurement--the trousers hanging on his legs and rolled up to keep them from the ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this ludicrous accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rather, as there was something abnormal and misbe- 77) gotten in the very essence of the creature that now faced me-- something seizing, surprising, and revolting--this fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to my interest in the man's nature and character, there was added a curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the world. These observations, though they have taken so great a space to be set down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on fire with sombre excitement. "Have you got it?" he cried. "Have you got it?" And so lively was his impatience that he even laid his hand upon my arm and sought to shake me. I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy pang along my blood. "Come, sir," said I. "You forget that I have not yet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please." And I showed him an example, and sat down myself in my customary seat and with as fair an imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness of the hour, the nature of my pre-occupations, and the horror I had of my visitor, would suffer me to muster. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon," he replied civilly enough. "What you say is very well founded; and my impatience has shown its heels to my politeness. I come here at the instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a piece of business of some moment; and I under- 78) stood..." He paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his collected manner, that he was wrestling against the approaches of the hysteria--"I understood, a drawer..." But here I took pity on my visitor's suspense, and some perhaps on my own growing curiosity. "There it is, sir," said I, pointing to the drawer, where it lay on the floor behind a table and still covered with the sheet. He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon his heart: I could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive action of his jaws; and his face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for his life and reason. "Compose yourself," said I. He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision of despair, plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, he uttered one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat petrified. And the next moment, in a voice that was already fairly well under control, "Have you a graduated glass?" he asked. I rose from my place with something of an effort and gave him what he asked. He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few minims of the red tincture and added one of the powders. The mixture, which was at first of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small 79) fumes of vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and the compound changed to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to a watery green. My visitor, who had watched these metamorphoses with a keen eye, smiled, set down the glass upon the table, and then turned and looked upon me with an air of scrutiny. "And now," said he, "to settle what remains. Will you be wise? will you be guided? will you suffer me to take this glass in my hand and to go forth from your house without further parley? or has the greed of curiosity too much command of you? Think before you answer, for it shall be done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you were before, and neither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of riches of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan." "Sir," said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly possessing, "you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps not wonder that I hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I have gone too far in the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the end." "It is well," replied my visitor. "Lanyon, 80) you remember your vows: what follows is under the seal of our profession. And now, you who have so long been bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have derided your superiors-- behold!" He put the glass to his lips and drank at one gulp. A cry followed; he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, staring with injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there came, I thought, a change--he seemed to swell-- his face became suddenly black and the features seemed to melt and alter--and the next moment, I had sprung to my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arm raised to shield me from that prodigy, my mind submerged in terror. "O God!" I screamed, and "O God!" again and again; for there before my eyes--pale and shaken, and half-fainting, and groping before him with his hands, like a man restored from death-- there stood Henry Jekyll! What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my soul sickened at it; and yet now when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if I believe it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots; sleep has left me; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the day and night; I feel that my days are numbered, and that I 81) must die; and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that man unveiled to me, even with tears of penitence, I cannot, even in memory, dwell on it without a start of horror. I will say but one thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to credit it) will be more than enough. The creature who crept into my house that night was, on Jekyll's own confession, known by the name of Hyde and hunted for in every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew. HASTIE LANYON 82)

Emma.volume 1.chapter 10

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volume 1, chapter 10|chapter 10

Emma and Harriet make a charitable visit to a poor family outside Highbury. She tells Harriet that she never wishes to marry because she would have to find someone superior to herself first. She reminds Harriet that, even unmarried, she would never be as pathetic as Miss Bates, for it is a lack of money that makes celibacy contemptible and Emma would still have her fortune. In conversation, Harriet brings up Miss Bates' niece, Jane Fairfax, who Emma dislikes because she is so highly praised. Emma continues to contrive a romance between Harriet and Mr. Elton.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 10--------- Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days."--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury." Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her. "I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father." She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-- "I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!"-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all." "Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it." "I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it." "Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!"-- "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's." "But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!" "That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried." "But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!" "Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm." "Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?" "If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?" "Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death." They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. "Oh! dear, no," said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, "Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves." Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them. "To fall in with each other on such an errand as this," thought Emma; "to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else." Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them. Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail; and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at his friend Cole's, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and all the dessert. "This would soon have led to something better, of course," was her consoling reflection; "any thing interests between those who love; and any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I could but have kept longer away!" They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort. "Part of my lace is gone," said she, "and I do not know how I am to contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string, or any thing just to keep my boot on." Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind it was another with which it immediately communicated; the door between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It could be protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and make her appearance. The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to the point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious. "Cautious, very cautious," thought Emma; "he advances inch by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure." Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event. ----------CHAPTER 10--------- Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days."--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury." Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her. "I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father." She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-- "I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!"-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all." "Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it." "I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it." "Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!"-- "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's." "But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!" "That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried." "But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!" "Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm." "Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?" "If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?" "Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death." They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. "Oh! dear, no," said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, "Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves." Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them. "To fall in with each other on such an errand as this," thought Emma; "to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else." Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them. Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail; and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at his friend Cole's, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and all the dessert. "This would soon have led to something better, of course," was her consoling reflection; "any thing interests between those who love; and any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I could but have kept longer away!" They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort. "Part of my lace is gone," said she, "and I do not know how I am to contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string, or any thing just to keep my boot on." Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind it was another with which it immediately communicated; the door between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It could be protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and make her appearance. The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to the point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious. "Cautious, very cautious," thought Emma; "he advances inch by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure." Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of volume 1, chapter 10 using the context provided.

volume 1, chapter 10|chapter 10

Emma and Harriet make a charitable visit to a poor family near Mr. Elton's vicarage. On the way, Harriet expresses her surprise that Emma has not married, and Emma explains her resolution to remain single. The poor family they assist engages their compassion, but soon the girls' thoughts turn to Mr. Elton, who meets them on the road. Emma attempts to leave Mr. Elton and Harriet together by falling behind, speaking with a child, and pretending to lace her boots. Using the need for new ribbon to lace her boots as an excuse, Emma requests that they stop at Mr. Elton's house at the vicarage, but even though Emma contrives to leave the would-be lovers alone there together, Elton fails to show interest in Harriet. Emma considers him slow but is not dissuaded in her plans

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 10--------- Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days."--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury." Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her. "I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father." She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-- "I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!"-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all." "Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it." "I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it." "Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!"-- "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's." "But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!" "That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried." "But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!" "Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm." "Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?" "If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?" "Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death." They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. "Oh! dear, no," said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, "Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves." Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them. "To fall in with each other on such an errand as this," thought Emma; "to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else." Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them. Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail; and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at his friend Cole's, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and all the dessert. "This would soon have led to something better, of course," was her consoling reflection; "any thing interests between those who love; and any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I could but have kept longer away!" They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort. "Part of my lace is gone," said she, "and I do not know how I am to contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string, or any thing just to keep my boot on." Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind it was another with which it immediately communicated; the door between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It could be protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and make her appearance. The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to the point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious. "Cautious, very cautious," thought Emma; "he advances inch by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure." Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event. ----------CHAPTER 10--------- Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days."--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury." Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her. "I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father." She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-- "I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!"-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all." "Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it." "I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it." "Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!"-- "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's." "But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!" "That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried." "But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!" "Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm." "Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?" "If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?" "Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death." They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. "Oh! dear, no," said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, "Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves." Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them. "To fall in with each other on such an errand as this," thought Emma; "to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else." Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them. Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail; and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at his friend Cole's, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and all the dessert. "This would soon have led to something better, of course," was her consoling reflection; "any thing interests between those who love; and any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I could but have kept longer away!" They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort. "Part of my lace is gone," said she, "and I do not know how I am to contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string, or any thing just to keep my boot on." Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind it was another with which it immediately communicated; the door between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It could be protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and make her appearance. The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to the point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious. "Cautious, very cautious," thought Emma; "he advances inch by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure." Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event.

Emma.volume 1.chapter 11

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 11 using the context provided.

volume 1, chapter 11|chapter 11

Emma's sister and her husband arrive from London with several baby Knightleys in tow. Our narrator presents John Knightley as a smart gentleman and Isabella as a warm wife. Luckily, they're married. It all evens out. In case we haven't mentioned it, Mr. Woodhouse is something of a sympathetic hypochondriac - he's convinced that Isabella and the children must all be getting ill after their journey. Isabella, a bit of a hypochondriac herself, agrees. Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella spend quite a bit of time talking about their favorite doctors. It's fascinating, really. Check it out. Isabella mentions her doctor, which makes Mr. Woodhouse rather nervous. After all, everyone knows that Mr. Perry is the best - and only - good doctor in England. Isabella disagrees. Mr. John Knightley starts to point out how silly the entire conversation is. Emma has to play some quick damage control to avert family feuds. The whole family discusses the mysterious Frank Churchill .

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 11--------- Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma's power to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her sister's family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest; and during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be expected--she did not herself expect--that any thing beyond occasional, fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow or other whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure for them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake; and who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit. He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some of the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless; the sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance on them. Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance. Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man; rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing. He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister, but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma's charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last. "Ah, my dear," said he, "poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business." "Oh yes, sir," cried she with ready sympathy, "how you must miss her! And dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!--I have been so grieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is pretty well, sir." "Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know but that the place agrees with her tolerably." Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air of Randalls. "Oh! no--none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life--never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret." "Very much to the honour of both," was the handsome reply. "And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?" asked Isabella in the plaintive tone which just suited her father. Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.--"Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish." "Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated--which is the exact truth." "Just as it should be," said Mr. John Knightley, "and just as I hoped it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied." "Why, to be sure," said Mr. Woodhouse--"yes, certainly--I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often--but then--she is always obliged to go away again." "It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.--You quite forget poor Mr. Weston." "I think, indeed," said John Knightley pleasantly, "that Mr. Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can." "Me, my love," cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.-- "Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that very windy day last Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night, on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.--If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor." "Where is the young man?" said John Knightley. "Has he been here on this occasion--or has he not?" "He has not been here yet," replied Emma. "There was a strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately." "But you should tell them of the letter, my dear," said her father. "He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--" "My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes." "Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought it--and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th--and began, 'My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on; and it was signed 'F. C. Weston Churchill.'--I remember that perfectly." "How very pleasing and proper of him!" cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley. "I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him. To give up one's child! I really never could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else." "Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy," observed Mr. John Knightley coolly. "But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection, or any thing that home affords." Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important.--It had a high claim to forbearance. ----------CHAPTER 11--------- Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma's power to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her sister's family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest; and during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be expected--she did not herself expect--that any thing beyond occasional, fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow or other whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure for them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake; and who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit. He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some of the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless; the sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance on them. Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance. Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man; rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing. He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister, but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma's charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last. "Ah, my dear," said he, "poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business." "Oh yes, sir," cried she with ready sympathy, "how you must miss her! And dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!--I have been so grieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is pretty well, sir." "Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know but that the place agrees with her tolerably." Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air of Randalls. "Oh! no--none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life--never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret." "Very much to the honour of both," was the handsome reply. "And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?" asked Isabella in the plaintive tone which just suited her father. Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.--"Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish." "Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated--which is the exact truth." "Just as it should be," said Mr. John Knightley, "and just as I hoped it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied." "Why, to be sure," said Mr. Woodhouse--"yes, certainly--I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often--but then--she is always obliged to go away again." "It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.--You quite forget poor Mr. Weston." "I think, indeed," said John Knightley pleasantly, "that Mr. Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can." "Me, my love," cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.-- "Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that very windy day last Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night, on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.--If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor." "Where is the young man?" said John Knightley. "Has he been here on this occasion--or has he not?" "He has not been here yet," replied Emma. "There was a strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately." "But you should tell them of the letter, my dear," said her father. "He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--" "My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes." "Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought it--and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th--and began, 'My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on; and it was signed 'F. C. Weston Churchill.'--I remember that perfectly." "How very pleasing and proper of him!" cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley. "I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him. To give up one's child! I really never could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else." "Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy," observed Mr. John Knightley coolly. "But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection, or any thing that home affords." Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important.--It had a high claim to forbearance.

Emma.volume 1.chapter 14

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for volume 1, chapter 14 based on the provided context.

volume 1, chapter 14|chapter 14

During her visit with the Westons, Mr. Elton continually attempts to be near Emma, who still hopes that she can fix the situation in Harriet's favor. Emma hears more about Frank Churchill and begins to wonder about the possibility of a match between them. Of all the men that she knows, Frank seems to suit her the best in terms of age, character, and condition.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 14--------- Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each. This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost. The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma. Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of "Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!"--Yet he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son," repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward. Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently thought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that if she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends' imaginations. With such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very cross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;--for when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to her, "We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see two more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank. I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a fortnight." Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party quite complete. "He has been wanting to come to us," continued Mr. Weston, "ever since September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices. But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in January." "What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as yourself." "Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off. She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not know the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is--(but this is quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other room. There are secrets in all families, you know)--The case is, that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in two or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point. I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself: but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing." "I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case," replied Emma; "but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe." "Yes--I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at the place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of a temper." Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston, very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.-- Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of: "for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?" "Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world." "My Emma!" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "what is the certainty of caprice?" Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending before--"You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in short, upon her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him." "Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill," replied Isabella: "and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!" Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable. While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying, "And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better." "Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston. "One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her." "But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at all." "My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will be." Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I shall not be satisfied, unless he comes." "He may have a great deal of influence on some points," continued Mrs. Weston, "and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of his coming away from them to visit us." ----------CHAPTER 14--------- Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each. This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost. The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma. Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of "Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!"--Yet he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son," repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward. Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently thought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that if she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends' imaginations. With such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very cross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;--for when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to her, "We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see two more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank. I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a fortnight." Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party quite complete. "He has been wanting to come to us," continued Mr. Weston, "ever since September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices. But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in January." "What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as yourself." "Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off. She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not know the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is--(but this is quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other room. There are secrets in all families, you know)--The case is, that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in two or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point. I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself: but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing." "I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case," replied Emma; "but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe." "Yes--I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at the place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of a temper." Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston, very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.-- Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of: "for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?" "Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world." "My Emma!" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "what is the certainty of caprice?" Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending before--"You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in short, upon her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him." "Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill," replied Isabella: "and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!" Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable. While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying, "And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better." "Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston. "One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her." "But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at all." "My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will be." Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I shall not be satisfied, unless he comes." "He may have a great deal of influence on some points," continued Mrs. Weston, "and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of his coming away from them to visit us."

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for volume 1, chapter 14 based on the provided context.

volume 1, chapter 14|chapter 14

Entering the party, Emma attempts to put Mr. Elton's strange behavior out of her mind, but his constant hovering presence makes her worry that Mr. John Knightley's suggestion that Mr. Elton cares for her may be correct. Meanwhile, Mr. Weston announces that Frank Churchill is due to visit in early January. Emma feels some interest in this news because she has half-seriously thought of Frank as a potential suitor, though she does not anticipate giving up her vow to remain single. Mrs. Weston confides to Emma that she has some anxiety about meeting her stepson, and she fears Mrs. Churchill will prevent him from coming. She and Emma speculate about the situation at Enscombe, the Churchill estate, and Emma wonders why a young man should be so dependent upon the impulses of his guardian

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 14--------- Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each. This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost. The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma. Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of "Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!"--Yet he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son," repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward. Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently thought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that if she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends' imaginations. With such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very cross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;--for when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to her, "We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see two more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank. I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a fortnight." Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party quite complete. "He has been wanting to come to us," continued Mr. Weston, "ever since September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices. But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in January." "What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as yourself." "Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off. She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not know the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is--(but this is quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other room. There are secrets in all families, you know)--The case is, that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in two or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point. I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself: but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing." "I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case," replied Emma; "but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe." "Yes--I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at the place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of a temper." Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston, very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.-- Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of: "for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?" "Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world." "My Emma!" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "what is the certainty of caprice?" Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending before--"You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in short, upon her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him." "Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill," replied Isabella: "and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!" Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable. While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying, "And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better." "Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston. "One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her." "But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at all." "My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will be." Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I shall not be satisfied, unless he comes." "He may have a great deal of influence on some points," continued Mrs. Weston, "and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of his coming away from them to visit us." ----------CHAPTER 14--------- Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each. This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost. The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma. Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of "Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!"--Yet he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son," repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward. Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently thought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that if she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends' imaginations. With such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very cross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;--for when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to her, "We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see two more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank. I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a fortnight." Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party quite complete. "He has been wanting to come to us," continued Mr. Weston, "ever since September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices. But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in January." "What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as yourself." "Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off. She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not know the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is--(but this is quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other room. There are secrets in all families, you know)--The case is, that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in two or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point. I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself: but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing." "I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case," replied Emma; "but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe." "Yes--I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at the place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of a temper." Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston, very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.-- Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of: "for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?" "Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world." "My Emma!" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "what is the certainty of caprice?" Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending before--"You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in short, upon her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him." "Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill," replied Isabella: "and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!" Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable. While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying, "And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better." "Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston. "One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her." "But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at all." "My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will be." Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I shall not be satisfied, unless he comes." "He may have a great deal of influence on some points," continued Mrs. Weston, "and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of his coming away from them to visit us."

Emma.volume 1.chapter 16

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Produce a brief summary for chapter 16 based on the provided context.

chapter 16|volume 1, chapter 16

In which Emma beats herself up for being so, so wrong. How could she have imagined such an unsuitable match for Harriet? And how could she have missed the fact that Mr. Elton wanted her, not her friend? Now that Emma realizes how blind she's been, she vows never to match-make again. Of course, she could set Harriet up with that new lawyer-fellow in town... But that would be breaking her vow. She goes to bed miserable... ...and wakes up pretty much OK. Austen's narrator writes some funny stuff here about the fickleness of youth. Check it out! After all, it's not like Mr. Elton really wanted anything but her money . And Harriet? Well, she's not really the romantic heroine type. She'll get over it.

----------CHAPTER 16--------- The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be miserable.--It was a wretched business indeed!--Such an overthrow of every thing she had been wishing for!--Such a development of every thing most unwelcome!--Such a blow for Harriet!--that was the worst of all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken--more in error--more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been confined to herself. "If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me--but poor Harriet!" How she could have been so deceived!--He protested that he had never thought seriously of Harriet--never! She looked back as well as she could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled. The picture!--How eager he had been about the picture!--and the charade!--and an hundred other circumstances;--how clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its "ready wit"--but then the "soft eyes"--in fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense? Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend. To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying that those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others. Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for. There had been no real affection either in his language or manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or with ten. But--that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry him!--should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!--look down upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no presumption in addressing her!--It was most provoking. Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family--and that the Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his civility.--But he had fancied her in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite. If _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers. The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more. "Here have I," said she, "actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for her;--William Coxe--Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe--a pert young lawyer." She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most dreadfully. To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope. Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of it. It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint him--that Harriet's nature should not be of that superior sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive--and that there could be no necessity for any body's knowing what had passed except the three principals, and especially for her father's being given a moment's uneasiness about it. These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present. The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's absenting himself. It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from them,-- "Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?" These days of confinement would have been, but for her private perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease. ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 16--------- The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be miserable.--It was a wretched business indeed!--Such an overthrow of every thing she had been wishing for!--Such a development of every thing most unwelcome!--Such a blow for Harriet!--that was the worst of all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken--more in error--more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been confined to herself. "If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me--but poor Harriet!" How she could have been so deceived!--He protested that he had never thought seriously of Harriet--never! She looked back as well as she could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled. The picture!--How eager he had been about the picture!--and the charade!--and an hundred other circumstances;--how clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its "ready wit"--but then the "soft eyes"--in fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense? Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend. To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying that those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others. Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for. There had been no real affection either in his language or manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or with ten. But--that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry him!--should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!--look down upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no presumption in addressing her!--It was most provoking. Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family--and that the Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his civility.--But he had fancied her in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite. If _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers. The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more. "Here have I," said she, "actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for her;--William Coxe--Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe--a pert young lawyer." She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most dreadfully. To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope. Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of it. It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint him--that Harriet's nature should not be of that superior sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive--and that there could be no necessity for any body's knowing what had passed except the three principals, and especially for her father's being given a moment's uneasiness about it. These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present. The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's absenting himself. It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from them,-- "Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?" These days of confinement would have been, but for her private perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.

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Generate a succinct summary for chapter 16 with the given context.

After dinner, when tea is served in the drawing room, Elton seats himself on the sofa between Emma and Mrs. Weston. Elton pleads with Mrs. Weston to ask Emma not to visit the sick Harriet until Dr. Perry confirms that Harriet's sore throat is not infectious. Emma is offended and goes to sit with Isabella. John Knightley, who is anxious to return to Hartfield, grumbles about the snowfall. Mr. Weston suggests that everyone stay at Randalls overnight, but Mr. Woodhouse is opposed. He, John, and Isabella go and get in the first carriage. Emma and Elton are left to ride together in the second one. As soon as the second carriage departs, Elton seizes Emma's hand and declares that he will die if she refuses his proposal of marriage. Emma playfully tells Elton that he is mistaking her for Harriet Smith. Elton tells Emma that he respects Harriet as her friend, but he loves only her. He repeats his passionate proposal and urges her to accept it. Emma accuses Elton of being unsteady in his character, but he assures her that his attention is only for her and must not be misconstrued. Emma tells Elton that she had encouraged him to visit Hartfield more frequently because she thought he was interested in her friend Harriet; she denies his charge that she had on purpose encouraged him for herself. Emma is also surprised to learn that he thinks Harriet socially inferior to him. Emma tells him that Harriet would no doubt be disappointed to find that Elton has no interest in her, but Emma clearly asserts that she herself has no intentions of marrying. Emma's firm refusal of his proposal makes Elton feel humiliated.

----------CHAPTER 16--------- The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be miserable.--It was a wretched business indeed!--Such an overthrow of every thing she had been wishing for!--Such a development of every thing most unwelcome!--Such a blow for Harriet!--that was the worst of all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken--more in error--more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been confined to herself. "If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me--but poor Harriet!" How she could have been so deceived!--He protested that he had never thought seriously of Harriet--never! She looked back as well as she could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled. The picture!--How eager he had been about the picture!--and the charade!--and an hundred other circumstances;--how clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its "ready wit"--but then the "soft eyes"--in fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense? Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend. To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying that those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others. Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for. There had been no real affection either in his language or manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or with ten. But--that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry him!--should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!--look down upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no presumption in addressing her!--It was most provoking. Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family--and that the Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his civility.--But he had fancied her in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite. If _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers. The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more. "Here have I," said she, "actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for her;--William Coxe--Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe--a pert young lawyer." She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most dreadfully. To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope. Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of it. It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint him--that Harriet's nature should not be of that superior sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive--and that there could be no necessity for any body's knowing what had passed except the three principals, and especially for her father's being given a moment's uneasiness about it. These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present. The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's absenting himself. It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from them,-- "Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?" These days of confinement would have been, but for her private perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease. ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 16--------- The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be miserable.--It was a wretched business indeed!--Such an overthrow of every thing she had been wishing for!--Such a development of every thing most unwelcome!--Such a blow for Harriet!--that was the worst of all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken--more in error--more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been confined to herself. "If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me--but poor Harriet!" How she could have been so deceived!--He protested that he had never thought seriously of Harriet--never! She looked back as well as she could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled. The picture!--How eager he had been about the picture!--and the charade!--and an hundred other circumstances;--how clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its "ready wit"--but then the "soft eyes"--in fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense? Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend. To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying that those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others. Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for. There had been no real affection either in his language or manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or with ten. But--that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry him!--should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!--look down upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no presumption in addressing her!--It was most provoking. Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family--and that the Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his civility.--But he had fancied her in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite. If _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers. The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more. "Here have I," said she, "actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for her;--William Coxe--Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe--a pert young lawyer." She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most dreadfully. To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope. Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of it. It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint him--that Harriet's nature should not be of that superior sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive--and that there could be no necessity for any body's knowing what had passed except the three principals, and especially for her father's being given a moment's uneasiness about it. These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present. The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's absenting himself. It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from them,-- "Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?" These days of confinement would have been, but for her private perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.

Emma.volume 1.chapter 17

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 17 based on the provided context.

After the snows stop, Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley head back to London. Mr. Woodhouse mourns for their loss. Emma walks over to Mrs. Goddard's, where Harriet is staying. She decides that it's time to break the bad news to Harriet - who takes it surprisingly badly. Maybe she actually has feelings, after all? Harriet goes on a long rant about Mr. Elton's perfections and all the ways in which she's not worthy. We'll just skip over that. Emma regrets the fact that she, Harriet, and Mr. Elton are all stuck in Highbury. Unfortunately for Harriet, Mr. Elton is the current pin-up man at Mrs. Goddard's school - so she has to hear about how hot he is all the time. It sucks to be her.

----------CHAPTER 17--------- Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr. Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor Isabella;--which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness. The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with Mr. Elton's best compliments, "that he was proposing to leave Highbury the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from various circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense--and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be happy to attend to them." Emma was most agreeably surprized.--Mr. Elton's absence just at this time was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it was announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded. She had not even a share in his opening compliments.--Her name was not mentioned;--and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as she thought, at first, could not escape her father's suspicion. It did, however.--Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude. She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other complaint before the gentleman's return. She went to Mrs. Goddard's accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary penance of communication; and a severe one it was.--She had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding--to appear in the ungracious character of the one preferred--and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last six weeks. The confession completely renewed her first shame--and the sight of Harriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with herself again. Harriet bore the intelligence very well--blaming nobody--and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to her friend. Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on Harriet's side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having any thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been too great a distinction.--She never could have deserved him--and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it possible. Her tears fell abundantly--but her grief was so truly artless, that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes--and she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and understanding--really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature of the two--and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do. It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims, was to promote Harriet's comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection in some better method than by match-making. She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts. Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return, as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them. Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence of any body equal to him in person or goodness--and did, in truth, prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend its continuing very long in equal force. If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him. Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of effecting any material change of society. They must encounter each other, and make the best of it. Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs. Goddard's; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself. ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 17--------- Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr. Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor Isabella;--which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness. The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with Mr. Elton's best compliments, "that he was proposing to leave Highbury the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from various circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense--and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be happy to attend to them." Emma was most agreeably surprized.--Mr. Elton's absence just at this time was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it was announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded. She had not even a share in his opening compliments.--Her name was not mentioned;--and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as she thought, at first, could not escape her father's suspicion. It did, however.--Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude. She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other complaint before the gentleman's return. She went to Mrs. Goddard's accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary penance of communication; and a severe one it was.--She had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding--to appear in the ungracious character of the one preferred--and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last six weeks. The confession completely renewed her first shame--and the sight of Harriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with herself again. Harriet bore the intelligence very well--blaming nobody--and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to her friend. Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on Harriet's side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having any thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been too great a distinction.--She never could have deserved him--and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it possible. Her tears fell abundantly--but her grief was so truly artless, that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes--and she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and understanding--really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature of the two--and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do. It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims, was to promote Harriet's comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection in some better method than by match-making. She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts. Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return, as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them. Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence of any body equal to him in person or goodness--and did, in truth, prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend its continuing very long in equal force. If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him. Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of effecting any material change of society. They must encounter each other, and make the best of it. Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs. Goddard's; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself. ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 17--------- Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr. Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor Isabella;--which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness. The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with Mr. Elton's best compliments, "that he was proposing to leave Highbury the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from various circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense--and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be happy to attend to them." Emma was most agreeably surprized.--Mr. Elton's absence just at this time was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it was announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded. She had not even a share in his opening compliments.--Her name was not mentioned;--and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as she thought, at first, could not escape her father's suspicion. It did, however.--Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude. She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other complaint before the gentleman's return. She went to Mrs. Goddard's accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary penance of communication; and a severe one it was.--She had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding--to appear in the ungracious character of the one preferred--and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last six weeks. The confession completely renewed her first shame--and the sight of Harriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with herself again. Harriet bore the intelligence very well--blaming nobody--and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to her friend. Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on Harriet's side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having any thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been too great a distinction.--She never could have deserved him--and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it possible. Her tears fell abundantly--but her grief was so truly artless, that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes--and she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and understanding--really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature of the two--and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do. It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims, was to promote Harriet's comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection in some better method than by match-making. She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts. Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return, as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them. Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence of any body equal to him in person or goodness--and did, in truth, prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend its continuing very long in equal force. If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him. Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of effecting any material change of society. They must encounter each other, and make the best of it. Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs. Goddard's; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself.

Emma.volume 1.chapter 18

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chapter 18|volume 1, chapter 18

Moving on... Frank Churchill still hasn't shown up in Highbury. Luckily, this means that Emma can fantasize about him some more. In fact, the more she thinks about Frank, the more she becomes convinced that he's perfect for her. They share the same friends, they have the same interests . Of course, she's never met the guy. But hey, how important is reality? Mr. Weston is sure that Frank will come soon. Mrs. Weston, however, begins to have her doubts about Frank - which she shares with Emma. Emma and Mr. Knightley get into a spat about Frank's excuses for not coming to visit. Emma plays devil's advocate: even though she secretly believes that Frank must be spineless, she argues that his dependence on his aunt and desire to keep her happy make it impossible for him to disobey her. Mr. Knightley, indignant at the disrespect Frank is showing to his father and step-mother by not coming, argues that Frank is a spineless wimp. We find out that Frank also likes drinking and the ladies. As the argument continues, Emma says some pretty smart things. Too bad she doesn't actually believe them. Mr. Knightley gets all worked up and storms off. Realizing that this is the first time that she doesn't respect Mr. Knightley's opinion, Emma decides that maybe she believes her own arguments, after all. It's amazing what you can talk yourself into!

----------CHAPTER 18--------- Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs. Weston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For the present, he could not be spared, to his "very great mortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant period." Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed--much more disappointed, in fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank's coming two or three months later would be a much better plan; better time of year; better weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner. These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself. Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr. Frank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston's disappointment, as might naturally belong to their friendship. She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of such an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of looking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was taking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making use of Mrs. Weston's arguments against herself. "The Churchills are very likely in fault," said Mr. Knightley, coolly; "but I dare say he might come if he would." "I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come; but his uncle and aunt will not spare him." "I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof." "How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you suppose him such an unnatural creature?" "I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very little for any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who have always set him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural than one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish too. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it between September and January. A man at his age--what is he?--three or four-and-twenty--cannot be without the means of doing as much as that. It is impossible." "That's easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers to manage." "It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want money--he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other. A little while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the Churchills." "Yes, sometimes he can." "And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever there is any temptation of pleasure." "It is very unfair to judge of any body's conduct, without an intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill's temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at others." "There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and resolution. It is Frank Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his father. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he wished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill--'Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience; but I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.'--If he would say so to her at once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposition made to his going." "No," said Emma, laughing; "but perhaps there might be some made to his coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to use!--Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for him!--Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could!--How can you imagine such conduct practicable?" "Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it. He would feel himself in the right; and the declaration--made, of course, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner--would do him more good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do. Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that they could trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his father, would do rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as well as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father; and while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims. Respect for right conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would bend to his." "I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill's situation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been recommending for him; and it might have a very good effect. The Churchills might not have a word to say in return; but then, you would have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through. To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as strong a sense of what would be right, as you can have, without being so equal, under particular circumstances, to act up to it." "Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal exertion, it could not be an equal conviction." "Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his life." "Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the will of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of following his duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty now." "We shall never agree about him," cried Emma; "but that is nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man: I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly, though in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man's perfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him many others." "Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any right to complain. His letters disgust me." "Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else." "I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother's place, but without a mother's affection to blind her. It is on her account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he would have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether he did or no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of considerations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very 'amiable,' have very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about him." "You seem determined to think ill of him." "Me!--not at all," replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; "I do not want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners." "Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and agreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his coming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest--one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak of nobody else." "You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts." "My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of every body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to every body, having that general information on all subjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each; that is my idea of him." "And mine," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "is, that if he turn out any thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What! at three-and-twenty to be the king of his company--the great man--the practised politician, who is to read every body's character, and make every body's talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like fools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point." "I will say no more about him," cried Emma, "you turn every thing to evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here." "Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced." "But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour." "He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another," said Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should be angry. To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the high opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit of another. VOLUME II ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 18--------- Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs. Weston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For the present, he could not be spared, to his "very great mortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant period." Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed--much more disappointed, in fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank's coming two or three months later would be a much better plan; better time of year; better weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner. These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself. Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr. Frank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston's disappointment, as might naturally belong to their friendship. She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of such an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of looking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was taking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making use of Mrs. Weston's arguments against herself. "The Churchills are very likely in fault," said Mr. Knightley, coolly; "but I dare say he might come if he would." "I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come; but his uncle and aunt will not spare him." "I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof." "How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you suppose him such an unnatural creature?" "I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very little for any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who have always set him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural than one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish too. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it between September and January. A man at his age--what is he?--three or four-and-twenty--cannot be without the means of doing as much as that. It is impossible." "That's easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers to manage." "It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want money--he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other. A little while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the Churchills." "Yes, sometimes he can." "And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever there is any temptation of pleasure." "It is very unfair to judge of any body's conduct, without an intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill's temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at others." "There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and resolution. It is Frank Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his father. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he wished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill--'Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience; but I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.'--If he would say so to her at once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposition made to his going." "No," said Emma, laughing; "but perhaps there might be some made to his coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to use!--Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for him!--Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could!--How can you imagine such conduct practicable?" "Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it. He would feel himself in the right; and the declaration--made, of course, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner--would do him more good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do. Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that they could trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his father, would do rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as well as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father; and while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims. Respect for right conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would bend to his." "I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill's situation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been recommending for him; and it might have a very good effect. The Churchills might not have a word to say in return; but then, you would have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through. To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as strong a sense of what would be right, as you can have, without being so equal, under particular circumstances, to act up to it." "Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal exertion, it could not be an equal conviction." "Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his life." "Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the will of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of following his duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty now." "We shall never agree about him," cried Emma; "but that is nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man: I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly, though in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man's perfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him many others." "Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any right to complain. His letters disgust me." "Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else." "I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother's place, but without a mother's affection to blind her. It is on her account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he would have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether he did or no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of considerations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very 'amiable,' have very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about him." "You seem determined to think ill of him." "Me!--not at all," replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; "I do not want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners." "Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and agreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his coming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest--one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak of nobody else." "You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts." "My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of every body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to every body, having that general information on all subjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each; that is my idea of him." "And mine," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "is, that if he turn out any thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What! at three-and-twenty to be the king of his company--the great man--the practised politician, who is to read every body's character, and make every body's talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like fools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point." "I will say no more about him," cried Emma, "you turn every thing to evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here." "Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced." "But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour." "He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another," said Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should be angry. To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the high opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit of another. VOLUME II

Emma.volume 1.chapter 2

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of volume 1, chapter 2, utilizing the provided context.

volume 1, chapter 2|chapter 2

The narrator recounts Mr. Weston's history. His first marriage was to a woman named Miss Churchill, who came from a higher class than his. They had a son, named Frank, but the marriage was overshadowed by the disapproval of Mrs. Weston's brother and sister-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Churchill. When Mrs. Weston died after three years of marriage, Frank was essentially adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Churchill and made their heir. Mr. Weston, left impoverished by the expectations of his first wife, spent the next twenty years of his life rebuilding his fortune. He eventually purchased Randalls, the small estate where he lives with the second Mrs. Weston. The village has always been curious to see Frank Churchill, who writes a kind letter to Mrs. Weston indicating that he will pay a visit to his father and stepmother

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 2--------- Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the militia of his county, then embodied. Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend. Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe. Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could. A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition. It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it. He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern. Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved. Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. "I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life." It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her. She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together. Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay." There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone. There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it. ----------CHAPTER 2--------- Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the militia of his county, then embodied. Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend. Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe. Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could. A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition. It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it. He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern. Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved. Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. "I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life." It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her. She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together. Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay." There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone. There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it. ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 2--------- Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the militia of his county, then embodied. Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend. Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe. Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could. A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition. It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it. He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern. Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved. Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. "I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life." It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her. She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together. Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay." There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone. There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of volume 1, chapter 2, utilizing the provided context.

Mr. Weston is a native of Highbury. He met and married Miss Churchill over the objections of her brother, and she died three years later after bearing them a son, Frank. Weston eventually gave Frank up to his wife's brother and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, to raise, as they had more money and could support him better, and Frank eventually even took the name Churchill. Mr. Weston purchased a small estate in Highbury. He sees his son every year in London, and everyone in Highbury thinks Frank Churchill is one of their own, and all talk about him with pride even though they have never met him. Now with the marriage of Mr. Weston and Miss Taylor, everyone thinks that he will have to come and visit soon to meet the new Mrs. Weston. Instead Mrs. Weston gets a very nice letter from him that everyone in Highbury approves of and cannot talk about enough

----------CHAPTER 2--------- Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the militia of his county, then embodied. Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend. Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe. Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could. A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition. It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it. He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern. Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved. Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. "I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life." It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her. She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together. Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay." There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone. There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it. ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 2--------- Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the militia of his county, then embodied. Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend. Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe. Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could. A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition. It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it. He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern. Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved. Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. "I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life." It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her. She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together. Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay." There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone. There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it.

Emma.volume 1.chapter 3

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of volume 1, chapter 3, utilizing the provided context.

volume 1, chapter 3|chapter 3

This chapter introduces a number of minor characters, including the impoverished Mrs. Bates and her daughter, Miss Bates; Mr. Elton, a local clergyman; Mrs. Goddard, the mistress of a boarding school; and most importantly Harriet Smith, a young girl whom Emma takes under her wing. Emma takes it upon herself to improve Harriet, starting with an adjustment of her choice of acquaintances, specifically the Martin family.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 3--------- Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not unfrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a card-table for him. Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away. After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it would have been a grievance. Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless gossip. Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new systems--and where young ladies for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity--but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's school was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside. These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated. As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion. Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history. She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young ladies who had been at school there with her. She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the acquaintance. She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging--not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk--and yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though very good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell--very creditably, she believed--she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them--but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers. She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of their guests. Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse's feelings were in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health made him grieve that they would eat. Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say: "Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see--one of our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a _little_ bit of tart--a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A _small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could disagree with you." Emma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at last! ----------CHAPTER 3--------- Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not unfrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a card-table for him. Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away. After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it would have been a grievance. Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless gossip. Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new systems--and where young ladies for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity--but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's school was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside. These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated. As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion. Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history. She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young ladies who had been at school there with her. She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the acquaintance. She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging--not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk--and yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though very good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell--very creditably, she believed--she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them--but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers. She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of their guests. Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse's feelings were in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health made him grieve that they would eat. Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say: "Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see--one of our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a _little_ bit of tart--a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A _small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could disagree with you." Emma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at last!

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of volume 1, chapter 3, utilizing the provided context.

volume 1, chapter 3|chapter 3

The Woodhouses give a small dinner party, to which they invite other members of their social circle: the widow Mrs. Bates; her single, middle-aged daughter, Miss Bates; and Mrs. Goddard, the mistress of the local boarding school. Mrs. Goddard brings one of her boarders, Harriet Smith, a girl whose parentage is unknown. Emma admires Harriet for her beauty and for her respect of Emma and Hartfield. She resolves to pursue friendship with Harriet, and to improve the naive girl by detaching her from the inferior acquaintance of the farming Martin family. She plans to introduce Harriet to higher society

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 3--------- Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not unfrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a card-table for him. Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away. After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it would have been a grievance. Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless gossip. Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new systems--and where young ladies for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity--but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's school was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside. These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated. As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion. Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history. She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young ladies who had been at school there with her. She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the acquaintance. She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging--not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk--and yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though very good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell--very creditably, she believed--she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them--but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers. She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of their guests. Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse's feelings were in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health made him grieve that they would eat. Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say: "Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see--one of our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a _little_ bit of tart--a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A _small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could disagree with you." Emma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at last! ----------CHAPTER 3--------- Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not unfrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a card-table for him. Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away. After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it would have been a grievance. Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless gossip. Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new systems--and where young ladies for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity--but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's school was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside. These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated. As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion. Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history. She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young ladies who had been at school there with her. She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the acquaintance. She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging--not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk--and yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though very good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell--very creditably, she believed--she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them--but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers. She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of their guests. Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse's feelings were in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health made him grieve that they would eat. Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say: "Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see--one of our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a _little_ bit of tart--a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A _small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could disagree with you." Emma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at last!

Emma.volume 1.chapter 5

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of volume 1, chapter 5, utilizing the provided context.

volume 1, chapter 5|chapter 5

Mr. Knightley and Mrs. Weston discuss Emma's new friendship with Harriet Smith. Mrs. Weston approves of the friendship, believing that it will be beneficial to both. Mr. Knightley, on the other hand, believes that Harriet will do nothing to stimulate Emma on an intellectual level. More over, Harriet will do nothing but flatter her, something with which Emma is already well-acquainted. Mrs. Weston's position as a governess was ideal preparation, Mr. Knightley argues, because it trained her to think of others and often submit her own will. Still, he praises Emma for her beauty when Mrs. Weston presses him.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 5--------- "I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley, "of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing." "A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?" "I think they will neither of them do the other any good." "You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently we feel!--Not think they will do each other any good! This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr. Knightley." "Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle." "Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know." "Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists they were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.--You never could persuade her to read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not." "I dare say," replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so _then_;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting to do any thing I wished." "There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,"--said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. "But I," he soon added, "who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her." "I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_ recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held." "Yes," said he, smiling. "You are better placed _here_; very fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor." "Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston." "Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him." "I hope not _that_.--It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter." "Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But Harriet Smith--I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_ cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life.--They only give a little polish." "I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!" "Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty." "Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether--face and figure?" "I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial old friend." "Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so brilliant! regular features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure! There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;' now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?" "I have not a fault to find with her person," he replied. "I think her all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm." "And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times." "Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions with me." "I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself, you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a matter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office." "Not at all," cried he; "I am much obliged to you for it. It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to." "Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about her sister." "Be satisfied," said he, "I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!" "So do I," said Mrs. Weston gently, "very much." "She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home." "There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you." Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to have them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards made to "What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have rain?" convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about Hartfield. ----------CHAPTER 5--------- "I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley, "of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing." "A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?" "I think they will neither of them do the other any good." "You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently we feel!--Not think they will do each other any good! This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr. Knightley." "Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle." "Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know." "Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists they were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.--You never could persuade her to read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not." "I dare say," replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so _then_;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting to do any thing I wished." "There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,"--said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. "But I," he soon added, "who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her." "I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_ recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held." "Yes," said he, smiling. "You are better placed _here_; very fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor." "Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston." "Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him." "I hope not _that_.--It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter." "Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But Harriet Smith--I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_ cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life.--They only give a little polish." "I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!" "Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty." "Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether--face and figure?" "I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial old friend." "Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so brilliant! regular features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure! There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;' now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?" "I have not a fault to find with her person," he replied. "I think her all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm." "And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times." "Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions with me." "I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself, you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a matter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office." "Not at all," cried he; "I am much obliged to you for it. It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to." "Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about her sister." "Be satisfied," said he, "I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!" "So do I," said Mrs. Weston gently, "very much." "She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home." "There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you." Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to have them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards made to "What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have rain?" convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about Hartfield.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 5, utilizing the provided context.

volume 1, chapter 5|chapter 5

Emma encourages Harriet to visit Hartfield often and makes the girl her companion for her morning walks. Emma finds that Harriet has a sweet temper, though she is not clever; she is, however, willing to be guided by Emma. During their walks, Emma learns that Harriet has spent two months with the Martins of Abbey Mill Farm and that Robert Martin, the twenty-four year old son, is in love with her. Emma feels that Harriet is also romantically inclined towards Martin and advises the girl against it. She tells Harriet that a farmer is socially beneath her. Harriet assures Emma that she will surely follow her advice. When Emma and Harriet happen to meet Robert Martin on the Donwell road, Emma walks a few yards forward to allow Harriet to talk to Martin. Emma finds that he is a sensible young man, but tells Harriet that she finds him extremely plain and lacking gentility. Harriet is obviously hurt by Emma's comments; but Emma insists that Harriet compare Martin's manners with those of the genteel Mr. Weston and Mr. Knightley. Harriet immediately praises Knightley as a fine man, but she can not appreciate Weston, who she judges to be very old. Emma again impresses upon Harriet that Martin lacks class; he may be able to progress financially, due to his common sense, but socially he cannot rise due to his coarse manners and lack of education and interest in learning. Emma then talks about the men in Highbury. She tells Harriet about Weston's frankness, Knightley's dominating manners, and Elton's good-humored, cheerful, and gentle ways. She then tells Harriet that Elton has paid her compliments, which makes Harriet blush and admit that she has always thought Elton very agreeable. The naive Emma deceives herself into believing that the Harriet- Elton match would be ideal. She takes it for granted that Elton, though a gentleman, would not object to Harriet being an illegitimate child. Trying to play the matchmaker, Emma thinks of ways to bring the couple together at Hartfield.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 5--------- "I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley, "of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing." "A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?" "I think they will neither of them do the other any good." "You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently we feel!--Not think they will do each other any good! This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr. Knightley." "Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle." "Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know." "Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists they were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.--You never could persuade her to read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not." "I dare say," replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so _then_;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting to do any thing I wished." "There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,"--said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. "But I," he soon added, "who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her." "I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_ recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held." "Yes," said he, smiling. "You are better placed _here_; very fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor." "Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston." "Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him." "I hope not _that_.--It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter." "Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But Harriet Smith--I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_ cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life.--They only give a little polish." "I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!" "Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty." "Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether--face and figure?" "I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial old friend." "Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so brilliant! regular features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure! There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;' now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?" "I have not a fault to find with her person," he replied. "I think her all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm." "And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times." "Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions with me." "I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself, you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a matter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office." "Not at all," cried he; "I am much obliged to you for it. It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to." "Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about her sister." "Be satisfied," said he, "I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!" "So do I," said Mrs. Weston gently, "very much." "She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home." "There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you." Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to have them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards made to "What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have rain?" convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about Hartfield. ----------CHAPTER 5--------- "I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley, "of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing." "A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?" "I think they will neither of them do the other any good." "You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently we feel!--Not think they will do each other any good! This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr. Knightley." "Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle." "Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know." "Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists they were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.--You never could persuade her to read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not." "I dare say," replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so _then_;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting to do any thing I wished." "There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,"--said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. "But I," he soon added, "who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her." "I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_ recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held." "Yes," said he, smiling. "You are better placed _here_; very fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor." "Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston." "Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him." "I hope not _that_.--It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter." "Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But Harriet Smith--I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_ cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life.--They only give a little polish." "I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!" "Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty." "Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether--face and figure?" "I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial old friend." "Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so brilliant! regular features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure! There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;' now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?" "I have not a fault to find with her person," he replied. "I think her all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm." "And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times." "Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions with me." "I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself, you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a matter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office." "Not at all," cried he; "I am much obliged to you for it. It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to." "Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about her sister." "Be satisfied," said he, "I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!" "So do I," said Mrs. Weston gently, "very much." "She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home." "There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you." Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to have them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards made to "What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have rain?" convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about Hartfield.

Emma.volume 1.chapter 7

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 7 using the context provided.

volume 1, chapter 7|chapter 7

Harriet receives a love letter from our farmer-friend, Mr. Martin. Emma, of course, is outraged on her friend's behalf. How could Mr. Martin dream of lowering Harriet to his social station? Unable to decide how to respond to the letter, Harriet turns to Emma for advice. After reading Mr. Martin's letter, Emma is secretly troubled - it sure doesn't sound like a farmer's letter. It's too well-written. Emma wonders if Mr. Martin is actually more of a gentleman than she'd thought. She decides to ignore her better instincts, however. After all, a farmer is a farmer - at the end of the day, he still smells like the cows. Emma refuses to sway Harriet's decision . Hilarity ensues. Harriet wants to like Mr. Martin's letter. Emma doesn't say anything. Harriet thinks Mr. Martin's letter might be too short. That's how you judge the quality of a letter, right? Emma secretly cringes at Harriet's standards, but she senses that Harriet might be moving in the right direction. Wait - didn't we say that Emma wasn't going to push Harriet into anything? Well, yes. But we weren't quite telling the truth. That's because Emma wasn't quite truthful with herself. Emma doesn't quite push Harriet into rejecting Mr. Martin. Although she seems faintly troubled at the thought of hurting Mr. Martin, Harriet decides she'd far rather refuse him than disagree with her friend. After the letter is written, Emma pats Harriet on the head . Recognizing that Harriet seems glum, Emma attempts to cheer her up by talking about the fabulous Mr. Elton. She's convinced that Mr. Elton has taken Harriet's portrait in order to show it to his family - and she soon convinces Harriet, as well.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 7--------- The very day of Mr. Elton's going to London produced a fresh occasion for Emma's services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a minute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to Mrs. Goddard's, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage. "Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very much--but she did not know--and so, she was come as fast as she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.--" Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful. "Upon my word," she cried, "the young man is determined not to lose any thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can." "Will you read the letter?" cried Harriet. "Pray do. I'd rather you would." Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a "Well, well," and was at last forced to add, "Is it a good letter? or is it too short?" "Yes, indeed, a very good letter," replied Emma rather slowly--"so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent for--thinks strongly and clearly--and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes, I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I had expected." "Well," said the still waiting Harriet;--"well--and--and what shall I do?" "What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this letter?" "Yes." "But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course--and speedily." "Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me." "Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment." "You think I ought to refuse him then," said Harriet, looking down. "Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any doubt as to that? I thought--but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of it." Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued: "You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect." "No, I do not; that is, I do not mean--What shall I do? What would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do." "I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings." "I had no notion that he liked me so very much," said Harriet, contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say, "I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to 'Yes,' she ought to say 'No' directly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence you." "Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to--but if you would just advise me what I had best do--No, no, I do not mean that--As you say, one's mind ought to be quite made up--One should not be hesitating--It is a very serious thing.--It will be safer to say 'No,' perhaps.--Do you think I had better say 'No?'" "Not for the world," said Emma, smiling graciously, "would I advise you either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate? You blush, Harriet.--Does any body else occur to you at this moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this moment whom are you thinking of?" The symptoms were favourable.--Instead of answering, Harriet turned away confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard. Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said-- "Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost made up my mind--to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?" "Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you for ever." Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her forcibly. "You could not have visited me!" she cried, looking aghast. "No, to be sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have been too dreadful!--What an escape!--Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing in the world." "Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society. I must have given you up." "Dear me!--How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!" "Dear affectionate creature!--_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!--_You_ confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty good opinion of himself." "I do not think he is conceited either, in general," said Harriet, her conscience opposing such censure; "at least, he is very good natured, and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard for--but that is quite a different thing from--and you know, though he may like me, it does not follow that I should--and certainly I must confess that since my visiting here I have seen people--and if one comes to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all, _one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and his being so much attached to me--and his writing such a letter--but as to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration." "Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter." "Oh no;--and it is but a short letter too." Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a "very true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that her husband could write a good letter." "Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him. But how shall I do? What shall I say?" Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any assistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence. The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all. This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton. "I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again," was said in rather a sorrowful tone. "Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill." "And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy but at Hartfield." Some time afterwards it was, "I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would--for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a linen-draper." "One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an opportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained themselves." Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin. "Now he has got my letter," said she softly. "I wonder what they are all doing--whether his sisters know--if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy too. I hope he will not mind it so very much." "Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully employed," cried Emma. "At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times, allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name." "My picture!--But he has left my picture in Bond-street." "Has he so!--Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till just before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this evening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy their imaginations all are!" Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger. ----------CHAPTER 7--------- The very day of Mr. Elton's going to London produced a fresh occasion for Emma's services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a minute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to Mrs. Goddard's, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage. "Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very much--but she did not know--and so, she was come as fast as she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.--" Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful. "Upon my word," she cried, "the young man is determined not to lose any thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can." "Will you read the letter?" cried Harriet. "Pray do. I'd rather you would." Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a "Well, well," and was at last forced to add, "Is it a good letter? or is it too short?" "Yes, indeed, a very good letter," replied Emma rather slowly--"so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent for--thinks strongly and clearly--and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes, I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I had expected." "Well," said the still waiting Harriet;--"well--and--and what shall I do?" "What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this letter?" "Yes." "But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course--and speedily." "Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me." "Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment." "You think I ought to refuse him then," said Harriet, looking down. "Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any doubt as to that? I thought--but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of it." Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued: "You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect." "No, I do not; that is, I do not mean--What shall I do? What would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do." "I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings." "I had no notion that he liked me so very much," said Harriet, contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say, "I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to 'Yes,' she ought to say 'No' directly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence you." "Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to--but if you would just advise me what I had best do--No, no, I do not mean that--As you say, one's mind ought to be quite made up--One should not be hesitating--It is a very serious thing.--It will be safer to say 'No,' perhaps.--Do you think I had better say 'No?'" "Not for the world," said Emma, smiling graciously, "would I advise you either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate? You blush, Harriet.--Does any body else occur to you at this moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this moment whom are you thinking of?" The symptoms were favourable.--Instead of answering, Harriet turned away confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard. Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said-- "Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost made up my mind--to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?" "Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you for ever." Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her forcibly. "You could not have visited me!" she cried, looking aghast. "No, to be sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have been too dreadful!--What an escape!--Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing in the world." "Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society. I must have given you up." "Dear me!--How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!" "Dear affectionate creature!--_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!--_You_ confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty good opinion of himself." "I do not think he is conceited either, in general," said Harriet, her conscience opposing such censure; "at least, he is very good natured, and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard for--but that is quite a different thing from--and you know, though he may like me, it does not follow that I should--and certainly I must confess that since my visiting here I have seen people--and if one comes to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all, _one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and his being so much attached to me--and his writing such a letter--but as to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration." "Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter." "Oh no;--and it is but a short letter too." Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a "very true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that her husband could write a good letter." "Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him. But how shall I do? What shall I say?" Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any assistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence. The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all. This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton. "I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again," was said in rather a sorrowful tone. "Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill." "And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy but at Hartfield." Some time afterwards it was, "I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would--for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a linen-draper." "One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an opportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained themselves." Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin. "Now he has got my letter," said she softly. "I wonder what they are all doing--whether his sisters know--if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy too. I hope he will not mind it so very much." "Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully employed," cried Emma. "At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times, allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name." "My picture!--But he has left my picture in Bond-street." "Has he so!--Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till just before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this evening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy their imaginations all are!" Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.

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Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 7, utilizing the provided context.

volume 1, chapter 7|chapter 7

Emma deceives herself into believing that she has succeeded in refining Harriet to the point that Elton has a serious interest in her. Although he does compliment Emma for the change she has brought in Harriet's manners, he is really praising Emma, the girl who interests him. Emma is blind to his attraction to her. In an effort to bring Harriet and Elton together, Emma invites him to stay while she paints Harriet's portrait. Elton gladly stays to be near Emma; he grows restless when he is made to stand behind Emma and watch Harriet, who is smiling and blushing as she poses. When he praises Emma's artistic skill, she thinks he is really praising Harriet's beauty; when he keeps coming to see Emma's progress on the portrait to admire Emma's talent, she feels convinced that Elton is the true lover for Harriet. Since the portrait painting is to be continued on the next day also, Elton is invited to stay. Everyone who sees the completed portrait praises Emma's skill but feels that Harriet is made to look more beautiful and taller than she is, a refection of Emma's romantic leanings. Elton defends Emma from the criticism. When Emma suggests that the portrait should be framed, Elton gallantly volunteers to take the portrait to London.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 7--------- The very day of Mr. Elton's going to London produced a fresh occasion for Emma's services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a minute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to Mrs. Goddard's, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage. "Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very much--but she did not know--and so, she was come as fast as she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.--" Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful. "Upon my word," she cried, "the young man is determined not to lose any thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can." "Will you read the letter?" cried Harriet. "Pray do. I'd rather you would." Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a "Well, well," and was at last forced to add, "Is it a good letter? or is it too short?" "Yes, indeed, a very good letter," replied Emma rather slowly--"so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent for--thinks strongly and clearly--and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes, I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I had expected." "Well," said the still waiting Harriet;--"well--and--and what shall I do?" "What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this letter?" "Yes." "But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course--and speedily." "Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me." "Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment." "You think I ought to refuse him then," said Harriet, looking down. "Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any doubt as to that? I thought--but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of it." Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued: "You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect." "No, I do not; that is, I do not mean--What shall I do? What would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do." "I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings." "I had no notion that he liked me so very much," said Harriet, contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say, "I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to 'Yes,' she ought to say 'No' directly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence you." "Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to--but if you would just advise me what I had best do--No, no, I do not mean that--As you say, one's mind ought to be quite made up--One should not be hesitating--It is a very serious thing.--It will be safer to say 'No,' perhaps.--Do you think I had better say 'No?'" "Not for the world," said Emma, smiling graciously, "would I advise you either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate? You blush, Harriet.--Does any body else occur to you at this moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this moment whom are you thinking of?" The symptoms were favourable.--Instead of answering, Harriet turned away confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard. Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said-- "Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost made up my mind--to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?" "Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you for ever." Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her forcibly. "You could not have visited me!" she cried, looking aghast. "No, to be sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have been too dreadful!--What an escape!--Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing in the world." "Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society. I must have given you up." "Dear me!--How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!" "Dear affectionate creature!--_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!--_You_ confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty good opinion of himself." "I do not think he is conceited either, in general," said Harriet, her conscience opposing such censure; "at least, he is very good natured, and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard for--but that is quite a different thing from--and you know, though he may like me, it does not follow that I should--and certainly I must confess that since my visiting here I have seen people--and if one comes to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all, _one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and his being so much attached to me--and his writing such a letter--but as to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration." "Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter." "Oh no;--and it is but a short letter too." Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a "very true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that her husband could write a good letter." "Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him. But how shall I do? What shall I say?" Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any assistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence. The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all. This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton. "I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again," was said in rather a sorrowful tone. "Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill." "And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy but at Hartfield." Some time afterwards it was, "I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would--for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a linen-draper." "One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an opportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained themselves." Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin. "Now he has got my letter," said she softly. "I wonder what they are all doing--whether his sisters know--if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy too. I hope he will not mind it so very much." "Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully employed," cried Emma. "At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times, allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name." "My picture!--But he has left my picture in Bond-street." "Has he so!--Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till just before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this evening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy their imaginations all are!" Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger. ----------CHAPTER 7--------- The very day of Mr. Elton's going to London produced a fresh occasion for Emma's services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a minute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to Mrs. Goddard's, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage. "Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very much--but she did not know--and so, she was come as fast as she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.--" Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful. "Upon my word," she cried, "the young man is determined not to lose any thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can." "Will you read the letter?" cried Harriet. "Pray do. I'd rather you would." Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a "Well, well," and was at last forced to add, "Is it a good letter? or is it too short?" "Yes, indeed, a very good letter," replied Emma rather slowly--"so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent for--thinks strongly and clearly--and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes, I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I had expected." "Well," said the still waiting Harriet;--"well--and--and what shall I do?" "What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this letter?" "Yes." "But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course--and speedily." "Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me." "Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment." "You think I ought to refuse him then," said Harriet, looking down. "Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any doubt as to that? I thought--but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of it." Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued: "You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect." "No, I do not; that is, I do not mean--What shall I do? What would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do." "I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings." "I had no notion that he liked me so very much," said Harriet, contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say, "I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to 'Yes,' she ought to say 'No' directly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence you." "Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to--but if you would just advise me what I had best do--No, no, I do not mean that--As you say, one's mind ought to be quite made up--One should not be hesitating--It is a very serious thing.--It will be safer to say 'No,' perhaps.--Do you think I had better say 'No?'" "Not for the world," said Emma, smiling graciously, "would I advise you either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate? You blush, Harriet.--Does any body else occur to you at this moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this moment whom are you thinking of?" The symptoms were favourable.--Instead of answering, Harriet turned away confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard. Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said-- "Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost made up my mind--to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?" "Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you for ever." Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her forcibly. "You could not have visited me!" she cried, looking aghast. "No, to be sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have been too dreadful!--What an escape!--Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing in the world." "Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society. I must have given you up." "Dear me!--How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!" "Dear affectionate creature!--_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!--_You_ confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty good opinion of himself." "I do not think he is conceited either, in general," said Harriet, her conscience opposing such censure; "at least, he is very good natured, and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard for--but that is quite a different thing from--and you know, though he may like me, it does not follow that I should--and certainly I must confess that since my visiting here I have seen people--and if one comes to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all, _one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and his being so much attached to me--and his writing such a letter--but as to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration." "Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter." "Oh no;--and it is but a short letter too." Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a "very true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that her husband could write a good letter." "Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him. But how shall I do? What shall I say?" Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any assistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence. The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all. This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton. "I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again," was said in rather a sorrowful tone. "Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill." "And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy but at Hartfield." Some time afterwards it was, "I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would--for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a linen-draper." "One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an opportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained themselves." Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin. "Now he has got my letter," said she softly. "I wonder what they are all doing--whether his sisters know--if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy too. I hope he will not mind it so very much." "Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully employed," cried Emma. "At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times, allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name." "My picture!--But he has left my picture in Bond-street." "Has he so!--Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till just before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this evening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy their imaginations all are!" Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.

Emma.volume 2.chapter 20

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for volume 2, chapter 20 with the given context.

volume 2, chapter 20|chapter 20

This chapter tells the story of Jane Fairfax, the granddaughter of Mrs. Bates, whose mother died when Jane was a small child. Jane was brought up by the Campbells, for Colonel Campbell had served in the army with Jane's late father, and the young girl had been well educated on his behalf. Emma is sorry to have Jane Fairfax visit, although her dislike is truly unfounded. When Jane visits, Emma is polite to her, despite her jealousy, and she even gains some minor information about Frank Churchill from Jane, who has met him.

----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 20--------- Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest daughter. The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ----regiment of infantry, and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl. By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up with no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations. But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about Jane's age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years old, his daughter's great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell's family, and had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time. The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel Campbell's power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter's; but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter. Such was Jane Fairfax's history. She had fallen into good hands, known nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell's residence being in London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children, fully competent to the office of instruction herself; but she was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over. The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the circumstance of Jane's decided superiority both in beauty and acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the parents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to what is moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as soon as they were acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn. This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had fixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever. The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this would be selfishness:--what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since the time of their daughter's marriage; and till she should have completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances, to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with tolerable comfort. With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells, whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double, or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that they depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the recovery of her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she was to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which had been so long promised it--Mr. Frank Churchill--must put up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two years' absence. Emma was sorry;--to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like through three long months!--to be always doing more than she wished, and less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in which her conscience could not quite acquit her. But "she could never get acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was such coldness and reserve--such apparent indifference whether she pleased or not--and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!--and she was made such a fuss with by every body!--and it had been always imagined that they were to be so intimate--because their ages were the same, every body had supposed they must be so fond of each other." These were her reasons--she had no better. It was a dislike so little just--every imputed fault was so magnified by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years' interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating. Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself the highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as almost every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall; her figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium, between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this; and then, her face--her features--there was more beauty in them altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her principles, admire it:--elegance, which, whether of person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was distinction, and merit. In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty; when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible to feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on. Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon's actions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of laborious duty. Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her. These were charming feelings--but not lasting. Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, "She certainly is handsome; she is better than handsome!" Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved. If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds. The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"--"She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"--"He was generally thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her. ----------CHAPTER 20--------- Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest daughter. The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ----regiment of infantry, and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl. By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up with no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations. But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about Jane's age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years old, his daughter's great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell's family, and had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time. The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel Campbell's power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter's; but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter. Such was Jane Fairfax's history. She had fallen into good hands, known nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell's residence being in London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children, fully competent to the office of instruction herself; but she was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over. The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the circumstance of Jane's decided superiority both in beauty and acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the parents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to what is moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as soon as they were acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn. This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had fixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever. The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this would be selfishness:--what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since the time of their daughter's marriage; and till she should have completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances, to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with tolerable comfort. With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells, whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double, or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that they depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the recovery of her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she was to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which had been so long promised it--Mr. Frank Churchill--must put up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two years' absence. Emma was sorry;--to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like through three long months!--to be always doing more than she wished, and less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in which her conscience could not quite acquit her. But "she could never get acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was such coldness and reserve--such apparent indifference whether she pleased or not--and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!--and she was made such a fuss with by every body!--and it had been always imagined that they were to be so intimate--because their ages were the same, every body had supposed they must be so fond of each other." These were her reasons--she had no better. It was a dislike so little just--every imputed fault was so magnified by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years' interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating. Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself the highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as almost every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall; her figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium, between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this; and then, her face--her features--there was more beauty in them altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her principles, admire it:--elegance, which, whether of person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was distinction, and merit. In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty; when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible to feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on. Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon's actions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of laborious duty. Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her. These were charming feelings--but not lasting. Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, "She certainly is handsome; she is better than handsome!" Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved. If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds. The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"--"She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"--"He was generally thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her.

Emma.volume 2.chapter 22

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volume 2, chapter 22|chapter 22

The soon-to-be-Mrs. Elton is the talk of the town. Somehow all the gossips know all her dirty little secrets, even though she hasn't yet set foot in Highbury. Miss Augusta Hawkins has PS10,000 to her name . Hearing about Miss Hawkins, Emma decides that she's really no better than Harriet in anything but her pocketbook. Miss Hawkins is not from a good family - in fact, her only claim to fame is a newly-rich brother-in-law. . Now that Mr. Elton is back in town, Harriet starts mourning his marriage. OK, OK, she's a bit sappy - but she's got a broken heart. Give her a break! Emma decides that perhaps Harriet should accept an invitation from the Martins to visit them. After all, anything's better than hearing about Mr. Elton some more!

----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 22--------- Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of. A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say whose music she principally played. Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and mortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith. The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not thrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious--the steps so quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and the party at Mrs. Brown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--with consciousness and agitation richly scattered--the lady had been so easily impressed--so sweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally contented. He had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed at--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously gallant. The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which a certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride. During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction. The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be prevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would be an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility again. Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--handsome enough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side. As to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article, truth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet's superior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol--merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained--in the law line--nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins. Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him, _just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love! Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit. How that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary--and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance--! After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than Harriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future. She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it which her own heart could not approve--something of ingratitude, merely glossed over--it must be done, or what would become of Harriet? ----------CHAPTER 22--------- Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of. A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say whose music she principally played. Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and mortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith. The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not thrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious--the steps so quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and the party at Mrs. Brown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--with consciousness and agitation richly scattered--the lady had been so easily impressed--so sweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally contented. He had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed at--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously gallant. The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which a certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride. During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction. The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be prevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would be an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility again. Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--handsome enough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side. As to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article, truth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet's superior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol--merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained--in the law line--nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins. Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him, _just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love! Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit. How that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary--and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance--! After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than Harriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future. She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it which her own heart could not approve--something of ingratitude, merely glossed over--it must be done, or what would become of Harriet? ----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 22--------- Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of. A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say whose music she principally played. Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and mortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith. The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not thrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious--the steps so quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and the party at Mrs. Brown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--with consciousness and agitation richly scattered--the lady had been so easily impressed--so sweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally contented. He had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed at--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously gallant. The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which a certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride. During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction. The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be prevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would be an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility again. Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--handsome enough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side. As to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article, truth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet's superior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol--merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained--in the law line--nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins. Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him, _just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love! Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit. How that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary--and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance--! After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than Harriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future. She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it which her own heart could not approve--something of ingratitude, merely glossed over--it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for volume 2, chapter 22 based on the provided context.

Mr. Elton comes back to Highbury a happy man, and spreads the news about how charming and beautiful Augusta Hawkins is. The wedding is to be soon, and all expect that the next time Elton returns to Highbury he will bring his new wife with him. Emma barely sees him during this stay in Highbury. She thinks little of the soon-to-be Mrs. Elton, except to note that she brings some money to the marriage, but no name, no blood and no alliance. The entire grandeur of the match seems to be in that Miss Hawkins' sister had made a good match to a man near Bristol. If it did not cause Harriet pain, Emma could almost been amused at how easily she wavers between her anguish over Mr. Martin and Mr. Elton. Miss Martin calls on Harriet at Mrs. Goddard's and leaves a note when she does not find her there. Harriet wants to return the visit, and Emma decides that they will take the carriage and she will drop Harriet off at the Martin's for a short visit before she picks her up again. She will only allow her to be there a short time, so that there is no danger of a rekindling of the friendship between her and Mr. Martin

----------CHAPTER 22--------- Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of. A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say whose music she principally played. Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and mortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith. The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not thrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious--the steps so quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and the party at Mrs. Brown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--with consciousness and agitation richly scattered--the lady had been so easily impressed--so sweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally contented. He had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed at--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously gallant. The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which a certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride. During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction. The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be prevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would be an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility again. Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--handsome enough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side. As to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article, truth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet's superior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol--merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained--in the law line--nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins. Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him, _just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love! Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit. How that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary--and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance--! After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than Harriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future. She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it which her own heart could not approve--something of ingratitude, merely glossed over--it must be done, or what would become of Harriet? ----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 22--------- Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of. A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say whose music she principally played. Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and mortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith. The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not thrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious--the steps so quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and the party at Mrs. Brown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--with consciousness and agitation richly scattered--the lady had been so easily impressed--so sweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally contented. He had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed at--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously gallant. The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which a certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride. During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction. The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be prevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would be an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility again. Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--handsome enough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side. As to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article, truth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet's superior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol--merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained--in the law line--nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins. Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him, _just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love! Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit. How that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary--and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance--! After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than Harriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future. She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it which her own heart could not approve--something of ingratitude, merely glossed over--it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?

Emma.volume 2.chapter 25

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Generate a succinct summary for volume 2, chapter 25 with the given context.

volume 2, chapter 25|chapter 25

Emma's good opinion of Frank Churchill is shaken when she hears that he has gone to London simply to get a haircut. The Coles, a family of low origin involved in trade, invite the better families of Highbury to dine with them. Although Emma thinks that this is an affront to her high place in society she should decide her social circle and not have it decided for her she accepts the invitation.

----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 25--------- Emma's very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than having his hair cut. There was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became liable to all these charges. His father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making no other comment than that "all young people would have their little whims." With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made himself--how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to have a very open temper--certainly a very cheerful and lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond of talking of him--said he would be the best man in the world if he were left to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, but for such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of being at least very near it, and saved only by her own indifference--(for still her resolution held of never marrying)--the honour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance. Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her extremely--thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, "all young people would have their little whims." There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so leniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made for the little excesses of such a handsome young man--one who smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles--Mr. Knightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand, "Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for." She had half a mind to resent; but an instant's observation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass. Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs. Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they gave. This was the occurrence:--The Coles had been settled some years in Highbury, and were very good sort of people--friendly, liberal, and unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country, they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought them a considerable increase of means--the house in town had yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them. With their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house, their inclination for more company. They added to their house, to their number of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the single men, had already taken place. The regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite--neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt _her_ to go, if they did; and she regretted that her father's known habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit them. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston. But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her very differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston's accounting for it with "I suppose they will not take the liberty with you; they know you do not dine out," was not quite sufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her, occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses. They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence. Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of his. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort. It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first remark, on reading it, was that "of course it must be declined," she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful. She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so properly--there was so much real attention in the manner of it--so much consideration for her father. "They would have solicited the honour earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour of his company." Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting his comfort--how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for bearing him company--Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked into an acquiescence of his daughter's going out to dinner on a day now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for _his_ going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned. "I am not fond of dinner-visiting," said he--"I never was. No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come in one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us--take us in their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the evening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any body to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy." Then turning to Mrs. Weston, with a look of gentle reproach--"Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staid at home with me." "Well, sir," cried Mr. Weston, "as I took Miss Taylor away, it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish it." But the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation. The ladies knew better how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged. With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking as usual. "He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her. James could take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written to Mrs. Cole." "You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of course. But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is to be done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have never been there above once since the new approach was made; but still I have no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get there, you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again; and you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying late. You will get very tired when tea is over." "But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?" "Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many people talking at once. You will not like the noise." "But, my dear sir," cried Mr. Weston, "if Emma comes away early, it will be breaking up the party." "And no great harm if it does," said Mr. Woodhouse. "The sooner every party breaks up, the better." "But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma's going away directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any body's hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse's doing it would be more thought of than any other person's in the room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your neighbours these _ten_ years." "No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to you for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole never touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but he is bilious--Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure, rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends." "Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time--and the idea of that would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit up." He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every thing were safe in the house, as usual. ----------CHAPTER 25--------- Emma's very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than having his hair cut. There was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became liable to all these charges. His father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making no other comment than that "all young people would have their little whims." With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made himself--how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to have a very open temper--certainly a very cheerful and lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond of talking of him--said he would be the best man in the world if he were left to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, but for such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of being at least very near it, and saved only by her own indifference--(for still her resolution held of never marrying)--the honour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance. Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her extremely--thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, "all young people would have their little whims." There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so leniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made for the little excesses of such a handsome young man--one who smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles--Mr. Knightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand, "Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for." She had half a mind to resent; but an instant's observation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass. Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs. Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they gave. This was the occurrence:--The Coles had been settled some years in Highbury, and were very good sort of people--friendly, liberal, and unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country, they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought them a considerable increase of means--the house in town had yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them. With their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house, their inclination for more company. They added to their house, to their number of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the single men, had already taken place. The regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite--neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt _her_ to go, if they did; and she regretted that her father's known habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit them. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston. But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her very differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston's accounting for it with "I suppose they will not take the liberty with you; they know you do not dine out," was not quite sufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her, occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses. They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence. Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of his. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort. It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first remark, on reading it, was that "of course it must be declined," she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful. She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so properly--there was so much real attention in the manner of it--so much consideration for her father. "They would have solicited the honour earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour of his company." Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting his comfort--how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for bearing him company--Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked into an acquiescence of his daughter's going out to dinner on a day now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for _his_ going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned. "I am not fond of dinner-visiting," said he--"I never was. No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come in one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us--take us in their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the evening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any body to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy." Then turning to Mrs. Weston, with a look of gentle reproach--"Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staid at home with me." "Well, sir," cried Mr. Weston, "as I took Miss Taylor away, it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish it." But the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation. The ladies knew better how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged. With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking as usual. "He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her. James could take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written to Mrs. Cole." "You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of course. But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is to be done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have never been there above once since the new approach was made; but still I have no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get there, you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again; and you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying late. You will get very tired when tea is over." "But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?" "Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many people talking at once. You will not like the noise." "But, my dear sir," cried Mr. Weston, "if Emma comes away early, it will be breaking up the party." "And no great harm if it does," said Mr. Woodhouse. "The sooner every party breaks up, the better." "But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma's going away directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any body's hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse's doing it would be more thought of than any other person's in the room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your neighbours these _ten_ years." "No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to you for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole never touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but he is bilious--Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure, rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends." "Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time--and the idea of that would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit up." He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every thing were safe in the house, as usual.

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Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 25, utilizing the provided context.

volume 2, chapter 25|chapter 25

On the third day after his arrival in Highbury, Frank Churchill goes to London for a haircut. The Westons tell Emma that suddenly at breakfast Frank sent for a carriage and said that he would return by dinnertime. It is obvious that the Westons do not approve of the trip to London, which interrupts Frank's stay with them. The reader questions what is the real purpose for the trip. Emma is not discouraged by Frank's strange behavior, especially since Mr. Weston has given her the impression that Frank thinks she is charming. Emma definitely thinks that he must be falling in love with her, and she is delighted, for she finds her very attractive. In fact, Knightley is the only one in Highbury who disapproves of Frank and calls him a "trifling, silly fellow." The Coles are a family who are merchants in London, but they have lived in Highbury for the last ten years. Because of their wealth, the Coles are accepted amongst the landed gentry of the town and often entertain them. They plan a large dinner party. When Emma hears about it, she thinks about declining the invitation since she considers the Coles to be socially inferior to her. When Emma learns that she is not included on the guest list, her ego is hurt, and she becomes very anxious to attend the party, especially since the Westons, the Knightleys, and Frank Churchill will be there. She asks Mrs. Weston why she had not been invited to the party. Mrs. Weston tells Emma that the Coles know about Mr. Woodhouse's dislike for large and late parties; they felt that Emma would not attend without her father. Mrs. Weston obviously says something about Emma to Mrs. Cole, for she finally receives an invitation. Even though Mr. Woodhouse does not want to attend, Emma is determined to accept the invitation. Mrs. Weston persuades Mr. Woodhouse to permit Emma to go with them.

----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 25--------- Emma's very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than having his hair cut. There was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became liable to all these charges. His father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making no other comment than that "all young people would have their little whims." With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made himself--how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to have a very open temper--certainly a very cheerful and lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond of talking of him--said he would be the best man in the world if he were left to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, but for such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of being at least very near it, and saved only by her own indifference--(for still her resolution held of never marrying)--the honour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance. Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her extremely--thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, "all young people would have their little whims." There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so leniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made for the little excesses of such a handsome young man--one who smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles--Mr. Knightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand, "Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for." She had half a mind to resent; but an instant's observation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass. Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs. Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they gave. This was the occurrence:--The Coles had been settled some years in Highbury, and were very good sort of people--friendly, liberal, and unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country, they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought them a considerable increase of means--the house in town had yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them. With their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house, their inclination for more company. They added to their house, to their number of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the single men, had already taken place. The regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite--neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt _her_ to go, if they did; and she regretted that her father's known habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit them. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston. But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her very differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston's accounting for it with "I suppose they will not take the liberty with you; they know you do not dine out," was not quite sufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her, occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses. They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence. Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of his. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort. It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first remark, on reading it, was that "of course it must be declined," she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful. She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so properly--there was so much real attention in the manner of it--so much consideration for her father. "They would have solicited the honour earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour of his company." Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting his comfort--how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for bearing him company--Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked into an acquiescence of his daughter's going out to dinner on a day now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for _his_ going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned. "I am not fond of dinner-visiting," said he--"I never was. No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come in one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us--take us in their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the evening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any body to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy." Then turning to Mrs. Weston, with a look of gentle reproach--"Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staid at home with me." "Well, sir," cried Mr. Weston, "as I took Miss Taylor away, it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish it." But the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation. The ladies knew better how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged. With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking as usual. "He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her. James could take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written to Mrs. Cole." "You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of course. But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is to be done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have never been there above once since the new approach was made; but still I have no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get there, you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again; and you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying late. You will get very tired when tea is over." "But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?" "Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many people talking at once. You will not like the noise." "But, my dear sir," cried Mr. Weston, "if Emma comes away early, it will be breaking up the party." "And no great harm if it does," said Mr. Woodhouse. "The sooner every party breaks up, the better." "But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma's going away directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any body's hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse's doing it would be more thought of than any other person's in the room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your neighbours these _ten_ years." "No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to you for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole never touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but he is bilious--Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure, rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends." "Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time--and the idea of that would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit up." He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every thing were safe in the house, as usual. ----------CHAPTER 25--------- Emma's very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than having his hair cut. There was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became liable to all these charges. His father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making no other comment than that "all young people would have their little whims." With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made himself--how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to have a very open temper--certainly a very cheerful and lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond of talking of him--said he would be the best man in the world if he were left to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, but for such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of being at least very near it, and saved only by her own indifference--(for still her resolution held of never marrying)--the honour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance. Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her extremely--thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, "all young people would have their little whims." There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so leniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made for the little excesses of such a handsome young man--one who smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles--Mr. Knightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand, "Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for." She had half a mind to resent; but an instant's observation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass. Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs. Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they gave. This was the occurrence:--The Coles had been settled some years in Highbury, and were very good sort of people--friendly, liberal, and unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country, they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought them a considerable increase of means--the house in town had yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them. With their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house, their inclination for more company. They added to their house, to their number of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the single men, had already taken place. The regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite--neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt _her_ to go, if they did; and she regretted that her father's known habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit them. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston. But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her very differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston's accounting for it with "I suppose they will not take the liberty with you; they know you do not dine out," was not quite sufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her, occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses. They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence. Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of his. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort. It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first remark, on reading it, was that "of course it must be declined," she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful. She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so properly--there was so much real attention in the manner of it--so much consideration for her father. "They would have solicited the honour earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour of his company." Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting his comfort--how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for bearing him company--Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked into an acquiescence of his daughter's going out to dinner on a day now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for _his_ going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned. "I am not fond of dinner-visiting," said he--"I never was. No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come in one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us--take us in their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the evening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any body to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy." Then turning to Mrs. Weston, with a look of gentle reproach--"Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staid at home with me." "Well, sir," cried Mr. Weston, "as I took Miss Taylor away, it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish it." But the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation. The ladies knew better how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged. With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking as usual. "He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her. James could take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written to Mrs. Cole." "You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of course. But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is to be done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have never been there above once since the new approach was made; but still I have no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get there, you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again; and you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying late. You will get very tired when tea is over." "But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?" "Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many people talking at once. You will not like the noise." "But, my dear sir," cried Mr. Weston, "if Emma comes away early, it will be breaking up the party." "And no great harm if it does," said Mr. Woodhouse. "The sooner every party breaks up, the better." "But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma's going away directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any body's hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse's doing it would be more thought of than any other person's in the room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your neighbours these _ten_ years." "No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to you for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole never touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but he is bilious--Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure, rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends." "Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time--and the idea of that would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit up." He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every thing were safe in the house, as usual.

Emma.volume 2.chapter 28

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for volume 2, chapter 28 with the given context.

volume 2, chapter 28|chapter 28

At the Bates' home, Emma listens to Jane play. Mr. Knightley stops by the Bates' while Emma and Frank are there, but because of the numerous visitors he promises to call another time. Miss Bates thanks Mr. Knightley for sending them his store of apples.

----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 28--------- The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax, standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte. Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again. "This is a pleasure," said he, in rather a low voice, "coming at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed." "What!" said Mrs. Weston, "have not you finished it yet? you would not earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate." "I have not been working uninterruptedly," he replied, "I have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily, it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home." He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion; she must reason herself into the power of performance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again. At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise. "Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ," said Frank Churchill, with a smile at Emma, "the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you think so?" Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her at the same moment. "It is not fair," said Emma, in a whisper; "mine was a random guess. Do not distress her." He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again, "How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?" He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering, "Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," said she, in a voice of forced calmness, "I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be all conjecture." "Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present." He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more. "If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we danced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever has to give--for another half-hour." She played. "What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one happy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth." She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, "Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it." Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea." "I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it." "She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say, "How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is." And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?" "Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston." "Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?" "No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in." "Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps." "And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful; so many friends!" "No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can." "Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you." "No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the pianoforte." "Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not it delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it." "Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes. And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it." "Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so shocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!" "What is the matter now?" "To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to the room,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing...." "Yes," said Jane, "we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing." "Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard every thing to be sure. 'Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?' said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you be going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of you." Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield gates, before they set off for Randalls. ----------CHAPTER 28--------- The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax, standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte. Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again. "This is a pleasure," said he, in rather a low voice, "coming at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed." "What!" said Mrs. Weston, "have not you finished it yet? you would not earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate." "I have not been working uninterruptedly," he replied, "I have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily, it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home." He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion; she must reason herself into the power of performance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again. At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise. "Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ," said Frank Churchill, with a smile at Emma, "the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you think so?" Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her at the same moment. "It is not fair," said Emma, in a whisper; "mine was a random guess. Do not distress her." He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again, "How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?" He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering, "Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," said she, in a voice of forced calmness, "I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be all conjecture." "Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present." He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more. "If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we danced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever has to give--for another half-hour." She played. "What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one happy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth." She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, "Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it." Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea." "I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it." "She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say, "How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is." And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?" "Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston." "Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?" "No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in." "Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps." "And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful; so many friends!" "No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can." "Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you." "No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the pianoforte." "Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not it delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it." "Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes. And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it." "Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so shocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!" "What is the matter now?" "To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to the room,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing...." "Yes," said Jane, "we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing." "Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard every thing to be sure. 'Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?' said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you be going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of you." Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield gates, before they set off for Randalls.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of volume 2, chapter 28 using the context provided.

volume 2, chapter 28|chapter 28

Emma enters the Bates' sitting room and finds Frank occupied with fixing Mrs. Bates's glasses and Jane seated at the piano. Frank asks Jane questions about how she imagines the piano came to her, and his comment, "True affection only could have prompted it," makes Jane blush. Believing that Frank is teasing Jane unkindly about Mr. Dixon, Emma whispers that he should stop, and she regrets having shared her speculations about Jane with him. Mr. Knightley stops by to check on Jane's health but refuses to come in when he hears that Frank is there

----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 28--------- The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax, standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte. Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again. "This is a pleasure," said he, in rather a low voice, "coming at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed." "What!" said Mrs. Weston, "have not you finished it yet? you would not earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate." "I have not been working uninterruptedly," he replied, "I have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily, it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home." He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion; she must reason herself into the power of performance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again. At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise. "Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ," said Frank Churchill, with a smile at Emma, "the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you think so?" Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her at the same moment. "It is not fair," said Emma, in a whisper; "mine was a random guess. Do not distress her." He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again, "How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?" He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering, "Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," said she, in a voice of forced calmness, "I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be all conjecture." "Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present." He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more. "If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we danced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever has to give--for another half-hour." She played. "What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one happy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth." She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, "Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it." Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea." "I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it." "She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say, "How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is." And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?" "Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston." "Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?" "No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in." "Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps." "And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful; so many friends!" "No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can." "Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you." "No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the pianoforte." "Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not it delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it." "Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes. And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it." "Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so shocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!" "What is the matter now?" "To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to the room,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing...." "Yes," said Jane, "we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing." "Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard every thing to be sure. 'Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?' said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you be going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of you." Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield gates, before they set off for Randalls. ----------CHAPTER 28--------- The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax, standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte. Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again. "This is a pleasure," said he, in rather a low voice, "coming at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed." "What!" said Mrs. Weston, "have not you finished it yet? you would not earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate." "I have not been working uninterruptedly," he replied, "I have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily, it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home." He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion; she must reason herself into the power of performance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again. At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise. "Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ," said Frank Churchill, with a smile at Emma, "the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you think so?" Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her at the same moment. "It is not fair," said Emma, in a whisper; "mine was a random guess. Do not distress her." He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again, "How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?" He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering, "Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," said she, in a voice of forced calmness, "I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be all conjecture." "Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present." He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more. "If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we danced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever has to give--for another half-hour." She played. "What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one happy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth." She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, "Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it." Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea." "I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it." "She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say, "How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is." And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?" "Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston." "Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?" "No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in." "Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps." "And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful; so many friends!" "No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can." "Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you." "No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the pianoforte." "Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not it delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it." "Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes. And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it." "Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so shocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!" "What is the matter now?" "To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to the room,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing...." "Yes," said Jane, "we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing." "Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard every thing to be sure. 'Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?' said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you be going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of you." Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield gates, before they set off for Randalls.

Emma.volume 2.chapter 30

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 30 using the context provided.

volume 2, chapter 30|chapter 30

Mr. Knightley seems much less excited about the ball than Emma - although Emma observes that he's probably just old and grumpy. Unfortunately, a few days before the ball, Frank's aunt orders him to come back to her house. In case we have mentioned it, Frank's aunt has very well-timed illnesses. They seem to crop up whenever Frank does something that she doesn't like. Sadly, Emma and Frank agree to postpone the ball. As Frank takes his leave, he seems about to say something to Emma. There's a tense, emotion-filled moment before he rushes out the door... Contemplating Frank's last words, Emma becomes pretty convinced that he was just on the verge of telling her he loved her. Of course, Emma sort of thinks that an "I love you" from Frank and a dollar will buy her a gumball. Just kidding. This is England. No dollars. No gumballs. It's a metaphor. In other words, Emma realizes that Frank talks real pretty - but he might not mean everything he says. After Frank leaves, Emma gets word that Jane Fairfax has taken ill; apparently, she caught a bad cold. Jane holes up in her house for several days.

----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 30--------- One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely satisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted term of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and hoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great risk, of its being all in vain. Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed. All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking indifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply, than, "Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.--Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's week's account; much rather, I confess.--Pleasure in seeing dancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who does.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different." This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;-- "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with _very_ great pleasure." It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the society of William Larkins. No!--she was more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no love. Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay. The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own convenience. Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon." This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man might be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as it would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the happiest!--"I said it would be so," was the only consolation. Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home. Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst." "But you will come again," said Emma. "This will not be your only visit to Randalls." "Ah!--(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever." "Our poor ball must be quite given up." "Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?" "Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much rather have been merry than wise." "If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement." Emma looked graciously. "Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!" "As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury." He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so. "And you must be off this very morning?" "Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring him." "Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours." "Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_ laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then"-- He hesitated, got up, walked to a window. "In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion"-- He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said, "You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then"-- He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh. He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said, "It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm"-- He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed. A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave. "I shall hear about you all," said he; "that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added, "You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!" It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health. ----------CHAPTER 30--------- One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely satisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted term of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and hoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great risk, of its being all in vain. Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed. All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking indifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply, than, "Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.--Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's week's account; much rather, I confess.--Pleasure in seeing dancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who does.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different." This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;-- "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with _very_ great pleasure." It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the society of William Larkins. No!--she was more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no love. Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay. The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own convenience. Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon." This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man might be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as it would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the happiest!--"I said it would be so," was the only consolation. Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home. Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst." "But you will come again," said Emma. "This will not be your only visit to Randalls." "Ah!--(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever." "Our poor ball must be quite given up." "Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?" "Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much rather have been merry than wise." "If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement." Emma looked graciously. "Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!" "As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury." He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so. "And you must be off this very morning?" "Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring him." "Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours." "Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_ laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then"-- He hesitated, got up, walked to a window. "In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion"-- He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said, "You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then"-- He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh. He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said, "It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm"-- He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed. A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave. "I shall hear about you all," said he; "that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added, "You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!" It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for volume 2, chapter 30 with the given context.

volume 2, chapter 30|chapter 30

Emma is worried that Frank's aunt, Mrs. Churchill, will refuse Frank permission to stay on for the ball, which is scheduled for a few days after his visit is scheduled to end. To everyone's relief, he receives this permission. Only Mr. Knightley refuses to look forward to the ball: he does not seem interested in dancing. Emma takes Knightley's diffidence as further proof that he is not interested in Jane, who in a rare moment of openness confesses how much she looks forward to the ball. Two days later, Frank is called back to Enscombe because his aunt is ill. The ball is postponed indefinitely, and Frank comes to Emma to say goodbye. He is clearly dejected and speaks haltingly--for a moment, it seems as if he is going to declare something serious. Interrupted by his father, Frank departs, and Emma is depressed. Highbury society is, it seems for Emma, severely diminished without Frank's charms. Emma concludes that she must be "a little in love" with Frank after all

----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 30--------- One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely satisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted term of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and hoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great risk, of its being all in vain. Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed. All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking indifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply, than, "Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.--Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's week's account; much rather, I confess.--Pleasure in seeing dancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who does.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different." This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;-- "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with _very_ great pleasure." It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the society of William Larkins. No!--she was more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no love. Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay. The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own convenience. Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon." This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man might be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as it would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the happiest!--"I said it would be so," was the only consolation. Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home. Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst." "But you will come again," said Emma. "This will not be your only visit to Randalls." "Ah!--(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever." "Our poor ball must be quite given up." "Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?" "Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much rather have been merry than wise." "If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement." Emma looked graciously. "Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!" "As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury." He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so. "And you must be off this very morning?" "Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring him." "Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours." "Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_ laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then"-- He hesitated, got up, walked to a window. "In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion"-- He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said, "You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then"-- He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh. He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said, "It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm"-- He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed. A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave. "I shall hear about you all," said he; "that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added, "You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!" It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health. ----------CHAPTER 30--------- One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely satisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted term of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and hoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great risk, of its being all in vain. Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed. All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking indifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply, than, "Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.--Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's week's account; much rather, I confess.--Pleasure in seeing dancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who does.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different." This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;-- "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with _very_ great pleasure." It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the society of William Larkins. No!--she was more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no love. Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay. The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own convenience. Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon." This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man might be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as it would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the happiest!--"I said it would be so," was the only consolation. Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home. Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst." "But you will come again," said Emma. "This will not be your only visit to Randalls." "Ah!--(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever." "Our poor ball must be quite given up." "Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?" "Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much rather have been merry than wise." "If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement." Emma looked graciously. "Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!" "As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury." He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so. "And you must be off this very morning?" "Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring him." "Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours." "Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_ laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then"-- He hesitated, got up, walked to a window. "In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion"-- He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said, "You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then"-- He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh. He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said, "It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm"-- He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed. A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave. "I shall hear about you all," said he; "that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added, "You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!" It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health.

Emma.volume 2.chapter 31

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of volume 2, chapter 31, utilizing the provided context.

volume 2, chapter 31|chapter 31

Emma has no doubt that she is in love but wonders how much she can actually love Frank Churchill if she is no less happy during his absence. She realizes that she is not in love to her vow never to marry or quit her father. Emma starts to wonder if Frank might instead be a good match for Harriet. Emma scolds Harriet for worrying about Mr. Elton, claiming that it is a constant reminder of her mistake. She asks Harriet to speak less of Mr. Elton for her own sake, and Harriet apologies for being ungrateful.

----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 31--------- Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings. "I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_," said she.--"In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more." Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings. "_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very much in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have been different.--Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.--His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.--Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.--I shall do very well again after a little while--and then, it will be a good thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily." When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.--The charm of her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more than once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these words--"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss Woodhouse's beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus to her." This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again. Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it, the "beautiful little friend," suggested to her the idea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections. Was it impossible?--No.--Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in understanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.--For Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed. "I must not dwell upon it," said she.--"I must not think of it. I know the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure." It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton's engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill's disappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were assuming the most irresistible form.--His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr. Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe before "Mr. Elton and his bride" was in every body's mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound. She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet's mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston's ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual approach--new carriage, bell-ringing, and all. Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could give. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened submissively, and said "it was very true--it was just as Miss Woodhouse described--it was not worth while to think about them--and she would not think about them any longer" but no change of subject could avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground. "Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr. Elton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_. You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--and it will be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it." Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation. Emma continued, "I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very important--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what would be kind by me." This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it very tolerably. "You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--Want gratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do for you!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!" Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before. "There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart," said she afterwards to herself. "There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.--I have it not--but I know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!--I would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a hundred such--And for a wife--a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable. I mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!" ----------CHAPTER 31--------- Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings. "I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_," said she.--"In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more." Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings. "_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very much in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have been different.--Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.--His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.--Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.--I shall do very well again after a little while--and then, it will be a good thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily." When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.--The charm of her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more than once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these words--"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss Woodhouse's beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus to her." This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again. Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it, the "beautiful little friend," suggested to her the idea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections. Was it impossible?--No.--Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in understanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.--For Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed. "I must not dwell upon it," said she.--"I must not think of it. I know the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure." It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton's engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill's disappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were assuming the most irresistible form.--His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr. Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe before "Mr. Elton and his bride" was in every body's mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound. She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet's mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston's ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual approach--new carriage, bell-ringing, and all. Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could give. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened submissively, and said "it was very true--it was just as Miss Woodhouse described--it was not worth while to think about them--and she would not think about them any longer" but no change of subject could avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground. "Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr. Elton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_. You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--and it will be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it." Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation. Emma continued, "I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very important--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what would be kind by me." This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it very tolerably. "You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--Want gratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do for you!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!" Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before. "There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart," said she afterwards to herself. "There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.--I have it not--but I know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!--I would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a hundred such--And for a wife--a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable. I mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!"

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 31 using the context provided.

volume 2, chapter 31|chapter 31

With Frank gone, Emma begins to analyze her feelings. Although she is certain that she is in love with Frank, she is surprised that she is so cheerful in his absence. Moreover, whenever she imagines Frank proposing to her, she finds herself refusing his proposal, never experiencing any struggle between her love for Frank and her duty to her father. Frank writes a letter to Mrs. Weston. She tells Emma that he has mentioned her in the letter and has apologized for forgetting to say good-bye to her friend Harriet. Immediately Emma, still preoccupied with thoughts about marriage, concludes that Frank is attracted by Harriet's beauty and innocence. She begins to imagine a romantic entanglement between Frank and Harriet. When Harriet tells Emma that the Eltons are coming to Highbury, Emma asks Harriet not to make her feel guilty about what she has made Harriet suffer. Harriet immediately apologizes and assures Emma that she can never be inconsiderate to her. Harriet's sincerity impresses Emma very much, and she again feels that her young friend is morally superior to her. Emma compares Harriet's warmth to Jane's coldness and thinks that surely she will find a sensible husband for her soon.

----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 31--------- Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings. "I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_," said she.--"In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more." Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings. "_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very much in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have been different.--Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.--His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.--Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.--I shall do very well again after a little while--and then, it will be a good thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily." When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.--The charm of her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more than once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these words--"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss Woodhouse's beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus to her." This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again. Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it, the "beautiful little friend," suggested to her the idea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections. Was it impossible?--No.--Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in understanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.--For Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed. "I must not dwell upon it," said she.--"I must not think of it. I know the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure." It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton's engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill's disappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were assuming the most irresistible form.--His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr. Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe before "Mr. Elton and his bride" was in every body's mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound. She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet's mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston's ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual approach--new carriage, bell-ringing, and all. Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could give. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened submissively, and said "it was very true--it was just as Miss Woodhouse described--it was not worth while to think about them--and she would not think about them any longer" but no change of subject could avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground. "Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr. Elton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_. You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--and it will be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it." Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation. Emma continued, "I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very important--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what would be kind by me." This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it very tolerably. "You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--Want gratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do for you!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!" Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before. "There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart," said she afterwards to herself. "There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.--I have it not--but I know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!--I would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a hundred such--And for a wife--a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable. I mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!" ----------CHAPTER 31--------- Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings. "I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_," said she.--"In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more." Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings. "_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very much in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have been different.--Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.--His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.--Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.--I shall do very well again after a little while--and then, it will be a good thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily." When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.--The charm of her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more than once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these words--"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss Woodhouse's beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus to her." This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again. Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it, the "beautiful little friend," suggested to her the idea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections. Was it impossible?--No.--Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in understanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.--For Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed. "I must not dwell upon it," said she.--"I must not think of it. I know the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure." It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton's engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill's disappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were assuming the most irresistible form.--His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr. Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe before "Mr. Elton and his bride" was in every body's mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound. She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet's mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston's ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual approach--new carriage, bell-ringing, and all. Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could give. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened submissively, and said "it was very true--it was just as Miss Woodhouse described--it was not worth while to think about them--and she would not think about them any longer" but no change of subject could avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground. "Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr. Elton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_. You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--and it will be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it." Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation. Emma continued, "I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very important--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what would be kind by me." This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it very tolerably. "You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--Want gratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do for you!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!" Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before. "There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart," said she afterwards to herself. "There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.--I have it not--but I know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!--I would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a hundred such--And for a wife--a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable. I mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!"

Emma.volume 2.chapter 35

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 35 based on the provided context.

volume 2, chapter 35|chapter 35

After dinner, Emma notices with a bit of dismay that the conversation seems to break into two distinct parties. Even her best efforts as a hostess don't detach Mrs. Elton from Jane's side. Prodded by Mrs. Elton into talking about her future, Jane says that she won't be returning to live with the Campbells once they return from Ireland. She's determined to make her own living as a governess. We interrupt this program for a brief history lesson: Amazingly enough, nineteenth-century England isn't exactly known for its gender equality. Unmarried gentlewomen had very few options. And those options weren't exactly lucrative. If you happened to have wealthy relatives, you could sponge off of them for the rest of your life. If you didn't have wealthy relatives, you could become a governess. This involved caring for whiny kids for the rest of your life. That's it. Pretty short interruption, huh? That's because there weren't all that many options out there. OK, back to our party: Mrs. Elton, helpful as ever, barges into the conversation and demands that Jane allow her to find a family for Jane. Jane refuses. Mrs. Elton refuses to accept her refusal. Mr. Weston enters with news: Frank writes that he will soon move with his aunt to a vacation spot about nine miles away from Highbury. It's close enough to allow Frank to come over all the time. Emma's thrilled. Mr. Knightley doesn't look so pleased.

----------VOLUME 2, CHAPTER 35--------- When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity. "Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane. "I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present." "Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect." "Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition." "I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane; "governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do." "Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, _that_ may suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life." "You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for." "I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest." "You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a situation together," said Jane, "they are pretty sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I am." "And I am quite serious too, I assure you," replied Mrs. Elton gaily, "in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us." In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane, "Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his gallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature he is;--I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease; modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like it?--Selina's choice--handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed--quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments now, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,--show and finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will look well?" The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr. Weston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too much expected by the best judges, for surprize--but there was great joy. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been sorry to see him before. John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.--That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a day of business in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile to another man's house, for the sake of being in mixed company till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had been in motion since eight o'clock in the morning, and might now have been still, who had been long talking, and might have been silent, who had been in more than one crowd, and might have been alone!--Such a man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again into the world!--Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather than break up the party. John Knightley looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I could not have believed it even of _him_." Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it. "Read it, read it," said he, "it will give you pleasure; only a few lines--will not take you long; read it to Emma." The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every body. "Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say to it?--I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?--Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?--In town next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way." Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable. Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already. It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her. ----------CHAPTER 35--------- When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity. "Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane. "I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present." "Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect." "Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition." "I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane; "governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do." "Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, _that_ may suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life." "You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for." "I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest." "You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a situation together," said Jane, "they are pretty sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I am." "And I am quite serious too, I assure you," replied Mrs. Elton gaily, "in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us." In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane, "Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his gallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature he is;--I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease; modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like it?--Selina's choice--handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed--quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments now, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,--show and finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will look well?" The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr. Weston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too much expected by the best judges, for surprize--but there was great joy. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been sorry to see him before. John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.--That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a day of business in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile to another man's house, for the sake of being in mixed company till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had been in motion since eight o'clock in the morning, and might now have been still, who had been long talking, and might have been silent, who had been in more than one crowd, and might have been alone!--Such a man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again into the world!--Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather than break up the party. John Knightley looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I could not have believed it even of _him_." Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it. "Read it, read it," said he, "it will give you pleasure; only a few lines--will not take you long; read it to Emma." The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every body. "Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say to it?--I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?--Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?--In town next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way." Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable. Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already. It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her.

Emma.volume 3.chapter 37

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of volume 3, chapter 37, utilizing the provided context.

volume 3, chapter 37|chapter 37

Emma thinks about her agitation upon hearing of Frank's impending arrival and decides that she feels such apprehension more on his behalf than her own--her attachment to him is not very strong. When she sees him again, he is friendly and spirited but visits for only fifteen minutes. Frank's short visit convinces Emma that his feelings as well must have weakened. Because of his aunt's demands, Frank is kept away for ten days after this first visit. Mrs. Churchill eventually determines that her family must move from London to Richmond, which places Frank closer to Highbury. Mr. Weston is delighted to have his son nearer, and a date is set for the long-postponed ball

----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 37--------- A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before her:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his. She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration. That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something decisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil state. It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she must act. They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable effect. He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read his comparative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury. "He had seen a group of old acquaintance in the street as he passed--he had not stopped, he would not stop for more than a word--but he had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off." She had no doubt as to his being less in love--but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long. This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days. He was often hoping, intending to come--but was always prevented. His aunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at Randall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have many years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on, by all his father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever. It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could not endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and suffering; and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls communicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit expected from the change. Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement, and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends--for the house was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he could even wish. Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She hoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof. Mr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted. It was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be really having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a young man?--An hour's ride. He would be always coming over. The difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen miles--nay, eighteen--it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street--was a serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be spent in coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in London; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse. Better than nearer! One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this removal,--the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now, however, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change, and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible. Mr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood between the young people of Highbury and happiness. Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him. May was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone. ----------CHAPTER 37--------- A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before her:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his. She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration. That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something decisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil state. It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she must act. They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable effect. He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read his comparative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury. "He had seen a group of old acquaintance in the street as he passed--he had not stopped, he would not stop for more than a word--but he had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off." She had no doubt as to his being less in love--but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long. This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days. He was often hoping, intending to come--but was always prevented. His aunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at Randall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have many years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on, by all his father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever. It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could not endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and suffering; and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls communicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit expected from the change. Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement, and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends--for the house was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he could even wish. Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She hoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof. Mr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted. It was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be really having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a young man?--An hour's ride. He would be always coming over. The difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen miles--nay, eighteen--it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street--was a serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be spent in coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in London; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse. Better than nearer! One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this removal,--the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now, however, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change, and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible. Mr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood between the young people of Highbury and happiness. Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him. May was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone. ----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 37--------- A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before her:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his. She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration. That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something decisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil state. It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she must act. They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable effect. He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read his comparative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury. "He had seen a group of old acquaintance in the street as he passed--he had not stopped, he would not stop for more than a word--but he had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off." She had no doubt as to his being less in love--but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long. This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days. He was often hoping, intending to come--but was always prevented. His aunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at Randall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have many years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on, by all his father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever. It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could not endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and suffering; and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls communicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit expected from the change. Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement, and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends--for the house was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he could even wish. Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She hoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof. Mr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted. It was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be really having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a young man?--An hour's ride. He would be always coming over. The difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen miles--nay, eighteen--it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street--was a serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be spent in coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in London; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse. Better than nearer! One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this removal,--the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now, however, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change, and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible. Mr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood between the young people of Highbury and happiness. Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him. May was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone. ----------CHAPTER 37--------- A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before her:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his. She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration. That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something decisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil state. It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she must act. They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable effect. He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read his comparative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury. "He had seen a group of old acquaintance in the street as he passed--he had not stopped, he would not stop for more than a word--but he had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off." She had no doubt as to his being less in love--but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long. This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days. He was often hoping, intending to come--but was always prevented. His aunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at Randall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have many years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on, by all his father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever. It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could not endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and suffering; and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls communicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit expected from the change. Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement, and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends--for the house was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he could even wish. Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She hoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof. Mr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted. It was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be really having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a young man?--An hour's ride. He would be always coming over. The difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen miles--nay, eighteen--it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street--was a serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be spent in coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in London; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse. Better than nearer! One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this removal,--the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now, however, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change, and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible. Mr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood between the young people of Highbury and happiness. Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him. May was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.

Emma.volume 3.chapter 39

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 39 using the context provided.

volume 3, chapter 39|chapter 39

As Emma thinks over the ball the next day, she's satisfied to remember that Mr. Knightley shares her opinion about the Eltons. Even Harriet seems to be getting over Mr. Elton after his snub at the ball. Everything is as perfect as Emma could want it to be: Harriet is no longer in love, Mr. Knightley is not quarrelling with her, and Frank Churchill seems to be staying away from Hartfield. Emma settles down to play with her nephews for the morning. Before long, however, Frank and a very weak Harriet come in the gate. Emma rushes out to meet them. Harriet's face is completely white. Together Emma and Frank assist her into the house, where she faints on the couch. Once Harriet recovers, she shares her story. Harriet and another classmate had been walking along a lane when a small band of gypsy children came up behind them. Harriet's friend ran away. Harriet, whose muscles were cramped from dancing the night before, couldn't really walk. The gypsy kids surround her threateningly. We know what you're thinking. She's scared of a group of kids? Seriously? But maybe they were really scary kids. Or maybe she's just a wimp. Either way, she's having a rough day. She offers the children a shilling to go away, but they seem to know a good thing when they've found it. They refuse to leave. Suddenly, Frank Churchill comes around the corner and rescues her. Frank chases the children away and helps Harriet to Emma's door. Frank leaves to begin his journey to London. Although Emma worries about Harriet, she's actually rather delighted about this turn of events. Woman in distress + handsome hero = true love. Right? She's sure that this rescue is the groundwork for Harriet and Frank's love. Nonetheless, Emma worries about telling her father the news - and rightfully so. Mr. Woodhouse frets for days about the threat of savages on the loose. Our narrator informs us that the gypsies move out of Highbury before they can be found. Fortunately, upon hearing of the incident, all of Mr. Woodhouse's neighbors make sure to ask him about his health.

----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 39--------- This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--From Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be before her! She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it. Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away. A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole. Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough for safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless--and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain. How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more. In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place. This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--He dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself. Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made. It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other. In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's own account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed. Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message. The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital. ----------CHAPTER 39--------- This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--From Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be before her! She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it. Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away. A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole. Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough for safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless--and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain. How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more. In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place. This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--He dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself. Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made. It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other. In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's own account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed. Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message. The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital. ----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 39--------- This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--From Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be before her! She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it. Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away. A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole. Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough for safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless--and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain. How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more. In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place. This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--He dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself. Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made. It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other. In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's own account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed. Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message. The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of volume 3, chapter 39, utilizing the provided context.

Emma is quite glad that Mr. Knightley has reached the same conclusions about the Eltons as she has, and his admittance that Harriet would have been a better wife makes her quite happy. She also hopes that Harriet will stop her infatuation with Mr. Elton now that she sees what he is really like. That morning Emma is surprised to see Frank and Harriet come to her together, and she is soon convinced that something extraordinary happened. Harriet faints onto a chair, and then tells her what happened. Harriet and another young woman were walking out near Highbury when they came upon a group of gypsies. The other young woman ran off, but Harriet, being sore from dancing the night before, was not able to. The gypsies started to beg, and when she gave them some money and they saw that she was scared, they surrounded her and demanded more. Just then Frank Churchill came upon her on his way back home, drove the gypsies away and brought Harriet to Emma's. He soon leaves, and Emma is convinced that this occurrence between Frank and Harriet will bring them together

----------CHAPTER 39--------- This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--From Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be before her! She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it. Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away. A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole. Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough for safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless--and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain. How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more. In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place. This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--He dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself. Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made. It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other. In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's own account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed. Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message. The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital. ----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 39--------- This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--From Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be before her! She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it. Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away. A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole. Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough for safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless--and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain. How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more. In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place. This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--He dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself. Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made. It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other. In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's own account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed. Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message. The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital.

Emma.volume 3.chapter 40

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for volume 3, chapter 40 with the given context.

volume 3, chapter 40|chapter 40

Harriet visits Emma several days later to make a confession. She has a parcel with items that remindher of Mr. Elton, including a small box with a court plaster that was used to cover a small cut that Mr. Elton had. Harriet claims that she is now done obsessing over Mr. Elton and vows never to marry, for the person she prefers is too great her superior. Emma gives Harriet some hope that she might be able to marry this unnamed man.

----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 40--------- A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began: "Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it will be over." Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary. "It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me." "Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do." "How I could so long a time be fancying myself!..." cried Harriet, warmly. "It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the two I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall never forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it all--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?" said she, with a conscious look. "Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?" "No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued very much." She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_ _precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister. "Now," said Harriet, "you _must_ recollect." "No, indeed I do not." "Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat." "My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go on--what else?" "And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally." "And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did." Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--"Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment." "I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here." "Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now."-- "Well, go on." "Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it." "My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?" "Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them." "But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful." "I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton." "And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?" She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?" "Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--"Oh! no"--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided, and thus spoke-- "Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?" "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose-- Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me especially." "I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart." "Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!" "It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value." Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation. ----------CHAPTER 40--------- A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began: "Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it will be over." Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary. "It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me." "Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do." "How I could so long a time be fancying myself!..." cried Harriet, warmly. "It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the two I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall never forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it all--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?" said she, with a conscious look. "Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?" "No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued very much." She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_ _precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister. "Now," said Harriet, "you _must_ recollect." "No, indeed I do not." "Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat." "My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go on--what else?" "And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally." "And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did." Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--"Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment." "I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here." "Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now."-- "Well, go on." "Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it." "My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?" "Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them." "But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful." "I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton." "And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?" She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?" "Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--"Oh! no"--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided, and thus spoke-- "Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?" "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose-- Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me especially." "I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart." "Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!" "It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value." Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for volume 3, chapter 40 with the given context.

volume 3, chapter 40|chapter 40

Harriet comes to tell Emma that her infatuation with Mr. Elton has passed and to relinquish the trinkets she has kept to remember him by. First, she shows Emma a bit of court-plaster that she had lent to Mr. Elton when he cut himself. He had used what he needed but discarded the rest, which Harriet then kept. Emma feels guilty in recalling that she had lied and said that she did not have any court-plaster, so that Harriet would have the opportunity to be Elton's healer. Harriet's second trinket is a useless bit of pencil Elton had discarded. She throws both items into the fire, and Emma hopes that Frank might take Elton's place. Her hopes seem to be rewarded when, during another conversation, Harriet says she will never marry, inciting Emma's suspicion that Harriet does not think that she will marry because she is interested in someone of a higher class. After some hesitation, Emma asks if Harriet has feelings for someone of higher rank. Harriet says yes, and Emma comments that she is not surprised, given the service that this person rendered Harriet. Emma says that they must not discuss it anymore, and she advises Harriet to be cautious but not to give up all hope

----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 40--------- A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began: "Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it will be over." Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary. "It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me." "Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do." "How I could so long a time be fancying myself!..." cried Harriet, warmly. "It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the two I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall never forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it all--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?" said she, with a conscious look. "Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?" "No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued very much." She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_ _precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister. "Now," said Harriet, "you _must_ recollect." "No, indeed I do not." "Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat." "My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go on--what else?" "And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally." "And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did." Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--"Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment." "I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here." "Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now."-- "Well, go on." "Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it." "My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?" "Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them." "But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful." "I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton." "And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?" She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?" "Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--"Oh! no"--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided, and thus spoke-- "Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?" "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose-- Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me especially." "I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart." "Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!" "It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value." Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation. ----------CHAPTER 40--------- A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began: "Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it will be over." Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary. "It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me." "Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do." "How I could so long a time be fancying myself!..." cried Harriet, warmly. "It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the two I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall never forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it all--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?" said she, with a conscious look. "Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?" "No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued very much." She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_ _precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister. "Now," said Harriet, "you _must_ recollect." "No, indeed I do not." "Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat." "My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go on--what else?" "And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally." "And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did." Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--"Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment." "I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here." "Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now."-- "Well, go on." "Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it." "My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?" "Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them." "But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful." "I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton." "And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?" She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?" "Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--"Oh! no"--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided, and thus spoke-- "Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?" "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose-- Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me especially." "I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart." "Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!" "It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value." Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation.

Emma.volume 3.chapter 45

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 45 with the given context.

volume 3, chapter 45|chapter 45

Emma walks slowly home, thinking about Jane's change in fortunes. She's surprised to find Mr. Knightley at home when she arrives. He's sitting beside Harriet. He only meant to stay five minutes - but he's been sitting there for 30. Apparently, he's made a sudden decision to travel to London and visit his brother. Emma arrives in time to hear her father discussing her visit to the Bates house with Mr. Knightley. As he looks at her approvingly, Emma blushes. She's glad that she seems to have done exactly the right thing for once. The next day, an express letter arrives at the Westons'. Mrs. Churchill finally died. After death, everyone seems a lot nicer than they were alive. Even Mrs. Churchill. Mr. Weston begins to think that he might have liked her, after all. Emma realizes at once what this means: Mr. Churchill, Frank's uncle, is a pretty easygoing guy. It was only Mrs. Churchill who kept Frank on such a short string. Now that she's gone, Harriet and Frank can be together at last! Emma decides that there's not much she can do immediately to help forward Harriet's love. More pressingly, Jane Fairfax has taken very ill. Determined to be more friendly, Emma offers to take her on a drive. She's rejected. She drives by her house, trying to make it seem like an accident. Jane still doesn't come out. She sends some arrowroot to the house . It's sent back. Dejected, Emma realizes that Jane doesn't want her help at all. Surprised? Well, not everything works out as Emma plans it. As she's beginning to figure out. Later, she hears rumors that Jane was out walking on the cliffs by herself. Emma tries not to think about what that might mean.

----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 45--------- Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her father.--Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual, said, "I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say, besides the 'love,' which nobody carries?" "Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?" "Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little time." Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going--her father began his inquiries. "Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?--And how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say they must have been very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so attentive to them!" Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.--It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.-- He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified--and in another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part.--He took her hand;--whether she had not herself made the first motion, she could not say--she might, perhaps, have rather offered it--but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lips--when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive.--He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.--The intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more.--It was with him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.--She could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.--He left them immediately afterwards--gone in a moment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance. Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier;--it would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.--Neither would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed--but it might have happened at a better time--and to have had longer notice of it, would have been pleasanter.--They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished gallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinion.--He had been sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier! In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,--interested, without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow. "I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me. You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long." The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more. It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints. "Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal: more than any body had ever supposed--and continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event--a great shock--with all her faults, what would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss would be dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it."--Even Mr. Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, "Ah! poor woman, who would have thought it!" and resolved, that his mourning should be as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband--her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion--and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed. Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command. What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual forbearance. Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma's side. It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her kindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. "Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;" and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged--appetite quite gone--and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:--confined always to one room;--he could have wished it otherwise--and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful. To take her--be it only an hour or two--from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would name--mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this short note: "Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise." Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her--but it would not do;--Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest service--and every thing that message could do was tried--but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.--Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers; but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. "Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body--any body at all--Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and Mrs. Cole had made such a point--and Mrs. Perry had said so much--but, except them, Jane would really see nobody." Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could she feel any right of preference herself--she submitted, therefore, and only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet, which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:--Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was distasteful. Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but "dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back; it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover, she insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing." When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could have no doubt--putting every thing together--that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to reprove. ----------CHAPTER 45--------- Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her father.--Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual, said, "I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say, besides the 'love,' which nobody carries?" "Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?" "Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little time." Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going--her father began his inquiries. "Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?--And how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say they must have been very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so attentive to them!" Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.--It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.-- He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified--and in another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part.--He took her hand;--whether she had not herself made the first motion, she could not say--she might, perhaps, have rather offered it--but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lips--when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive.--He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.--The intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more.--It was with him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.--She could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.--He left them immediately afterwards--gone in a moment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance. Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier;--it would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.--Neither would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed--but it might have happened at a better time--and to have had longer notice of it, would have been pleasanter.--They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished gallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinion.--He had been sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier! In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,--interested, without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow. "I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me. You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long." The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more. It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints. "Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal: more than any body had ever supposed--and continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event--a great shock--with all her faults, what would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss would be dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it."--Even Mr. Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, "Ah! poor woman, who would have thought it!" and resolved, that his mourning should be as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband--her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion--and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed. Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command. What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual forbearance. Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma's side. It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her kindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. "Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;" and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged--appetite quite gone--and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:--confined always to one room;--he could have wished it otherwise--and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful. To take her--be it only an hour or two--from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would name--mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this short note: "Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise." Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her--but it would not do;--Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest service--and every thing that message could do was tried--but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.--Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers; but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. "Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body--any body at all--Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and Mrs. Cole had made such a point--and Mrs. Perry had said so much--but, except them, Jane would really see nobody." Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could she feel any right of preference herself--she submitted, therefore, and only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet, which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:--Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was distasteful. Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but "dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back; it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover, she insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing." When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could have no doubt--putting every thing together--that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to reprove.

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volume 3, chapter 45|chapter 45

Emma is miserable throughout the evening after her return from Box Hill. She decides to repent for her contemptible behavior towards Miss Bates by visiting her the next day. When she calls at the Bates house the next morning, there is a bit of confusion. Jane escapes into another room and appears to be ill. When Emma asks Miss Bates about Jane's health, she is told that Jane has been writing long letters to Colonel Campbell and Mrs. Dixon and has a severe headache. Miss Bates then tells Emma to forgive Jane for not coming out to greet her; she admits that Emma's visit has taken them both by surprise. Emma realizes that Jane is upset because her feelings were hurt when Emma linked up her name with Mr. Dixon. When Emma expresses her concern about Jane, Miss Bates says that she will be fine. She then tells Emma that her niece has accepted a position as a governess to the three children of Mrs. Smallridge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Elton's sister. She will be leaving for her job within a fortnight. Emma sympathizes with Jane's situation, for she knows that life will be a struggle for her. She also realizes that Jane does not really want to be a governess. Miss Bates then talks about the Box Hill picnic, which she says nobody had enjoyed. She, however, feels flattered that her kind friends include her in such parties. She also talks about the new piano. She says that Jane does not know who sent it and will return it after Colonel Campbell returns to London. The mention of the piano upsets Emma, so she expresses her heartfelt good wishes and leaves.

----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 45--------- Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her father.--Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual, said, "I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say, besides the 'love,' which nobody carries?" "Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?" "Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little time." Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going--her father began his inquiries. "Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?--And how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say they must have been very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so attentive to them!" Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.--It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.-- He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified--and in another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part.--He took her hand;--whether she had not herself made the first motion, she could not say--she might, perhaps, have rather offered it--but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lips--when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive.--He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.--The intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more.--It was with him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.--She could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.--He left them immediately afterwards--gone in a moment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance. Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier;--it would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.--Neither would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed--but it might have happened at a better time--and to have had longer notice of it, would have been pleasanter.--They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished gallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinion.--He had been sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier! In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,--interested, without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow. "I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me. You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long." The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more. It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints. "Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal: more than any body had ever supposed--and continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event--a great shock--with all her faults, what would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss would be dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it."--Even Mr. Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, "Ah! poor woman, who would have thought it!" and resolved, that his mourning should be as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband--her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion--and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed. Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command. What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual forbearance. Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma's side. It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her kindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. "Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;" and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged--appetite quite gone--and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:--confined always to one room;--he could have wished it otherwise--and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful. To take her--be it only an hour or two--from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would name--mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this short note: "Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise." Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her--but it would not do;--Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest service--and every thing that message could do was tried--but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.--Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers; but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. "Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body--any body at all--Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and Mrs. Cole had made such a point--and Mrs. Perry had said so much--but, except them, Jane would really see nobody." Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could she feel any right of preference herself--she submitted, therefore, and only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet, which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:--Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was distasteful. Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but "dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back; it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover, she insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing." When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could have no doubt--putting every thing together--that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to reprove. ----------CHAPTER 45--------- Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her father.--Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual, said, "I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say, besides the 'love,' which nobody carries?" "Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?" "Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little time." Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going--her father began his inquiries. "Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?--And how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say they must have been very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so attentive to them!" Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.--It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.-- He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified--and in another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part.--He took her hand;--whether she had not herself made the first motion, she could not say--she might, perhaps, have rather offered it--but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lips--when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive.--He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.--The intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more.--It was with him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.--She could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.--He left them immediately afterwards--gone in a moment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance. Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier;--it would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.--Neither would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed--but it might have happened at a better time--and to have had longer notice of it, would have been pleasanter.--They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished gallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinion.--He had been sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier! In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,--interested, without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow. "I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me. You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long." The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more. It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints. "Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal: more than any body had ever supposed--and continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event--a great shock--with all her faults, what would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss would be dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it."--Even Mr. Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, "Ah! poor woman, who would have thought it!" and resolved, that his mourning should be as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband--her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion--and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed. Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command. What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual forbearance. Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma's side. It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her kindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. "Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;" and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged--appetite quite gone--and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:--confined always to one room;--he could have wished it otherwise--and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful. To take her--be it only an hour or two--from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would name--mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this short note: "Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise." Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her--but it would not do;--Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest service--and every thing that message could do was tried--but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.--Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers; but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. "Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body--any body at all--Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and Mrs. Cole had made such a point--and Mrs. Perry had said so much--but, except them, Jane would really see nobody." Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could she feel any right of preference herself--she submitted, therefore, and only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet, which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:--Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was distasteful. Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but "dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back; it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover, she insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing." When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could have no doubt--putting every thing together--that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to reprove.

Emma.volume 3.chapter 51

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volume 3, chapter 51|chapter 51

Mr. Knightley and Emma discuss Frank Churchill's letter come to the same conclusion: Frank Churchill did not behave well, but he was partially justified, especially since there has been no final harm. They also onsider the various options to deal with Emma's father. Mr. Knightley suggests moving him to Donwell Abbey with Emma, but Emma is concerned that it will cause the old man great discomfort. Finally they decide that Mr. Knightley will move to Hartfield instead.

----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 51--------- This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--'His father's disposition:'--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?" Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of. "You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir,"--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment." Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. "There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--"His feelings are natural.--What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most extraordinary--" "Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers." "I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter. "'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?" "She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?" "Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!" "I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him." "Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of her. 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--'Happier than I deserve.' Come, he knows himself there. 'Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.'--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?-- And a fine ending--and there is the letter. The child of good fortune! That was your name for him, was it?" "You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with you." "Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk to you of something else. I have another person's interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject." The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father. Emma's answer was ready at the first word. "While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible for her. She could never quit him." Part only of this answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had been thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father's comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!--No, he felt that it ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her father's happiness--in other words, his life--required Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise. Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself. "Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for," cried Emma. "I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you ask mine." She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good scheme. It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt. This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at Hartfield--the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became. His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!--Such a partner in all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of melancholy! She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of unmerited punishment. In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr. Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;--not like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could be in love with more than _three_ men in one year. ----------CHAPTER 51--------- This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--'His father's disposition:'--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?" Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of. "You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir,"--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment." Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. "There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--"His feelings are natural.--What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most extraordinary--" "Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers." "I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter. "'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?" "She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?" "Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!" "I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him." "Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of her. 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--'Happier than I deserve.' Come, he knows himself there. 'Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.'--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?-- And a fine ending--and there is the letter. The child of good fortune! That was your name for him, was it?" "You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with you." "Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk to you of something else. I have another person's interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject." The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father. Emma's answer was ready at the first word. "While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible for her. She could never quit him." Part only of this answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had been thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father's comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!--No, he felt that it ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her father's happiness--in other words, his life--required Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise. Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself. "Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for," cried Emma. "I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you ask mine." She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good scheme. It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt. This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at Hartfield--the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became. His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!--Such a partner in all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of melancholy! She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of unmerited punishment. In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr. Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;--not like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.

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Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 51, utilizing the provided context.

volume 3, chapter 51|chapter 51

When Emma enters her house, she is "in an exquisite flutter of happiness. " When tea is served, she makes all efforts to play the perfect hostess. Mr. Woodhouse, who does not know of the engagement of his daughter, speaks to Knightley in his usual manner and suspects nothing. At nighttime, the matured Emma reflects on her responsibilities as a daughter and as a friend. Although she has not discussed it with Knightley, she is resolved never to leave her father; the answer is to remain engaged to Knightley as long as her father lives. Emma also resolves to inform Harriet about her engagement by writing her a letter; she will then arrange to send Harriet out of Highbury to spend some time with Isabella in London so she can recover. The next morning, Knightley comes to breakfast and remains with Emma for half an hour. Emma also writes a letter to Harriet and reads one written by Frank and forwarded to Hartfield by Mrs. Weston. In the letter, he apologizes for his pretentious and deceitful attentions to Emma and explains that his engagement was kept secret due to the difficulties at Enscombe caused by Mrs. Churchill's illness. In order to hide his engagement from everyone in Highbury, he pretended to be attracted to Emma; since she seemed indifferent to him, he did not think that his flirting mattered. He now realizes that it was deceitful to both Emma and Jane and very self-serving. He is extremely sorry for the embarrassment he has caused both young ladies. Frank then explains that the piano, a gift from him to Jane, was kept a secret even from Jane. He knew that Jane would not have agreed to accept it from him, for she is a very proper young lady. It is Jane's sense of propriety that upset her when she saw Frank flirting with Emma. To defend his behavior, he accused Jane of being cold. Their misunderstanding made Jane decide to break the engagement and accept the position of governess with the Smallridges. Jane's letter to him, explaining her actions, arrived on the day of Mrs. Churchill's death. He had replied to her letter within the hour, but in the confusion of funeral preparations, he had forgotten to send it. He soon received a parcel from Jane with all of his letters to her enclosed; there was also a note expressing her surprise at not receiving a reply from Frank. Realizing his mistake, Frank knew he had to act quickly. He spoke with his uncle and gained permission to marry Jane. He then rushed to Highbury and reconciled with her. The letter ends with Frank's appreciation for the kindness of Mrs. Weston and acknowledgement that he is truly a child of fortune, as Emma has previously suggested.

----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 51--------- This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--'His father's disposition:'--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?" Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of. "You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir,"--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment." Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. "There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--"His feelings are natural.--What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most extraordinary--" "Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers." "I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter. "'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?" "She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?" "Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!" "I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him." "Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of her. 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--'Happier than I deserve.' Come, he knows himself there. 'Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.'--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?-- And a fine ending--and there is the letter. The child of good fortune! That was your name for him, was it?" "You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with you." "Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk to you of something else. I have another person's interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject." The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father. Emma's answer was ready at the first word. "While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible for her. She could never quit him." Part only of this answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had been thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father's comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!--No, he felt that it ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her father's happiness--in other words, his life--required Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise. Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself. "Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for," cried Emma. "I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you ask mine." She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good scheme. It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt. This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at Hartfield--the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became. His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!--Such a partner in all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of melancholy! She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of unmerited punishment. In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr. Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;--not like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could be in love with more than _three_ men in one year. ----------CHAPTER 51--------- This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--'His father's disposition:'--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?" Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of. "You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir,"--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment." Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. "There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--"His feelings are natural.--What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most extraordinary--" "Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers." "I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter. "'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?" "She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?" "Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!" "I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him." "Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of her. 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--'Happier than I deserve.' Come, he knows himself there. 'Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.'--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?-- And a fine ending--and there is the letter. The child of good fortune! That was your name for him, was it?" "You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with you." "Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk to you of something else. I have another person's interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject." The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father. Emma's answer was ready at the first word. "While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible for her. She could never quit him." Part only of this answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had been thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father's comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!--No, he felt that it ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her father's happiness--in other words, his life--required Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise. Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself. "Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for," cried Emma. "I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you ask mine." She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good scheme. It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt. This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at Hartfield--the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became. His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!--Such a partner in all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of melancholy! She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of unmerited punishment. In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr. Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;--not like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.

Emma.volume 3.chapter 55

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 55 with the given context.

In a few days the Knightleys and Harriet arrive from London. After a little time alone with Harriet, Emma sees that Mr. Martin has thoroughly taken the place of Mr. Knightley in her thoughts. Emma congratulates her on her engagement to Mr. Martin. Harriet's father turns out to be a tradesman, and not a gentleman, and Emma thinks how bad it could have been if she had married one of the men she had chosen for her. Emma becomes more acquainted with Robert Martin, and her relationship with Harriet naturally lessens. In September Harriet and Mr. Martin are married. Jane has left Highbury and is again with the Campbells. There is to be a mourning period before the marriage. Emma and Mr. Knightley decide to get married in October while John and Isabella are still at Hartfield, but Mr. Woodhouse thinks the plans miserable. Emma does not know what to do. Then Mrs. Weston's poultry-house is robbed, and other poultry-yards are also soon robbed. Mr. Woodhouse thinks of this as house breaking, and is happy to have John Knightley staying at Hartfield. He will soon be returning to London though, and, as Mr. Woodhouse wants the safety of a young man at Hartfield, he agrees to the marriage. The wedding is very nice, but with not too much finery or parade. Mrs. Elton thinks it extremely shabby, and cannot wait to tell her friends about how inferior it was to hers. Despite this, the wishes of all the true friends are there, and the union is quite happy.

----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 55--------- If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable as it was!--that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley, and was now forming all her views of happiness. Harriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish at first: but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend's approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.--Harriet was most happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley's, and the dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight. But what did such particulars explain?--The fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must ever be unintelligible to Emma. The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh reason for thinking so.--Harriet's parentage became known. She proved to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to have always wished for concealment.--Such was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!--It was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley--or for the Churchills--or even for Mr. Elton!--The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed. No objection was raised on the father's side; the young man was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet's happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and improvement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a man;--or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself. Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.--The intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural manner. Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them, could impair.--Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on herself.--Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of the three, were the first to be married. Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.--The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and they were only waiting for November. The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by Emma and Mr. Knightley.--They had determined that their marriage ought to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow them the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was the plan.--John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in approving it. But Mr. Woodhouse--how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to consent?--he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event. When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were almost hopeless.--A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.--He began to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it--a very promising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter's courage failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated--she could not proceed. In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden illumination of Mr. Woodhouse's mind, or any wonderful change of his nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another way.--Mrs. Weston's poultry-house was robbed one night of all her turkeys--evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the neighbourhood also suffered.--Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr. Woodhouse's fears.--He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his son-in-law's protection, would have been under wretched alarm every night of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.--But Mr. John Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first week in November. The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day--and Mr. Elton was called on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse. The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her own.--"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful business!--Selina would stare when she heard of it."--But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union. FINIS ----------CHAPTER 55--------- If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable as it was!--that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley, and was now forming all her views of happiness. Harriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish at first: but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend's approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.--Harriet was most happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley's, and the dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight. But what did such particulars explain?--The fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must ever be unintelligible to Emma. The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh reason for thinking so.--Harriet's parentage became known. She proved to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to have always wished for concealment.--Such was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!--It was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley--or for the Churchills--or even for Mr. Elton!--The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed. No objection was raised on the father's side; the young man was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet's happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and improvement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a man;--or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself. Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.--The intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural manner. Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them, could impair.--Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on herself.--Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of the three, were the first to be married. Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.--The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and they were only waiting for November. The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by Emma and Mr. Knightley.--They had determined that their marriage ought to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow them the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was the plan.--John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in approving it. But Mr. Woodhouse--how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to consent?--he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event. When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were almost hopeless.--A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.--He began to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it--a very promising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter's courage failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated--she could not proceed. In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden illumination of Mr. Woodhouse's mind, or any wonderful change of his nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another way.--Mrs. Weston's poultry-house was robbed one night of all her turkeys--evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the neighbourhood also suffered.--Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr. Woodhouse's fears.--He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his son-in-law's protection, would have been under wretched alarm every night of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.--But Mr. John Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first week in November. The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day--and Mr. Elton was called on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse. The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her own.--"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful business!--Selina would stare when she heard of it."--But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union. FINIS ----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 55--------- If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable as it was!--that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley, and was now forming all her views of happiness. Harriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish at first: but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend's approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.--Harriet was most happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley's, and the dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight. But what did such particulars explain?--The fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must ever be unintelligible to Emma. The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh reason for thinking so.--Harriet's parentage became known. She proved to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to have always wished for concealment.--Such was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!--It was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley--or for the Churchills--or even for Mr. Elton!--The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed. No objection was raised on the father's side; the young man was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet's happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and improvement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a man;--or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself. Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.--The intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural manner. Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them, could impair.--Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on herself.--Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of the three, were the first to be married. Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.--The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and they were only waiting for November. The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by Emma and Mr. Knightley.--They had determined that their marriage ought to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow them the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was the plan.--John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in approving it. But Mr. Woodhouse--how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to consent?--he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event. When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were almost hopeless.--A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.--He began to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it--a very promising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter's courage failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated--she could not proceed. In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden illumination of Mr. Woodhouse's mind, or any wonderful change of his nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another way.--Mrs. Weston's poultry-house was robbed one night of all her turkeys--evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the neighbourhood also suffered.--Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr. Woodhouse's fears.--He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his son-in-law's protection, would have been under wretched alarm every night of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.--But Mr. John Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first week in November. The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day--and Mr. Elton was called on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse. The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her own.--"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful business!--Selina would stare when she heard of it."--But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union. FINIS ----------CHAPTER 55--------- If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable as it was!--that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley, and was now forming all her views of happiness. Harriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish at first: but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend's approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.--Harriet was most happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley's, and the dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight. But what did such particulars explain?--The fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must ever be unintelligible to Emma. The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh reason for thinking so.--Harriet's parentage became known. She proved to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to have always wished for concealment.--Such was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!--It was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley--or for the Churchills--or even for Mr. Elton!--The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed. No objection was raised on the father's side; the young man was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet's happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and improvement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a man;--or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself. Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.--The intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural manner. Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them, could impair.--Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on herself.--Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of the three, were the first to be married. Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.--The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and they were only waiting for November. The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by Emma and Mr. Knightley.--They had determined that their marriage ought to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow them the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was the plan.--John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in approving it. But Mr. Woodhouse--how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to consent?--he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event. When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were almost hopeless.--A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.--He began to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it--a very promising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter's courage failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated--she could not proceed. In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden illumination of Mr. Woodhouse's mind, or any wonderful change of his nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another way.--Mrs. Weston's poultry-house was robbed one night of all her turkeys--evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the neighbourhood also suffered.--Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr. Woodhouse's fears.--He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his son-in-law's protection, would have been under wretched alarm every night of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.--But Mr. John Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first week in November. The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day--and Mr. Elton was called on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse. The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her own.--"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful business!--Selina would stare when she heard of it."--But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union. FINIS

Frankenstein.volume 1.cha

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The family ceases to travel after the birth of their second son. They return home to Switzerland, to their estate at the foot of the Alps. Young Victor prefers not to surround himself with a great many casual friends; instead, he is very intimate with a select few. These include a brilliant boy named Henry Clerval, renowned for his flights of imagination, and, of course, his beloved Elizabeth. Though Victor says that there can be no happier childhood than his, he confesses that he had a violent temper as a child. His temper was not directed at other people, however: it manifested itself as a passionate desire to learn the secrets of heaven and earth. Clerval, by contrast, was fascinated by questions of morality, heroism, and virtue. At Geneva, Elizabeth's "saintly soul" serves to soothe and temper Victor's burning passion for study. Without her, his interest in his work might have developed an obsessional quality. Frankenstein is full of pleasure as he recounts these scenes from his childhood, since they remain untainted by his recent misfortune. He can, however, see how his early scholarly endeavors foreshadow his eventual ruin. At the age of thirteen, he becomes fascinated with the work of Cornelius Agrippa. His father tells him that the book is pure trash; Victor does not heed him, however, since his father does not explain why the book is trash. The system of "science" that Agrippa propounds has long since been proven false; Victor, unaware of this, avidly reads all of Agrippa's works, as well as those of his contemporaries, Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. Victor shares their desire to penetrate the secrets of nature, to search for the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life. The quest for the latter becomes his obsession. Though he acknowledges that such a discovery would bring one great wealth, what Victor really longs for is glory. Victor is also preoccupied with the question of how one might communicate with or even raise the dead. He finds no answer in the works of his Roman idols, and becomes entirely disillusioned with them when he witnesses a lightning storm. Since the Romans have no satisfactory explanation for this phenomenon, Victor renounces them entirely and devotes himself to the study of mathematics. Destiny, however, will return him to the problems of natural philosophy.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 1--------- I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics, and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family. As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship and was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the world again through his credit and assistance. Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a merchant’s house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling when he had leisure for reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion. His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness, but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw and by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life. Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort’s coffin weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend he conducted her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife. There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of justice in my father’s upright mind which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as a restorative for her weakened frame. From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother’s tender caresses and my father’s smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something better—their child, the innocent and helpless creature bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me. For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a passion—remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been relieved—for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold her without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features. The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy—one among the schiavi ognor frementi, who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles. When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub—a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents’ house—my more than sister—the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and my pleasures. Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said playfully, “I have a pretty present for my Victor—tomorrow he shall have it.” And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only. ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 2--------- We were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in our ages. I need not say that we were strangers to any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense application and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge. She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home —the sublime shapes of the mountains, the changes of the seasons, tempest and calm, the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine summers—she found ample scope for admiration and delight. While my companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine. Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest sensations I can remember. On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave up entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves in their native country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a campagne on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league from the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure. He tried to make us act plays and to enter into masquerades, in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels. No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their caprice, but the agents and creators of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled with other families I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted the development of filial love. My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in my temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits but to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world. Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to become one among those whose names are recorded in story as the gallant and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home. Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was the living spirit of love to soften and attract; I might have become sullen in my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval—could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity, so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of beneficence and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring ambition. I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age we all went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful facts which he relates soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked carelessly at the title page of my book and said, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash.” If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded and that a modern system of science had been introduced which possessed much greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical, under such circumstances I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible that the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents, and I continued to read with the greatest avidity. When I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures known to few besides myself. I have described myself as always having been imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted appeared even to my boy’s apprehensions as tyros engaged in the same pursuit. The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect, anatomise, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and ignorantly I had repined. But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew more. I took their word for all that they averred, and I became their disciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self-taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child’s blindness, added to a student’s thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an inferior object, but what glory would attend the discovery if I could banish disease from the human frame and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death! Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake than to a want of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories and floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed the current of my ideas. When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst at once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed. Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity. On this occasion a man of great research in natural philosophy was with us, and excited by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable. By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former occupations, set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed and abortive creation, and entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be science which could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics and the branches of study appertaining to that science as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my consideration. Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life—the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars and ready to envelop me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution, happiness with their disregard. It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual. Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible destruction.

cliffnotes

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volume 1, chapter 3|volume 1, chapter 4

When he is seventeen, Victor's family decides to send him to the university of Ingolstadt, so that he might become worldlier. Shortly before his departure, Elizabeth falls ill with scarlet fever. Caroline, driven almost mad by worry, tends to her constantly, with complete disregard for the risk of contagion. Though Elizabeth recovers thanks to her extraordinary care, Caroline herself contracts the fever. On her deathbed, she joins Elizabeth and Victor's hands and says that her happiness is dependent upon their eventual marriage. With that, she dies. Victor cannot quite believe that his beloved mother is gone; he is stricken with grief and delays his departure to Ingolstadt. Elizabeth, determined to at least partially fill the void left by Caroline's death, devotes herself to caring for the surviving family. Clerval comes to visit Victor on his last evening at home. Though Clerval is desperate to accompany Victor to university, his prosaic merchant father will not allow him to do so. Victor is certain, however, that Clerval will not remain bound to the crushing dullness of his father's business. Upon his departure from Geneva, Victor reflects on the fact that he knows no one at Ingolstadt; he has always been unable to enjoy the company of strangers. However, his spirits are lifted by the thought of acquiring new knowledge. The first person he encounters at Ingolstadt is Krempe, a professor of natural philosophy. This meeting is described as the work of an evil influence the "Angel of Destruction. The professor is astounded at the absurd and outdated science that Victor has read in the past, and tells him to begin his studies completely anew. At first, the narrator is indifferent to the idea of returning to science: he has developed a deep contempt for natural philosophy and its uses. This changes, however, when Victor attends a lecture given by a professor named Waldman. Victor is completely enraptured by the ideas of Waldman, who believes that scientists can perform miracles, acquire unlimited powers, and "mock the invisible world with its own shadows. He decides to return to the study of natural philosophy at once; he visits Professor Waldman the following day to tell him that he has found a disciple in Victor Frankenstein.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 3--------- When I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my father thought it necessary for the completion of my education that I should be made acquainted with other customs than those of my native country. My departure was therefore fixed at an early date, but before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred—an omen, as it were, of my future misery. Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was in the greatest danger. During her illness many arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had at first yielded to our entreaties, but when she heard that the life of her favourite was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity of the distemper—Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her deathbed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not desert her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself. “My children,” she said, “my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to my younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world.” She died calmly, and her countenance expressed affection even in death. I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that she whom we saw every day and whose very existence appeared a part of our own can have departed for ever—that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished and the sound of a voice so familiar and dear to the ear can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent away some dear connection? And why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the rest and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized. My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. It appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose, akin to death, of the house of mourning and to rush into the thick of life. I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me. I was unwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me, and above all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled. She indeed veiled her grief and strove to act the comforter to us all. She looked steadily on life and assumed its duties with courage and zeal. She devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call her uncle and cousins. Never was she so enchanting as at this time, when she recalled the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us. She forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget. The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last evening with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him to accompany me and to become my fellow student, but in vain. His father was a narrow-minded trader and saw idleness and ruin in the aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt the misfortune of being debarred from a liberal education. He said little, but when he spoke I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance a restrained but firm resolve not to be chained to the miserable details of commerce. We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other nor persuade ourselves to say the word “Farewell!” It was said, and we retired under the pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the other was deceived; but when at morning’s dawn I descended to the carriage which was to convey me away, they were all there—my father again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties that I would write often and to bestow the last feminine attentions on her playmate and friend. I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure—I was now alone. In the university whither I was going I must form my own friends and be my own protector. My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic, and this had given me invincible repugnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were “old familiar faces,” but I believed myself totally unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up in one place and had longed to enter the world and take my station among other human beings. Now my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to repent. I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the high white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted and was conducted to my solitary apartment to spend the evening as I pleased. The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and paid a visit to some of the principal professors. Chance—or rather the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my father’s door—led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in the secrets of his science. He asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied carelessly, and partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my alchemists as the principal authors I had studied. The professor stared. “Have you,” he said, “really spent your time in studying such nonsense?” I replied in the affirmative. “Every minute,” continued M. Krempe with warmth, “every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems and useless names. Good God! In what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies which you have so greedily imbibed are a thousand years old and as musty as they are ancient? I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew.” So saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books treating of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure, and dismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning of the following week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he omitted. I returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I returned not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape. M. Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice and a repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come to concerning them in my early years. As a child I had not been content with the results promised by the modern professors of natural science. With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge along the paths of time and exchanged the discoveries of recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different when the masters of the science sought immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand; but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth. Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted with the localities and the principal residents in my new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town. Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person was short but remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and the various improvements made by different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present state of the science and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget: “The ancient teachers of this science,” said he, “promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that the elixir of life is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.” Such were the professor’s words—rather let me say such the words of the fate—enounced to destroy me. As he went on I felt as if my soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my being; chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one conception, one purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein—more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation. I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state of insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I had no power to produce it. By degrees, after the morning’s dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight’s thoughts were as a dream. There only remained a resolution to return to my ancient studies and to devote myself to a science for which I believed myself to possess a natural talent. On the same day I paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners in private were even more mild and attractive than in public, for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture which in his own house was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the same account of my former pursuits as I had given to his fellow professor. He heard with attention the little narration concerning my studies and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He said that “These were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names and arrange in connected classifications the facts which they in a great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The labours of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind.” I listened to his statement, which was delivered without any presumption or affectation, and then added that his lecture had removed my prejudices against modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured terms, with the modesty and deference due from a youth to his instructor, without letting escape (inexperience in life would have made me ashamed) any of the enthusiasm which stimulated my intended labours. I requested his advice concerning the books I ought to procure. “I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a disciple; and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been and may be made; it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time, I have not neglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very sorry chemist if he attended to that department of human knowledge alone. If your wish is to become really a man of science and not merely a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of natural philosophy, including mathematics.” He then took me into his laboratory and explained to me the uses of his various machines, instructing me as to what I ought to procure and promising me the use of his own when I should have advanced far enough in the science not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books which I had requested, and I took my leave. Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny. ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 4--------- From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation. I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the lectures, and cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science of the university; and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism; and his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature, that banished every idea of pedantry. It was, perhaps, the amiable character of this man that inclined me more to that branch of natural philosophy which he professed, than an intrinsic love for the science itself. But this state of mind had place only in the first steps towards knowledge: the more fully I entered into the science, the more exclusively I pursued it for its own sake. That application, which at first had been a matter of duty and resolution, now became so ardent and eager, that the stars often disappeared in the light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory. As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that I improved rapidly. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students; and my proficiency, that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed the most heart-felt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries, which I hoped to make. None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapt up in this, improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made some discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived at this point, and had become as well acquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay. One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind, and determined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irksome, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition, or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy; and a church-yard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of this decay, and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me--a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so many men of genius, who had directed their inquiries towards the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret. Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not more certainly shine in the heavens, than that which I now affirm is true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter. The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was the most gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great and overwhelming, that all the steps by which I had been progressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world, was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the object of my search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and found a passage to life aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual light. I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be: listen patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow. When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complex and wonderful as man. The materials at present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking; but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect: yet, when I considered the improvement which every day takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the creation of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this determination, and having spent some months in successfully collecting and arranging my materials, I began. No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve their's. Pursuing these reflections, I thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to corruption. These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or the next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless, and almost frantic impulse, urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I collected bones from charnel houses; and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion. The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage: but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them; and I well remembered the words of my father: "I know that while you are pleased with yourself, you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly from you. You must pardon me, if I regard any interruption in your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally neglected." I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings; but I could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be completed. I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced that he was justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame. A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved; Caesar would have spared his country; America would have been discovered more gradually; and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed. But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my tale; and your looks remind me to proceed. My father made no reproach in his letters; and only took notice of my silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before. Winter, spring, and summer, passed away during my labours; but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves--sights which before always yielded me supreme delight, so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a close; and now every day shewed me more plainly how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment. Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree; a disease that I regretted the more because I had hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted of the firmness of my nerves. But I believed that exercise and amusement would soon drive away such symptoms; and I promised myself both of these, when my creation should be complete.

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volume 1, chapter 5|volume 1, chapter 6

Elizabeth's letter expresses concern for Victor's well-being, and gratitude to Henry for his care. She relates local gossip and recent family events. The family's most trusted servant, Justine Moritz, has returned to the family after being forced to care for her estranged mother until the latter's death. Victor's younger brother, Ernest, is now sixteen years old and aspires to join the Foreign Service; his other brother, William, has turned five and is doing marvelously well. Elizabeth implores Victor to write, and to visit, as both she and his father miss him terribly. Frankenstein is seized by an attack of conscience and resolves to write to them immediately. Within a fortnight , Victor is able to leave his chamber. Henry, after observing his friend's distaste for his former laboratory, has procured a new apartment for him and removed all of his scientific instruments. Introducing Clerval to Ingolstadt's professors is pure torture, in that they unfailingly exclaim over Victor's scientific prowess. Victor, for his part, cannot bear the praise, and allows Henry to convince him to abandon science for the study of Oriental languages. These -- along with the glorious melancholy of poetry -- provide Frankenstein with a much-needed diversion. Summer passes, and Victor determines to return to Geneva at the end of autumn. Much to his dismay, his departure is delayed until spring; he is, however, passing many marvelous hours in the company of Clerval. They embark on a two-week ramble through the countryside, and Victor reflects that Henry has the ability to call forth "the better feelings of his heart"; the two friends ardently love one another. Slowly, Victor is returning to his old, carefree self. He takes great joy in the natural world, and is able to forget his former misery. The two are in high spirits upon their return to university.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 5--------- It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs. How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful!--Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion, and straight black lips. The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room, and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain: I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window-shutters, I beheld the wretch--the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed down stairs. I took refuge in the court-yard belonging to the house which I inhabited; where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life. Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived. I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly, that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment: dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space, were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete! Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although wetted by the rain, which poured from a black and comfortless sky. I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring, by bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets, without any clear conception of where I was, or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear; and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me: Like one who, on a lonely road, Doth walk in fear and dread, And, having once turn'd round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer, I observed that it was the Swiss diligence: it stopped just where I was standing; and, on the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. "My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! how fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!" Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time about our mutual friends, and his own good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. "You may easily believe," said he, "how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that it was not absolutely necessary for a merchant not to understand any thing except book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield: 'I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.' But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge." "It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth." "Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the bye, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself.--But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stopping short, and gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for several nights." "You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see: but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end, and that I am at length free." I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive, and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster; but I feared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating him therefore to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused; and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty; and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good-fortune could have befallen me; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy, and ran down to Clerval. We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival; but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account; and my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter, frightened and astonished him. "My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?" "Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "_he_ can tell.--Oh, save me! save me!" I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously, and fell down in a fit. Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my senses for a long, long time. This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined me for several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned that, knowing my father's advanced age, and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that he could towards them. But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry: he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event. By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared, and that the young buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring; and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion. "Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been the occasion; but you will forgive me." "You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose yourself, but get well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?" I trembled. One subject! what could it be? Could he allude to an object on whom I dared not even think? "Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, "I will not mention it, if it agitates you; but your father and cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own hand-writing. They hardly know how ill you have been, and are uneasy at your long silence." "Is that all? my dear Henry. How could you suppose that my first thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love, and who are so deserving of my love." "If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you: it is from your cousin, I believe." ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 6--------- Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. "_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN. "MY DEAR COUSIN, "I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt concerning your health. We cannot help imagining that your friend Clerval conceals the extent of your disorder: for it is now several months since we have seen your hand-writing; and all this time you have been obliged to dictate your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been exceedingly ill; and this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly as after the death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval always writes that you are getting better; I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in your own hand-writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor, we are all very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear, and we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father's health is now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger since last winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you would hardly know him: he is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly appearance which he had some years ago; he is grown quite robust and active. "My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about what profession Ernest should follow. His constant illness when young has deprived him of the habits of application; and now that he enjoys good health, he is continually in the open air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake. I therefore proposed that he should be a farmer; which you know, Cousin, is a favourite scheme of mine. A farmer's is a very healthy happy life; and the least hurtful, or rather the most beneficial profession of any. My uncle had an idea of his being educated as an advocate, that through his interest he might become a judge. But, besides that he is not at all fitted for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the confidant, and sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession of a lawyer. I said, that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if they were not a more honourable, they were at least a happier species of occupation than that of a judge, whose misfortune it was always to meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, and said, that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to the conversation on that subject. "And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and perhaps amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz? Probably you do not; I will relate her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had always been the favourite of her father; but, through a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and, when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at her house. The republican institutions of our country have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being. "After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the heroine of my little tale: for Justine was a great favourite of your's; and I recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill humour, one glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica--she looked so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any professions, I never heard one pass her lips; but you could see by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her. "When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved for her. "One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor girl! she wept when she quitted our house: she was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter. Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt. "I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eye-lashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two little _wives_, but Louisa Biron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age. "Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with every body. "I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin; yet I cannot conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning your health. Dear Victor, if you are not very ill, write yourself, and make your father and all of us happy; or----I cannot bear to think of the other side of the question; my tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin." "ELIZABETH LAVENZA. "Geneva, March 18th, 17--." * * * * * "Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed when I had read her letter, "I will write instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel." I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave my chamber. One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the subject; but, not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement to the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply. M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. "D--n the fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. Aye, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.--Aye, aye," continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, "M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval; I was myself when young: but that wears out in a very short time." M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me. Clerval was no natural philosopher. His imagination was too vivid for the minutiae of science. Languages were his principal study; and he sought, by acquiring their elements, to open a field for self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew, gained his attention, after he had made himself perfectly master of Greek and Latin. For my own part, idleness had ever been irksome to me; and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country. When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and garden of roses,--in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome. Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town, and my beloved friends. My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came, its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness. The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt that I might bid a personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native country. We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children. Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me, and endeavour to elevate my mind, until it was on a level with your own. A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few years ago, loving and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstacy. The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud: I was undisturbed by thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible burden. Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathized in my feelings: he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often, in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great ingenuity. We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.

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chapter 1|chapter 2

The new guy's name is Victor Frankenstein. He's just about on his deathbed from starvation, exhaustion, and illness. Even though he's half-dead, he still likes to talk, a lot. Instead of just saying, "Hey, my name is Victor. I created a monster, and now I'm trying to kill him because he killed everyone I know," he has to start with the beginning of his childhood: "To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born" style. Get ready. He's got parents. They are named Alphonse and Caroline. Then there is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Lavenza. Mary Shelley couldn't really make up her mind about how she became part of Victor's family, but we're guessing you're probably reading the 1831 edition of this novel, so we'll say she was adopted from some Italian family by Caroline when Victor was all of five years old. Victor's parents thought it would be a good idea to adopt a girl to be Victor's future wife. So Elizabeth comes back to Geneva to live with Victor's family. Victor accepts this fate. In general, if something is fate, Victor is ready to give in to it. And, as you are about to see, he seems to think an awful lot of things are fate.

----------CHAPTER 1--------- I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics, and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family. As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship and was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the world again through his credit and assistance. Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a merchant’s house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling when he had leisure for reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion. His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness, but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw and by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life. Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort’s coffin weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend he conducted her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife. There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of justice in my father’s upright mind which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as a restorative for her weakened frame. From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother’s tender caresses and my father’s smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something better—their child, the innocent and helpless creature bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me. For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a passion—remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been relieved—for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold her without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features. The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy—one among the schiavi ognor frementi, who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles. When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub—a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents’ house—my more than sister—the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and my pleasures. Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said playfully, “I have a pretty present for my Victor—tomorrow he shall have it.” And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only. ----------CHAPTER 2--------- We were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in our ages. I need not say that we were strangers to any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense application and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge. She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home —the sublime shapes of the mountains, the changes of the seasons, tempest and calm, the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine summers—she found ample scope for admiration and delight. While my companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine. Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest sensations I can remember. On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave up entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves in their native country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a campagne on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league from the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure. He tried to make us act plays and to enter into masquerades, in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels. No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their caprice, but the agents and creators of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled with other families I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted the development of filial love. My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in my temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits but to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world. Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to become one among those whose names are recorded in story as the gallant and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home. Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was the living spirit of love to soften and attract; I might have become sullen in my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval—could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity, so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of beneficence and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring ambition. I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age we all went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful facts which he relates soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked carelessly at the title page of my book and said, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash.” If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded and that a modern system of science had been introduced which possessed much greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical, under such circumstances I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible that the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents, and I continued to read with the greatest avidity. When I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures known to few besides myself. I have described myself as always having been imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted appeared even to my boy’s apprehensions as tyros engaged in the same pursuit. The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect, anatomise, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and ignorantly I had repined. But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew more. I took their word for all that they averred, and I became their disciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self-taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child’s blindness, added to a student’s thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an inferior object, but what glory would attend the discovery if I could banish disease from the human frame and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death! Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake than to a want of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories and floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed the current of my ideas. When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst at once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed. Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity. On this occasion a man of great research in natural philosophy was with us, and excited by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable. By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former occupations, set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed and abortive creation, and entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be science which could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics and the branches of study appertaining to that science as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my consideration. Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life—the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars and ready to envelop me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution, happiness with their disregard. It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual. Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible destruction.