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null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for scene 2 based on the provided context. | null | Titus is overwrought with grief and cannot stop lamenting over his grief. Marcus and young Lucius fear he is upsetting Lavinia and try to persuade him to talk of cheerful things, but in vain. As they are eating, Marcus kills a fly and Titus accuses him of cruelty. Marcus explains that it was black fly. Titus reminded of Aaron by the mention of "black" congratulates him and takes a knife and attacks it thinking it is Aaron and Tamora. Titus, Lavinia and young Lucius retire to read old stories. |
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT III. SCENE I.
Rome. A street
Enter the JUDGES, TRIBUNES, and SENATORS, with TITUS' two sons
MARTIUS and QUINTUS bound, passing on the stage to the place of
execution,
and TITUS going before, pleading
TITUS. Hear me, grave fathers; noble Tribunes, stay!
For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent
In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept;
For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed,
For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd,
And for these bitter tears, which now you see
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,
Be pitiful to my condemned sons,
Whose souls are not corrupted as 'tis thought.
For two and twenty sons I never wept,
Because they died in honour's lofty bed.
[ANDRONICUS lieth down, and the judges
pass by him with the prisoners, and exeunt]
For these, Tribunes, in the dust I write
My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears.
Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite;
My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush.
O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain
That shall distil from these two ancient urns,
Than youthful April shall with all his show'rs.
In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still;
In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow
And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,
So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood.
Enter Lucius with his weapon drawn
O reverend Tribunes! O gentle aged men!
Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death,
And let me say, that never wept before,
My tears are now prevailing orators.
LUCIUS. O noble father, you lament in vain;
The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by,
And you recount your sorrows to a stone.
TITUS. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead!
Grave Tribunes, once more I entreat of you.
LUCIUS. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.
TITUS. Why, 'tis no matter, man: if they did hear,
They would not mark me; if they did mark,
They would not pity me; yet plead I must,
And bootless unto them.
Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones;
Who though they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in some sort they are better than the Tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale.
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet
Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me;
And were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no tribunes like to these.
A stone is soft as wax: tribunes more hard than stones.
A stone is silent and offendeth not,
And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.
[Rises]
But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn?
LUCIUS. To rescue my two brothers from their death;
For which attempt the judges have pronounc'd
My everlasting doom of banishment.
TITUS. O happy man! they have befriended thee.
Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive
That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?
Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine; how happy art thou then
From these devourers to be banished!
But who comes with our brother Marcus here?
Enter MARCUS with LAVINIA
MARCUS. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep,
Or if not so, thy noble heart to break.
I bring consuming sorrow to thine age.
TITUS. Will it consume me? Let me see it then.
MARCUS. This was thy daughter.
TITUS. Why, Marcus, so she is.
LUCIUS. Ay me! this object kills me.
TITUS. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her.
Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand
Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight?
What fool hath added water to the sea,
Or brought a fagot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height before thou cam'st,
And now like Nilus it disdaineth bounds.
Give me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too,
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain;
And they have nurs'd this woe in feeding life;
In bootless prayer have they been held up,
And they have serv'd me to effectless use.
Now all the service I require of them
Is that the one will help to cut the other.
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands;
For hands to do Rome service is but vain.
LUCIUS. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee?
MARCUS. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts
That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where like a sweet melodious bird it sung
Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear!
LUCIUS. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed?
MARCUS. O, thus I found her straying in the park,
Seeking to hide herself as doth the deer
That hath receiv'd some unrecuring wound.
TITUS. It was my dear, and he that wounded her
Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead;
For now I stand as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of sea,
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,
Expecting ever when some envious surge
Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
This way to death my wretched sons are gone;
Here stands my other son, a banish'd man,
And here my brother, weeping at my woes.
But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul.
Had I but seen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me; what shall I do
Now I behold thy lively body so?
Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee;
Thy husband he is dead, and for his death
Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this.
Look, Marcus! Ah, son Lucius, look on her!
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey dew
Upon a gath'red lily almost withered.
MARCUS. Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband;
Perchance because she knows them innocent.
TITUS. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.
No, no, they would not do so foul a deed;
Witness the sorrow that their sister makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips,
Or make some sign how I may do thee ease.
Shall thy good uncle and thy brother Lucius
And thou and I sit round about some fountain,
Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks
How they are stain'd, like meadows yet not dry
With miry slime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain shall we gaze so long,
Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or shall we cut away our hands like thine?
Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows
Pass the remainder of our hateful days?
What shall we do? Let us that have our tongues
Plot some device of further misery
To make us wonder'd at in time to come.
LUCIUS. Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief
See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.
MARCUS. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes.
TITUS. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! Brother, well I wot
Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,
For thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine own.
LUCIUS. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
TITUS. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs.
Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say
That to her brother which I said to thee:
His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks.
O, what a sympathy of woe is this
As far from help as Limbo is from bliss!
Enter AARON the Moor
AARON. Titus Andronicus, my lord the Emperor
Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons,
Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus,
Or any one of you, chop off your hand
And send it to the King: he for the same
Will send thee hither both thy sons alive,
And that shall be the ransom for their fault.
TITUS. O gracious Emperor! O gentle Aaron!
Did ever raven sing so like a lark
That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?
With all my heart I'll send the Emperor my hand.
Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?
LUCIUS. Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine,
That hath thrown down so many enemies,
Shall not be sent. My hand will serve the turn,
My youth can better spare my blood than you,
And therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives.
MARCUS. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome
And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe,
Writing destruction on the enemy's castle?
O, none of both but are of high desert!
My hand hath been but idle; let it serve
To ransom my two nephews from their death;
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.
AARON. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along,
For fear they die before their pardon come.
MARCUS. My hand shall go.
LUCIUS. By heaven, it shall not go!
TITUS. Sirs, strive no more; such with'red herbs as these
Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.
LUCIUS. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son,
Let me redeem my brothers both from death.
MARCUS. And for our father's sake and mother's care,
Now let me show a brother's love to thee.
TITUS. Agree between you; I will spare my hand.
LUCIUS. Then I'll go fetch an axe.
MARCUS. But I will use the axe.
Exeunt LUCIUS and MARCUS
TITUS. Come hither, Aaron, I'll deceive them both;
Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.
AARON. [Aside] If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest,
And never whilst I live deceive men so;
But I'll deceive you in another sort,
And that you'll say ere half an hour pass.
[He cuts off TITUS' hand]
Re-enter LUCIUS and MARCUS
TITUS. Now stay your strife. What shall be is dispatch'd.
Good Aaron, give his Majesty my hand;
Tell him it was a hand that warded him
From thousand dangers; bid him bury it.
More hath it merited- that let it have.
As for my sons, say I account of them
As jewels purchas'd at an easy price;
And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.
AARON. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand
Look by and by to have thy sons with thee.
[Aside] Their heads I mean. O, how this villainy
Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it!
Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace:
Aaron will have his soul black like his face. Exit
TITUS. O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven,
And bow this feeble ruin to the earth;
If any power pities wretched tears,
To that I call! [To LAVINIA] What, would'st thou kneel with
me?
Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers,
Or with our sighs we'll breathe the welkin dim
And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds
When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.
MARCUS. O brother, speak with possibility,
And do not break into these deep extremes.
TITUS. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom?
Then be my passions bottomless with them.
MARCUS. But yet let reason govern thy lament.
TITUS. If there were reason for these miseries,
Then into limits could I bind my woes.
When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow?
If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,
Threat'ning the welkin with his big-swol'n face?
And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?
I am the sea; hark how her sighs do blow.
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth;
Then must my sea be moved with her sighs;
Then must my earth with her continual tears
Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd;
For why my bowels cannot hide her woes,
But like a drunkard must I vomit them.
Then give me leave; for losers will have leave
To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.
Enter a MESSENGER, with two heads and a hand
MESSENGER. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid
For that good hand thou sent'st the Emperor.
Here are the heads of thy two noble sons;
And here's thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back-
Thy grief their sports, thy resolution mock'd,
That woe is me to think upon thy woes,
More than remembrance of my father's death. Exit
MARCUS. Now let hot Aetna cool in Sicily,
And be my heart an ever-burning hell!
These miseries are more than may be borne.
To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal,
But sorrow flouted at is double death.
LUCIUS. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound,
And yet detested life not shrink thereat!
That ever death should let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more interest but to breathe!
[LAVINIA kisses TITUS]
MARCUS. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless
As frozen water to a starved snake.
TITUS. When will this fearful slumber have an end?
MARCUS. Now farewell, flatt'ry; die, Andronicus.
Thou dost not slumber: see thy two sons' heads,
Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banish'd son with this dear sight
Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I,
Even like a stony image, cold and numb.
Ah! now no more will I control thy griefs.
Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight
The closing up of our most wretched eyes.
Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?
TITUS. Ha, ha, ha!
MARCUS. Why dost thou laugh? It fits not with this hour.
TITUS. Why, I have not another tear to shed;
Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,
And would usurp upon my wat'ry eyes
And make them blind with tributary tears.
Then which way shall I find Revenge's cave?
For these two heads do seem to speak to me,
And threat me I shall never come to bliss
Till all these mischiefs be return'd again
Even in their throats that have committed them.
Come, let me see what task I have to do.
You heavy people, circle me about,
That I may turn me to each one of you
And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs.
The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head,
And in this hand the other will I bear.
And, Lavinia, thou shalt be employ'd in this;
Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth.
As for thee, boy, go, get thee from my sight;
Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay.
Hie to the Goths and raise an army there;
And if ye love me, as I think you do,
Let's kiss and part, for we have much to do.
Exeunt all but Lucius
LUCIUS. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father,
The woefull'st man that ever liv'd in Rome.
Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again,
He leaves his pledges dearer than his life.
Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister;
O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been!
But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives
But in oblivion and hateful griefs.
If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs
And make proud Saturnine and his empress
Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his queen.
Now will I to the Goths, and raise a pow'r
To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine. Exit
----------SCENE 2---------
SCENE II.
Rome. TITUS' house
A banquet.
Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and the boy YOUNG LUCIUS
TITUS. So so, now sit; and look you eat no more
Than will preserve just so much strength in us
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot;
Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
And cannot passionate our tenfold grief
With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;
And, when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,
Then thus I thump it down.
[To LAVINIA] Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,
Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.
Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans;
Or get some little knife between thy teeth
And just against thy heart make thou a hole,
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall
May run into that sink and, soaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.
MARCUS. Fie, brother, fie! Teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.
TITUS. How now! Has sorrow made thee dote already?
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.
What violent hands can she lay on her life?
Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands?
To bid Aeneas tell the tale twice o'er
How Troy was burnt and he made miserable?
O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands,
Lest we remember still that we have none.
Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk,
As if we should forget we had no hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of hands!
Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this:
Here is no drink. Hark, Marcus, what she says-
I can interpret all her martyr'd signs;
She says she drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks.
Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect
As begging hermits in their holy prayers.
Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
But I of these will wrest an alphabet,
And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.
BOY. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments;
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
MARCUS. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd,
Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.
TITUS. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears,
And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
[MARCUS strikes the dish with a knife]
What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?
MARCUS. At that that I have kill'd, my lord- a fly.
TITUS. Out on thee, murderer, thou kill'st my heart!
Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny;
A deed of death done on the innocent
Becomes not Titus' brother. Get thee gone;
I see thou art not for my company.
MARCUS. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
TITUS. 'But!' How if that fly had a father and mother?
How would he hang his slender gilded wings
And buzz lamenting doings in the air!
Poor harmless fly,
That with his pretty buzzing melody
Came here to make us merry! And thou hast kill'd him.
MARCUS. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly,
Like to the Empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.
TITUS. O, O, O!
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou hast done a charitable deed.
Give me thy knife, I will insult on him,
Flattering myself as if it were the Moor
Come hither purposely to poison me.
There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.
Ah, sirrah!
Yet, I think, we are not brought so low
But that between us we can kill a fly
That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.
MARCUS. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him,
He takes false shadows for true substances.
TITUS. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me;
I'll to thy closet, and go read with thee
Sad stories chanced in the times of old.
Come, boy, and go with me; thy sight is young,
And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle. Exeunt
|
Titus Andronicus.act 4.sc | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for act 4, scene 1 with the given context. | act 4, scene 1|act 4, scene 2|act 4, scene 3|act 4, scene 4 | The next thing we know, Young Lucius is running across the house with his storybooks under his arm while Lavinia gives chase. Lucius drops his books. Young Lucius is terrified of Auntie Lavinia, but his grandfather and uncle tell him not to be afraid, because Lavinia - who is like a mother to Young Lucius - would never hurt him. With her stumps, Lavinia flips through the pages of Ovid's Metamorphoses until she lands on the story of Philomel's rape. Brain Snack: In Book 6 of Ovid's Metamorphoses, Philomel is raped by her brother-in-law, Tereus, who also cuts out her tongue so she can't expose him verbally. Philomel cleverly stitches the name of her rapist and Procne, Philomel's sister, gets revenge by serving their son for dinner. Titus and Marcus look at the book and correctly guess that Lavinia is communicating that she was raped, just like Philomel. Marcus grabs a staff and uses his hands and mouth to spell out his name, showing Lavinia how to write the names of her attackers. Lavinia, of course, spells out Chiron and Demetrius. Marcus asks everyone to kneel down and promise to exact revenge on Chiron and Demetrius for what they've done. Young Lucius declares that, if he were a man, Tamora's "bedchamber should not be safe." Marcus is all "atta boy," and everyone runs off to plot their revenge. |
----------ACT 4, SCENE 1---------
ACT IV. SCENE I.
Rome. TITUS' garden
Enter YOUNG LUCIUS and LAVINIA running after him,
and the boy flies from her with his books under his arm.
Enter TITUS and MARCUS
BOY. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia
Follows me everywhere, I know not why.
Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes!
Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.
MARCUS. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.
TITUS. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.
BOY. Ay, when my father was in Rome she did.
MARCUS. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?
TITUS. Fear her not, Lucius; somewhat doth she mean.
See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee.
Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her sons than she hath read to thee
Sweet poetry and Tully's Orator.
MARCUS. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?
BOY. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her;
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft
Extremity of griefs would make men mad;
And I have read that Hecuba of Troy
Ran mad for sorrow. That made me to fear;
Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt
Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did,
And would not, but in fury, fright my youth;
Which made me down to throw my books, and fly-
Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt;
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,
I will most willingly attend your ladyship.
MARCUS. Lucius, I will. [LAVINIA turns over with her
stumps the books which Lucius has let fall]
TITUS. How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means this?
Some book there is that she desires to see.
Which is it, girl, of these?- Open them, boy.-
But thou art deeper read and better skill'd;
Come and take choice of all my library,
And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.
Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?
MARCUS. I think she means that there were more than one
Confederate in the fact; ay, more there was,
Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.
TITUS. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?
BOY. Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphoses;
My mother gave it me.
MARCUS. For love of her that's gone,
Perhaps she cull'd it from among the rest.
TITUS. Soft! So busily she turns the leaves! Help her.
What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read?
This is the tragic tale of Philomel
And treats of Tereus' treason and his rape;
And rape, I fear, was root of thy annoy.
MARCUS. See, brother, see! Note how she quotes the leaves.
TITUS. Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris'd, sweet girl,
Ravish'd and wrong'd as Philomela was,
Forc'd in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods?
See, see!
Ay, such a place there is where we did hunt-
O, had we never, never hunted there!-
Pattern'd by that the poet here describes,
By nature made for murders and for rapes.
MARCUS. O, why should nature build so foul a den,
Unless the gods delight in tragedies?
TITUS. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends,
What Roman lord it was durst do the deed.
Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,
That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed?
MARCUS. Sit down, sweet niece; brother, sit down by me.
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,
Inspire me, that I may this treason find!
My lord, look here! Look here, Lavinia!
[He writes his name with his
staff, and guides it with feet and mouth]
This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,
This after me. I have writ my name
Without the help of any hand at all.
Curs'd be that heart that forc'd us to this shift!
Write thou, good niece, and here display at last
What God will have discovered for revenge.
Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,
That we may know the traitors and the truth!
[She takes the staff in her mouth
and guides it with stumps, and writes]
O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ?
TITUS. 'Stuprum- Chiron- Demetrius.'
MARCUS. What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora
Performers of this heinous bloody deed?
TITUS. Magni Dominator poli,
Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?
MARCUS. O, calm thee, gentle lord! although I know
There is enough written upon this earth
To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts,
And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.
My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;
And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;
And swear with me- as, with the woeful fere
And father of that chaste dishonoured dame,
Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape-
That we will prosecute, by good advice,
Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,
And see their blood or die with this reproach.
TITUS. 'Tis sure enough, an you knew how;
But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware:
The dam will wake; and if she wind ye once,
She's with the lion deeply still in league,
And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back,
And when he sleeps will she do what she list.
You are a young huntsman, Marcus; let alone;
And come, I will go get a leaf of brass,
And with a gad of steel will write these words,
And lay it by. The angry northern wind
Will blow these sands like Sibyl's leaves abroad,
And where's our lesson, then? Boy, what say you?
BOY. I say, my lord, that if I were a man
Their mother's bedchamber should not be safe
For these base bondmen to the yoke of Rome.
MARCUS. Ay, that's my boy! Thy father hath full oft
For his ungrateful country done the like.
BOY. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live.
TITUS. Come, go with me into mine armoury.
Lucius, I'll fit thee; and withal my boy
Shall carry from me to the Empress' sons
Presents that I intend to send them both.
Come, come; thou'lt do my message, wilt thou not?
BOY. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire.
TITUS. No, boy, not so; I'll teach thee another course.
Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house.
Lucius and I'll go brave it at the court;
Ay, marry, will we, sir! and we'll be waited on.
Exeunt TITUS, LAVINIA, and YOUNG LUCIUS
MARCUS. O heavens, can you hear a good man groan
And not relent, or not compassion him?
Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy,
That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart
Than foemen's marks upon his batt'red shield,
But yet so just that he will not revenge.
Revenge the heavens for old Andronicus! Exit
----------ACT 4, SCENE 2---------
SCENE II.
Rome. The palace
Enter AARON, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, at one door; and at the other
door,
YOUNG LUCIUS and another with a bundle of weapons, and verses
writ upon them
CHIRON. Demetrius, here's the son of Lucius;
He hath some message to deliver us.
AARON. Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather.
BOY. My lords, with all the humbleness I may,
I greet your honours from Andronicus-
[Aside] And pray the Roman gods confound you both!
DEMETRIUS. Gramercy, lovely Lucius. What's the news?
BOY. [Aside] That you are both decipher'd, that's the news,
For villains mark'd with rape.- May it please you,
My grandsire, well advis'd, hath sent by me
The goodliest weapons of his armoury
To gratify your honourable youth,
The hope of Rome; for so he bid me say;
And so I do, and with his gifts present
Your lordships, that, whenever you have need,
You may be armed and appointed well.
And so I leave you both- [Aside] like bloody villains.
Exeunt YOUNG LUCIUS and attendant
DEMETRIUS. What's here? A scroll, and written round about.
Let's see:
[Reads] 'Integer vitae, scelerisque purus,
Non eget Mauri iaculis, nec arcu.'
CHIRON. O, 'tis a verse in Horace, I know it well;
I read it in the grammar long ago.
AARON. Ay, just- a verse in Horace. Right, you have it.
[Aside] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!
Here's no sound jest! The old man hath found their guilt,
And sends them weapons wrapp'd about with lines
That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick.
But were our witty Empress well afoot,
She would applaud Andronicus' conceit.
But let her rest in her unrest awhile-
And now, young lords, was't not a happy star
Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so,
Captives, to be advanced to this height?
It did me good before the palace gate
To brave the Tribune in his brother's hearing.
DEMETRIUS. But me more good to see so great a lord
Basely insinuate and send us gifts.
AARON. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius?
Did you not use his daughter very friendly?
DEMETRIUS. I would we had a thousand Roman dames
At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.
CHIRON. A charitable wish and full of love.
AARON. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen.
CHIRON. And that would she for twenty thousand more.
DEMETRIUS. Come, let us go and pray to all the gods
For our beloved mother in her pains.
AARON. [Aside] Pray to the devils; the gods have given us
over.
[Trumpets sound]
DEMETRIUS. Why do the Emperor's trumpets flourish thus?
CHIRON. Belike, for joy the Emperor hath a son.
DEMETRIUS. Soft! who comes here?
Enter NURSE, with a blackamoor CHILD
NURSE. Good morrow, lords.
O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor?
AARON. Well, more or less, or ne'er a whit at all,
Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now?
NURSE. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone!
Now help, or woe betide thee evermore!
AARON. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep!
What dost thou wrap and fumble in thy arms?
NURSE. O, that which I would hide from heaven's eye:
Our Empress' shame and stately Rome's disgrace!
She is delivered, lord; she is delivered.
AARON. To whom?
NURSE. I mean she is brought a-bed.
AARON. Well, God give her good rest! What hath he sent her?
NURSE. A devil.
AARON. Why, then she is the devil's dam;
A joyful issue.
NURSE. A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue!
Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad
Amongst the fair-fac'd breeders of our clime;
The Empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal,
And bids thee christen it with thy dagger's point.
AARON. Zounds, ye whore! Is black so base a hue?
Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom sure.
DEMETRIUS. Villain, what hast thou done?
AARON. That which thou canst not undo.
CHIRON. Thou hast undone our mother.
AARON. Villain, I have done thy mother.
DEMETRIUS. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone her.
Woe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed choice!
Accurs'd the offspring of so foul a fiend!
CHIRON. It shall not live.
AARON. It shall not die.
NURSE. Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so.
AARON. What, must it, nurse? Then let no man but I
Do execution on my flesh and blood.
DEMETRIUS. I'll broach the tadpole on my rapier's point.
Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it.
AARON. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up.
[Takes the CHILD from the NURSE, and draws]
Stay, murderous villains, will you kill your brother!
Now, by the burning tapers of the sky
That shone so brightly when this boy was got,
He dies upon my scimitar's sharp point
That touches this my first-born son and heir.
I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,
With all his threat'ning band of Typhon's brood,
Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war,
Shall seize this prey out of his father's hands.
What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys!
Ye white-lim'd walls! ye alehouse painted signs!
Coal-black is better than another hue
In that it scorns to bear another hue;
For all the water in the ocean
Can never turn the swan's black legs to white,
Although she lave them hourly in the flood.
Tell the Empress from me I am of age
To keep mine own- excuse it how she can.
DEMETRIUS. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus?
AARON. My mistress is my mistress: this my self,
The vigour and the picture of my youth.
This before all the world do I prefer;
This maugre all the world will I keep safe,
Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome.
DEMETRIUS. By this our mother is for ever sham'd.
CHIRON. Rome will despise her for this foul escape.
NURSE. The Emperor in his rage will doom her death.
CHIRON. I blush to think upon this ignomy.
AARON. Why, there's the privilege your beauty bears:
Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing
The close enacts and counsels of thy heart!
Here's a young lad fram'd of another leer.
Look how the black slave smiles upon the father,
As who should say 'Old lad, I am thine own.'
He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed
Of that self-blood that first gave life to you;
And from your womb where you imprisoned were
He is enfranchised and come to light.
Nay, he is your brother by the surer side,
Although my seal be stamped in his face.
NURSE. Aaron, what shall I say unto the Empress?
DEMETRIUS. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done,
And we will all subscribe to thy advice.
Save thou the child, so we may all be safe.
AARON. Then sit we down and let us all consult.
My son and I will have the wind of you:
Keep there; now talk at pleasure of your safety.
[They sit]
DEMETRIUS. How many women saw this child of his?
AARON. Why, so, brave lords! When we join in league
I am a lamb; but if you brave the Moor,
The chafed boar, the mountain lioness,
The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms.
But say, again, how many saw the child?
NURSE. Cornelia the midwife and myself;
And no one else but the delivered Empress.
AARON. The Empress, the midwife, and yourself.
Two may keep counsel when the third's away:
Go to the Empress, tell her this I said. [He kills her]
Weeke weeke!
So cries a pig prepared to the spit.
DEMETRIUS. What mean'st thou, Aaron? Wherefore didst thou this?
AARON. O Lord, sir, 'tis a deed of policy.
Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours-
A long-tongu'd babbling gossip? No, lords, no.
And now be it known to you my full intent:
Not far, one Muliteus lives, my countryman-
His wife but yesternight was brought to bed;
His child is like to her, fair as you are.
Go pack with him, and give the mother gold,
And tell them both the circumstance of all,
And how by this their child shall be advanc'd,
And be received for the Emperor's heir
And substituted in the place of mine,
To calm this tempest whirling in the court;
And let the Emperor dandle him for his own.
Hark ye, lords. You see I have given her physic,
[Pointing to the NURSE]
And you must needs bestow her funeral;
The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms.
This done, see that you take no longer days,
But send the midwife presently to me.
The midwife and the nurse well made away,
Then let the ladies tattle what they please.
CHIRON. Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air
With secrets.
DEMETRIUS. For this care of Tamora,
Herself and hers are highly bound to thee.
Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, bearing off the dead NURSE
AARON. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies,
There to dispose this treasure in mine arms,
And secretly to greet the Empress' friends.
Come on, you thick-lipp'd slave, I'll bear you hence;
For it is you that puts us to our shifts.
I'll make you feed on berries and on roots,
And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat,
And cabin in a cave, and bring you up
To be a warrior and command a camp.
Exit with the CHILD
----------ACT 4, SCENE 3---------
SCENE III.
Rome. A public place
Enter TITUS, bearing arrows with letters on the ends of them;
with him MARCUS, YOUNG LUCIUS, and other gentlemen,
PUBLIUS, SEMPRONIUS, and CAIUS, with bows
TITUS. Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is the way.
Sir boy, let me see your archery;
Look ye draw home enough, and 'tis there straight.
Terras Astrea reliquit,
Be you rememb'red, Marcus; she's gone, she's fled.
Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall
Go sound the ocean and cast your nets;
Happily you may catch her in the sea;
Yet there's as little justice as at land.
No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it;
'Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade,
And pierce the inmost centre of the earth;
Then, when you come to Pluto's region,
I pray you deliver him this petition.
Tell him it is for justice and for aid,
And that it comes from old Andronicus,
Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome.
Ah, Rome! Well, well, I made thee miserable
What time I threw the people's suffrages
On him that thus doth tyrannize o'er me.
Go get you gone; and pray be careful all,
And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch'd.
This wicked Emperor may have shipp'd her hence;
And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.
MARCUS. O Publius, is not this a heavy case,
To see thy noble uncle thus distract?
PUBLIUS. Therefore, my lords, it highly us concerns
By day and night t' attend him carefully,
And feed his humour kindly as we may
Till time beget some careful remedy.
MARCUS. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy.
Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war
Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,
And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.
TITUS. Publius, how now? How now, my masters?
What, have you met with her?
PUBLIUS. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word,
If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall.
Marry, for Justice, she is so employ'd,
He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else,
So that perforce you must needs stay a time.
TITUS. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.
I'll dive into the burning lake below
And pull her out of Acheron by the heels.
Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we,
No big-bon'd men fram'd of the Cyclops' size;
But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back,
Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear;
And, sith there's no justice in earth nor hell,
We will solicit heaven, and move the gods
To send down justice for to wreak our wrongs.
Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus.
[He gives them the arrows]
'Ad Jovem' that's for you; here 'Ad Apollinem.'
'Ad Martem' that's for myself.
Here, boy, 'To Pallas'; here 'To Mercury.'
'To Saturn,' Caius- not to Saturnine:
You were as good to shoot against the wind.
To it, boy. Marcus, loose when I bid.
Of my word, I have written to effect;
There's not a god left unsolicited.
MARCUS. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court;
We will afflict the Emperor in his pride.
TITUS. Now, masters, draw. [They shoot] O, well said, Lucius!
Good boy, in Virgo's lap! Give it Pallas.
MARCUS. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon;
Your letter is with Jupiter by this.
TITUS. Ha! ha!
Publius, Publius, hast thou done?
See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus' horns.
MARCUS. This was the sport, my lord: when Publius shot,
The Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock
That down fell both the Ram's horns in the court;
And who should find them but the Empress' villain?
She laugh'd, and told the Moor he should not choose
But give them to his master for a present.
TITUS. Why, there it goes! God give his lordship joy!
Enter the CLOWN, with a basket and two pigeons in it
News, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come.
Sirrah, what tidings? Have you any letters?
Shall I have justice? What says Jupiter?
CLOWN. Ho, the gibbet-maker? He says that he hath taken them
down
again, for the man must not be hang'd till the next week.
TITUS. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee?
CLOWN. Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter; I never drank with him in
all
my life.
TITUS. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier?
CLOWN. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else.
TITUS. Why, didst thou not come from heaven?
CLOWN. From heaven! Alas, sir, I never came there. God forbid I
should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I
am
going with my pigeons to the Tribunal Plebs, to take up a
matter
of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the Emperal's men.
MARCUS. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your
oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the Emperor from
you.
TITUS. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the Emperor with
a
grace?
CLOWN. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life.
TITUS. Sirrah, come hither. Make no more ado,
But give your pigeons to the Emperor;
By me thou shalt have justice at his hands.
Hold, hold! Meanwhile here's money for thy charges.
Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver up
a
supplication?
CLOWN. Ay, sir.
TITUS. Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come
to
him, at the first approach you must kneel; then kiss his
foot;
then deliver up your pigeons; and then look for your reward.
I'll
be at hand, sir; see you do it bravely.
CLOWN. I warrant you, sir; let me alone.
TITUS. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? Come let me see it.
Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration;
For thou hast made it like a humble suppliant.
And when thou hast given it to the Emperor,
Knock at my door, and tell me what he says.
CLOWN. God be with you, sir; I will.
TITUS. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me. Exeunt
----------ACT 4, SCENE 4---------
SCENE IV.
Rome. Before the palace
Enter the EMPEROR, and the EMPRESS and her two sons, DEMETRIUS
and CHIRON;
LORDS and others. The EMPEROR brings the arrows in his hand that
TITUS
shot at him
SATURNINUS. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen
An emperor in Rome thus overborne,
Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent
Of egal justice, us'd in such contempt?
My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods,
However these disturbers of our peace
Buzz in the people's ears, there nought hath pass'd
But even with law against the wilful sons
Of old Andronicus. And what an if
His sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits,
Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,
His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness?
And now he writes to heaven for his redress.
See, here's 'To Jove' and this 'To Mercury';
This 'To Apollo'; this 'To the God of War'-
Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome!
What's this but libelling against the Senate,
And blazoning our unjustice every where?
A goodly humour, is it not, my lords?
As who would say in Rome no justice were.
But if I live, his feigned ecstasies
Shall be no shelter to these outrages;
But he and his shall know that justice lives
In Saturninus' health; whom, if she sleep,
He'll so awake as he in fury shall
Cut off the proud'st conspirator that lives.
TAMORA. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,
Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts,
Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age,
Th' effects of sorrow for his valiant sons
Whose loss hath pierc'd him deep and scarr'd his heart;
And rather comfort his distressed plight
Than prosecute the meanest or the best
For these contempts. [Aside] Why, thus it shall become
High-witted Tamora to gloze with all.
But, Titus, I have touch'd thee to the quick,
Thy life-blood on't; if Aaron now be wise,
Then is all safe, the anchor in the port.
Enter CLOWN
How now, good fellow! Wouldst thou speak with us?
CLOWN. Yes, forsooth, an your mistriship be Emperial.
TAMORA. Empress I am, but yonder sits the Emperor.
CLOWN. 'Tis he.- God and Saint Stephen give you godden. I have
brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here.
[SATURNINUS reads the letter]
SATURNINUS. Go take him away, and hang him presently.
CLOWN. How much money must I have?
TAMORA. Come, sirrah, you must be hang'd.
CLOWN. Hang'd! by'r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a
fair
end. [Exit guarded]
SATURNINUS. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs!
Shall I endure this monstrous villainy?
I know from whence this same device proceeds.
May this be borne- as if his traitorous sons
That died by law for murder of our brother
Have by my means been butchered wrongfully?
Go drag the villain hither by the hair;
Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege.
For this proud mock I'll be thy slaughterman,
Sly frantic wretch, that holp'st to make me great,
In hope thyself should govern Rome and me.
Enter NUNTIUS AEMILIUS
What news with thee, Aemilius?
AEMILIUS. Arm, my lords! Rome never had more cause.
The Goths have gathered head; and with a power
Of high resolved men, bent to the spoil,
They hither march amain, under conduct
Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus;
Who threats in course of this revenge to do
As much as ever Coriolanus did.
SATURNINUS. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths?
These tidings nip me, and I hang the head
As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms.
Ay, now begins our sorrows to approach.
'Tis he the common people love so much;
Myself hath often heard them say-
When I have walked like a private man-
That Lucius' banishment was wrongfully,
And they have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor.
TAMORA. Why should you fear? Is not your city strong?
SATURNINUS. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius,
And will revolt from me to succour him.
TAMORA. King, be thy thoughts imperious like thy name!
Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it?
The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
And is not careful what they mean thereby,
Knowing that with the shadow of his wings
He can at pleasure stint their melody;
Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome.
Then cheer thy spirit; for know thou, Emperor,
I will enchant the old Andronicus
With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,
Than baits to fish or honey-stalks to sheep,
When as the one is wounded with the bait,
The other rotted with delicious feed.
SATURNINUS. But he will not entreat his son for us.
TAMORA. If Tamora entreat him, then he will;
For I can smooth and fill his aged ears
With golden promises, that, were his heart
Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf,
Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.
[To AEMILIUS] Go thou before to be our ambassador;
Say that the Emperor requests a parley
Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting
Even at his father's house, the old Andronicus.
SATURNINUS. Aemilius, do this message honourably;
And if he stand on hostage for his safety,
Bid him demand what pledge will please him best.
AEMILIUS. Your bidding shall I do effectually. Exit
TAMORA. Now will I to that old Andronicus,
And temper him with all the art I have,
To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths.
And now, sweet Emperor, be blithe again,
And bury all thy fear in my devices.
SATURNINUS. Then go successantly, and plead to him.
Exeunt
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 1, utilizing the provided context. | act 4, scenes 3-4|scene 1|scene 2 | This act begins with young Lucius running away from his aunt Lavinia. He runs to Titus and Marcus who urge him to try and understand what his aunt is trying to say. With the help of Ovids Metamorphosis, Lavinia reveals what had befallen her in the woods. Then using a staff she writes the names of her wrongdoers in sand. Marcus vows to take mortal revenge upon them and even young Lucius offers to kill them. Titus dissuades Marcus from this and says that he has another plan. He leaves for the court, taking Lavinia and young Titus with him and leaves Marcus behind to guard the house. Marcus pleads with the heavens to take the revenge that he thinks is appropriate for he believes that Titus will not do so because he is a just man who always follows proper rules. |
----------ACT 4, SCENES 3-4---------
SCENE III.
Rome. A public place
Enter TITUS, bearing arrows with letters on the ends of them;
with him MARCUS, YOUNG LUCIUS, and other gentlemen,
PUBLIUS, SEMPRONIUS, and CAIUS, with bows
TITUS. Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is the way.
Sir boy, let me see your archery;
Look ye draw home enough, and 'tis there straight.
Terras Astrea reliquit,
Be you rememb'red, Marcus; she's gone, she's fled.
Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall
Go sound the ocean and cast your nets;
Happily you may catch her in the sea;
Yet there's as little justice as at land.
No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it;
'Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade,
And pierce the inmost centre of the earth;
Then, when you come to Pluto's region,
I pray you deliver him this petition.
Tell him it is for justice and for aid,
And that it comes from old Andronicus,
Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome.
Ah, Rome! Well, well, I made thee miserable
What time I threw the people's suffrages
On him that thus doth tyrannize o'er me.
Go get you gone; and pray be careful all,
And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch'd.
This wicked Emperor may have shipp'd her hence;
And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.
MARCUS. O Publius, is not this a heavy case,
To see thy noble uncle thus distract?
PUBLIUS. Therefore, my lords, it highly us concerns
By day and night t' attend him carefully,
And feed his humour kindly as we may
Till time beget some careful remedy.
MARCUS. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy.
Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war
Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,
And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.
TITUS. Publius, how now? How now, my masters?
What, have you met with her?
PUBLIUS. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word,
If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall.
Marry, for Justice, she is so employ'd,
He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else,
So that perforce you must needs stay a time.
TITUS. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.
I'll dive into the burning lake below
And pull her out of Acheron by the heels.
Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we,
No big-bon'd men fram'd of the Cyclops' size;
But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back,
Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear;
And, sith there's no justice in earth nor hell,
We will solicit heaven, and move the gods
To send down justice for to wreak our wrongs.
Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus.
[He gives them the arrows]
'Ad Jovem' that's for you; here 'Ad Apollinem.'
'Ad Martem' that's for myself.
Here, boy, 'To Pallas'; here 'To Mercury.'
'To Saturn,' Caius- not to Saturnine:
You were as good to shoot against the wind.
To it, boy. Marcus, loose when I bid.
Of my word, I have written to effect;
There's not a god left unsolicited.
MARCUS. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court;
We will afflict the Emperor in his pride.
TITUS. Now, masters, draw. [They shoot] O, well said, Lucius!
Good boy, in Virgo's lap! Give it Pallas.
MARCUS. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon;
Your letter is with Jupiter by this.
TITUS. Ha! ha!
Publius, Publius, hast thou done?
See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus' horns.
MARCUS. This was the sport, my lord: when Publius shot,
The Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock
That down fell both the Ram's horns in the court;
And who should find them but the Empress' villain?
She laugh'd, and told the Moor he should not choose
But give them to his master for a present.
TITUS. Why, there it goes! God give his lordship joy!
Enter the CLOWN, with a basket and two pigeons in it
News, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come.
Sirrah, what tidings? Have you any letters?
Shall I have justice? What says Jupiter?
CLOWN. Ho, the gibbet-maker? He says that he hath taken them
down
again, for the man must not be hang'd till the next week.
TITUS. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee?
CLOWN. Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter; I never drank with him in
all
my life.
TITUS. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier?
CLOWN. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else.
TITUS. Why, didst thou not come from heaven?
CLOWN. From heaven! Alas, sir, I never came there. God forbid I
should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I
am
going with my pigeons to the Tribunal Plebs, to take up a
matter
of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the Emperal's men.
MARCUS. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your
oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the Emperor from
you.
TITUS. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the Emperor with
a
grace?
CLOWN. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life.
TITUS. Sirrah, come hither. Make no more ado,
But give your pigeons to the Emperor;
By me thou shalt have justice at his hands.
Hold, hold! Meanwhile here's money for thy charges.
Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver up
a
supplication?
CLOWN. Ay, sir.
TITUS. Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come
to
him, at the first approach you must kneel; then kiss his
foot;
then deliver up your pigeons; and then look for your reward.
I'll
be at hand, sir; see you do it bravely.
CLOWN. I warrant you, sir; let me alone.
TITUS. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? Come let me see it.
Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration;
For thou hast made it like a humble suppliant.
And when thou hast given it to the Emperor,
Knock at my door, and tell me what he says.
CLOWN. God be with you, sir; I will.
TITUS. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me. Exeunt
SCENE IV.
Rome. Before the palace
Enter the EMPEROR, and the EMPRESS and her two sons, DEMETRIUS
and CHIRON;
LORDS and others. The EMPEROR brings the arrows in his hand that
TITUS
shot at him
SATURNINUS. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen
An emperor in Rome thus overborne,
Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent
Of egal justice, us'd in such contempt?
My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods,
However these disturbers of our peace
Buzz in the people's ears, there nought hath pass'd
But even with law against the wilful sons
Of old Andronicus. And what an if
His sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits,
Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,
His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness?
And now he writes to heaven for his redress.
See, here's 'To Jove' and this 'To Mercury';
This 'To Apollo'; this 'To the God of War'-
Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome!
What's this but libelling against the Senate,
And blazoning our unjustice every where?
A goodly humour, is it not, my lords?
As who would say in Rome no justice were.
But if I live, his feigned ecstasies
Shall be no shelter to these outrages;
But he and his shall know that justice lives
In Saturninus' health; whom, if she sleep,
He'll so awake as he in fury shall
Cut off the proud'st conspirator that lives.
TAMORA. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,
Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts,
Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age,
Th' effects of sorrow for his valiant sons
Whose loss hath pierc'd him deep and scarr'd his heart;
And rather comfort his distressed plight
Than prosecute the meanest or the best
For these contempts. [Aside] Why, thus it shall become
High-witted Tamora to gloze with all.
But, Titus, I have touch'd thee to the quick,
Thy life-blood on't; if Aaron now be wise,
Then is all safe, the anchor in the port.
Enter CLOWN
How now, good fellow! Wouldst thou speak with us?
CLOWN. Yes, forsooth, an your mistriship be Emperial.
TAMORA. Empress I am, but yonder sits the Emperor.
CLOWN. 'Tis he.- God and Saint Stephen give you godden. I have
brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here.
[SATURNINUS reads the letter]
SATURNINUS. Go take him away, and hang him presently.
CLOWN. How much money must I have?
TAMORA. Come, sirrah, you must be hang'd.
CLOWN. Hang'd! by'r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a
fair
end. [Exit guarded]
SATURNINUS. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs!
Shall I endure this monstrous villainy?
I know from whence this same device proceeds.
May this be borne- as if his traitorous sons
That died by law for murder of our brother
Have by my means been butchered wrongfully?
Go drag the villain hither by the hair;
Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege.
For this proud mock I'll be thy slaughterman,
Sly frantic wretch, that holp'st to make me great,
In hope thyself should govern Rome and me.
Enter NUNTIUS AEMILIUS
What news with thee, Aemilius?
AEMILIUS. Arm, my lords! Rome never had more cause.
The Goths have gathered head; and with a power
Of high resolved men, bent to the spoil,
They hither march amain, under conduct
Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus;
Who threats in course of this revenge to do
As much as ever Coriolanus did.
SATURNINUS. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths?
These tidings nip me, and I hang the head
As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms.
Ay, now begins our sorrows to approach.
'Tis he the common people love so much;
Myself hath often heard them say-
When I have walked like a private man-
That Lucius' banishment was wrongfully,
And they have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor.
TAMORA. Why should you fear? Is not your city strong?
SATURNINUS. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius,
And will revolt from me to succour him.
TAMORA. King, be thy thoughts imperious like thy name!
Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it?
The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
And is not careful what they mean thereby,
Knowing that with the shadow of his wings
He can at pleasure stint their melody;
Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome.
Then cheer thy spirit; for know thou, Emperor,
I will enchant the old Andronicus
With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,
Than baits to fish or honey-stalks to sheep,
When as the one is wounded with the bait,
The other rotted with delicious feed.
SATURNINUS. But he will not entreat his son for us.
TAMORA. If Tamora entreat him, then he will;
For I can smooth and fill his aged ears
With golden promises, that, were his heart
Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf,
Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.
[To AEMILIUS] Go thou before to be our ambassador;
Say that the Emperor requests a parley
Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting
Even at his father's house, the old Andronicus.
SATURNINUS. Aemilius, do this message honourably;
And if he stand on hostage for his safety,
Bid him demand what pledge will please him best.
AEMILIUS. Your bidding shall I do effectually. Exit
TAMORA. Now will I to that old Andronicus,
And temper him with all the art I have,
To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths.
And now, sweet Emperor, be blithe again,
And bury all thy fear in my devices.
SATURNINUS. Then go successantly, and plead to him.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT IV. SCENE I.
Rome. TITUS' garden
Enter YOUNG LUCIUS and LAVINIA running after him,
and the boy flies from her with his books under his arm.
Enter TITUS and MARCUS
BOY. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia
Follows me everywhere, I know not why.
Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes!
Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.
MARCUS. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.
TITUS. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.
BOY. Ay, when my father was in Rome she did.
MARCUS. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?
TITUS. Fear her not, Lucius; somewhat doth she mean.
See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee.
Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her sons than she hath read to thee
Sweet poetry and Tully's Orator.
MARCUS. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?
BOY. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her;
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft
Extremity of griefs would make men mad;
And I have read that Hecuba of Troy
Ran mad for sorrow. That made me to fear;
Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt
Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did,
And would not, but in fury, fright my youth;
Which made me down to throw my books, and fly-
Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt;
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,
I will most willingly attend your ladyship.
MARCUS. Lucius, I will. [LAVINIA turns over with her
stumps the books which Lucius has let fall]
TITUS. How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means this?
Some book there is that she desires to see.
Which is it, girl, of these?- Open them, boy.-
But thou art deeper read and better skill'd;
Come and take choice of all my library,
And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.
Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?
MARCUS. I think she means that there were more than one
Confederate in the fact; ay, more there was,
Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.
TITUS. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?
BOY. Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphoses;
My mother gave it me.
MARCUS. For love of her that's gone,
Perhaps she cull'd it from among the rest.
TITUS. Soft! So busily she turns the leaves! Help her.
What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read?
This is the tragic tale of Philomel
And treats of Tereus' treason and his rape;
And rape, I fear, was root of thy annoy.
MARCUS. See, brother, see! Note how she quotes the leaves.
TITUS. Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris'd, sweet girl,
Ravish'd and wrong'd as Philomela was,
Forc'd in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods?
See, see!
Ay, such a place there is where we did hunt-
O, had we never, never hunted there!-
Pattern'd by that the poet here describes,
By nature made for murders and for rapes.
MARCUS. O, why should nature build so foul a den,
Unless the gods delight in tragedies?
TITUS. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends,
What Roman lord it was durst do the deed.
Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,
That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed?
MARCUS. Sit down, sweet niece; brother, sit down by me.
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,
Inspire me, that I may this treason find!
My lord, look here! Look here, Lavinia!
[He writes his name with his
staff, and guides it with feet and mouth]
This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,
This after me. I have writ my name
Without the help of any hand at all.
Curs'd be that heart that forc'd us to this shift!
Write thou, good niece, and here display at last
What God will have discovered for revenge.
Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,
That we may know the traitors and the truth!
[She takes the staff in her mouth
and guides it with stumps, and writes]
O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ?
TITUS. 'Stuprum- Chiron- Demetrius.'
MARCUS. What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora
Performers of this heinous bloody deed?
TITUS. Magni Dominator poli,
Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?
MARCUS. O, calm thee, gentle lord! although I know
There is enough written upon this earth
To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts,
And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.
My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;
And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;
And swear with me- as, with the woeful fere
And father of that chaste dishonoured dame,
Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape-
That we will prosecute, by good advice,
Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,
And see their blood or die with this reproach.
TITUS. 'Tis sure enough, an you knew how;
But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware:
The dam will wake; and if she wind ye once,
She's with the lion deeply still in league,
And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back,
And when he sleeps will she do what she list.
You are a young huntsman, Marcus; let alone;
And come, I will go get a leaf of brass,
And with a gad of steel will write these words,
And lay it by. The angry northern wind
Will blow these sands like Sibyl's leaves abroad,
And where's our lesson, then? Boy, what say you?
BOY. I say, my lord, that if I were a man
Their mother's bedchamber should not be safe
For these base bondmen to the yoke of Rome.
MARCUS. Ay, that's my boy! Thy father hath full oft
For his ungrateful country done the like.
BOY. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live.
TITUS. Come, go with me into mine armoury.
Lucius, I'll fit thee; and withal my boy
Shall carry from me to the Empress' sons
Presents that I intend to send them both.
Come, come; thou'lt do my message, wilt thou not?
BOY. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire.
TITUS. No, boy, not so; I'll teach thee another course.
Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house.
Lucius and I'll go brave it at the court;
Ay, marry, will we, sir! and we'll be waited on.
Exeunt TITUS, LAVINIA, and YOUNG LUCIUS
MARCUS. O heavens, can you hear a good man groan
And not relent, or not compassion him?
Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy,
That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart
Than foemen's marks upon his batt'red shield,
But yet so just that he will not revenge.
Revenge the heavens for old Andronicus! Exit
----------SCENE 2---------
SCENE II.
Rome. The palace
Enter AARON, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, at one door; and at the other
door,
YOUNG LUCIUS and another with a bundle of weapons, and verses
writ upon them
CHIRON. Demetrius, here's the son of Lucius;
He hath some message to deliver us.
AARON. Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather.
BOY. My lords, with all the humbleness I may,
I greet your honours from Andronicus-
[Aside] And pray the Roman gods confound you both!
DEMETRIUS. Gramercy, lovely Lucius. What's the news?
BOY. [Aside] That you are both decipher'd, that's the news,
For villains mark'd with rape.- May it please you,
My grandsire, well advis'd, hath sent by me
The goodliest weapons of his armoury
To gratify your honourable youth,
The hope of Rome; for so he bid me say;
And so I do, and with his gifts present
Your lordships, that, whenever you have need,
You may be armed and appointed well.
And so I leave you both- [Aside] like bloody villains.
Exeunt YOUNG LUCIUS and attendant
DEMETRIUS. What's here? A scroll, and written round about.
Let's see:
[Reads] 'Integer vitae, scelerisque purus,
Non eget Mauri iaculis, nec arcu.'
CHIRON. O, 'tis a verse in Horace, I know it well;
I read it in the grammar long ago.
AARON. Ay, just- a verse in Horace. Right, you have it.
[Aside] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!
Here's no sound jest! The old man hath found their guilt,
And sends them weapons wrapp'd about with lines
That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick.
But were our witty Empress well afoot,
She would applaud Andronicus' conceit.
But let her rest in her unrest awhile-
And now, young lords, was't not a happy star
Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so,
Captives, to be advanced to this height?
It did me good before the palace gate
To brave the Tribune in his brother's hearing.
DEMETRIUS. But me more good to see so great a lord
Basely insinuate and send us gifts.
AARON. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius?
Did you not use his daughter very friendly?
DEMETRIUS. I would we had a thousand Roman dames
At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.
CHIRON. A charitable wish and full of love.
AARON. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen.
CHIRON. And that would she for twenty thousand more.
DEMETRIUS. Come, let us go and pray to all the gods
For our beloved mother in her pains.
AARON. [Aside] Pray to the devils; the gods have given us
over.
[Trumpets sound]
DEMETRIUS. Why do the Emperor's trumpets flourish thus?
CHIRON. Belike, for joy the Emperor hath a son.
DEMETRIUS. Soft! who comes here?
Enter NURSE, with a blackamoor CHILD
NURSE. Good morrow, lords.
O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor?
AARON. Well, more or less, or ne'er a whit at all,
Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now?
NURSE. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone!
Now help, or woe betide thee evermore!
AARON. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep!
What dost thou wrap and fumble in thy arms?
NURSE. O, that which I would hide from heaven's eye:
Our Empress' shame and stately Rome's disgrace!
She is delivered, lord; she is delivered.
AARON. To whom?
NURSE. I mean she is brought a-bed.
AARON. Well, God give her good rest! What hath he sent her?
NURSE. A devil.
AARON. Why, then she is the devil's dam;
A joyful issue.
NURSE. A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue!
Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad
Amongst the fair-fac'd breeders of our clime;
The Empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal,
And bids thee christen it with thy dagger's point.
AARON. Zounds, ye whore! Is black so base a hue?
Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom sure.
DEMETRIUS. Villain, what hast thou done?
AARON. That which thou canst not undo.
CHIRON. Thou hast undone our mother.
AARON. Villain, I have done thy mother.
DEMETRIUS. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone her.
Woe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed choice!
Accurs'd the offspring of so foul a fiend!
CHIRON. It shall not live.
AARON. It shall not die.
NURSE. Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so.
AARON. What, must it, nurse? Then let no man but I
Do execution on my flesh and blood.
DEMETRIUS. I'll broach the tadpole on my rapier's point.
Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it.
AARON. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up.
[Takes the CHILD from the NURSE, and draws]
Stay, murderous villains, will you kill your brother!
Now, by the burning tapers of the sky
That shone so brightly when this boy was got,
He dies upon my scimitar's sharp point
That touches this my first-born son and heir.
I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,
With all his threat'ning band of Typhon's brood,
Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war,
Shall seize this prey out of his father's hands.
What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys!
Ye white-lim'd walls! ye alehouse painted signs!
Coal-black is better than another hue
In that it scorns to bear another hue;
For all the water in the ocean
Can never turn the swan's black legs to white,
Although she lave them hourly in the flood.
Tell the Empress from me I am of age
To keep mine own- excuse it how she can.
DEMETRIUS. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus?
AARON. My mistress is my mistress: this my self,
The vigour and the picture of my youth.
This before all the world do I prefer;
This maugre all the world will I keep safe,
Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome.
DEMETRIUS. By this our mother is for ever sham'd.
CHIRON. Rome will despise her for this foul escape.
NURSE. The Emperor in his rage will doom her death.
CHIRON. I blush to think upon this ignomy.
AARON. Why, there's the privilege your beauty bears:
Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing
The close enacts and counsels of thy heart!
Here's a young lad fram'd of another leer.
Look how the black slave smiles upon the father,
As who should say 'Old lad, I am thine own.'
He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed
Of that self-blood that first gave life to you;
And from your womb where you imprisoned were
He is enfranchised and come to light.
Nay, he is your brother by the surer side,
Although my seal be stamped in his face.
NURSE. Aaron, what shall I say unto the Empress?
DEMETRIUS. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done,
And we will all subscribe to thy advice.
Save thou the child, so we may all be safe.
AARON. Then sit we down and let us all consult.
My son and I will have the wind of you:
Keep there; now talk at pleasure of your safety.
[They sit]
DEMETRIUS. How many women saw this child of his?
AARON. Why, so, brave lords! When we join in league
I am a lamb; but if you brave the Moor,
The chafed boar, the mountain lioness,
The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms.
But say, again, how many saw the child?
NURSE. Cornelia the midwife and myself;
And no one else but the delivered Empress.
AARON. The Empress, the midwife, and yourself.
Two may keep counsel when the third's away:
Go to the Empress, tell her this I said. [He kills her]
Weeke weeke!
So cries a pig prepared to the spit.
DEMETRIUS. What mean'st thou, Aaron? Wherefore didst thou this?
AARON. O Lord, sir, 'tis a deed of policy.
Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours-
A long-tongu'd babbling gossip? No, lords, no.
And now be it known to you my full intent:
Not far, one Muliteus lives, my countryman-
His wife but yesternight was brought to bed;
His child is like to her, fair as you are.
Go pack with him, and give the mother gold,
And tell them both the circumstance of all,
And how by this their child shall be advanc'd,
And be received for the Emperor's heir
And substituted in the place of mine,
To calm this tempest whirling in the court;
And let the Emperor dandle him for his own.
Hark ye, lords. You see I have given her physic,
[Pointing to the NURSE]
And you must needs bestow her funeral;
The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms.
This done, see that you take no longer days,
But send the midwife presently to me.
The midwife and the nurse well made away,
Then let the ladies tattle what they please.
CHIRON. Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air
With secrets.
DEMETRIUS. For this care of Tamora,
Herself and hers are highly bound to thee.
Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, bearing off the dead NURSE
AARON. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies,
There to dispose this treasure in mine arms,
And secretly to greet the Empress' friends.
Come on, you thick-lipp'd slave, I'll bear you hence;
For it is you that puts us to our shifts.
I'll make you feed on berries and on roots,
And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat,
And cabin in a cave, and bring you up
To be a warrior and command a camp.
Exit with the CHILD
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for scene 4 based on the provided context. | null | Titus arrows rain down on Saturninus and serve only to anger him. Tamora tries to placate him saying that Titus grief has affected his mind. When the clown hands Titus message to Saturninus the latter commands the clown to be hanged. In his message Titus states, that his sons have been wrongfully killed by Saturninus. Saturninus commands that Titus should be arrested and killed. He suspects Titus of imperial ambition, for the crown of Rome. Titus however is saved when Aemilius enters with the news that the Goths are getting ready to attack Rome under Lucius leadership. Saturninus fears that the citizens of Rome will support Lucius. Tamora decides to persuade Titus to convince Lucius to drop his plans for revolt. |
----------SCENE 3---------
SCENE III.
Rome. A public place
Enter TITUS, bearing arrows with letters on the ends of them;
with him MARCUS, YOUNG LUCIUS, and other gentlemen,
PUBLIUS, SEMPRONIUS, and CAIUS, with bows
TITUS. Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is the way.
Sir boy, let me see your archery;
Look ye draw home enough, and 'tis there straight.
Terras Astrea reliquit,
Be you rememb'red, Marcus; she's gone, she's fled.
Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall
Go sound the ocean and cast your nets;
Happily you may catch her in the sea;
Yet there's as little justice as at land.
No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it;
'Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade,
And pierce the inmost centre of the earth;
Then, when you come to Pluto's region,
I pray you deliver him this petition.
Tell him it is for justice and for aid,
And that it comes from old Andronicus,
Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome.
Ah, Rome! Well, well, I made thee miserable
What time I threw the people's suffrages
On him that thus doth tyrannize o'er me.
Go get you gone; and pray be careful all,
And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch'd.
This wicked Emperor may have shipp'd her hence;
And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.
MARCUS. O Publius, is not this a heavy case,
To see thy noble uncle thus distract?
PUBLIUS. Therefore, my lords, it highly us concerns
By day and night t' attend him carefully,
And feed his humour kindly as we may
Till time beget some careful remedy.
MARCUS. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy.
Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war
Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,
And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.
TITUS. Publius, how now? How now, my masters?
What, have you met with her?
PUBLIUS. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word,
If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall.
Marry, for Justice, she is so employ'd,
He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else,
So that perforce you must needs stay a time.
TITUS. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.
I'll dive into the burning lake below
And pull her out of Acheron by the heels.
Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we,
No big-bon'd men fram'd of the Cyclops' size;
But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back,
Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear;
And, sith there's no justice in earth nor hell,
We will solicit heaven, and move the gods
To send down justice for to wreak our wrongs.
Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus.
[He gives them the arrows]
'Ad Jovem' that's for you; here 'Ad Apollinem.'
'Ad Martem' that's for myself.
Here, boy, 'To Pallas'; here 'To Mercury.'
'To Saturn,' Caius- not to Saturnine:
You were as good to shoot against the wind.
To it, boy. Marcus, loose when I bid.
Of my word, I have written to effect;
There's not a god left unsolicited.
MARCUS. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court;
We will afflict the Emperor in his pride.
TITUS. Now, masters, draw. [They shoot] O, well said, Lucius!
Good boy, in Virgo's lap! Give it Pallas.
MARCUS. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon;
Your letter is with Jupiter by this.
TITUS. Ha! ha!
Publius, Publius, hast thou done?
See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus' horns.
MARCUS. This was the sport, my lord: when Publius shot,
The Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock
That down fell both the Ram's horns in the court;
And who should find them but the Empress' villain?
She laugh'd, and told the Moor he should not choose
But give them to his master for a present.
TITUS. Why, there it goes! God give his lordship joy!
Enter the CLOWN, with a basket and two pigeons in it
News, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come.
Sirrah, what tidings? Have you any letters?
Shall I have justice? What says Jupiter?
CLOWN. Ho, the gibbet-maker? He says that he hath taken them
down
again, for the man must not be hang'd till the next week.
TITUS. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee?
CLOWN. Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter; I never drank with him in
all
my life.
TITUS. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier?
CLOWN. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else.
TITUS. Why, didst thou not come from heaven?
CLOWN. From heaven! Alas, sir, I never came there. God forbid I
should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I
am
going with my pigeons to the Tribunal Plebs, to take up a
matter
of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the Emperal's men.
MARCUS. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your
oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the Emperor from
you.
TITUS. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the Emperor with
a
grace?
CLOWN. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life.
TITUS. Sirrah, come hither. Make no more ado,
But give your pigeons to the Emperor;
By me thou shalt have justice at his hands.
Hold, hold! Meanwhile here's money for thy charges.
Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver up
a
supplication?
CLOWN. Ay, sir.
TITUS. Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come
to
him, at the first approach you must kneel; then kiss his
foot;
then deliver up your pigeons; and then look for your reward.
I'll
be at hand, sir; see you do it bravely.
CLOWN. I warrant you, sir; let me alone.
TITUS. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? Come let me see it.
Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration;
For thou hast made it like a humble suppliant.
And when thou hast given it to the Emperor,
Knock at my door, and tell me what he says.
CLOWN. God be with you, sir; I will.
TITUS. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me. Exeunt
----------SCENE 4---------
SCENE IV.
Rome. Before the palace
Enter the EMPEROR, and the EMPRESS and her two sons, DEMETRIUS
and CHIRON;
LORDS and others. The EMPEROR brings the arrows in his hand that
TITUS
shot at him
SATURNINUS. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen
An emperor in Rome thus overborne,
Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent
Of egal justice, us'd in such contempt?
My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods,
However these disturbers of our peace
Buzz in the people's ears, there nought hath pass'd
But even with law against the wilful sons
Of old Andronicus. And what an if
His sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits,
Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,
His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness?
And now he writes to heaven for his redress.
See, here's 'To Jove' and this 'To Mercury';
This 'To Apollo'; this 'To the God of War'-
Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome!
What's this but libelling against the Senate,
And blazoning our unjustice every where?
A goodly humour, is it not, my lords?
As who would say in Rome no justice were.
But if I live, his feigned ecstasies
Shall be no shelter to these outrages;
But he and his shall know that justice lives
In Saturninus' health; whom, if she sleep,
He'll so awake as he in fury shall
Cut off the proud'st conspirator that lives.
TAMORA. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,
Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts,
Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age,
Th' effects of sorrow for his valiant sons
Whose loss hath pierc'd him deep and scarr'd his heart;
And rather comfort his distressed plight
Than prosecute the meanest or the best
For these contempts. [Aside] Why, thus it shall become
High-witted Tamora to gloze with all.
But, Titus, I have touch'd thee to the quick,
Thy life-blood on't; if Aaron now be wise,
Then is all safe, the anchor in the port.
Enter CLOWN
How now, good fellow! Wouldst thou speak with us?
CLOWN. Yes, forsooth, an your mistriship be Emperial.
TAMORA. Empress I am, but yonder sits the Emperor.
CLOWN. 'Tis he.- God and Saint Stephen give you godden. I have
brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here.
[SATURNINUS reads the letter]
SATURNINUS. Go take him away, and hang him presently.
CLOWN. How much money must I have?
TAMORA. Come, sirrah, you must be hang'd.
CLOWN. Hang'd! by'r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a
fair
end. [Exit guarded]
SATURNINUS. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs!
Shall I endure this monstrous villainy?
I know from whence this same device proceeds.
May this be borne- as if his traitorous sons
That died by law for murder of our brother
Have by my means been butchered wrongfully?
Go drag the villain hither by the hair;
Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege.
For this proud mock I'll be thy slaughterman,
Sly frantic wretch, that holp'st to make me great,
In hope thyself should govern Rome and me.
Enter NUNTIUS AEMILIUS
What news with thee, Aemilius?
AEMILIUS. Arm, my lords! Rome never had more cause.
The Goths have gathered head; and with a power
Of high resolved men, bent to the spoil,
They hither march amain, under conduct
Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus;
Who threats in course of this revenge to do
As much as ever Coriolanus did.
SATURNINUS. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths?
These tidings nip me, and I hang the head
As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms.
Ay, now begins our sorrows to approach.
'Tis he the common people love so much;
Myself hath often heard them say-
When I have walked like a private man-
That Lucius' banishment was wrongfully,
And they have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor.
TAMORA. Why should you fear? Is not your city strong?
SATURNINUS. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius,
And will revolt from me to succour him.
TAMORA. King, be thy thoughts imperious like thy name!
Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it?
The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
And is not careful what they mean thereby,
Knowing that with the shadow of his wings
He can at pleasure stint their melody;
Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome.
Then cheer thy spirit; for know thou, Emperor,
I will enchant the old Andronicus
With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,
Than baits to fish or honey-stalks to sheep,
When as the one is wounded with the bait,
The other rotted with delicious feed.
SATURNINUS. But he will not entreat his son for us.
TAMORA. If Tamora entreat him, then he will;
For I can smooth and fill his aged ears
With golden promises, that, were his heart
Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf,
Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.
[To AEMILIUS] Go thou before to be our ambassador;
Say that the Emperor requests a parley
Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting
Even at his father's house, the old Andronicus.
SATURNINUS. Aemilius, do this message honourably;
And if he stand on hostage for his safety,
Bid him demand what pledge will please him best.
AEMILIUS. Your bidding shall I do effectually. Exit
TAMORA. Now will I to that old Andronicus,
And temper him with all the art I have,
To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths.
And now, sweet Emperor, be blithe again,
And bury all thy fear in my devices.
SATURNINUS. Then go successantly, and plead to him.
Exeunt
|
Titus Andronicus.act 5.sc | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 5, scene 3, utilizing the provided context. | act 5, scene 1|act 5, scene 2|act 5, scene 3 | At Titus's house, everyone has gathered for the much-anticipated dinner banquet. Lucius, who knows Saturninus's promise of a peace treaty is probably a setup, tells his men to tie Aaron up and starve him until Tamora can be confronted. Saturninus shows up. He and Lucius proceed to insult each other until Marcus steps in and tries to make peace. Titus enters in a chef's get-up and places the tasty entrees on the banquet table. Over dinner, Titus chit-chats with his guests, asking them what they think about the story of Virginius. Saturninus says Virginius was right to kill his daughter because the girl wouldn't "survive her shame" . Plus, he says, if she lived, she would be a burden on her father, who would feel bad every time he looked at her. Titus says he couldn't agree more, then shocks everyone by killing Lavinia. Tamora is all, "what'd you do that for?" Titus says it's Demetrius's and Chiron's fault because they raped her and then cut out her tongue. Saturninus demands that Chiron and Demetrius be brought forward - they have some serious explaining to do. Titus says "Why, there they are, both baked in this pie, / Whereof their mother daintily hath fed, / Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred." Titus leaps up and stabs Tamora. Saturninus leaps up and stabs Titus. Lucius doesn't want to be left out, so he leaps up and stabs Saturninus. With all the dead bodies littering the stage, Marcus makes a big speech about how Rome is an absolute mess and needs to be restored. First, though, Lucius should tell everyone about what Tamora and Aaron have been up to. Lucius obliges, and Marcus holds up Aaron and Tamora's love child as proof that they are bad people and that the Andronici have been completely justified in their recent actions. Everyone begins to shout that Lucius is awesome and should be Rome's new emperor. Lucius promises to "heal Rome's harms," starting with Aaron's punishment, which involves being buried alive and left to starve. Lucius announces that Titus and Lavinia will be placed in the family tomb. Tamora, on the other hand, doesn't get a burial. Instead, her body will be left for the animals to devour. The End. |
----------ACT 5, SCENE 1---------
ACT V. SCENE I.
Plains near Rome
Enter LUCIUS with an army of GOTHS with drums and colours
LUCIUS. Approved warriors and my faithful friends,
I have received letters from great Rome
Which signifies what hate they bear their Emperor
And how desirous of our sight they are.
Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness,
Imperious and impatient of your wrongs;
And wherein Rome hath done you any scath,
Let him make treble satisfaction.
FIRST GOTH. Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus,
Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort,
Whose high exploits and honourable deeds
Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt,
Be bold in us: we'll follow where thou lead'st,
Like stinging bees in hottest summer's day,
Led by their master to the flow'red fields,
And be aveng'd on cursed Tamora.
ALL THE GOTHS. And as he saith, so say we all with him.
LUCIUS. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all.
But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth?
Enter a GOTH, leading AARON with his CHILD in his arms
SECOND GOTH. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray'd
To gaze upon a ruinous monastery;
And as I earnestly did fix mine eye
Upon the wasted building, suddenly
I heard a child cry underneath a wall.
I made unto the noise, when soon I heard
The crying babe controll'd with this discourse:
'Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam!
Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art,
Had nature lent thee but thy mother's look,
Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor;
But where the bull and cow are both milk-white,
They never do beget a coal-black calf.
Peace, villain, peace!'- even thus he rates the babe-
'For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth,
Who, when he knows thou art the Empress' babe,
Will hold thee dearly for thy mother's sake.'
With this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him,
Surpris'd him suddenly, and brought him hither
To use as you think needful of the man.
LUCIUS. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil
That robb'd Andronicus of his good hand;
This is the pearl that pleas'd your Empress' eye;
And here's the base fruit of her burning lust.
Say, wall-ey'd slave, whither wouldst thou convey
This growing image of thy fiend-like face?
Why dost not speak? What, deaf? Not a word?
A halter, soldiers! Hang him on this tree,
And by his side his fruit of bastardy.
AARON. Touch not the boy, he is of royal blood.
LUCIUS. Too like the sire for ever being good.
First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl-
A sight to vex the father's soul withal.
Get me a ladder.
[A ladder brought, which AARON is made to climb]
AARON. Lucius, save the child,
And bear it from me to the Empress.
If thou do this, I'll show thee wondrous things
That highly may advantage thee to hear;
If thou wilt not, befall what may befall,
I'll speak no more but 'Vengeance rot you all!'
LUCIUS. Say on; an if it please me which thou speak'st,
Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish'd.
AARON. An if it please thee! Why, assure thee, Lucius,
'Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak;
For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres,
Acts of black night, abominable deeds,
Complots of mischief, treason, villainies,
Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd;
And this shall all be buried in my death,
Unless thou swear to me my child shall live.
LUCIUS. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live.
AARON. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin.
LUCIUS. Who should I swear by? Thou believest no god;
That granted, how canst thou believe an oath?
AARON. What if I do not? as indeed I do not;
Yet, for I know thou art religious
And hast a thing within thee called conscience,
With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies
Which I have seen thee careful to observe,
Therefore I urge thy oath. For that I know
An idiot holds his bauble for a god,
And keeps the oath which by that god he swears,
To that I'll urge him. Therefore thou shalt vow
By that same god- what god soe'er it be
That thou adorest and hast in reverence-
To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up;
Or else I will discover nought to thee.
LUCIUS. Even by my god I swear to thee I will.
AARON. First know thou, I begot him on the Empress.
LUCIUS. O most insatiate and luxurious woman!
AARON. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity
To that which thou shalt hear of me anon.
'Twas her two sons that murdered Bassianus;
They cut thy sister's tongue, and ravish'd her,
And cut her hands, and trimm'd her as thou sawest.
LUCIUS. O detestable villain! Call'st thou that trimming?
AARON. Why, she was wash'd, and cut, and trimm'd, and 'twas
Trim sport for them which had the doing of it.
LUCIUS. O barbarous beastly villains like thyself!
AARON. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them.
That codding spirit had they from their mother,
As sure a card as ever won the set;
That bloody mind, I think, they learn'd of me,
As true a dog as ever fought at head.
Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth.
I train'd thy brethren to that guileful hole
Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay;
I wrote the letter that thy father found,
And hid the gold within that letter mention'd,
Confederate with the Queen and her two sons;
And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue,
Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it?
I play'd the cheater for thy father's hand,
And, when I had it, drew myself apart
And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter.
I pried me through the crevice of a wall,
When, for his hand, he had his two sons' heads;
Beheld his tears, and laugh'd so heartily
That both mine eyes were rainy like to his;
And when I told the Empress of this sport,
She swooned almost at my pleasing tale,
And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses.
GOTH. What, canst thou say all this and never blush?
AARON. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.
LUCIUS. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?
AARON. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day- and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse-
Wherein I did not some notorious ill;
As kill a man, or else devise his death;
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it;
Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself;
Set deadly enmity between two friends;
Make poor men's cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears.
Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends' door
Even when their sorrows almost was forgot,
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters
'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly;
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.
LUCIUS. Bring down the devil, for he must not die
So sweet a death as hanging presently.
AARON. If there be devils, would I were a devil,
To live and burn in everlasting fire,
So I might have your company in hell
But to torment you with my bitter tongue!
LUCIUS. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more.
Enter AEMILIUS
GOTH. My lord, there is a messenger from Rome
Desires to be admitted to your presence.
LUCIUS. Let him come near.
Welcome, Aemilius. What's the news from Rome?
AEMILIUS. Lord Lucius, and you Princes of the Goths,
The Roman Emperor greets you all by me;
And, for he understands you are in arms,
He craves a parley at your father's house,
Willing you to demand your hostages,
And they shall be immediately deliver'd.
FIRST GOTH. What says our general?
LUCIUS. Aemilius, let the Emperor give his pledges
Unto my father and my uncle Marcus.
And we will come. March away. Exeunt
----------ACT 5, SCENE 2---------
SCENE II.
Rome. Before TITUS' house
Enter TAMORA, and her two sons, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, disguised
TAMORA. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment,
I will encounter with Andronicus,
And say I am Revenge, sent from below
To join with him and right his heinous wrongs.
Knock at his study, where they say he keeps
To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge;
Tell him Revenge is come to join with him,
And work confusion on his enemies.
They knock and TITUS opens his study door, above
TITUS. Who doth molest my contemplation?
Is it your trick to make me ope the door,
That so my sad decrees may fly away
And all my study be to no effect?
You are deceiv'd; for what I mean to do
See here in bloody lines I have set down;
And what is written shall be executed.
TAMORA. Titus, I am come to talk with thee.
TITUS. No, not a word. How can I grace my talk,
Wanting a hand to give it that accord?
Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more.
TAMORA. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me.
TITUS. I am not mad, I know thee well enough:
Witness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines;
Witness these trenches made by grief and care;
Witness the tiring day and heavy night;
Witness all sorrow that I know thee well
For our proud Empress, mighty Tamora.
Is not thy coming for my other hand?
TAMORA. Know thou, sad man, I am not Tamora:
She is thy enemy and I thy friend.
I am Revenge, sent from th' infernal kingdom
To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind
By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes.
Come down and welcome me to this world's light;
Confer with me of murder and of death;
There's not a hollow cave or lurking-place,
No vast obscurity or misty vale,
Where bloody murder or detested rape
Can couch for fear but I will find them out;
And in their ears tell them my dreadful name-
Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake.
TITUS. Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me
To be a torment to mine enemies?
TAMORA. I am; therefore come down and welcome me.
TITUS. Do me some service ere I come to thee.
Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands;
Now give some surance that thou art Revenge-
Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot wheels;
And then I'll come and be thy waggoner
And whirl along with thee about the globes.
Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet,
To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away,
And find out murderers in their guilty caves;
And when thy car is loaden with their heads,
I will dismount, and by thy waggon wheel
Trot, like a servile footman, all day long,
Even from Hyperion's rising in the east
Until his very downfall in the sea.
And day by day I'll do this heavy task,
So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there.
TAMORA. These are my ministers, and come with me.
TITUS. Are they thy ministers? What are they call'd?
TAMORA. Rape and Murder; therefore called so
'Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men.
TITUS. Good Lord, how like the Empress' sons they are!
And you the Empress! But we worldly men
Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes.
O sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee;
And, if one arm's embracement will content thee,
I will embrace thee in it by and by.
TAMORA. This closing with him fits his lunacy.
Whate'er I forge to feed his brain-sick humours,
Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches,
For now he firmly takes me for Revenge;
And, being credulous in this mad thought,
I'll make him send for Lucius his son,
And whilst I at a banquet hold him sure,
I'll find some cunning practice out of hand
To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths,
Or, at the least, make them his enemies.
See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme.
Enter TITUS, below
TITUS. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee.
Welcome, dread Fury, to my woeful house.
Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too.
How like the Empress and her sons you are!
Well are you fitted, had you but a Moor.
Could not all hell afford you such a devil?
For well I wot the Empress never wags
But in her company there is a Moor;
And, would you represent our queen aright,
It were convenient you had such a devil.
But welcome as you are. What shall we do?
TAMORA. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus?
DEMETRIUS. Show me a murderer, I'll deal with him.
CHIRON. Show me a villain that hath done a rape,
And I am sent to be reveng'd on him.
TAMORA. Show me a thousand that hath done thee wrong,
And I will be revenged on them all.
TITUS. Look round about the wicked streets of Rome,
And when thou find'st a man that's like thyself,
Good Murder, stab him; he's a murderer.
Go thou with him, and when it is thy hap
To find another that is like to thee,
Good Rapine, stab him; he is a ravisher.
Go thou with them; and in the Emperor's court
There is a queen, attended by a Moor;
Well shalt thou know her by thine own proportion,
For up and down she doth resemble thee.
I pray thee, do on them some violent death;
They have been violent to me and mine.
TAMORA. Well hast thou lesson'd us; this shall we do.
But would it please thee, good Andronicus,
To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son,
Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths,
And bid him come and banquet at thy house;
When he is here, even at thy solemn feast,
I will bring in the Empress and her sons,
The Emperor himself, and all thy foes;
And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel,
And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart.
What says Andronicus to this device?
TITUS. Marcus, my brother! 'Tis sad Titus calls.
Enter MARCUS
Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius;
Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths.
Bid him repair to me, and bring with him
Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths;
Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are.
Tell him the Emperor and the Empress too
Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them.
This do thou for my love; and so let him,
As he regards his aged father's life.
MARCUS. This will I do, and soon return again. Exit
TAMORA. Now will I hence about thy business,
And take my ministers along with me.
TITUS. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me,
Or else I'll call my brother back again,
And cleave to no revenge but Lucius.
TAMORA. [Aside to her sons] What say you, boys? Will you
abide
with him,
Whiles I go tell my lord the Emperor
How I have govern'd our determin'd jest?
Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair,
And tarry with him till I turn again.
TITUS. [Aside] I knew them all, though they suppos'd me mad,
And will o'er reach them in their own devices,
A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam.
DEMETRIUS. Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here.
TAMORA. Farewell, Andronicus, Revenge now goes
To lay a complot to betray thy foes.
TITUS. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell.
Exit TAMORA
CHIRON. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ'd?
TITUS. Tut, I have work enough for you to do.
Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine.
Enter PUBLIUS, CAIUS, and VALENTINE
PUBLIUS. What is your will?
TITUS. Know you these two?
PUBLIUS. The Empress' sons, I take them: Chiron, Demetrius.
TITUS. Fie, Publius, fie! thou art too much deceiv'd.
The one is Murder, and Rape is the other's name;
And therefore bind them, gentle Publius-
Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them.
Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour,
And now I find it; therefore bind them sure,
And stop their mouths if they begin to cry. Exit
[They lay hold on CHIRON and DEMETRIUS]
CHIRON. Villains, forbear! we are the Empress' sons.
PUBLIUS. And therefore do we what we are commanded.
Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word.
Is he sure bound? Look that you bind them fast.
Re-enter TITUS ANDRONICUS
with a knife, and LAVINIA, with a basin
TITUS. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound.
Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me;
But let them hear what fearful words I utter.
O villains, Chiron and Demetrius!
Here stands the spring whom you have stain'd with mud;
This goodly summer with your winter mix'd.
You kill'd her husband; and for that vile fault
Two of her brothers were condemn'd to death,
My hand cut off and made a merry jest;
Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear
Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity,
Inhuman traitors, you constrain'd and forc'd.
What would you say, if I should let you speak?
Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace.
Hark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you.
This one hand yet is left to cut your throats,
Whiles that Lavinia 'tween her stumps doth hold
The basin that receives your guilty blood.
You know your mother means to feast with me,
And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad.
Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust,
And with your blood and it I'll make a paste;
And of the paste a coffin I will rear,
And make two pasties of your shameful heads;
And bid that strumpet, your unhallowed dam,
Like to the earth, swallow her own increase.
This is the feast that I have bid her to,
And this the banquet she shall surfeit on;
For worse than Philomel you us'd my daughter,
And worse than Progne I will be reveng'd.
And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come,
Receive the blood; and when that they are dead,
Let me go grind their bones to powder small,
And with this hateful liquor temper it;
And in that paste let their vile heads be bak'd.
Come, come, be every one officious
To make this banquet, which I wish may prove
More stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast.
[He cuts their throats]
So.
Now bring them in, for I will play the cook,
And see them ready against their mother comes.
Exeunt, bearing the dead bodies
----------ACT 5, SCENE 3---------
SCENE III.
The court of TITUS' house
Enter Lucius, MARCUS, and the GOTHS, with AARON prisoner,
and his CHILD in the arms of an attendant
LUCIUS. Uncle Marcus, since 'tis my father's mind
That I repair to Rome, I am content.
FIRST GOTH. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will.
LUCIUS. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor,
This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil;
Let him receive no sust'nance, fetter him,
Till he be brought unto the Empress' face
For testimony of her foul proceedings.
And see the ambush of our friends be strong;
I fear the Emperor means no good to us.
AARON. Some devil whisper curses in my ear,
And prompt me that my tongue may utter forth
The venomous malice of my swelling heart!
LUCIUS. Away, inhuman dog, unhallowed slave!
Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in.
Exeunt GOTHS with AARON. Flourish within
The trumpets show the Emperor is at hand.
Sound trumpets. Enter SATURNINUS and
TAMORA, with AEMILIUS, TRIBUNES, SENATORS, and others
SATURNINUS. What, hath the firmament more suns than one?
LUCIUS. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun?
MARCUS. Rome's Emperor, and nephew, break the parle;
These quarrels must be quietly debated.
The feast is ready which the careful Titus
Hath ordain'd to an honourable end,
For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome.
Please you, therefore, draw nigh and take your places.
SATURNINUS. Marcus, we will.
[A table brought in. The company sit down]
Trumpets sounding, enter TITUS
like a cook, placing the dishes, and LAVINIA
with a veil over her face; also YOUNG LUCIUS, and others
TITUS. Welcome, my lord; welcome, dread Queen;
Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius;
And welcome all. Although the cheer be poor,
'Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it.
SATURNINUS. Why art thou thus attir'd, Andronicus?
TITUS. Because I would be sure to have all well
To entertain your Highness and your Empress.
TAMORA. We are beholding to you, good Andronicus.
TITUS. An if your Highness knew my heart, you were.
My lord the Emperor, resolve me this:
Was it well done of rash Virginius
To slay his daughter with his own right hand,
Because she was enforc'd, stain'd, and deflower'd?
SATURNINUS. It was, Andronicus.
TITUS. Your reason, mighty lord.
SATURNINUS. Because the girl should not survive her shame,
And by her presence still renew his sorrows.
TITUS. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual;
A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant
For me, most wretched, to perform the like.
Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee; [He kills her]
And with thy shame thy father's sorrow die!
SATURNINUS. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?
TITUS. Kill'd her for whom my tears have made me blind.
I am as woeful as Virginius was,
And have a thousand times more cause than he
To do this outrage; and it now is done.
SATURNINUS. What, was she ravish'd? Tell who did the deed.
TITUS. Will't please you eat? Will't please your Highness
feed?
TAMORA. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?
TITUS. Not I; 'twas Chiron and Demetrius.
They ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue;
And they, 'twas they, that did her all this wrong.
SATURNINUS. Go, fetch them hither to us presently.
TITUS. Why, there they are, both baked in this pie,
Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,
Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.
'Tis true, 'tis true: witness my knife's sharp point.
[He stabs the EMPRESS]
SATURNINUS. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed!
[He stabs TITUS]
LUCIUS. Can the son's eye behold his father bleed?
There's meed for meed, death for a deadly deed.
[He stabs SATURNINUS. A great tumult. LUCIUS,
MARCUS, and their friends go up into the balcony]
MARCUS. You sad-fac'd men, people and sons of Rome,
By uproars sever'd, as a flight of fowl
Scatter'd by winds and high tempestuous gusts?
O, let me teach you how to knit again
This scattered corn into one mutual sheaf,
These broken limbs again into one body;
Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself,
And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to,
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,
Do shameful execution on herself.
But if my frosty signs and chaps of age,
Grave witnesses of true experience,
Cannot induce you to attend my words,
[To Lucius] Speak, Rome's dear friend, as erst our ancestor,
When with his solemn tongue he did discourse
To love-sick Dido's sad attending ear
The story of that baleful burning night,
When subtle Greeks surpris'd King Priam's Troy.
Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch'd our ears,
Or who hath brought the fatal engine in
That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound.
My heart is not compact of flint nor steel;
Nor can I utter all our bitter grief,
But floods of tears will drown my oratory
And break my utt'rance, even in the time
When it should move ye to attend me most,
And force you to commiseration.
Here's Rome's young Captain, let him tell the tale;
While I stand by and weep to hear him speak.
LUCIUS. Then, gracious auditory, be it known to you
That Chiron and the damn'd Demetrius
Were they that murd'red our Emperor's brother;
And they it were that ravished our sister.
For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded,
Our father's tears despis'd, and basely cozen'd
Of that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out
And sent her enemies unto the grave.
Lastly, myself unkindly banished,
The gates shut on me, and turn'd weeping out,
To beg relief among Rome's enemies;
Who drown'd their enmity in my true tears,
And op'd their arms to embrace me as a friend.
I am the turned forth, be it known to you,
That have preserv'd her welfare in my blood
And from her bosom took the enemy's point,
Sheathing the steel in my advent'rous body.
Alas! you know I am no vaunter, I;
My scars can witness, dumb although they are,
That my report is just and full of truth.
But, soft! methinks I do digress too much,
Citing my worthless praise. O, pardon me!
For when no friends are by, men praise themselves.
MARCUS. Now is my turn to speak. Behold the child.
[Pointing to the CHILD in an attendant's arms]
Of this was Tamora delivered,
The issue of an irreligious Moor,
Chief architect and plotter of these woes.
The villain is alive in Titus' house,
Damn'd as he is, to witness this is true.
Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge
These wrongs unspeakable, past patience,
Or more than any living man could bear.
Now have you heard the truth: what say you, Romans?
Have we done aught amiss, show us wherein,
And, from the place where you behold us pleading,
The poor remainder of Andronici
Will, hand in hand, all headlong hurl ourselves,
And on the ragged stones beat forth our souls,
And make a mutual closure of our house.
Speak, Romans, speak; and if you say we shall,
Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall.
AEMILIUS. Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome,
And bring our Emperor gently in thy hand,
Lucius our Emperor; for well I know
The common voice do cry it shall be so.
ALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's royal Emperor!
MARCUS. Go, go into old Titus' sorrowful house,
And hither hale that misbelieving Moor
To be adjudg'd some direful slaught'ring death,
As punishment for his most wicked life. Exeunt some
attendants. LUCIUS, MARCUS, and the others descend
ALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's gracious governor!
LUCIUS. Thanks, gentle Romans! May I govern so
To heal Rome's harms and wipe away her woe!
But, gentle people, give me aim awhile,
For nature puts me to a heavy task.
Stand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near
To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk.
O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips. [Kisses TITUS]
These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain'd face,
The last true duties of thy noble son!
MARCUS. Tear for tear and loving kiss for kiss
Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips.
O, were the sum of these that I should pay
Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them!
LUCIUS. Come hither, boy; come, come, come, and learn of us
To melt in showers. Thy grandsire lov'd thee well;
Many a time he danc'd thee on his knee,
Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow;
Many a story hath he told to thee,
And bid thee bear his pretty tales in mind
And talk of them when he was dead and gone.
MARCUS. How many thousand times hath these poor lips,
When they were living, warm'd themselves on thine!
O, now, sweet boy, give them their latest kiss!
Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave;
Do them that kindness, and take leave of them.
BOY. O grandsire, grandsire! ev'n with all my heart
Would I were dead, so you did live again!
O Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping;
My tears will choke me, if I ope my mouth.
Re-enter attendants with AARON
A ROMAN. You sad Andronici, have done with woes;
Give sentence on the execrable wretch
That hath been breeder of these dire events.
LUCIUS. Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him;
There let him stand and rave and cry for food.
If any one relieves or pities him,
For the offence he dies. This is our doom.
Some stay to see him fast'ned in the earth.
AARON. Ah, why should wrath be mute and fury dumb?
I am no baby, I, that with base prayers
I should repent the evils I have done;
Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did
Would I perform, if I might have my will.
If one good deed in all my life I did,
I do repent it from my very soul.
LUCIUS. Some loving friends convey the Emperor hence,
And give him burial in his father's grave.
My father and Lavinia shall forthwith
Be closed in our household's monument.
As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora,
No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weed,
No mournful bell shall ring her burial;
But throw her forth to beasts and birds to prey.
Her life was beastly and devoid of pity,
And being dead, let birds on her take pity. Exeunt
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for scene 3 with the given context. | null | Lucius arrives in Rome at his fathers bidding, accompanied by the Goths and the imprisoned Aaron. Saturninus, Tamora and their officials arrive at the banquet prepared by Titus. Just after the banquet begins Titus kills Lavinia in order to free her from her sufferings. He then kills Tamora. Saturninus kills Titus and is in turn killed by Lucius. Marcus and Lucius address the people of Rome and Lucius relates all the wrongs that had been done unto his family by Tamora and her sons. They show Aarons son, unharmed, and ask the people of Rome for their verdict on the deaths of Tamora and the Emperor. The people of Rome proclaim Lucius as their emperor. The Andronici bid a tearful farewell to the dead Titus. Lucius punishes Aaron by having him buried breast - deep in earth and starved, he orders Saturninus to be buried in the latters fathers grave, and declares that Tamora deserves no funeral and orders her body to be fed to animals. He then declares that henceforth the state will be protected from the likes of Aaron and the chaos his type brings. |
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT V. SCENE I.
Plains near Rome
Enter LUCIUS with an army of GOTHS with drums and colours
LUCIUS. Approved warriors and my faithful friends,
I have received letters from great Rome
Which signifies what hate they bear their Emperor
And how desirous of our sight they are.
Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness,
Imperious and impatient of your wrongs;
And wherein Rome hath done you any scath,
Let him make treble satisfaction.
FIRST GOTH. Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus,
Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort,
Whose high exploits and honourable deeds
Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt,
Be bold in us: we'll follow where thou lead'st,
Like stinging bees in hottest summer's day,
Led by their master to the flow'red fields,
And be aveng'd on cursed Tamora.
ALL THE GOTHS. And as he saith, so say we all with him.
LUCIUS. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all.
But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth?
Enter a GOTH, leading AARON with his CHILD in his arms
SECOND GOTH. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray'd
To gaze upon a ruinous monastery;
And as I earnestly did fix mine eye
Upon the wasted building, suddenly
I heard a child cry underneath a wall.
I made unto the noise, when soon I heard
The crying babe controll'd with this discourse:
'Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam!
Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art,
Had nature lent thee but thy mother's look,
Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor;
But where the bull and cow are both milk-white,
They never do beget a coal-black calf.
Peace, villain, peace!'- even thus he rates the babe-
'For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth,
Who, when he knows thou art the Empress' babe,
Will hold thee dearly for thy mother's sake.'
With this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him,
Surpris'd him suddenly, and brought him hither
To use as you think needful of the man.
LUCIUS. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil
That robb'd Andronicus of his good hand;
This is the pearl that pleas'd your Empress' eye;
And here's the base fruit of her burning lust.
Say, wall-ey'd slave, whither wouldst thou convey
This growing image of thy fiend-like face?
Why dost not speak? What, deaf? Not a word?
A halter, soldiers! Hang him on this tree,
And by his side his fruit of bastardy.
AARON. Touch not the boy, he is of royal blood.
LUCIUS. Too like the sire for ever being good.
First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl-
A sight to vex the father's soul withal.
Get me a ladder.
[A ladder brought, which AARON is made to climb]
AARON. Lucius, save the child,
And bear it from me to the Empress.
If thou do this, I'll show thee wondrous things
That highly may advantage thee to hear;
If thou wilt not, befall what may befall,
I'll speak no more but 'Vengeance rot you all!'
LUCIUS. Say on; an if it please me which thou speak'st,
Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish'd.
AARON. An if it please thee! Why, assure thee, Lucius,
'Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak;
For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres,
Acts of black night, abominable deeds,
Complots of mischief, treason, villainies,
Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd;
And this shall all be buried in my death,
Unless thou swear to me my child shall live.
LUCIUS. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live.
AARON. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin.
LUCIUS. Who should I swear by? Thou believest no god;
That granted, how canst thou believe an oath?
AARON. What if I do not? as indeed I do not;
Yet, for I know thou art religious
And hast a thing within thee called conscience,
With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies
Which I have seen thee careful to observe,
Therefore I urge thy oath. For that I know
An idiot holds his bauble for a god,
And keeps the oath which by that god he swears,
To that I'll urge him. Therefore thou shalt vow
By that same god- what god soe'er it be
That thou adorest and hast in reverence-
To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up;
Or else I will discover nought to thee.
LUCIUS. Even by my god I swear to thee I will.
AARON. First know thou, I begot him on the Empress.
LUCIUS. O most insatiate and luxurious woman!
AARON. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity
To that which thou shalt hear of me anon.
'Twas her two sons that murdered Bassianus;
They cut thy sister's tongue, and ravish'd her,
And cut her hands, and trimm'd her as thou sawest.
LUCIUS. O detestable villain! Call'st thou that trimming?
AARON. Why, she was wash'd, and cut, and trimm'd, and 'twas
Trim sport for them which had the doing of it.
LUCIUS. O barbarous beastly villains like thyself!
AARON. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them.
That codding spirit had they from their mother,
As sure a card as ever won the set;
That bloody mind, I think, they learn'd of me,
As true a dog as ever fought at head.
Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth.
I train'd thy brethren to that guileful hole
Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay;
I wrote the letter that thy father found,
And hid the gold within that letter mention'd,
Confederate with the Queen and her two sons;
And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue,
Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it?
I play'd the cheater for thy father's hand,
And, when I had it, drew myself apart
And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter.
I pried me through the crevice of a wall,
When, for his hand, he had his two sons' heads;
Beheld his tears, and laugh'd so heartily
That both mine eyes were rainy like to his;
And when I told the Empress of this sport,
She swooned almost at my pleasing tale,
And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses.
GOTH. What, canst thou say all this and never blush?
AARON. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.
LUCIUS. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?
AARON. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day- and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse-
Wherein I did not some notorious ill;
As kill a man, or else devise his death;
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it;
Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself;
Set deadly enmity between two friends;
Make poor men's cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears.
Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends' door
Even when their sorrows almost was forgot,
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters
'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly;
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.
LUCIUS. Bring down the devil, for he must not die
So sweet a death as hanging presently.
AARON. If there be devils, would I were a devil,
To live and burn in everlasting fire,
So I might have your company in hell
But to torment you with my bitter tongue!
LUCIUS. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more.
Enter AEMILIUS
GOTH. My lord, there is a messenger from Rome
Desires to be admitted to your presence.
LUCIUS. Let him come near.
Welcome, Aemilius. What's the news from Rome?
AEMILIUS. Lord Lucius, and you Princes of the Goths,
The Roman Emperor greets you all by me;
And, for he understands you are in arms,
He craves a parley at your father's house,
Willing you to demand your hostages,
And they shall be immediately deliver'd.
FIRST GOTH. What says our general?
LUCIUS. Aemilius, let the Emperor give his pledges
Unto my father and my uncle Marcus.
And we will come. March away. Exeunt
----------SCENE 2---------
SCENE II.
Rome. Before TITUS' house
Enter TAMORA, and her two sons, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, disguised
TAMORA. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment,
I will encounter with Andronicus,
And say I am Revenge, sent from below
To join with him and right his heinous wrongs.
Knock at his study, where they say he keeps
To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge;
Tell him Revenge is come to join with him,
And work confusion on his enemies.
They knock and TITUS opens his study door, above
TITUS. Who doth molest my contemplation?
Is it your trick to make me ope the door,
That so my sad decrees may fly away
And all my study be to no effect?
You are deceiv'd; for what I mean to do
See here in bloody lines I have set down;
And what is written shall be executed.
TAMORA. Titus, I am come to talk with thee.
TITUS. No, not a word. How can I grace my talk,
Wanting a hand to give it that accord?
Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more.
TAMORA. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me.
TITUS. I am not mad, I know thee well enough:
Witness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines;
Witness these trenches made by grief and care;
Witness the tiring day and heavy night;
Witness all sorrow that I know thee well
For our proud Empress, mighty Tamora.
Is not thy coming for my other hand?
TAMORA. Know thou, sad man, I am not Tamora:
She is thy enemy and I thy friend.
I am Revenge, sent from th' infernal kingdom
To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind
By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes.
Come down and welcome me to this world's light;
Confer with me of murder and of death;
There's not a hollow cave or lurking-place,
No vast obscurity or misty vale,
Where bloody murder or detested rape
Can couch for fear but I will find them out;
And in their ears tell them my dreadful name-
Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake.
TITUS. Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me
To be a torment to mine enemies?
TAMORA. I am; therefore come down and welcome me.
TITUS. Do me some service ere I come to thee.
Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands;
Now give some surance that thou art Revenge-
Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot wheels;
And then I'll come and be thy waggoner
And whirl along with thee about the globes.
Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet,
To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away,
And find out murderers in their guilty caves;
And when thy car is loaden with their heads,
I will dismount, and by thy waggon wheel
Trot, like a servile footman, all day long,
Even from Hyperion's rising in the east
Until his very downfall in the sea.
And day by day I'll do this heavy task,
So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there.
TAMORA. These are my ministers, and come with me.
TITUS. Are they thy ministers? What are they call'd?
TAMORA. Rape and Murder; therefore called so
'Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men.
TITUS. Good Lord, how like the Empress' sons they are!
And you the Empress! But we worldly men
Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes.
O sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee;
And, if one arm's embracement will content thee,
I will embrace thee in it by and by.
TAMORA. This closing with him fits his lunacy.
Whate'er I forge to feed his brain-sick humours,
Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches,
For now he firmly takes me for Revenge;
And, being credulous in this mad thought,
I'll make him send for Lucius his son,
And whilst I at a banquet hold him sure,
I'll find some cunning practice out of hand
To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths,
Or, at the least, make them his enemies.
See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme.
Enter TITUS, below
TITUS. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee.
Welcome, dread Fury, to my woeful house.
Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too.
How like the Empress and her sons you are!
Well are you fitted, had you but a Moor.
Could not all hell afford you such a devil?
For well I wot the Empress never wags
But in her company there is a Moor;
And, would you represent our queen aright,
It were convenient you had such a devil.
But welcome as you are. What shall we do?
TAMORA. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus?
DEMETRIUS. Show me a murderer, I'll deal with him.
CHIRON. Show me a villain that hath done a rape,
And I am sent to be reveng'd on him.
TAMORA. Show me a thousand that hath done thee wrong,
And I will be revenged on them all.
TITUS. Look round about the wicked streets of Rome,
And when thou find'st a man that's like thyself,
Good Murder, stab him; he's a murderer.
Go thou with him, and when it is thy hap
To find another that is like to thee,
Good Rapine, stab him; he is a ravisher.
Go thou with them; and in the Emperor's court
There is a queen, attended by a Moor;
Well shalt thou know her by thine own proportion,
For up and down she doth resemble thee.
I pray thee, do on them some violent death;
They have been violent to me and mine.
TAMORA. Well hast thou lesson'd us; this shall we do.
But would it please thee, good Andronicus,
To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son,
Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths,
And bid him come and banquet at thy house;
When he is here, even at thy solemn feast,
I will bring in the Empress and her sons,
The Emperor himself, and all thy foes;
And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel,
And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart.
What says Andronicus to this device?
TITUS. Marcus, my brother! 'Tis sad Titus calls.
Enter MARCUS
Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius;
Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths.
Bid him repair to me, and bring with him
Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths;
Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are.
Tell him the Emperor and the Empress too
Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them.
This do thou for my love; and so let him,
As he regards his aged father's life.
MARCUS. This will I do, and soon return again. Exit
TAMORA. Now will I hence about thy business,
And take my ministers along with me.
TITUS. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me,
Or else I'll call my brother back again,
And cleave to no revenge but Lucius.
TAMORA. [Aside to her sons] What say you, boys? Will you
abide
with him,
Whiles I go tell my lord the Emperor
How I have govern'd our determin'd jest?
Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair,
And tarry with him till I turn again.
TITUS. [Aside] I knew them all, though they suppos'd me mad,
And will o'er reach them in their own devices,
A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam.
DEMETRIUS. Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here.
TAMORA. Farewell, Andronicus, Revenge now goes
To lay a complot to betray thy foes.
TITUS. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell.
Exit TAMORA
CHIRON. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ'd?
TITUS. Tut, I have work enough for you to do.
Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine.
Enter PUBLIUS, CAIUS, and VALENTINE
PUBLIUS. What is your will?
TITUS. Know you these two?
PUBLIUS. The Empress' sons, I take them: Chiron, Demetrius.
TITUS. Fie, Publius, fie! thou art too much deceiv'd.
The one is Murder, and Rape is the other's name;
And therefore bind them, gentle Publius-
Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them.
Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour,
And now I find it; therefore bind them sure,
And stop their mouths if they begin to cry. Exit
[They lay hold on CHIRON and DEMETRIUS]
CHIRON. Villains, forbear! we are the Empress' sons.
PUBLIUS. And therefore do we what we are commanded.
Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word.
Is he sure bound? Look that you bind them fast.
Re-enter TITUS ANDRONICUS
with a knife, and LAVINIA, with a basin
TITUS. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound.
Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me;
But let them hear what fearful words I utter.
O villains, Chiron and Demetrius!
Here stands the spring whom you have stain'd with mud;
This goodly summer with your winter mix'd.
You kill'd her husband; and for that vile fault
Two of her brothers were condemn'd to death,
My hand cut off and made a merry jest;
Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear
Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity,
Inhuman traitors, you constrain'd and forc'd.
What would you say, if I should let you speak?
Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace.
Hark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you.
This one hand yet is left to cut your throats,
Whiles that Lavinia 'tween her stumps doth hold
The basin that receives your guilty blood.
You know your mother means to feast with me,
And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad.
Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust,
And with your blood and it I'll make a paste;
And of the paste a coffin I will rear,
And make two pasties of your shameful heads;
And bid that strumpet, your unhallowed dam,
Like to the earth, swallow her own increase.
This is the feast that I have bid her to,
And this the banquet she shall surfeit on;
For worse than Philomel you us'd my daughter,
And worse than Progne I will be reveng'd.
And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come,
Receive the blood; and when that they are dead,
Let me go grind their bones to powder small,
And with this hateful liquor temper it;
And in that paste let their vile heads be bak'd.
Come, come, be every one officious
To make this banquet, which I wish may prove
More stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast.
[He cuts their throats]
So.
Now bring them in, for I will play the cook,
And see them ready against their mother comes.
Exeunt, bearing the dead bodies
----------SCENE 3---------
SCENE III.
The court of TITUS' house
Enter Lucius, MARCUS, and the GOTHS, with AARON prisoner,
and his CHILD in the arms of an attendant
LUCIUS. Uncle Marcus, since 'tis my father's mind
That I repair to Rome, I am content.
FIRST GOTH. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will.
LUCIUS. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor,
This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil;
Let him receive no sust'nance, fetter him,
Till he be brought unto the Empress' face
For testimony of her foul proceedings.
And see the ambush of our friends be strong;
I fear the Emperor means no good to us.
AARON. Some devil whisper curses in my ear,
And prompt me that my tongue may utter forth
The venomous malice of my swelling heart!
LUCIUS. Away, inhuman dog, unhallowed slave!
Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in.
Exeunt GOTHS with AARON. Flourish within
The trumpets show the Emperor is at hand.
Sound trumpets. Enter SATURNINUS and
TAMORA, with AEMILIUS, TRIBUNES, SENATORS, and others
SATURNINUS. What, hath the firmament more suns than one?
LUCIUS. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun?
MARCUS. Rome's Emperor, and nephew, break the parle;
These quarrels must be quietly debated.
The feast is ready which the careful Titus
Hath ordain'd to an honourable end,
For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome.
Please you, therefore, draw nigh and take your places.
SATURNINUS. Marcus, we will.
[A table brought in. The company sit down]
Trumpets sounding, enter TITUS
like a cook, placing the dishes, and LAVINIA
with a veil over her face; also YOUNG LUCIUS, and others
TITUS. Welcome, my lord; welcome, dread Queen;
Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius;
And welcome all. Although the cheer be poor,
'Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it.
SATURNINUS. Why art thou thus attir'd, Andronicus?
TITUS. Because I would be sure to have all well
To entertain your Highness and your Empress.
TAMORA. We are beholding to you, good Andronicus.
TITUS. An if your Highness knew my heart, you were.
My lord the Emperor, resolve me this:
Was it well done of rash Virginius
To slay his daughter with his own right hand,
Because she was enforc'd, stain'd, and deflower'd?
SATURNINUS. It was, Andronicus.
TITUS. Your reason, mighty lord.
SATURNINUS. Because the girl should not survive her shame,
And by her presence still renew his sorrows.
TITUS. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual;
A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant
For me, most wretched, to perform the like.
Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee; [He kills her]
And with thy shame thy father's sorrow die!
SATURNINUS. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?
TITUS. Kill'd her for whom my tears have made me blind.
I am as woeful as Virginius was,
And have a thousand times more cause than he
To do this outrage; and it now is done.
SATURNINUS. What, was she ravish'd? Tell who did the deed.
TITUS. Will't please you eat? Will't please your Highness
feed?
TAMORA. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?
TITUS. Not I; 'twas Chiron and Demetrius.
They ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue;
And they, 'twas they, that did her all this wrong.
SATURNINUS. Go, fetch them hither to us presently.
TITUS. Why, there they are, both baked in this pie,
Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,
Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.
'Tis true, 'tis true: witness my knife's sharp point.
[He stabs the EMPRESS]
SATURNINUS. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed!
[He stabs TITUS]
LUCIUS. Can the son's eye behold his father bleed?
There's meed for meed, death for a deadly deed.
[He stabs SATURNINUS. A great tumult. LUCIUS,
MARCUS, and their friends go up into the balcony]
MARCUS. You sad-fac'd men, people and sons of Rome,
By uproars sever'd, as a flight of fowl
Scatter'd by winds and high tempestuous gusts?
O, let me teach you how to knit again
This scattered corn into one mutual sheaf,
These broken limbs again into one body;
Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself,
And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to,
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,
Do shameful execution on herself.
But if my frosty signs and chaps of age,
Grave witnesses of true experience,
Cannot induce you to attend my words,
[To Lucius] Speak, Rome's dear friend, as erst our ancestor,
When with his solemn tongue he did discourse
To love-sick Dido's sad attending ear
The story of that baleful burning night,
When subtle Greeks surpris'd King Priam's Troy.
Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch'd our ears,
Or who hath brought the fatal engine in
That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound.
My heart is not compact of flint nor steel;
Nor can I utter all our bitter grief,
But floods of tears will drown my oratory
And break my utt'rance, even in the time
When it should move ye to attend me most,
And force you to commiseration.
Here's Rome's young Captain, let him tell the tale;
While I stand by and weep to hear him speak.
LUCIUS. Then, gracious auditory, be it known to you
That Chiron and the damn'd Demetrius
Were they that murd'red our Emperor's brother;
And they it were that ravished our sister.
For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded,
Our father's tears despis'd, and basely cozen'd
Of that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out
And sent her enemies unto the grave.
Lastly, myself unkindly banished,
The gates shut on me, and turn'd weeping out,
To beg relief among Rome's enemies;
Who drown'd their enmity in my true tears,
And op'd their arms to embrace me as a friend.
I am the turned forth, be it known to you,
That have preserv'd her welfare in my blood
And from her bosom took the enemy's point,
Sheathing the steel in my advent'rous body.
Alas! you know I am no vaunter, I;
My scars can witness, dumb although they are,
That my report is just and full of truth.
But, soft! methinks I do digress too much,
Citing my worthless praise. O, pardon me!
For when no friends are by, men praise themselves.
MARCUS. Now is my turn to speak. Behold the child.
[Pointing to the CHILD in an attendant's arms]
Of this was Tamora delivered,
The issue of an irreligious Moor,
Chief architect and plotter of these woes.
The villain is alive in Titus' house,
Damn'd as he is, to witness this is true.
Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge
These wrongs unspeakable, past patience,
Or more than any living man could bear.
Now have you heard the truth: what say you, Romans?
Have we done aught amiss, show us wherein,
And, from the place where you behold us pleading,
The poor remainder of Andronici
Will, hand in hand, all headlong hurl ourselves,
And on the ragged stones beat forth our souls,
And make a mutual closure of our house.
Speak, Romans, speak; and if you say we shall,
Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall.
AEMILIUS. Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome,
And bring our Emperor gently in thy hand,
Lucius our Emperor; for well I know
The common voice do cry it shall be so.
ALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's royal Emperor!
MARCUS. Go, go into old Titus' sorrowful house,
And hither hale that misbelieving Moor
To be adjudg'd some direful slaught'ring death,
As punishment for his most wicked life. Exeunt some
attendants. LUCIUS, MARCUS, and the others descend
ALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's gracious governor!
LUCIUS. Thanks, gentle Romans! May I govern so
To heal Rome's harms and wipe away her woe!
But, gentle people, give me aim awhile,
For nature puts me to a heavy task.
Stand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near
To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk.
O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips. [Kisses TITUS]
These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain'd face,
The last true duties of thy noble son!
MARCUS. Tear for tear and loving kiss for kiss
Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips.
O, were the sum of these that I should pay
Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them!
LUCIUS. Come hither, boy; come, come, come, and learn of us
To melt in showers. Thy grandsire lov'd thee well;
Many a time he danc'd thee on his knee,
Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow;
Many a story hath he told to thee,
And bid thee bear his pretty tales in mind
And talk of them when he was dead and gone.
MARCUS. How many thousand times hath these poor lips,
When they were living, warm'd themselves on thine!
O, now, sweet boy, give them their latest kiss!
Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave;
Do them that kindness, and take leave of them.
BOY. O grandsire, grandsire! ev'n with all my heart
Would I were dead, so you did live again!
O Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping;
My tears will choke me, if I ope my mouth.
Re-enter attendants with AARON
A ROMAN. You sad Andronici, have done with woes;
Give sentence on the execrable wretch
That hath been breeder of these dire events.
LUCIUS. Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him;
There let him stand and rave and cry for food.
If any one relieves or pities him,
For the offence he dies. This is our doom.
Some stay to see him fast'ned in the earth.
AARON. Ah, why should wrath be mute and fury dumb?
I am no baby, I, that with base prayers
I should repent the evils I have done;
Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did
Would I perform, if I might have my will.
If one good deed in all my life I did,
I do repent it from my very soul.
LUCIUS. Some loving friends convey the Emperor hence,
And give him burial in his father's grave.
My father and Lavinia shall forthwith
Be closed in our household's monument.
As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora,
No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weed,
No mournful bell shall ring her burial;
But throw her forth to beasts and birds to prey.
Her life was beastly and devoid of pity,
And being dead, let birds on her take pity. Exeunt
|
Treasure Island.part 1.ch | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 1, utilizing the provided context. | chapter 1|chapter 2 | Squire Trelawney, Doctor Livesey, and others have asked Jim Hawkins to write down his adventures. So Jim is going to start where it all began: at the Admiral Benbow inn, owned by Jim's father. One day, a tall, ragged, suntanned sailor walks into the inn. He is singing a song: "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest - Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!" . The man asks Jim's father if they get many customers. When he hears that business is slow, he decides to stay at the inn. Even though the man's clothes are ragged, his manner is proud and commanding. He tells Jim's father he is a captain, but he won't say much more about himself. He spends all day looking out at the sea through his telescope and spying on the few sailors who pass through the area. The captain takes Jim aside and promises to pay him an allowance each month if Jim will help him keep an eye out for a one-legged sailor. The captain tells terrible stories about the violent life on the high seas, which terrify and fascinate all the men of the neighborhood. The captain keeps staying at the Admiral Benbow inn long after his money runs out. Jim's father is too afraid to ask him to leave. Jim's father is sick, and one evening Doctor Livesey comes by the inn to see him. After seeing Jim's father, Doctor Livesey sits talking to Taylor, the gardener. The captain is singing as usual - the same old song about the "dead man's chest." The captain signals for the whole inn to be quiet, and everyone shuts up except Doctor Livesey. The captain tells Doctor Livesey directly to be quiet. Doctor Livesey asks if the captain is talking to him. When the captain says yes, Doctor Livesey tells him that if the captain doesn't knock off drinking so much rum, the world will have one less "very dirty scoundrel" in it. The captain jumps up and draws a knife. Doctor Livesey doesn't bat an eyelid. He just warns that captain that if he doesn't put the knife away, he'll hang for it. The captain knuckles under, grumbling. Doctor Livesey warns that he's going to keep an eye on the captain from now on. Doctor Livesey is also the local magistrate . If he hears any complaints about the captain, he's going to have him thrown out of the district. Doctor Livesey rides away, and the captain continues to sit quietly. |
----------CHAPTER 1---------
AT THE "ADMIRAL BENBOW"
Squire Trelawney, Doctor Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having
asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from
the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the
island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I
take up my pen in the year of grace 17--, and go back to the time when
my father kept the "Admiral Benbow" Inn, and the brown old seaman, with
the saber cut, first took up his lodging under our roof.
[Illustration: _I remember him as if it were yesterday as he came
plodding to the inn door_ (Page 3)]
I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn
door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow; a tall,
strong, heavy, nut-brown man; his tarry pig-tail falling over the
shoulders of his soiled blue coat; his hands ragged and scarred, with
black, broken nails, and the saber cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid
white. I remember him looking round the cove and whistling to himself as
he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so
often afterwards:
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest,
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
in the high, old tottering voice that seemed to have been tuned and
broken at the capstan bars. Then he rapped on the door with a bit of
stick like a handspike that he carried, and when my father appeared,
called roughly for a glass of rum. This, when it was brought to him, he
drank slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste, and still
looking about him at the cliffs and up at our signboard.
"This is a handy cove," says he, at length; "and a pleasant sittyated
grog-shop. Much company, mate?"
My father told him no, very little company, the more was the pity.
"Well, then," said he, "this is the berth for me. Here you, matey," he
cried to the man who trundled the barrow; "bring up alongside and help
up my chest. I'll stay here a bit," he continued. "I'm a plain man; rum
and bacon and eggs is what I want, and that head up there for to watch
ships off. What you mought call me? You mought call me captain. Oh, I
see what you're at--there"; and he threw down three or four gold pieces
on the threshold. "You can tell me when I've worked through that," said
he, looking as fierce as a commander.
And, indeed, bad as his clothes were, and coarsely as he spoke, he had
none of the appearance of a man who sailed before the mast, but seemed
like a mate or skipper, accustomed to be obeyed or to strike. The man
who came with the barrow told us the mail had set him down the morning
before at the "Royal George"; that he had inquired what inns there were
along the coast, and hearing ours well spoken of, I suppose, and
described as lonely, had chosen it from the others for his place of
residence. And that was all we could learn of our guest.
He was a very silent man by custom. All day he hung round the cove, or
upon the cliffs, with a brass telescope; all evening he sat in a corner
of the parlor next the fire, and drank rum and water very strong. Mostly
he would not speak when spoken to; only look up sudden and fierce, and
blow through his nose like a fog-horn; and we and the people who came
about our house soon learned to let him be. Every day, when he came back
from his stroll, he would ask if any seafaring men had gone by along the
road. At first we thought it was the want of company of his own kind
that made him ask this question; but at last we began to see he was
desirous to avoid them. When a seaman put up at the "Admiral Benbow" (as
now and then some did, making by the coast road for Bristol), he would
look in at him through the curtained door before he entered the parlor;
and he was always sure to be as silent as a mouse when any such was
present. For me, at least, there was no secret about the matter; for I
was, in a way, a sharer in his alarms.
He had taken me aside one day and promised me a silver fourpenny on the
first of every month if I would only keep my "weather eye open for a
seafaring man with one leg," and let him know the moment he appeared.
Often enough when the first of the month came round, and I applied to
him for my wage, he would only blow through his nose at me, and stare me
down; but before the week was out he was sure to think better of it,
bring me my fourpenny piece, and repeat his orders to look out for "the
seafaring man with one leg."
How that personage haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you. On
stormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the house, and
the surf roared along the cove and up the cliffs, I would see him in a
thousand forms, and with a thousand diabolical expressions. Now the leg
would be cut off at the knee, now at the hip; now he was a monstrous
kind of a creature who had never had but one leg, and that in the middle
of his body. To see him leap and run and pursue me over hedge and ditch,
was the worst of nightmares. And altogether I paid pretty dear for my
monthly fourpenny piece, in the shape of these abominable fancies.
But though I was so terrified by the idea of the seafaring man with one
leg, I was far less afraid of the captain himself than anybody else who
knew him. There were nights when he took a deal more rum and water than
his head would carry; and then he would sometimes sit and sing his
wicked, old, wild sea-songs, minding nobody; but sometimes he would call
for glasses round, and force all the trembling company to listen to his
stories or bear a chorus to his singing. Often I have heard the house
shaking with "Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum," all the neighbors joining
in for dear life, with the fear of death upon them, and each singing
louder than the other to avoid remark. For in these fits he was the most
overriding companion ever known; he would slap his hand on the table for
silence all around; he would fly up in a passion of anger at a question,
or sometimes because none was put, and so he judged the company was not
following his story. Nor would he allow anyone to leave the inn till he
had drunk himself sleepy and reeled off to bed.
His stories were what frightened people worst of all. Dreadful stories
they were; about hanging, and walking the plank, and storms at sea, and
the Dry Tortugas, and wild deeds and places on the Spanish Main. By his
own account, he must have lived his life among some of the wickedest men
that God ever allowed upon the sea; and the language in which he told
these stories shocked our plain country people almost as much as the
crimes that he described. My father was always saying the inn would be
ruined, for people would soon cease coming there to be tyrannized over
and put down and sent shivering to their beds; but I really believe his
presence did us good. People were frightened at the time, but on looking
back they rather liked it; it was a fine excitement in a quiet country
life; and there was even a party of the younger men who pretended to
admire him, calling him a "true sea-dog," and a "real old salt," and
such like names, and saying there was the sort of man that made England
terrible at sea.
In one way, indeed, he bade fair to ruin us; for he kept on staying week
after week, and at last month after month, so that all the money had
been long exhausted, and still my father never plucked up the heart to
insist on having more. If ever he mentioned it, the captain blew through
his nose so loudly that you might say he roared, and stared my poor
father out of the room. I have seen him wringing his hands after such a
rebuff, and I am sure the annoyance and the terror he lived in must have
greatly hastened his early and unhappy death.
All the time he lived with us the captain made no change whatever in his
dress but to buy some stockings from a hawker. One of the cocks of his
hat having fallen down, he let it hang from that day forth, though it
was a great annoyance when it blew. I remember the appearance of his
coat, which he patched himself upstairs in his room, and which, before
the end, was nothing but patches. He never wrote or received a letter,
and he never spoke with any but the neighbors, and with these, for the
most part, only when drunk on rum. The great sea-chest none of us had
ever seen open.
He was only once crossed, and that was toward the end, when my poor
father was far gone in a decline that took him off. Doctor Livesey came
late one afternoon to see the patient, took a bit of dinner from my
mother, and went into the parlor to smoke a pipe until his horse should
come down from the hamlet, for we had no stabling at the old "Benbow." I
followed him in, and I remember observing the contrast the neat, bright
doctor, with his powder as white as snow, and his bright, black eyes and
pleasant manners, made with the coltish country folk, and above all,
with that filthy, heavy, bleared scarecrow of a pirate of ours, sitting
far gone in rum, with his arms on the table. Suddenly he--the captain,
that is--began to pipe up his eternal song:
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest--
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
At first I had supposed "the dead man's chest" to be that identical big
box of his upstairs in the front room, and the thought had been mingled
in my nightmares with that of the one-legged seafaring man. But by this
time we had all long ceased to pay any particular notice to the song; it
was new, that night, to nobody but Doctor Livesey, and on him I observed
it did not produce an agreeable effect, for he looked up for a moment
quite angrily before he went on with his talk to old Taylor, the
gardener, on a new cure for rheumatics. In the meantime the captain
gradually brightened up at his own music, and at last flapped his hand
upon the table before him in a way we all knew to mean--silence. The
voices stopped at once, all but Doctor Livesey's; he went on as before,
speaking clear and kind, and drawing briskly at his pipe between every
word or two. The captain glared at him for a while, flapped his hand
again, glared still harder, and at last broke out with a villainous
oath: "Silence, there, between decks!"
"Were you addressing me, sir?" said the doctor; and when the ruffian had
told him, with another oath, that this was so, replied, "I have only one
thing to say to you, sir, that if you keep on drinking rum, the world
will soon be quit of a very dirty scoundrel!"
The old fellow's fury was awful. He sprang to his feet, drew and opened
a sailor's clasp-knife, and balancing it open on the palm of his hand,
threatened to pin the doctor to the wall.
The doctor never so much as moved. He spoke to him, as before, over his
shoulder, and in the same tone of voice, rather high, so that all the
room might hear, but perfectly calm and steady:
"If you do not put that knife this instant into your pocket, I promise,
upon my honor, you shall hang at the next assizes."
Then followed a battle of looks between them; but the captain soon
knuckled under, put up his weapon, and resumed his seat, grumbling like
a beaten dog.
"And now, sir," continued the doctor, "since I now know there's such a
fellow in my district, you may count I'll have an eye upon you day and
night. I'm not a doctor only, I'm a magistrate; and if I catch a breath
of complaint against you, if it's only for a piece of incivility like
to-night's, I'll take effectual means to have you hunted down and routed
out of this. Let that suffice."
Soon after Doctor Livesey's horse came to the door and he rode away, but
the captain held his peace that evening, and for many evenings to come.
[Illustration]
----------CHAPTER 2---------
BLACK DOG APPEARS AND DISAPPEARS
It was not very long after this that there occurred the first of the
mysterious events that rid us at last of the captain, though not, as you
will see, of his affairs. It was a bitter cold winter, with long, hard
frosts and heavy gales; and it was plain from the first that my poor
father was little likely to see the spring. He sank daily, and my mother
and I had all the inn upon our hands, and were kept busy enough without
paying much regard to our unpleasant guest.
It was one January morning, very early--a pinching, frosty morning--the
cove all gray with hoar-frost, the ripple lapping softly on the stones,
the sun still low, and only touching the hill-tops and shining far to
seaward. The captain had risen earlier than usual, and set out down the
beach, his cutlass swinging under the broad skirts of the old blue coat,
his brass telescope under his arm, his hat tilted back upon his head. I
remember his breath hanging like smoke in his wake as he strode off, and
the last sound I heard of him, as he turned the big rock, was a loud
snort of indignation, as though his mind was still running upon Doctor
Livesey.
Well, mother was upstairs with father, and I was laying the breakfast
table against the captain's return, when the parlor door opened and a
man stepped in on whom I had never set my eyes before. He was a pale,
tallowy creature, wanting two fingers of the left hand; and, though he
wore a cutlass, he did not look much like a fighter. I had always my
eyes open for seafaring men, with one leg or two, and I remember this
one puzzled me. He was not sailorly, and yet he had a smack of the sea
about him too.
I asked him what was for his service, and he said he would take rum, but
as I was going out of the room to fetch it he sat down upon a table and
motioned to me to draw near. I paused where I was, with my napkin in my
hand.
"Come here, sonny," said he. "Come nearer here."
I took a step nearer.
"Is this here table for my mate Bill?" he asked, with a kind of leer.
I told him I did not know his mate Bill, and this was for a person who
stayed at our house, whom we called the captain.
"Well," said he, "my mate Bill would be called the captain, as like as
not. He has a cut on one cheek, and a mighty pleasant way with him,
particularly in drink, has my mate Bill. We'll put it, for argument
like, that your captain has a cut on one cheek--and we'll put it, if you
like, that that cheek's the right one. Ah, well! I told you. Now, is my
mate Bill in this here house?"
I told him he was out walking.
"Which way, sonny? Which way is he gone?"
And when I had pointed out the rock and told him how the captain was
likely to return, and how soon, and answered a few other questions,
"Ah," said he, "this'll be as good as drink to my mate Bill."
The expression of his face as he said these words was not at all
pleasant, and I had my own reasons for thinking that the stranger was
mistaken, even supposing he meant what he said. But it was no affair of
mine, I thought; and, besides, it was difficult to know what to do.
The stranger kept hanging about just inside the inn door, peering round
the corner like a cat waiting for a mouse. Once I stepped out myself
into the road, but he immediately called me back, and, as I did not obey
quick enough for his fancy, a most horrible change came over his tallowy
face, and he ordered me in with an oath that made me jump. As soon as I
was back again he returned to his former manner, half-fawning,
half-sneering, patted me on the shoulder, told me I was a good boy, and
he had taken quite a fancy to me. "I have a son of my own," said he, "as
like you as two blocks, and he's all the pride of my 'art. But the great
thing for boys is discipline, sonny--discipline. Now, if you had sailed
along of Bill, you wouldn't have stood there to be spoke to twice--not
you. That was never Bill's way, nor the way of sich as sailed with him.
And here, sure enough, is my mate Bill, with a spy-glass under his arm,
bless his old 'art, to be sure. You and me'll just go back into the
parlor, sonny, and get behind the door, and we'll give Bill a little
surprise--bless his 'art, I say again."
So saying, the stranger backed along with me into the parlor, and put me
behind him into the corner, so that we were both hidden by the open
door. I was very uneasy and alarmed, as you may fancy, and it rather
added to my fears to observe that the stranger was certainly frightened
himself. He cleared the hilt of his cutlass and loosened the blade in
the sheath, and all the time we were waiting there he kept swallowing
as if he felt what we used to call a lump in the throat.
At last in strode the captain, slammed the door behind him, without
looking to the right or left, and marched straight across the room to
where his breakfast awaited him.
"Bill," said the stranger, in a voice that I thought he had tried to
make bold and big.
The captain spun round on his heel and fronted us; all the brown had
gone out of his face, and even his nose was blue; he had the look of a
man who sees a ghost, or the Evil One, or something worse, if anything
can be; and, upon my word, I felt sorry to see him, all in a moment,
turn so old and sick.
"Come, Bill, you know me; you know an old shipmate, Bill, surely," said
the stranger.
The captain made a sort of gasp.
"Black Dog!" said he.
"And who else?" returned the other, getting more at his ease. "Black Dog
as ever was, come for to see his old shipmate, Billy, at the 'Admiral
Benbow' Inn. Ah, Bill, Bill, we have seen a sight of times, us two,
since I lost them two talons," holding up his mutilated hand.
"Now, look here," said the captain; "you've run me down; here I am;
well, then, speak up; what is it?"
"That's you, Bill," returned Black Dog; "you're in the right of it,
Billy. I'll have a glass of rum from this dear child here, as I've took
such a liking to; and we'll sit down, if you please, and talk square,
like old shipmates."
When I returned with the rum they were already seated on either side of
the captain's breakfast table--Black Dog next to the door, and sitting
sideways, so as to have one eye on his old shipmate and one, as I
thought, on his retreat.
He bade me go and leave the door wide open. "None of your keyholes for
me, sonny," he said, and I left them together and retired into the bar.
For a long time, though I certainly did my best to listen, I could hear
nothing but a low gabbling; but at last the voices began to grow higher,
and I could pick up a word or two, mostly oaths, from the captain.
"No, no, no, no; and an end of it!" he cried once. And again, "If it
comes to swinging, swing all, say I."
Then all of a sudden there was a tremendous explosion of oaths and other
noises; the chair and table went over in a lump, a clash of steel
followed, and then a cry of pain, and the next instant I saw Black Dog
in full flight, and the captain hotly pursuing, both with drawn
cutlasses, and the former streaming blood from the left shoulder. Just
at the door the captain aimed at the fugitive one last tremendous cut,
which would certainly have split him to the chin had it not been
intercepted by our big signboard of "Admiral Benbow." You may see the
notch on the lower side of the frame to this day.
That blow was the last of the battle. Once out upon the road, Black Dog,
in spite of his wound, showed a wonderful clean pair of heels, and
disappeared over the edge of the hill in half a minute. The captain, for
his part, stood staring at the signboard like a bewildered man. Then he
passed his hand over his eyes several times, and at last turned back
into the house.
"Jim," says he, "rum"; and as he spoke he reeled a little, and caught
himself with one hand against the wall.
"Are you hurt?" cried I.
"Rum," he repeated. "I must get away from here. Rum! rum!"
I ran to fetch it, but I was quite unsteadied by all that had fallen
out, and I broke one glass and fouled the tap, and while I was still
getting in my own way, I heard a loud fall in the parlor, and, running
in, beheld the captain lying full length upon the floor. At the same
instant my mother, alarmed by the cries and fighting, came running
downstairs to help me. Between us we raised his head. He was breathing
very loud and hard, but his eyes were closed and his face was a horrible
color.
"Dear, deary me!" cried my mother, "what a disgrace upon the house! And
your poor father sick!"
In the meantime we had no idea what to do to help the captain, nor any
other thought but that he had got his death-hurt in the scuffle with the
stranger. I got the rum, to be sure, and tried to put it down his
throat, but his teeth were tightly shut, and his jaws as strong as iron.
It was a happy relief for us when the door opened and Doctor Livesey
came in, on his visit to my father.
"Oh, doctor," we cried, "what shall we do? Where is he wounded?"
"Wounded? A fiddlestick's end!" said the doctor. "No more wounded than
you or I. The man has had a stroke, as I warned him. Now, Mrs. Hawkins,
just you run upstairs to your husband and tell him, if possible, nothing
about it. For my part, I must do my best to save this fellow's trebly
worthless life; and, Jim, you get me a basin."
When I got back with the basin the doctor had already ripped up the
captain's sleeve and exposed his great sinewy arm. It was tattooed in
several places. "Here's luck," "A fair wind," and "Billy Bones, his
fancy," were very neatly and clearly executed on the forearm; and up
near the shoulder there was a sketch of a gallows and a man hanging from
it--done, as I thought, with great spirit.
"Prophetic," said the doctor, touching this picture with his finger.
"And now, Master Billy Bones, if that be your name, we'll have a look at
the color of your blood. Jim," he said, "are you afraid of blood?"
"No, sir," said I.
"Well, then," said he, "you hold the basin," and with that he took his
lancet and opened a vein.
A great deal of blood was taken before the captain opened his eyes and
looked mistily about him. First he recognized the doctor with an
unmistakable frown; then his glance fell upon me, and he looked
relieved. But suddenly his color changed, and he tried to raise himself,
crying:
"Where's Black Dog?"
"There is no Black Dog here," said the doctor, "except what you have on
your own back. You have been drinking rum; you have had a stroke
precisely as I told you; and I have just, very much against my own will,
dragged you headforemost out of the grave. Now, Mr. Bones--"
"That's not my name," he interrupted.
"Much I care," returned the doctor. "It's the name of a buccaneer of my
acquaintance, and I call you by it for the sake of shortness, and what I
have to say to you is this: One glass of rum won't kill you, but if you
take one you'll take another and another, and I stake my wig if you
don't break off short, you'll die--do you understand that?--die, and go
to your own place, like the man in the Bible. Come, now, make an
effort. I'll help you to your bed for once."
Between us, with much trouble, we managed to hoist him upstairs, and
laid him on his bed, where his head fell back on the pillow, as if he
were almost fainting.
"Now, mind you," said the doctor, "I clear my conscience--the name of
rum for you is death."
And with that he went off to see my father, taking me with him by the
arm.
"This is nothing," he said, as soon as he had closed the door. "I have
drawn blood enough to keep him quiet awhile; he should lie for a week
where he is--that is the best thing for him and you, but another stroke
would settle him."
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 3 based on the provided context. | chapter 3|chapter 4 | Jim comes in with medicine for the captain. The captain begs Jim for some rum. Jim agrees because he doesn't want the captain to make a fuss and disturb Jim's poor father. The captain keeps raving about getting "the black spot" because Black Dog and some other friends of his want the captain's old sea-chest. The black spot is a summons - a demand to appear. The captain was actually a first mate to someone he calls "old Flint" . He adds that he's the only one who knows the place - what place, we don't know yet. The captain also drops a hint about "a seafaring man with one leg" who is the worst of all. Jim's father dies suddenly that night, and Jim forgets all about the captain's confessions. The captain comes downstairs the next day and continues on just as usual, drinking even more rum than before his stroke. The day after Jim's father's funeral, a blind man appears at the inn. The blind man asks Jim for his hand to guide him inside. Once the blind man has hold of Jim, he grips him hard and demands to be taken to the captain. The blind man is twisting Jim's arm so hard Jim is afraid it will break. Jim leads the blind man to the captain. The blind man demands that the captain hold his left hand out. The blind man presses something into the palm of the captain's left hand. Then he leaves the inn. The captain exclaims, "Ten o'clock Six hours" . The captain wants to go find Doctor Livesey. The captain jumps up, grabs his throat, then falls to the ground. Jim runs for his mother, but it's too late: the captain has died. |
----------CHAPTER 3---------
THE BLACK SPOT
About noon I stopped at the captain's door with some cooling drinks and
medicines. He was lying very much as we had left him, only a little
higher, and he seemed both weak and excited.
"Jim," he said, "you're the only one here that's worth anything; and you
know I've always been good to you. Never a month but I've given you a
silver fourpenny for yourself. And now you see, mate, I'm pretty low,
and deserted by all; and, Jim, you'll bring me one noggin of rum, now,
won't you, matey?"
"The doctor--" I began.
But he broke in, cursing the doctor in a feeble voice, but heartily.
"Doctors is all swabs," he said; "and that doctor there, why, what do he
know about seafaring men? I been in places hot as pitch, and mates
dropping round with yellow jack, and the blessed land a-heaving like the
sea with earthquakes--what do the doctor know of lands like that?--and I
lived on rum, I tell you. It's been meat and drink, and man and wife, to
me; and if I am not to have my rum now I'm a poor old hulk on a lee
shore. My blood'll be on you, Jim, and that doctor swab," and he ran on
again for a while with curses. "Look, Jim, how my fingers fidges," he
continued in the pleading tone. "I can't keep 'em still, not I. I
haven't had a drop this blessed day. That doctor's a fool, I tell you.
If I don't have a drain o' rum, Jim, I'll have the horrors; I seen some
on 'em already. I seen old Flint in the corner there, behind you; as
plain as print, I seen him; and if I get the horrors, I'm a man that has
lived rough, and I'll raise Cain. Your doctor hisself said one glass
wouldn't hurt me. I'll give you a golden guinea for a noggin, Jim."
He was growing more and more excited, and this alarmed me, for my
father, who was very low that day, needed quiet; besides, I was
reassured by the doctor's words, now quoted to me, and rather offended
by the offer of a bribe.
"I want none of your money," said I, "but what you owe my father. I'll
get you one glass and no more."
When I brought it to him he seized it greedily and drank it out.
"Ay, ay," said he, "that's some better, sure enough. And now, matey, did
that doctor say how long I was to lie here in this old berth?"
"A week at least," said I.
"Thunder!" he cried. "A week! I can't do that; they'd have the black
spot on me by then. The lubbers is going about to get the wind of me
this blessed moment; lubbers as couldn't keep what they got, and want to
nail what is another's. Is that seamanly behavior, now, I want to know?
But I'm a saving soul. I never wasted good money of mine, nor lost it
neither; and I'll trick 'em again. I'm not afraid on 'em. I'll shake out
another reef, matey, and daddle 'em again."
As he was thus speaking, he had risen from bed with great difficulty,
holding to my shoulder with a grip that almost made me cry out, and
moving his legs like so much dead weight. His words, spirited as they
were in meaning, contrasted sadly with the weakness of the voice in
which they were uttered. He paused when he had got into a sitting
position on the edge.
"That doctor's done me," he murmured. "My ears is singing. Lay me back."
Before I could do much to help him he had fallen back again to his
former place, where he lay for a while silent.
"Jim," he said, at length, "you saw that seafaring man to-day?"
"Black Dog?" I asked.
"Ah! Black Dog," said he. "_He's_ a bad 'un; but there's worse that put
him on. Now, if I can't get away nohow, and they tip me the black spot,
mind you, it's my old sea-chest they're after; you get on a horse--you
can, can't you? Well, then, you get on a horse and go to--well, yes, I
will!--to that eternal doctor swab, and tell him to pipe all
hands--magistrates and sich--and he'll lay 'em aboard at the 'Admiral
Benbow'--all old Flint's crew, man and boy, all on 'em that's left. I
was first mate, I was, old Flint's first mate, and I'm the on'y one as
knows the place. He gave it me at Savannah, when he lay a-dying, like as
if I was to now, you see. But you won't peach unless they get the black
spot on me, or unless you see that Black Dog again, or a seafaring man
with one leg, Jim--him above all."
"But what is the black spot, captain?" I asked.
"That's a summons, mate. I'll tell you if they get that. But you keep
your weather-eye open, Jim, and I'll share with you equals, upon my
honor."
He wandered a little longer, his voice growing weaker; but soon after I
had given him his medicine, which he took like a child, with the remark,
"If ever a seaman wanted drugs, it's me," he fell at last into a heavy,
swoon-like sleep, in which I left him. What I should have done had all
gone well I do not know. Probably I should have told the whole story to
the doctor; for I was in mortal fear lest the captain should repent of
his confessions and make an end of me. But as things fell out, my poor
father died quite suddenly that evening, which put all other matters on
one side. Our natural distress, the visits of the neighbors, the
arranging of the funeral, and all the work of the inn to be carried on
in the meanwhile, kept me so busy that I had scarcely time to think of
the captain, far less to be afraid of him.
He got downstairs next morning, to be sure, and had his meals as usual,
though he ate little, and had more, I am afraid, than his usual supply
of rum, for he helped himself out of the bar, scowling and blowing
through his nose, and no one dared to cross him. On the night before the
funeral he was as drunk as ever; and it was shocking, in that house of
mourning, to hear him singing away his ugly old sea-song; but, weak as
he was, we were all in fear of death for him, and the doctor was
suddenly taken up with a case many miles away, and was never near the
house after my father's death. I have said the captain was weak, and
indeed he seemed rather to grow weaker than to regain his strength. He
clambered up and down stairs, and went from the parlor to the bar and
back again, and sometimes put his nose out of doors to smell the sea,
holding on to the walls as he went for support, and breathing hard and
fast, like a man on a steep mountain. He never particularly addressed
me, and it is my belief he had as good as forgotten his confidences; but
his temper was more flighty, and, allowing for his bodily weakness, more
violent than ever. He had an alarming way now when he was drunk of
drawing his cutlass and laying it bare before him on the table. But,
with all that, he minded people less, and seemed shut up in his own
thoughts and rather wandering. Once, for instance, to our extreme
wonder, he piped up to a different air, a kind of country love-song,
that he must have learned in his youth before he had begun to follow the
sea.
So things passed until the day after the funeral and about three o'clock
of a bitter, foggy, frosty afternoon, I was standing at the door for a
moment, full of sad thoughts about my father, when I saw someone drawing
slowly near along the road. He was plainly blind, for he tapped before
him with a stick, and wore a great green shade over his eyes and nose;
and he was hunched, as if with age or weakness, and wore a huge old
tattered sea-cloak with a hood that made him appear positively deformed.
I never saw in my life a more dreadful-looking figure. He stopped a
little from the inn and, raising his voice in an odd sing-song,
addressed the air in front of him:
"Will any kind friend inform a poor blind man, who has lost the precious
sight of his eyes in the gracious defense of his native country,
England, and God bless King George!--where or in what part of this
country he may now be?"
"You are at the 'Admiral Benbow,' Black Hill Cove, my good man," said I.
"I hear a voice," said he, "a young voice. Will you give me your hand,
my kind young friend, and lead me in?"
I held out my hand, and the horrible, soft-spoken, eyeless creature
gripped it in a moment like a vise. I was so much startled that I
struggled to withdraw, but the blind man pulled me close up to him with
a single action of his arm.
"Now, boy," he said, "take me in to the captain."
"Sir," said I, "upon my word I dare not."
"Oh," he sneered, "that's it! Take me in straight, or I'll break your
arm."
He gave it, as he spoke, a wrench that made me cry out.
"Sir," said I, "it is for yourself I mean. The captain is not what he
used to be. He sits with a drawn cutlass. Another gentleman--"
"Come, now, march," interrupted he, and I never heard a voice so cruel,
and cold, and ugly as that blind man's. It cowed me more than the pain,
and I began to obey him at once, walking straight in at the door and
towards the parlor, where the sick old buccaneer was sitting, dazed with
rum. The blind man clung close to me, holding me in one iron fist, and
leaning almost more of his weight on me than I could carry. "Lead me
straight up to him, and when I'm in view, cry out, 'Here's a friend for
you, Bill.' If you don't, I'll do this," and with that he gave me a
twitch that I thought would have made me faint. Between this and that, I
was so utterly terrified by the blind beggar that I forgot my terror of
the captain, and as I opened the parlor door, cried out the words he had
ordered in a trembling voice.
The poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum went out of
him and left him staring sober. The expression of his face was not so
much of terror as of mortal sickness. He made a movement to rise, but I
do not believe he had enough force left in his body.
"Now, Bill, sit where you are," said the beggar. "If I can't see, I can
hear a finger stirring. Business is business. Hold out your left hand.
Boy, take his left hand by the wrist and bring it near to my right."
We both obeyed him to the letter, and I saw him pass something from the
hollow of the hand that held his stick into the palm of the captain's,
which closed upon it instantly.
"And now that's done," said the blind man, and at the words he suddenly
left hold of me, and with incredible accuracy and nimbleness, skipped
out of the parlor and into the road, where, as I stood motionless, I
could hear his stick go tap-tap-tapping into the distance.
It was some time before either I or the captain seemed to gather our
senses; but at length, and about the same moment, I released his wrist,
which I was still holding, and he drew in his hand, and looked sharply
into the palm.
"Ten o'clock!" he cried. "Six hours! We'll do them yet!" and he sprang
to his feet.
Even as he did so, he reeled, put his hand to his throat, stood swaying
for a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, fell from his whole
height face foremost to the floor.
I ran to him at once, calling to my mother. But haste was all in vain.
The captain had been struck dead by thundering apoplexy. It is a curious
thing to understand, for I had certainly never liked the man, though of
late I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead I
burst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and
the sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart.
----------CHAPTER 4---------
THE SEA-CHEST
I lost no time, of course, in telling my mother all that I knew, and
perhaps should have told her long before, and we saw ourselves at once
in a difficult and dangerous position. Some of the man's money--if he
had any--was certainly due to us, but it was not likely that our
captain's shipmates, above all the two specimens seen by me--Black Dog
and the blind beggar--would be inclined to give up their booty in
payment of the dead man's debts. The captain's order to mount at once
and ride for Doctor Livesey would have left my mother alone and
unprotected, which was not to be thought of. Indeed, it seemed
impossible for either of us to remain much longer in the house; the fall
of coals in the kitchen grate, the very ticking of the clock, filled us
with alarm. The neighborhood, to our ears, seemed haunted by approaching
footsteps; and what between the dead body of the captain on the parlor
floor and the thought of that detestable blind beggar hovering near at
hand and ready to return, there were moments when, as the saying goes, I
jumped in my skin for terror. Something must speedily be resolved upon,
and it occurred to us at last to go forth together and seek help in the
neighboring hamlet. No sooner said than done. Bareheaded as we were, we
ran out at once in the gathering evening and the frosty fog.
The hamlet lay not many hundred yards away, though out of view, on the
other side of the next cove; and what greatly encouraged me, it was in
an opposite direction from that whence the blind man had made his
appearance, and whither he had presumably returned. We were not many
minutes on the road, though we sometimes stopped to lay hold of each
other and hearken. But there was no unusual sound--nothing but the low
wash of the ripple and the croaking of the inmates of the wood.
It was already candle-light when we reached the hamlet, and I shall
never forget how much I was cheered to see the yellow shine in doors and
windows; but that, as it proved, was the best of the help we were likely
to get in that quarter. For--you would have thought men would have been
ashamed of themselves--no soul would consent to return with us to the
"Admiral Benbow." The more we told of our troubles, the more--man,
woman, and child--they clung to the shelter of their houses. The name of
Captain Flint, though it was strange to me, was well enough known to
some there, and carried a great weight of terror. Some of the men who
had been to field-work on the far side of the "Admiral Benbow"
remembered, besides, to have seen several strangers on the road, and,
taking them to be smugglers, to have bolted away; and one at least had
seen a little lugger in what we called Kitt's Hole. For that matter,
anyone who was a comrade of the captain's was enough to frighten them to
death. And the short and the long of the matter was, that while we could
get several who were willing enough to ride to Doctor Livesey's, which
lay in another direction, not one would help us to defend the inn.
They say cowardice is infectious; but then argument is, on the other
hand, a great emboldener; and so when each had said his say, my mother
made them a speech. She would not, she declared, lose money that
belonged to her fatherless boy. "If none of the rest of you dare," she
said, "Jim and I dare. Back we will go, the way we came, and small
thanks to you big, hulking, chicken-hearted men! We'll have that chest
open, if we die for it. And I'll thank you for that bag, Mrs. Crossley,
to bring back our lawful money in."
Of course I said I would go with my mother; and of course they all cried
out at our foolhardiness; but even then not a man would go along with
us. All they would do was to give me a loaded pistol, lest we were
attacked; and to promise to have horses ready saddled, in case we were
pursued on our return; while one lad was to ride forward to the doctor's
in search of armed assistance.
My heart was beating fiercely when we two set forth in the cold night
upon this dangerous venture. A full moon was beginning to rise and
peered redly through the upper edges of the fog, and this increased our
haste, for it was plain, before we came forth again, that all would be
bright as day, and our departure exposed to the eyes of any watchers. We
slipped along the hedges, noiseless and swift, nor did we see or hear
anything to increase our terrors till, to our huge relief, the door of
the "Admiral Benbow" had closed behind us.
I slipped the bolt at once, and we stood and panted for a moment in the
dark, alone in the house with the dead captain's body. Then my mother
got a candle in the bar, and, holding each other's hands, we advanced
into the parlor. He lay as we had left him, on his back, with his eyes
open, and one arm stretched out.
"Draw down the blind, Jim," whispered my mother; "they might come and
watch outside. And now," said she, when I had done so, "we have to get
the key off _that_; and who's to touch it, I should like to know!" and
she gave a kind of sob as she said the words.
I went down on my knees at once. On the floor close to his hand there
was a little round of paper, blackened on one side. I could not doubt
that this was the _black spot_; and, taking it up, I found written on
the other side, in a very good, clear hand, this short message, "You
have till ten to-night."
"He had till ten, mother," said I; and, just as I said it, our old clock
began striking. This sudden noise startled us shockingly; but the news
was good, for it was only six.
"Now, Jim," she said, "that key!"
I felt in his pockets, one after another. A few small coins, a thimble,
and some thread and big needles, a piece of pig-tail tobacco bitten away
at the end, his gully with the crooked handle, a pocket compass, and a
tinder-box, were all that they contained, and I began to despair.
"Perhaps it's round his neck," suggested my mother.
Overcoming a strong repugnance, I tore open his shirt at the neck, and
there, sure enough, hanging to a bit of tarry string, which I cut with
his own gully, we found the key. At this triumph we were filled with
hope, and hurried upstairs, without delay, to the little room where he
had slept so long, and where his box had stood since the day of his
arrival.
It was like any other seaman's chest on the outside, the initial "B"
burned on the top of it with a hot iron, and the corners somewhat
smashed and broken as by long, rough usage.
"Give me the key," said my mother, and though the lock was very stiff,
she had turned it and thrown back the lid in a twinkling.
A strong smell of tobacco and tar arose from the interior, but nothing
was to be seen on the top except a suit of very good clothes, carefully
brushed and folded. They had never been worn, my mother said. Under that
the miscellany began--a quadrant, a tin cannikin, several sticks of
tobacco, two brace of very handsome pistols, a piece of bar silver, an
old Spanish watch, and some other trinkets of little value and mostly of
foreign make, a pair of compasses mounted with brass, and five or six
curious West Indian shells. I have often wondered since why he should
have carried about these shells with him in his wandering, guilty, and
hunted life.
In the meantime we found nothing of any value but the silver and the
trinkets, and neither of these were in our way. Underneath there was an
old boat-cloak, whitened with sea-salt on many a harbor-bar. My mother
pulled it up with impatience, and there lay before us, the last things
in the chest, a bundle tied up in oilcloth, and looking like papers, and
a canvas bag that gave forth, at a touch, the jingle of gold.
"I'll show those rogues that I'm an honest woman," said my mother. "I'll
have my dues and not a farthing over. Hold Mrs. Crossley's bag." And she
began to count over the amount of the captain's score from the sailor's
bag into the one that I was holding.
It was a long, difficult business, for the coins were of all countries
and sizes--doubloons, and louis-d'ors, and guineas, and pieces of eight,
and I know not what besides, all shaken together at random. The guineas,
too, were about the scarcest, and it was with these only that my mother
knew how to make her count.
When we were about halfway through, I suddenly put my hand upon her arm,
for I had heard in the silent, frosty air, a sound that brought my heart
into my mouth--the tap-tapping of the blind man's stick upon the frozen
road. It drew nearer and nearer, while we sat holding our breath. Then
it struck sharp on the inn door, and then we could hear the handle being
turned, and the bolt rattling as the wretched being tried to enter; and
then there was a long time of silence both within and without. At last
the tapping recommenced, and to our indescribable joy and gratitude,
died slowly away again until it ceased to be heard.
"Mother," said I, "take the whole and let's be going"; for I was sure
the bolted door must have seemed suspicious, and would bring the whole
hornet's nest about our ears; though how thankful I was that I had
bolted it, none could tell who had never met that terrible blind man.
But my mother, frightened as she was, would not consent to take a
fraction more than was due to her, and was obstinately unwilling to be
content with less. It was not yet seven, she said, by a long way; she
knew her rights and she would have them; and she was still arguing with
me, when a little low whistle sounded a good way off upon the hill. That
was enough, and more than enough, for both of us.
"I'll take what I have," she said, jumping to her feet.
"And I'll take this to square the count," said I, picking up the oilskin
packet.
Next moment we were both groping downstairs, leaving the candle by the
empty chest; and the next we had opened the door and were in full
retreat. We had not started a moment too soon. The fog was rapidly
dispersing; already the moon shone quite clear on the high ground on
either side, and it was only in the exact bottom of the dell and round
the tavern door that a thin veil still hung unbroken to conceal the
first steps of our escape. Far less than halfway to the hamlet, very
little beyond the bottom of the hill, we must come forth into the
moonlight. Nor was this all; for the sound of several footsteps running
came already to our ears, and as we looked back in their direction, a
light, tossing to and fro, and still rapidly advancing, showed that one
of the new-comers carried a lantern.
"My dear," said my mother, suddenly, "take the money and run on. I am
going to faint."
This was certainly the end for both of us, I thought. How I cursed the
cowardice of the neighbors! how I blamed my poor mother for her honesty
and her greed, for her past foolhardiness and present weakness! We were
just at the little bridge, by good fortune, and I helped her, tottering
as she was, to the edge of the bank, where, sure enough, she gave a sigh
and fell on my shoulder. I do not know how I found the strength to do it
all, and I am afraid it was roughly done, but I managed to drag her down
the bank and a little way under the arch. Farther I could not move her,
for the bridge was too low to let me do more than crawl below it. So
there we had to stay--my mother almost entirely exposed, and both of us
within earshot of the inn.
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null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 5, utilizing the provided context. | chapter 5|chapter 6 | Jim sneaks up to the riverbank next to the road that leads to the inn's door. He sees seven or eight guys running towards the inn. Three of them break down the door. The blind man seems to be the leader. One of them reports to the blind man that the captain is dead. The blind man orders them to search his body. They find the chest empty; whatever they were looking for isn't there. The blind man yells that it must have been Jim who took it. The men start to search the house. Another low whistle comes from the hillside, warning the men that someone is coming. The blind man refuses to let his men leave, since he thinks the whistler is a coward. The men start to fight with the blind man: they've gotten some gold from the captain's chest and they don't want to hang around waiting for the police. The blind man is furious and starts hitting the men with his cane. The noise of their fighting distracts them from the sound of approaching horses. A pistol shot sounds as a final warning of danger, and all of the pirates manage to get away. The only one who can't escape is the blind man, who runs out onto the road calling after his comrades: "Johnny, Black Dog, Dirk" and others. In the confusion, the blind man runs straight under the hooves of the riders. They try to stop, but they can't in time. The blind man is killed instantly. Jim's mother is fainting. The riders bring her into the house and she soon regains consciousness. It turns out the riders are revenue officers - also known as tax collectors - whom the guy who rode out to find Doctor Livesey brought back with him. The supervisor of these officers, Mr. Dance, rides on to try to find the rest of the pirates, but he can't. The inn is ruined: everything is smashed and broken, and Jim can see that he and his mother are out of business. Everyone is confused about what the pirates could have been looking for. Jim thinks he has it: the packet of papers he put in his breast pocket while he and his mother were searching the chest. Mr. Dance offers to take it. Jim wants to give it to Doctor Livesey. Mr. Dance immediately agrees , and offers to bring Jim with him when he reports the incident to Doctor Livesey and the squire, who is a local leader in the system of England's landed gentry. So Jim and Mr. Dance set out to Doctor Livesey's house. |
----------CHAPTER 5---------
THE LAST OF THE BLIND MAN
My curiosity, in a sense, was stronger than my fear; for I could not
remain where I was, but crept back to the bank again, whence, sheltering
my head behind a bush of broom, I might command the road before our
door. I was scarcely in position ere my enemies began to arrive, seven
or eight of them, running hard, their feet beating out of time along the
road, and the man with the lantern some paces in front. Three men ran
together, hand in hand; and I made out, even through the mist, that the
middle man of this trio was the blind beggar. The next moment his voice
showed me that I was right.
"Down with the door!" he cried.
"Ay, ay, sir!" answered two or three; and a rush was made upon the
"Admiral Benbow," the lantern-bearer following; and then I could see
them pause, and hear speeches passed in a lower key, as if they were
surprised to find the door open. But the pause was brief, for the blind
man again issued his commands. His voice sounded louder and higher, as
if he were afire with eagerness and rage.
"In, in, in!" he shouted, and cursed them for their delay.
Four or five of them obeyed at once, two remaining on the road with the
formidable beggar. There was a pause, then a cry of surprise, and then
a voice shouting from the house:
"Bill's dead!"
But the blind man swore at them again for their delay.
"Search him, some of you shirking lubbers, and the rest of you aloft and
get the chest," he cried.
I could hear their feet rattling up our old stairs, so that the house
must have shook with it. Promptly afterward fresh sounds of astonishment
arose; the window of the captain's room was thrown open with a slam and
a jingle of broken glass, and a man leaned out into the moonlight, head
and shoulders, and addressed the blind beggar on the road below him.
[Illustration: _"Pew!" he cried, "they've been before us"_ (Page 34)]
"Pew!" he cried, "they've been before us. Someone's turned the chest out
alow and aloft."
"Is it there?" roared Pew.
"The money's there."
The blind man cursed the money.
"Flint's fist, I mean," he cried.
"We don't see it here, nohow," returned the man.
"Here, you below there, is it on Bill?" cried the blind man again.
At that, another fellow, probably he who had remained below to search
the captain's body, came to the door of the inn. "Bill's been overhauled
a'ready," said he, "nothin' left."
"It's these people of the inn--it's that boy. I wish I had put his eyes
out!" cried the blind man, Pew. "They were here no time ago--they had
the door bolted when I tried it. Scatter, lads, and find 'em."
"Sure enough, they left their glim here," said the fellow from the
window.
"Scatter and find 'em! Rout the house out!" reiterated Pew, striking
with his stick upon the road.
Then there followed a great to-do through all our old inn, heavy feet
pounding to and fro, furniture all thrown over, doors kicked in, until
the very rocks re-echoed, and the men came out again, one after another,
on the road, and declared that we were nowhere to be found. And just
then the same whistle that had alarmed my mother and myself over the
dead captain's money was once more clearly audible through the night,
but this time twice repeated. I had thought it to be the blind man's
trumpet, so to speak, summoning his crew to the assault; but I now found
that it was a signal from the hillside toward the hamlet, and, from its
effect upon the buccaneers, a signal to warn them of approaching danger.
"There's Dirk again," said one. "Twice! We'll have to budge, mates."
"Budge, you skulk!" cried Pew. "Dirk was a fool and a coward from the
first--you wouldn't mind him. They must be close by; they can't be far;
you have your hands on it. Scatter and look for them, dogs. Oh, shiver
my soul," he cried, "if I had eyes!"
This appeal seemed to produce some effect, for two of the fellows began
to look here and there among the lumber, but half-heartedly, I thought,
and with half an eye to their own danger all the time, while the rest
stood irresolute on the road.
"You have your hands on thousands, you fools, and you hang a leg! You'd
be as rich as kings if you could find it, and you know it's here, and
you stand there skulking. There wasn't one of you dared face Bill, and I
did it--a blind man! And I'm to lose my chance for you! I'm to be a
poor, crawling beggar, sponging for rum, when I might be rolling in a
coach! If you had the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit, you would catch
them still."
"Hang it, Pew, we've got the doubloons!" grumbled one.
"They might have hid the blessed thing," said another. "Take the
Georges, Pew, and don't stand here squalling."
Squalling was the word for it; Pew's anger rose so high at these
objections; till at last, his passion completely taking the upper hand,
he struck at them right and left in his blindness, and his stick sounded
heavily on more than one.
These, in their turn, cursed back at the blind miscreant, threatened him
in horrid terms, and tried in vain to catch the stick and wrest it from
his grasp.
This quarrel was the saving of us; for while it was still raging,
another sound came from the top of the hill on the side of the
hamlet--the tramp of horses galloping. Almost at the same time a
pistol-shot, flash, and report came from the hedge side. And that was
plainly the last signal of danger, for the buccaneers turned at once and
ran, separating in every direction, one seaward along the cove, one
slant across the hill, and so on, so that in half a minute not a sign of
them remained but Pew. Him they had deserted, whether in sheer panic or
out of revenge for his ill words and blows, I know not; but there he
remained behind, tapping up and down the road in a frenzy, and groping
and calling for his comrades. Finally he took the wrong turn, and ran a
few steps past me, towards the hamlet, crying:
"Johnny, Black Dog, Dirk," and other names, "you won't leave old Pew,
mates--not old Pew?"
Just then the noise of horses topped the rise, and four or five riders
came in sight in the moonlight, and swept at full gallop down the slope.
At this Pew saw his error, turned with a scream, and ran straight for
the ditch, into which he rolled. But he was on his feet again in a
second, and made another dash, now utterly bewildered, right under the
nearest of the coming horses.
The rider tried to save him, but in vain. Down went Pew with a cry that
rang high into the night, and the four hoofs trampled and spurned him
and passed by. He fell on his side, then gently collapsed upon his face,
and moved no more.
I leaped to my feet and hailed the riders. They were pulling up, at any
rate, horrified at the accident, and I soon saw what they were. One,
tailing out behind the rest, was a lad that had gone from the hamlet to
Doctor Livesey's; the rest were revenue officers, whom he had met by the
way, and with whom he had had the intelligence to return at once. Some
news of the lugger in Kitt's Hole had found its way to Supervisor Dance,
and set him forth that night in our direction, and to that circumstance
my mother and I owed our preservation from death.
Pew was dead, stone dead. As for my mother, when we had carried her up
to the hamlet, a little cold water and salts very soon brought her back
again, and she was none the worse for her terror, though she still
continued to deplore the balance of the money.
In the meantime the supervisor rode on, as fast as he could, to Kitt's
Hole; but his men had to dismount and grope down the dingle, leading,
and sometimes supporting, their horses, and in continual fear of
ambushes; so it was no great matter for surprise that when they got
down to the Hole the lugger was already under way, though still close
in. He hailed her. A voice replied, telling him to keep out of the
moonlight, or he would get some lead in him, and at the same time a
bullet whistled close by his arm. Soon after, the lugger doubled the
point and disappeared. Mr. Dance stood there, as he said, "like a fish
out of water," and all he could do was to dispatch a man to B---- to
warn the cutter. "And that," said he, "is just about as good as nothing.
They've got off clean, and there's an end. Only," he added, "I'm glad I
trod on Master Pew's corns"; for by this time he had heard my story.
I went back with him to the "Admiral Benbow," and you cannot imagine a
house in such a state of smash; the very clock had been thrown down by
these fellows in their furious hunt after my mother and myself; and
though nothing had actually been taken away except the captain's
money-bag and a little silver from the till, I could see at once that we
were ruined. Mr. Dance could make nothing of the scene.
"They got the money, you say? Well, then, Hawkins, what in fortune were
they after? More money, I suppose?"
"No, sir; not money, I think," replied I. "In fact, sir, I believe I
have the thing in my breast-pocket; and, to tell you the truth, I should
like to get it put in safety."
"To be sure, boy; quite right," said he. "I'll take it, if you like."
"I thought, perhaps, Doctor Livesey--" I began.
"Perfectly right," he interrupted, very cheerily, "perfectly right--a
gentleman and a magistrate. And, now I come to think of it, I might as
well ride round there myself and report to him or squire. Master Pew's
dead, when all's done; not that I regret it, but he's dead, you see, and
people will make it out against an officer of his Majesty's revenue, if
make it out they can. Now, I'll tell you, Hawkins, if you like, I'll
take you along."
I thanked him heartily for the offer, and we walked back to the hamlet
where the horses were. By the time I had told mother of my purpose they
were all in the saddle.
"Dogger," said Mr. Dance, "you have a good horse; take up this lad
behind you."
As soon as I was mounted, holding on to Dogger's belt, the supervisor
gave the word, and the party struck out at a bouncing trot on the road
to Doctor Livesey's house.
[Illustration]
----------CHAPTER 6---------
THE CAPTAIN'S PAPERS
We rode hard all the way, till we drew up before Doctor Livesey's door.
The house was all dark to the front.
Mr. Dance told me to jump down and knock, and Dogger gave me a stirrup
to descend by. The door was opened almost at once by the maid.
"Is Doctor Livesey in?" I asked.
"No," she said. He had come home in the afternoon, but had gone up to
the Hall to dine and pass the evening with the squire.
"So there we go, boys," said Mr. Dance.
This time, as the distance was short, I did not mount, but ran with
Dogger's stirrup-leather to the lodge gates, and up the long, leafless,
moonlit avenue to where the white line of the Hall buildings looked on
either hand on great old gardens. Here Mr. Dance dismounted and, taking
me along with him, was admitted at a word into the house.
The servant led us down a matted passage, and showed us at the end into
a great library, all lined with bookcases and busts upon top of them,
where the squire and Doctor Livesey sat, pipe in hand, on either side of
a bright fire.
I had never seen the squire so near at hand. He was a tall man, over six
feet high, and broad in proportion, and he had a bluff, rough-and-ready
face, all roughened and reddened and lined in his long travels. His
eyebrows were very black, and moved readily, and this gave him a look of
some temper, not bad, you would say, but quick and high.
"Come in, Mr. Dance," said he, very stately and condescending.
"Good evening, Dance," said the doctor, with a nod. "And good evening to
you, friend Jim. What good wind brings you here?"
The supervisor stood up straight and stiff, and told his story like a
lesson; and you should have seen how the two gentlemen leaned forward
and looked at each other, and forgot to smoke in their surprise and
interest. When they heard how my mother went back to the inn, Doctor
Livesey fairly slapped his thigh, and the squire cried "Bravo!" and
broke his long pipe against the grate. Long before it was done, Mr.
Trelawney (that, you will remember, was the squire's name) had got up
from his seat, and was striding about the room, and the doctor, as if to
hear the better, had taken off his powdered wig, and sat there, looking
very strange indeed with his own close-cropped, black poll.
At last Mr. Dance finished the story.
"Mr. Dance," said the squire, "you are a very noble fellow. And as for
riding down that black, atrocious miscreant, I regard it as an act of
virtue, sir, like stamping on a cockroach. This lad Hawkins is a trump,
I perceive. Hawkins, will you ring that bell? Mr. Dance must have some
ale."
"And so, Jim," said the doctor, "you have the thing that they were
after, have you?"
"Here it is, sir," said I, and gave him the oilskin packet.
The doctor looked it all over, as if his fingers were itching to open
it; but, instead of doing that, he put it quietly in the pocket of his
coat.
"Squire," said he, "when Dance has had his ale he must, of course, be
off on his Majesty's service; but I mean to keep Jim Hawkins here to
sleep at my house, and, with your permission, I propose we should have
up the cold pie, and let him sup."
"As you will, Livesey," said the squire; "Hawkins has earned better than
cold pie."
So a big pigeon pie was brought in and put on a side-table, and I made a
hearty supper, for I was as hungry as a hawk, while Mr. Dance was
further complimented, and at last dismissed.
"And now, squire," said the doctor.
"And now, Livesey," said the squire, in the same breath.
"One at a time, one at a time," laughed Doctor Livesey. "You have heard
of this Flint, I suppose?"
"Heard of him!" cried the squire. "Heard of him, you say! He was the
blood-thirstiest buccaneer that sailed. Blackbeard was a child to Flint.
The Spaniards were so prodigiously afraid of him that, I tell you, sir,
I was sometimes proud he was an Englishman. I've seen his topsails with
these eyes, off Trinidad, and the cowardly son of a rum-puncheon that I
sailed with put back--put back, sir, into Port of Spain."
"Well, I've heard of him myself, in England," said the doctor. "But the
point is, had he money?"
"Money!" cried the squire. "Have you heard the story? What were these
villains after but money? What do they care for but money? For what
would they risk their rascal carcasses but money?"
"That we shall soon know," replied the doctor. "But you are so
confoundedly hot-headed and exclamatory that I cannot get a word in.
What I want to know is this: Supposing that I have here in my pocket
some clue to where Flint buried his treasure, will that treasure amount
to much?"
"Amount, sir!" cried the squire. "It will amount to this: If we have the
clue you talk about, I'll fit out a ship in Bristol dock, and take you
and Hawkins here along, and I'll have that treasure if I search a year."
"Very well," said the doctor. "Now, then, if Jim is agreeable, we'll
open the packet," and he laid it before him on the table.
The bundle was sewn together, and the doctor had to get out his
instrument case and cut the stitches with his medical scissors. It
contained two things--a book and a sealed paper.
"First of all we'll try the book," observed the doctor.
The squire and I were both peering over his shoulder as he opened it,
for Doctor Livesey had kindly motioned me to come round from the
side-table, where I had been eating, to enjoy the sport of the search.
On the first page there were only some scraps of writing, such as a man
with a pen in his hand might make for idleness or practice. One was the
same as the tattoo mark, "Billy Bones his fancy"; then there was "Mr. W.
Bones, mate," "No more rum," "Off Palm Key he got itt," and some other
snatches, mostly single words and unintelligible. I could not help
wondering who it was that had "got itt," and what "itt" was that he got.
A knife in his back as like as not.
"Not much instruction there," said Doctor Livesey, as he passed on.
The next ten or twelve pages were filled with a curious series of
entries. There was a date at one end of the line and at the other a sum
of money, as in common account-books; but instead of explanatory
writing, only a varying number of crosses between the two. On the 12th
of June, 1745, for instance, a sum of seventy pounds had plainly become
due to someone, and there was nothing but six crosses to explain the
cause. In a few cases, to be sure, the name of a place would be added,
as "Offe Caraccas"; or a mere entry of latitude and longitude, as "62
deg. 17' 20", 19 deg. 2' 40"."
The record lasted over nearly twenty years, the amount of the separate
entries growing larger as time went on, and at the end a grand total had
been made out, after five or six wrong additions, and these words
appended, "Bones, his pile."
"I can't make head or tail of this," said Doctor Livesey.
"The thing is as clear as noonday," cried the squire. "This is the
black-hearted hound's account-book. These crosses stand for the names of
ships or towns that they sank or plundered. The sums are the scoundrel's
share, and where he feared an ambiguity, you see he added something
clearer. 'Offe Caraccas,' now; you see, here was some unhappy vessel
boarded off that coast. God help the poor souls that manned her--coral
long ago."
"Right!" said the doctor. "See what it is to be a traveler. Right! And
the amounts increase, you see, as he rose in rank."
There was little else in the volume but a few bearings of places noted
in the blank leaves toward the end, and a table for reducing French,
English, and Spanish moneys to a common value.
"Thrifty man!" cried the doctor. "He wasn't the one to be cheated."
"And now," said the squire, "for the other."
The paper had been sealed in several places with a thimble by way of
seal; the very thimble, perhaps, that I had found in the captain's
pocket. The doctor opened the seals with great care, and there fell out
the map of an island, with latitude and longitude, soundings, names of
hills and bays and inlets, and every particular that would be needed to
bring a ship to a safe anchorage upon its shores. It was about nine
miles long and five across, shaped, you might say, like a fat dragon
standing up, and had two fine landlocked harbors, and a hill in the
center part marked "The Spy-glass." There were several additions of a
later date; but, above all, three crosses of red ink--two on the north
part of the island, one in the southwest, and, beside this last, in the
same red ink, and in a small, neat hand, very different from the
captain's tottery characters, these words: "Bulk of treasure here."
Over on the back the same hand had written this further information:
"Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to the N. of N.N.E.
"Skeleton Island E.S.E. and by E.
"Ten feet.
"The bar silver is in the north cache; you can find it by the trend
of the east hummock, ten fathoms south of the black crag with the
face on it.
"The arms are easy found, in the sandhill, N. point of north inlet
cape, bearing E. and a quarter N.
"J. F."
That was all, but brief as it was, and, to me, incomprehensible, it
filled the squire and Doctor Livesey with delight.
"Livesey," said the squire, "you will give up this wretched practice at
once. To-morrow I start for Bristol. In three weeks' time--three
weeks!--two weeks--ten days--we'll have the best ship, sir, and the
choicest crew in England. Hawkins shall come as cabin-boy. You'll make a
famous cabin-boy, Hawkins. You, Livesey, are ship's doctor; I am
admiral. We'll take Redruth, Joyce, and Hunter. We'll have favorable
winds, a quick passage, and not the least difficulty in finding the
spot, and money to eat--to roll in--to play duck and drake with ever
after."
"Trelawney," said the doctor, "I'll go with you; and I'll go bail for
it, so will Jim, and be a credit to the undertaking. There's only one
man I'm afraid of."
"And who's that?" cried the squire. "Name the dog, sir!"
"You," replied the doctor, "for you cannot hold your tongue. We are not
the only men who know of this paper. These fellows who attacked the inn
to-night--bold, desperate blades, for sure--and the rest who stayed
aboard that lugger, and more, I dare say, not far off, are, one and all,
through thick and thin, bound that they'll get that money. We must none
of us go alone till we get to sea. Jim and I shall stick together in the
meanwhile; you'll take Joyce and Hunter when you ride to Bristol, and,
from first to last, not one of us must breathe a word of what we've
found."
"Livesey," returned the squire, "you are always in the right of it. I'll
be as silent as the grave."
PART II
THE SEA-COOK
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null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter 2 with the given context. | chapter 1|chapter 2 | Spring comes and with it a mysterious event that introduces Jim to a new facet of the Captains personality. Jims fathers health worsens with time, so Jim and his mother take charge of the Inn. On a frosty January morning, the Captain steps out of the Inn with his usual accessories quietly, as though the thought of Dr. Livesey still weighs in his mind. As Jim is setting the breakfast table, in comes a man wearing a cutlass, whom he had never seen before. While he orders rum, he tries to get friendly with Jim and inquires if the breakfast in the table is spread out for his mate Bill. On hearing that it is for the Captain, he asks if his Captain has a cut on his right cheek. This matches the scar Jim observed when he first saw the Captain. Assured that the Captain is his mate Bill, he asks other questions and waits for him out side the Inn. Jim finds something weird in the strangers behavior when he is asked not to go outside. His confusion doubles when the stranger wants to surprise the Captain by hiding behind the door. When the Captain returns, Jim finds him uneasy and disturbed, rather than surprised to hear his name being called. Recognizing his mate Black Dog he quickly gets to the point without any small talk. Jim is told to leave them alone after serving them rum. Jims eavesdropping doesnt give him any clue about the two sea mates, for he can hear only slow indecipherable sounds. When the sound changes to thuds and clinging of steels, Jim witnesses a battle raging between Billy and the Black Dog. Black Dog manages to escape despite having a cut from the battle on his right shoulder. Asking for another drink, the Captain then collapses on the floor. Jim and his mother feel helpless. In an effort to help the Captain, Jim tries to pour some rum down his throat. Dr. Livesey, who is on another routine visit to check Jims father, takes a look at the Captain. After examining him, he tells them that the Captain has had a stroke. As a precautionary measure, Jims mother is asked not to tell her husband what happened, so as not to upset him. Dr. Livesey, to save the Captain, cuts open a vein from his arm and in the process exposes some of the tattoos on the Captains arm which are comprised of various writings and a well sketched tattoo of a man hanging from the gallows. After forcing a great deal of blood from the Captains body, he regains his consciousness. The doctor tells him what has happened and asks him to stop drinking if he wants to live. But the Captain is more concerned about Black Dog. He is quite irritated when the doctor addresses him as Mr. Bones. Jim and the doctor help him to his room and after putting him in bed, the doctor in his authoritative tone warns the Captain continuing to drink will kill him. On his way to check Jims father, the doctor tells him that he has drawn enough blood to keep him quiet and that he should rest for a week. Finally, he also tells Jim that if the Captain continues to drink, his death is certain. |
----------CHAPTER 1---------
AT THE "ADMIRAL BENBOW"
Squire Trelawney, Doctor Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having
asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from
the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the
island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I
take up my pen in the year of grace 17--, and go back to the time when
my father kept the "Admiral Benbow" Inn, and the brown old seaman, with
the saber cut, first took up his lodging under our roof.
[Illustration: _I remember him as if it were yesterday as he came
plodding to the inn door_ (Page 3)]
I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn
door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow; a tall,
strong, heavy, nut-brown man; his tarry pig-tail falling over the
shoulders of his soiled blue coat; his hands ragged and scarred, with
black, broken nails, and the saber cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid
white. I remember him looking round the cove and whistling to himself as
he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so
often afterwards:
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest,
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
in the high, old tottering voice that seemed to have been tuned and
broken at the capstan bars. Then he rapped on the door with a bit of
stick like a handspike that he carried, and when my father appeared,
called roughly for a glass of rum. This, when it was brought to him, he
drank slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste, and still
looking about him at the cliffs and up at our signboard.
"This is a handy cove," says he, at length; "and a pleasant sittyated
grog-shop. Much company, mate?"
My father told him no, very little company, the more was the pity.
"Well, then," said he, "this is the berth for me. Here you, matey," he
cried to the man who trundled the barrow; "bring up alongside and help
up my chest. I'll stay here a bit," he continued. "I'm a plain man; rum
and bacon and eggs is what I want, and that head up there for to watch
ships off. What you mought call me? You mought call me captain. Oh, I
see what you're at--there"; and he threw down three or four gold pieces
on the threshold. "You can tell me when I've worked through that," said
he, looking as fierce as a commander.
And, indeed, bad as his clothes were, and coarsely as he spoke, he had
none of the appearance of a man who sailed before the mast, but seemed
like a mate or skipper, accustomed to be obeyed or to strike. The man
who came with the barrow told us the mail had set him down the morning
before at the "Royal George"; that he had inquired what inns there were
along the coast, and hearing ours well spoken of, I suppose, and
described as lonely, had chosen it from the others for his place of
residence. And that was all we could learn of our guest.
He was a very silent man by custom. All day he hung round the cove, or
upon the cliffs, with a brass telescope; all evening he sat in a corner
of the parlor next the fire, and drank rum and water very strong. Mostly
he would not speak when spoken to; only look up sudden and fierce, and
blow through his nose like a fog-horn; and we and the people who came
about our house soon learned to let him be. Every day, when he came back
from his stroll, he would ask if any seafaring men had gone by along the
road. At first we thought it was the want of company of his own kind
that made him ask this question; but at last we began to see he was
desirous to avoid them. When a seaman put up at the "Admiral Benbow" (as
now and then some did, making by the coast road for Bristol), he would
look in at him through the curtained door before he entered the parlor;
and he was always sure to be as silent as a mouse when any such was
present. For me, at least, there was no secret about the matter; for I
was, in a way, a sharer in his alarms.
He had taken me aside one day and promised me a silver fourpenny on the
first of every month if I would only keep my "weather eye open for a
seafaring man with one leg," and let him know the moment he appeared.
Often enough when the first of the month came round, and I applied to
him for my wage, he would only blow through his nose at me, and stare me
down; but before the week was out he was sure to think better of it,
bring me my fourpenny piece, and repeat his orders to look out for "the
seafaring man with one leg."
How that personage haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you. On
stormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the house, and
the surf roared along the cove and up the cliffs, I would see him in a
thousand forms, and with a thousand diabolical expressions. Now the leg
would be cut off at the knee, now at the hip; now he was a monstrous
kind of a creature who had never had but one leg, and that in the middle
of his body. To see him leap and run and pursue me over hedge and ditch,
was the worst of nightmares. And altogether I paid pretty dear for my
monthly fourpenny piece, in the shape of these abominable fancies.
But though I was so terrified by the idea of the seafaring man with one
leg, I was far less afraid of the captain himself than anybody else who
knew him. There were nights when he took a deal more rum and water than
his head would carry; and then he would sometimes sit and sing his
wicked, old, wild sea-songs, minding nobody; but sometimes he would call
for glasses round, and force all the trembling company to listen to his
stories or bear a chorus to his singing. Often I have heard the house
shaking with "Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum," all the neighbors joining
in for dear life, with the fear of death upon them, and each singing
louder than the other to avoid remark. For in these fits he was the most
overriding companion ever known; he would slap his hand on the table for
silence all around; he would fly up in a passion of anger at a question,
or sometimes because none was put, and so he judged the company was not
following his story. Nor would he allow anyone to leave the inn till he
had drunk himself sleepy and reeled off to bed.
His stories were what frightened people worst of all. Dreadful stories
they were; about hanging, and walking the plank, and storms at sea, and
the Dry Tortugas, and wild deeds and places on the Spanish Main. By his
own account, he must have lived his life among some of the wickedest men
that God ever allowed upon the sea; and the language in which he told
these stories shocked our plain country people almost as much as the
crimes that he described. My father was always saying the inn would be
ruined, for people would soon cease coming there to be tyrannized over
and put down and sent shivering to their beds; but I really believe his
presence did us good. People were frightened at the time, but on looking
back they rather liked it; it was a fine excitement in a quiet country
life; and there was even a party of the younger men who pretended to
admire him, calling him a "true sea-dog," and a "real old salt," and
such like names, and saying there was the sort of man that made England
terrible at sea.
In one way, indeed, he bade fair to ruin us; for he kept on staying week
after week, and at last month after month, so that all the money had
been long exhausted, and still my father never plucked up the heart to
insist on having more. If ever he mentioned it, the captain blew through
his nose so loudly that you might say he roared, and stared my poor
father out of the room. I have seen him wringing his hands after such a
rebuff, and I am sure the annoyance and the terror he lived in must have
greatly hastened his early and unhappy death.
All the time he lived with us the captain made no change whatever in his
dress but to buy some stockings from a hawker. One of the cocks of his
hat having fallen down, he let it hang from that day forth, though it
was a great annoyance when it blew. I remember the appearance of his
coat, which he patched himself upstairs in his room, and which, before
the end, was nothing but patches. He never wrote or received a letter,
and he never spoke with any but the neighbors, and with these, for the
most part, only when drunk on rum. The great sea-chest none of us had
ever seen open.
He was only once crossed, and that was toward the end, when my poor
father was far gone in a decline that took him off. Doctor Livesey came
late one afternoon to see the patient, took a bit of dinner from my
mother, and went into the parlor to smoke a pipe until his horse should
come down from the hamlet, for we had no stabling at the old "Benbow." I
followed him in, and I remember observing the contrast the neat, bright
doctor, with his powder as white as snow, and his bright, black eyes and
pleasant manners, made with the coltish country folk, and above all,
with that filthy, heavy, bleared scarecrow of a pirate of ours, sitting
far gone in rum, with his arms on the table. Suddenly he--the captain,
that is--began to pipe up his eternal song:
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest--
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
At first I had supposed "the dead man's chest" to be that identical big
box of his upstairs in the front room, and the thought had been mingled
in my nightmares with that of the one-legged seafaring man. But by this
time we had all long ceased to pay any particular notice to the song; it
was new, that night, to nobody but Doctor Livesey, and on him I observed
it did not produce an agreeable effect, for he looked up for a moment
quite angrily before he went on with his talk to old Taylor, the
gardener, on a new cure for rheumatics. In the meantime the captain
gradually brightened up at his own music, and at last flapped his hand
upon the table before him in a way we all knew to mean--silence. The
voices stopped at once, all but Doctor Livesey's; he went on as before,
speaking clear and kind, and drawing briskly at his pipe between every
word or two. The captain glared at him for a while, flapped his hand
again, glared still harder, and at last broke out with a villainous
oath: "Silence, there, between decks!"
"Were you addressing me, sir?" said the doctor; and when the ruffian had
told him, with another oath, that this was so, replied, "I have only one
thing to say to you, sir, that if you keep on drinking rum, the world
will soon be quit of a very dirty scoundrel!"
The old fellow's fury was awful. He sprang to his feet, drew and opened
a sailor's clasp-knife, and balancing it open on the palm of his hand,
threatened to pin the doctor to the wall.
The doctor never so much as moved. He spoke to him, as before, over his
shoulder, and in the same tone of voice, rather high, so that all the
room might hear, but perfectly calm and steady:
"If you do not put that knife this instant into your pocket, I promise,
upon my honor, you shall hang at the next assizes."
Then followed a battle of looks between them; but the captain soon
knuckled under, put up his weapon, and resumed his seat, grumbling like
a beaten dog.
"And now, sir," continued the doctor, "since I now know there's such a
fellow in my district, you may count I'll have an eye upon you day and
night. I'm not a doctor only, I'm a magistrate; and if I catch a breath
of complaint against you, if it's only for a piece of incivility like
to-night's, I'll take effectual means to have you hunted down and routed
out of this. Let that suffice."
Soon after Doctor Livesey's horse came to the door and he rode away, but
the captain held his peace that evening, and for many evenings to come.
[Illustration]
----------CHAPTER 2---------
BLACK DOG APPEARS AND DISAPPEARS
It was not very long after this that there occurred the first of the
mysterious events that rid us at last of the captain, though not, as you
will see, of his affairs. It was a bitter cold winter, with long, hard
frosts and heavy gales; and it was plain from the first that my poor
father was little likely to see the spring. He sank daily, and my mother
and I had all the inn upon our hands, and were kept busy enough without
paying much regard to our unpleasant guest.
It was one January morning, very early--a pinching, frosty morning--the
cove all gray with hoar-frost, the ripple lapping softly on the stones,
the sun still low, and only touching the hill-tops and shining far to
seaward. The captain had risen earlier than usual, and set out down the
beach, his cutlass swinging under the broad skirts of the old blue coat,
his brass telescope under his arm, his hat tilted back upon his head. I
remember his breath hanging like smoke in his wake as he strode off, and
the last sound I heard of him, as he turned the big rock, was a loud
snort of indignation, as though his mind was still running upon Doctor
Livesey.
Well, mother was upstairs with father, and I was laying the breakfast
table against the captain's return, when the parlor door opened and a
man stepped in on whom I had never set my eyes before. He was a pale,
tallowy creature, wanting two fingers of the left hand; and, though he
wore a cutlass, he did not look much like a fighter. I had always my
eyes open for seafaring men, with one leg or two, and I remember this
one puzzled me. He was not sailorly, and yet he had a smack of the sea
about him too.
I asked him what was for his service, and he said he would take rum, but
as I was going out of the room to fetch it he sat down upon a table and
motioned to me to draw near. I paused where I was, with my napkin in my
hand.
"Come here, sonny," said he. "Come nearer here."
I took a step nearer.
"Is this here table for my mate Bill?" he asked, with a kind of leer.
I told him I did not know his mate Bill, and this was for a person who
stayed at our house, whom we called the captain.
"Well," said he, "my mate Bill would be called the captain, as like as
not. He has a cut on one cheek, and a mighty pleasant way with him,
particularly in drink, has my mate Bill. We'll put it, for argument
like, that your captain has a cut on one cheek--and we'll put it, if you
like, that that cheek's the right one. Ah, well! I told you. Now, is my
mate Bill in this here house?"
I told him he was out walking.
"Which way, sonny? Which way is he gone?"
And when I had pointed out the rock and told him how the captain was
likely to return, and how soon, and answered a few other questions,
"Ah," said he, "this'll be as good as drink to my mate Bill."
The expression of his face as he said these words was not at all
pleasant, and I had my own reasons for thinking that the stranger was
mistaken, even supposing he meant what he said. But it was no affair of
mine, I thought; and, besides, it was difficult to know what to do.
The stranger kept hanging about just inside the inn door, peering round
the corner like a cat waiting for a mouse. Once I stepped out myself
into the road, but he immediately called me back, and, as I did not obey
quick enough for his fancy, a most horrible change came over his tallowy
face, and he ordered me in with an oath that made me jump. As soon as I
was back again he returned to his former manner, half-fawning,
half-sneering, patted me on the shoulder, told me I was a good boy, and
he had taken quite a fancy to me. "I have a son of my own," said he, "as
like you as two blocks, and he's all the pride of my 'art. But the great
thing for boys is discipline, sonny--discipline. Now, if you had sailed
along of Bill, you wouldn't have stood there to be spoke to twice--not
you. That was never Bill's way, nor the way of sich as sailed with him.
And here, sure enough, is my mate Bill, with a spy-glass under his arm,
bless his old 'art, to be sure. You and me'll just go back into the
parlor, sonny, and get behind the door, and we'll give Bill a little
surprise--bless his 'art, I say again."
So saying, the stranger backed along with me into the parlor, and put me
behind him into the corner, so that we were both hidden by the open
door. I was very uneasy and alarmed, as you may fancy, and it rather
added to my fears to observe that the stranger was certainly frightened
himself. He cleared the hilt of his cutlass and loosened the blade in
the sheath, and all the time we were waiting there he kept swallowing
as if he felt what we used to call a lump in the throat.
At last in strode the captain, slammed the door behind him, without
looking to the right or left, and marched straight across the room to
where his breakfast awaited him.
"Bill," said the stranger, in a voice that I thought he had tried to
make bold and big.
The captain spun round on his heel and fronted us; all the brown had
gone out of his face, and even his nose was blue; he had the look of a
man who sees a ghost, or the Evil One, or something worse, if anything
can be; and, upon my word, I felt sorry to see him, all in a moment,
turn so old and sick.
"Come, Bill, you know me; you know an old shipmate, Bill, surely," said
the stranger.
The captain made a sort of gasp.
"Black Dog!" said he.
"And who else?" returned the other, getting more at his ease. "Black Dog
as ever was, come for to see his old shipmate, Billy, at the 'Admiral
Benbow' Inn. Ah, Bill, Bill, we have seen a sight of times, us two,
since I lost them two talons," holding up his mutilated hand.
"Now, look here," said the captain; "you've run me down; here I am;
well, then, speak up; what is it?"
"That's you, Bill," returned Black Dog; "you're in the right of it,
Billy. I'll have a glass of rum from this dear child here, as I've took
such a liking to; and we'll sit down, if you please, and talk square,
like old shipmates."
When I returned with the rum they were already seated on either side of
the captain's breakfast table--Black Dog next to the door, and sitting
sideways, so as to have one eye on his old shipmate and one, as I
thought, on his retreat.
He bade me go and leave the door wide open. "None of your keyholes for
me, sonny," he said, and I left them together and retired into the bar.
For a long time, though I certainly did my best to listen, I could hear
nothing but a low gabbling; but at last the voices began to grow higher,
and I could pick up a word or two, mostly oaths, from the captain.
"No, no, no, no; and an end of it!" he cried once. And again, "If it
comes to swinging, swing all, say I."
Then all of a sudden there was a tremendous explosion of oaths and other
noises; the chair and table went over in a lump, a clash of steel
followed, and then a cry of pain, and the next instant I saw Black Dog
in full flight, and the captain hotly pursuing, both with drawn
cutlasses, and the former streaming blood from the left shoulder. Just
at the door the captain aimed at the fugitive one last tremendous cut,
which would certainly have split him to the chin had it not been
intercepted by our big signboard of "Admiral Benbow." You may see the
notch on the lower side of the frame to this day.
That blow was the last of the battle. Once out upon the road, Black Dog,
in spite of his wound, showed a wonderful clean pair of heels, and
disappeared over the edge of the hill in half a minute. The captain, for
his part, stood staring at the signboard like a bewildered man. Then he
passed his hand over his eyes several times, and at last turned back
into the house.
"Jim," says he, "rum"; and as he spoke he reeled a little, and caught
himself with one hand against the wall.
"Are you hurt?" cried I.
"Rum," he repeated. "I must get away from here. Rum! rum!"
I ran to fetch it, but I was quite unsteadied by all that had fallen
out, and I broke one glass and fouled the tap, and while I was still
getting in my own way, I heard a loud fall in the parlor, and, running
in, beheld the captain lying full length upon the floor. At the same
instant my mother, alarmed by the cries and fighting, came running
downstairs to help me. Between us we raised his head. He was breathing
very loud and hard, but his eyes were closed and his face was a horrible
color.
"Dear, deary me!" cried my mother, "what a disgrace upon the house! And
your poor father sick!"
In the meantime we had no idea what to do to help the captain, nor any
other thought but that he had got his death-hurt in the scuffle with the
stranger. I got the rum, to be sure, and tried to put it down his
throat, but his teeth were tightly shut, and his jaws as strong as iron.
It was a happy relief for us when the door opened and Doctor Livesey
came in, on his visit to my father.
"Oh, doctor," we cried, "what shall we do? Where is he wounded?"
"Wounded? A fiddlestick's end!" said the doctor. "No more wounded than
you or I. The man has had a stroke, as I warned him. Now, Mrs. Hawkins,
just you run upstairs to your husband and tell him, if possible, nothing
about it. For my part, I must do my best to save this fellow's trebly
worthless life; and, Jim, you get me a basin."
When I got back with the basin the doctor had already ripped up the
captain's sleeve and exposed his great sinewy arm. It was tattooed in
several places. "Here's luck," "A fair wind," and "Billy Bones, his
fancy," were very neatly and clearly executed on the forearm; and up
near the shoulder there was a sketch of a gallows and a man hanging from
it--done, as I thought, with great spirit.
"Prophetic," said the doctor, touching this picture with his finger.
"And now, Master Billy Bones, if that be your name, we'll have a look at
the color of your blood. Jim," he said, "are you afraid of blood?"
"No, sir," said I.
"Well, then," said he, "you hold the basin," and with that he took his
lancet and opened a vein.
A great deal of blood was taken before the captain opened his eyes and
looked mistily about him. First he recognized the doctor with an
unmistakable frown; then his glance fell upon me, and he looked
relieved. But suddenly his color changed, and he tried to raise himself,
crying:
"Where's Black Dog?"
"There is no Black Dog here," said the doctor, "except what you have on
your own back. You have been drinking rum; you have had a stroke
precisely as I told you; and I have just, very much against my own will,
dragged you headforemost out of the grave. Now, Mr. Bones--"
"That's not my name," he interrupted.
"Much I care," returned the doctor. "It's the name of a buccaneer of my
acquaintance, and I call you by it for the sake of shortness, and what I
have to say to you is this: One glass of rum won't kill you, but if you
take one you'll take another and another, and I stake my wig if you
don't break off short, you'll die--do you understand that?--die, and go
to your own place, like the man in the Bible. Come, now, make an
effort. I'll help you to your bed for once."
Between us, with much trouble, we managed to hoist him upstairs, and
laid him on his bed, where his head fell back on the pillow, as if he
were almost fainting.
"Now, mind you," said the doctor, "I clear my conscience--the name of
rum for you is death."
And with that he went off to see my father, taking me with him by the
arm.
"This is nothing," he said, as soon as he had closed the door. "I have
drawn blood enough to keep him quiet awhile; he should lie for a week
where he is--that is the best thing for him and you, but another stroke
would settle him."
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 3, utilizing the provided context. | chapter 3|chapter 4 | As he recovers, the Captain continues with his urge to drink. Pleading for a drink from Jim, the Captain tries all the techniques possible to convince him to serve him a drink: From reminding Jim about the regular wage he earned from him, to befriending him and calling him his matey. Jim refused all of his requests, as the doctor had advised against it. Refusing to listen to Jim, the Captain goes on a boasting spree giving examples of the deadly places he has been to, the terrifying men he has encountered and how he had lived on rum. He calls it his meat, drink, and wife. He tells Jim that he is experiencing withdrawal symptoms and that strange images are haunting him regularly. He also offers Jim a bribe of one gold guinea. Jim gets quite offended by this offer. Finally, after seeing how upset and agitated the Captain has become, Jim worries about the Captain disrupting the other patrons of the Inn, Jim gets him a drink on the condition that the Captain will repay all the money he owes his father. Regaining his original composure after downing the rum he refuses to stay in bed for a week. He manages to get up from the bed with Jims help and tells him that if he stayed at the Inn for long theyd have the Black Spot on him. But he soon realizes he is too weak to go and settles down in bed. He also kept on grumbling about many things which Jim doesn't understand. Except the term Black Spot which he hears three times in succession and also that the the bad men are after his sea chest. Jim also finds out that the Captain was the first mate of the legendary pirate Old Captain Flint and he is the only one who knows the place where his treasure is buried. During his conversation, Jim is asked to be wary of the seafaring man with one leg. On asking what the Black Spot is, Jim is again confused with the Captains reply. He drowns himself in deep slumber after taking his medication. That evening, Jims father dies, adding to the pain and distress Jim was already going through. The Captain takes to heavy drinking, after regaining his strength despite the warnings. He starts singing and shouting in the house while the others are mourning their loss. This scarcely alarms Jim for he knows by now what to expect of the Captain. The gloomy air at the inn has more surprises in store. On a foggy afternoon, Jim notices a stranger, a blind beggar approaching the Inn. The man asks Jim which part of the country he is in. After finding out where he is, he politely requests Jim to lead him into the Inn. Once inside, his tone changes and he orders Jim to take him to the Captain and threatens to break Jims arm if he doesnt. The blind man instructs Jim on how he should be introduced and asks him to do it the very same way. On doing so, Jim sees the fear of death written on the Captains face. In Jims presence, a business deal takes place between the blind man and the Captain, where the blind man passes something from his hand to the Captains. After releasing Jims hand from his clutch, he leaves quickly without help. The Captain gets up quickly from his bed mumbling "Ten Oclock, six hours..." and unable to complete the sentence falls flat of the floor, never to get up again. Although Jim has never liked the Captain, he cries at his death. |
----------CHAPTER 3---------
THE BLACK SPOT
About noon I stopped at the captain's door with some cooling drinks and
medicines. He was lying very much as we had left him, only a little
higher, and he seemed both weak and excited.
"Jim," he said, "you're the only one here that's worth anything; and you
know I've always been good to you. Never a month but I've given you a
silver fourpenny for yourself. And now you see, mate, I'm pretty low,
and deserted by all; and, Jim, you'll bring me one noggin of rum, now,
won't you, matey?"
"The doctor--" I began.
But he broke in, cursing the doctor in a feeble voice, but heartily.
"Doctors is all swabs," he said; "and that doctor there, why, what do he
know about seafaring men? I been in places hot as pitch, and mates
dropping round with yellow jack, and the blessed land a-heaving like the
sea with earthquakes--what do the doctor know of lands like that?--and I
lived on rum, I tell you. It's been meat and drink, and man and wife, to
me; and if I am not to have my rum now I'm a poor old hulk on a lee
shore. My blood'll be on you, Jim, and that doctor swab," and he ran on
again for a while with curses. "Look, Jim, how my fingers fidges," he
continued in the pleading tone. "I can't keep 'em still, not I. I
haven't had a drop this blessed day. That doctor's a fool, I tell you.
If I don't have a drain o' rum, Jim, I'll have the horrors; I seen some
on 'em already. I seen old Flint in the corner there, behind you; as
plain as print, I seen him; and if I get the horrors, I'm a man that has
lived rough, and I'll raise Cain. Your doctor hisself said one glass
wouldn't hurt me. I'll give you a golden guinea for a noggin, Jim."
He was growing more and more excited, and this alarmed me, for my
father, who was very low that day, needed quiet; besides, I was
reassured by the doctor's words, now quoted to me, and rather offended
by the offer of a bribe.
"I want none of your money," said I, "but what you owe my father. I'll
get you one glass and no more."
When I brought it to him he seized it greedily and drank it out.
"Ay, ay," said he, "that's some better, sure enough. And now, matey, did
that doctor say how long I was to lie here in this old berth?"
"A week at least," said I.
"Thunder!" he cried. "A week! I can't do that; they'd have the black
spot on me by then. The lubbers is going about to get the wind of me
this blessed moment; lubbers as couldn't keep what they got, and want to
nail what is another's. Is that seamanly behavior, now, I want to know?
But I'm a saving soul. I never wasted good money of mine, nor lost it
neither; and I'll trick 'em again. I'm not afraid on 'em. I'll shake out
another reef, matey, and daddle 'em again."
As he was thus speaking, he had risen from bed with great difficulty,
holding to my shoulder with a grip that almost made me cry out, and
moving his legs like so much dead weight. His words, spirited as they
were in meaning, contrasted sadly with the weakness of the voice in
which they were uttered. He paused when he had got into a sitting
position on the edge.
"That doctor's done me," he murmured. "My ears is singing. Lay me back."
Before I could do much to help him he had fallen back again to his
former place, where he lay for a while silent.
"Jim," he said, at length, "you saw that seafaring man to-day?"
"Black Dog?" I asked.
"Ah! Black Dog," said he. "_He's_ a bad 'un; but there's worse that put
him on. Now, if I can't get away nohow, and they tip me the black spot,
mind you, it's my old sea-chest they're after; you get on a horse--you
can, can't you? Well, then, you get on a horse and go to--well, yes, I
will!--to that eternal doctor swab, and tell him to pipe all
hands--magistrates and sich--and he'll lay 'em aboard at the 'Admiral
Benbow'--all old Flint's crew, man and boy, all on 'em that's left. I
was first mate, I was, old Flint's first mate, and I'm the on'y one as
knows the place. He gave it me at Savannah, when he lay a-dying, like as
if I was to now, you see. But you won't peach unless they get the black
spot on me, or unless you see that Black Dog again, or a seafaring man
with one leg, Jim--him above all."
"But what is the black spot, captain?" I asked.
"That's a summons, mate. I'll tell you if they get that. But you keep
your weather-eye open, Jim, and I'll share with you equals, upon my
honor."
He wandered a little longer, his voice growing weaker; but soon after I
had given him his medicine, which he took like a child, with the remark,
"If ever a seaman wanted drugs, it's me," he fell at last into a heavy,
swoon-like sleep, in which I left him. What I should have done had all
gone well I do not know. Probably I should have told the whole story to
the doctor; for I was in mortal fear lest the captain should repent of
his confessions and make an end of me. But as things fell out, my poor
father died quite suddenly that evening, which put all other matters on
one side. Our natural distress, the visits of the neighbors, the
arranging of the funeral, and all the work of the inn to be carried on
in the meanwhile, kept me so busy that I had scarcely time to think of
the captain, far less to be afraid of him.
He got downstairs next morning, to be sure, and had his meals as usual,
though he ate little, and had more, I am afraid, than his usual supply
of rum, for he helped himself out of the bar, scowling and blowing
through his nose, and no one dared to cross him. On the night before the
funeral he was as drunk as ever; and it was shocking, in that house of
mourning, to hear him singing away his ugly old sea-song; but, weak as
he was, we were all in fear of death for him, and the doctor was
suddenly taken up with a case many miles away, and was never near the
house after my father's death. I have said the captain was weak, and
indeed he seemed rather to grow weaker than to regain his strength. He
clambered up and down stairs, and went from the parlor to the bar and
back again, and sometimes put his nose out of doors to smell the sea,
holding on to the walls as he went for support, and breathing hard and
fast, like a man on a steep mountain. He never particularly addressed
me, and it is my belief he had as good as forgotten his confidences; but
his temper was more flighty, and, allowing for his bodily weakness, more
violent than ever. He had an alarming way now when he was drunk of
drawing his cutlass and laying it bare before him on the table. But,
with all that, he minded people less, and seemed shut up in his own
thoughts and rather wandering. Once, for instance, to our extreme
wonder, he piped up to a different air, a kind of country love-song,
that he must have learned in his youth before he had begun to follow the
sea.
So things passed until the day after the funeral and about three o'clock
of a bitter, foggy, frosty afternoon, I was standing at the door for a
moment, full of sad thoughts about my father, when I saw someone drawing
slowly near along the road. He was plainly blind, for he tapped before
him with a stick, and wore a great green shade over his eyes and nose;
and he was hunched, as if with age or weakness, and wore a huge old
tattered sea-cloak with a hood that made him appear positively deformed.
I never saw in my life a more dreadful-looking figure. He stopped a
little from the inn and, raising his voice in an odd sing-song,
addressed the air in front of him:
"Will any kind friend inform a poor blind man, who has lost the precious
sight of his eyes in the gracious defense of his native country,
England, and God bless King George!--where or in what part of this
country he may now be?"
"You are at the 'Admiral Benbow,' Black Hill Cove, my good man," said I.
"I hear a voice," said he, "a young voice. Will you give me your hand,
my kind young friend, and lead me in?"
I held out my hand, and the horrible, soft-spoken, eyeless creature
gripped it in a moment like a vise. I was so much startled that I
struggled to withdraw, but the blind man pulled me close up to him with
a single action of his arm.
"Now, boy," he said, "take me in to the captain."
"Sir," said I, "upon my word I dare not."
"Oh," he sneered, "that's it! Take me in straight, or I'll break your
arm."
He gave it, as he spoke, a wrench that made me cry out.
"Sir," said I, "it is for yourself I mean. The captain is not what he
used to be. He sits with a drawn cutlass. Another gentleman--"
"Come, now, march," interrupted he, and I never heard a voice so cruel,
and cold, and ugly as that blind man's. It cowed me more than the pain,
and I began to obey him at once, walking straight in at the door and
towards the parlor, where the sick old buccaneer was sitting, dazed with
rum. The blind man clung close to me, holding me in one iron fist, and
leaning almost more of his weight on me than I could carry. "Lead me
straight up to him, and when I'm in view, cry out, 'Here's a friend for
you, Bill.' If you don't, I'll do this," and with that he gave me a
twitch that I thought would have made me faint. Between this and that, I
was so utterly terrified by the blind beggar that I forgot my terror of
the captain, and as I opened the parlor door, cried out the words he had
ordered in a trembling voice.
The poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum went out of
him and left him staring sober. The expression of his face was not so
much of terror as of mortal sickness. He made a movement to rise, but I
do not believe he had enough force left in his body.
"Now, Bill, sit where you are," said the beggar. "If I can't see, I can
hear a finger stirring. Business is business. Hold out your left hand.
Boy, take his left hand by the wrist and bring it near to my right."
We both obeyed him to the letter, and I saw him pass something from the
hollow of the hand that held his stick into the palm of the captain's,
which closed upon it instantly.
"And now that's done," said the blind man, and at the words he suddenly
left hold of me, and with incredible accuracy and nimbleness, skipped
out of the parlor and into the road, where, as I stood motionless, I
could hear his stick go tap-tap-tapping into the distance.
It was some time before either I or the captain seemed to gather our
senses; but at length, and about the same moment, I released his wrist,
which I was still holding, and he drew in his hand, and looked sharply
into the palm.
"Ten o'clock!" he cried. "Six hours! We'll do them yet!" and he sprang
to his feet.
Even as he did so, he reeled, put his hand to his throat, stood swaying
for a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, fell from his whole
height face foremost to the floor.
I ran to him at once, calling to my mother. But haste was all in vain.
The captain had been struck dead by thundering apoplexy. It is a curious
thing to understand, for I had certainly never liked the man, though of
late I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead I
burst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and
the sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart.
----------CHAPTER 4---------
THE SEA-CHEST
I lost no time, of course, in telling my mother all that I knew, and
perhaps should have told her long before, and we saw ourselves at once
in a difficult and dangerous position. Some of the man's money--if he
had any--was certainly due to us, but it was not likely that our
captain's shipmates, above all the two specimens seen by me--Black Dog
and the blind beggar--would be inclined to give up their booty in
payment of the dead man's debts. The captain's order to mount at once
and ride for Doctor Livesey would have left my mother alone and
unprotected, which was not to be thought of. Indeed, it seemed
impossible for either of us to remain much longer in the house; the fall
of coals in the kitchen grate, the very ticking of the clock, filled us
with alarm. The neighborhood, to our ears, seemed haunted by approaching
footsteps; and what between the dead body of the captain on the parlor
floor and the thought of that detestable blind beggar hovering near at
hand and ready to return, there were moments when, as the saying goes, I
jumped in my skin for terror. Something must speedily be resolved upon,
and it occurred to us at last to go forth together and seek help in the
neighboring hamlet. No sooner said than done. Bareheaded as we were, we
ran out at once in the gathering evening and the frosty fog.
The hamlet lay not many hundred yards away, though out of view, on the
other side of the next cove; and what greatly encouraged me, it was in
an opposite direction from that whence the blind man had made his
appearance, and whither he had presumably returned. We were not many
minutes on the road, though we sometimes stopped to lay hold of each
other and hearken. But there was no unusual sound--nothing but the low
wash of the ripple and the croaking of the inmates of the wood.
It was already candle-light when we reached the hamlet, and I shall
never forget how much I was cheered to see the yellow shine in doors and
windows; but that, as it proved, was the best of the help we were likely
to get in that quarter. For--you would have thought men would have been
ashamed of themselves--no soul would consent to return with us to the
"Admiral Benbow." The more we told of our troubles, the more--man,
woman, and child--they clung to the shelter of their houses. The name of
Captain Flint, though it was strange to me, was well enough known to
some there, and carried a great weight of terror. Some of the men who
had been to field-work on the far side of the "Admiral Benbow"
remembered, besides, to have seen several strangers on the road, and,
taking them to be smugglers, to have bolted away; and one at least had
seen a little lugger in what we called Kitt's Hole. For that matter,
anyone who was a comrade of the captain's was enough to frighten them to
death. And the short and the long of the matter was, that while we could
get several who were willing enough to ride to Doctor Livesey's, which
lay in another direction, not one would help us to defend the inn.
They say cowardice is infectious; but then argument is, on the other
hand, a great emboldener; and so when each had said his say, my mother
made them a speech. She would not, she declared, lose money that
belonged to her fatherless boy. "If none of the rest of you dare," she
said, "Jim and I dare. Back we will go, the way we came, and small
thanks to you big, hulking, chicken-hearted men! We'll have that chest
open, if we die for it. And I'll thank you for that bag, Mrs. Crossley,
to bring back our lawful money in."
Of course I said I would go with my mother; and of course they all cried
out at our foolhardiness; but even then not a man would go along with
us. All they would do was to give me a loaded pistol, lest we were
attacked; and to promise to have horses ready saddled, in case we were
pursued on our return; while one lad was to ride forward to the doctor's
in search of armed assistance.
My heart was beating fiercely when we two set forth in the cold night
upon this dangerous venture. A full moon was beginning to rise and
peered redly through the upper edges of the fog, and this increased our
haste, for it was plain, before we came forth again, that all would be
bright as day, and our departure exposed to the eyes of any watchers. We
slipped along the hedges, noiseless and swift, nor did we see or hear
anything to increase our terrors till, to our huge relief, the door of
the "Admiral Benbow" had closed behind us.
I slipped the bolt at once, and we stood and panted for a moment in the
dark, alone in the house with the dead captain's body. Then my mother
got a candle in the bar, and, holding each other's hands, we advanced
into the parlor. He lay as we had left him, on his back, with his eyes
open, and one arm stretched out.
"Draw down the blind, Jim," whispered my mother; "they might come and
watch outside. And now," said she, when I had done so, "we have to get
the key off _that_; and who's to touch it, I should like to know!" and
she gave a kind of sob as she said the words.
I went down on my knees at once. On the floor close to his hand there
was a little round of paper, blackened on one side. I could not doubt
that this was the _black spot_; and, taking it up, I found written on
the other side, in a very good, clear hand, this short message, "You
have till ten to-night."
"He had till ten, mother," said I; and, just as I said it, our old clock
began striking. This sudden noise startled us shockingly; but the news
was good, for it was only six.
"Now, Jim," she said, "that key!"
I felt in his pockets, one after another. A few small coins, a thimble,
and some thread and big needles, a piece of pig-tail tobacco bitten away
at the end, his gully with the crooked handle, a pocket compass, and a
tinder-box, were all that they contained, and I began to despair.
"Perhaps it's round his neck," suggested my mother.
Overcoming a strong repugnance, I tore open his shirt at the neck, and
there, sure enough, hanging to a bit of tarry string, which I cut with
his own gully, we found the key. At this triumph we were filled with
hope, and hurried upstairs, without delay, to the little room where he
had slept so long, and where his box had stood since the day of his
arrival.
It was like any other seaman's chest on the outside, the initial "B"
burned on the top of it with a hot iron, and the corners somewhat
smashed and broken as by long, rough usage.
"Give me the key," said my mother, and though the lock was very stiff,
she had turned it and thrown back the lid in a twinkling.
A strong smell of tobacco and tar arose from the interior, but nothing
was to be seen on the top except a suit of very good clothes, carefully
brushed and folded. They had never been worn, my mother said. Under that
the miscellany began--a quadrant, a tin cannikin, several sticks of
tobacco, two brace of very handsome pistols, a piece of bar silver, an
old Spanish watch, and some other trinkets of little value and mostly of
foreign make, a pair of compasses mounted with brass, and five or six
curious West Indian shells. I have often wondered since why he should
have carried about these shells with him in his wandering, guilty, and
hunted life.
In the meantime we found nothing of any value but the silver and the
trinkets, and neither of these were in our way. Underneath there was an
old boat-cloak, whitened with sea-salt on many a harbor-bar. My mother
pulled it up with impatience, and there lay before us, the last things
in the chest, a bundle tied up in oilcloth, and looking like papers, and
a canvas bag that gave forth, at a touch, the jingle of gold.
"I'll show those rogues that I'm an honest woman," said my mother. "I'll
have my dues and not a farthing over. Hold Mrs. Crossley's bag." And she
began to count over the amount of the captain's score from the sailor's
bag into the one that I was holding.
It was a long, difficult business, for the coins were of all countries
and sizes--doubloons, and louis-d'ors, and guineas, and pieces of eight,
and I know not what besides, all shaken together at random. The guineas,
too, were about the scarcest, and it was with these only that my mother
knew how to make her count.
When we were about halfway through, I suddenly put my hand upon her arm,
for I had heard in the silent, frosty air, a sound that brought my heart
into my mouth--the tap-tapping of the blind man's stick upon the frozen
road. It drew nearer and nearer, while we sat holding our breath. Then
it struck sharp on the inn door, and then we could hear the handle being
turned, and the bolt rattling as the wretched being tried to enter; and
then there was a long time of silence both within and without. At last
the tapping recommenced, and to our indescribable joy and gratitude,
died slowly away again until it ceased to be heard.
"Mother," said I, "take the whole and let's be going"; for I was sure
the bolted door must have seemed suspicious, and would bring the whole
hornet's nest about our ears; though how thankful I was that I had
bolted it, none could tell who had never met that terrible blind man.
But my mother, frightened as she was, would not consent to take a
fraction more than was due to her, and was obstinately unwilling to be
content with less. It was not yet seven, she said, by a long way; she
knew her rights and she would have them; and she was still arguing with
me, when a little low whistle sounded a good way off upon the hill. That
was enough, and more than enough, for both of us.
"I'll take what I have," she said, jumping to her feet.
"And I'll take this to square the count," said I, picking up the oilskin
packet.
Next moment we were both groping downstairs, leaving the candle by the
empty chest; and the next we had opened the door and were in full
retreat. We had not started a moment too soon. The fog was rapidly
dispersing; already the moon shone quite clear on the high ground on
either side, and it was only in the exact bottom of the dell and round
the tavern door that a thin veil still hung unbroken to conceal the
first steps of our escape. Far less than halfway to the hamlet, very
little beyond the bottom of the hill, we must come forth into the
moonlight. Nor was this all; for the sound of several footsteps running
came already to our ears, and as we looked back in their direction, a
light, tossing to and fro, and still rapidly advancing, showed that one
of the new-comers carried a lantern.
"My dear," said my mother, suddenly, "take the money and run on. I am
going to faint."
This was certainly the end for both of us, I thought. How I cursed the
cowardice of the neighbors! how I blamed my poor mother for her honesty
and her greed, for her past foolhardiness and present weakness! We were
just at the little bridge, by good fortune, and I helped her, tottering
as she was, to the edge of the bank, where, sure enough, she gave a sigh
and fell on my shoulder. I do not know how I found the strength to do it
all, and I am afraid it was roughly done, but I managed to drag her down
the bank and a little way under the arch. Farther I could not move her,
for the bridge was too low to let me do more than crawl below it. So
there we had to stay--my mother almost entirely exposed, and both of us
within earshot of the inn.
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter 6 with the given context. | null | On reaching Dr. Liveseys house, they are informed that he has gone to the Hall with Squire Trelawney. They finally track him down, and when Dr. Livesey inquired about Captain Flint, the Squire tells them that he was the blood-thirstiest buccaneer that ever sailed who was feared by one and all. The Captain, he said, had amassed a great deal of wealth that they would require a whole ship to collect it. They open the oil skin packet that was found in the sea chest and find a book and sealed paper. The book listed information found in account books with latitudes and longitudes and an account of the number of ships they had plundered; information gathered over some twenty years. This does not help them much. But the sealed paper gives them valuable details about a nine-mile long island, Skeleton Island, with names of hills and the location of the bulk of the buried treasure. This suddenly brings light in the eyes of the Squire and Dr. Livesey. The Squire decides to unearth the hidden treasure and makes his way to Bristol to get the best ship and crew without wasting any time. He appoints Dr. Livesey as the ships doctor and Jim as a cabin boy and himself, the Captain. The doctor approves Mr. Trelawneys decision to accompany him on the condition that he would not tell anyone about their secret possession. He feared the men who had destroyed the Inn would be after them to get the details of the treasure and should anyone know of their plans, they would face grave problems. |
----------CHAPTER 5---------
THE LAST OF THE BLIND MAN
My curiosity, in a sense, was stronger than my fear; for I could not
remain where I was, but crept back to the bank again, whence, sheltering
my head behind a bush of broom, I might command the road before our
door. I was scarcely in position ere my enemies began to arrive, seven
or eight of them, running hard, their feet beating out of time along the
road, and the man with the lantern some paces in front. Three men ran
together, hand in hand; and I made out, even through the mist, that the
middle man of this trio was the blind beggar. The next moment his voice
showed me that I was right.
"Down with the door!" he cried.
"Ay, ay, sir!" answered two or three; and a rush was made upon the
"Admiral Benbow," the lantern-bearer following; and then I could see
them pause, and hear speeches passed in a lower key, as if they were
surprised to find the door open. But the pause was brief, for the blind
man again issued his commands. His voice sounded louder and higher, as
if he were afire with eagerness and rage.
"In, in, in!" he shouted, and cursed them for their delay.
Four or five of them obeyed at once, two remaining on the road with the
formidable beggar. There was a pause, then a cry of surprise, and then
a voice shouting from the house:
"Bill's dead!"
But the blind man swore at them again for their delay.
"Search him, some of you shirking lubbers, and the rest of you aloft and
get the chest," he cried.
I could hear their feet rattling up our old stairs, so that the house
must have shook with it. Promptly afterward fresh sounds of astonishment
arose; the window of the captain's room was thrown open with a slam and
a jingle of broken glass, and a man leaned out into the moonlight, head
and shoulders, and addressed the blind beggar on the road below him.
[Illustration: _"Pew!" he cried, "they've been before us"_ (Page 34)]
"Pew!" he cried, "they've been before us. Someone's turned the chest out
alow and aloft."
"Is it there?" roared Pew.
"The money's there."
The blind man cursed the money.
"Flint's fist, I mean," he cried.
"We don't see it here, nohow," returned the man.
"Here, you below there, is it on Bill?" cried the blind man again.
At that, another fellow, probably he who had remained below to search
the captain's body, came to the door of the inn. "Bill's been overhauled
a'ready," said he, "nothin' left."
"It's these people of the inn--it's that boy. I wish I had put his eyes
out!" cried the blind man, Pew. "They were here no time ago--they had
the door bolted when I tried it. Scatter, lads, and find 'em."
"Sure enough, they left their glim here," said the fellow from the
window.
"Scatter and find 'em! Rout the house out!" reiterated Pew, striking
with his stick upon the road.
Then there followed a great to-do through all our old inn, heavy feet
pounding to and fro, furniture all thrown over, doors kicked in, until
the very rocks re-echoed, and the men came out again, one after another,
on the road, and declared that we were nowhere to be found. And just
then the same whistle that had alarmed my mother and myself over the
dead captain's money was once more clearly audible through the night,
but this time twice repeated. I had thought it to be the blind man's
trumpet, so to speak, summoning his crew to the assault; but I now found
that it was a signal from the hillside toward the hamlet, and, from its
effect upon the buccaneers, a signal to warn them of approaching danger.
"There's Dirk again," said one. "Twice! We'll have to budge, mates."
"Budge, you skulk!" cried Pew. "Dirk was a fool and a coward from the
first--you wouldn't mind him. They must be close by; they can't be far;
you have your hands on it. Scatter and look for them, dogs. Oh, shiver
my soul," he cried, "if I had eyes!"
This appeal seemed to produce some effect, for two of the fellows began
to look here and there among the lumber, but half-heartedly, I thought,
and with half an eye to their own danger all the time, while the rest
stood irresolute on the road.
"You have your hands on thousands, you fools, and you hang a leg! You'd
be as rich as kings if you could find it, and you know it's here, and
you stand there skulking. There wasn't one of you dared face Bill, and I
did it--a blind man! And I'm to lose my chance for you! I'm to be a
poor, crawling beggar, sponging for rum, when I might be rolling in a
coach! If you had the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit, you would catch
them still."
"Hang it, Pew, we've got the doubloons!" grumbled one.
"They might have hid the blessed thing," said another. "Take the
Georges, Pew, and don't stand here squalling."
Squalling was the word for it; Pew's anger rose so high at these
objections; till at last, his passion completely taking the upper hand,
he struck at them right and left in his blindness, and his stick sounded
heavily on more than one.
These, in their turn, cursed back at the blind miscreant, threatened him
in horrid terms, and tried in vain to catch the stick and wrest it from
his grasp.
This quarrel was the saving of us; for while it was still raging,
another sound came from the top of the hill on the side of the
hamlet--the tramp of horses galloping. Almost at the same time a
pistol-shot, flash, and report came from the hedge side. And that was
plainly the last signal of danger, for the buccaneers turned at once and
ran, separating in every direction, one seaward along the cove, one
slant across the hill, and so on, so that in half a minute not a sign of
them remained but Pew. Him they had deserted, whether in sheer panic or
out of revenge for his ill words and blows, I know not; but there he
remained behind, tapping up and down the road in a frenzy, and groping
and calling for his comrades. Finally he took the wrong turn, and ran a
few steps past me, towards the hamlet, crying:
"Johnny, Black Dog, Dirk," and other names, "you won't leave old Pew,
mates--not old Pew?"
Just then the noise of horses topped the rise, and four or five riders
came in sight in the moonlight, and swept at full gallop down the slope.
At this Pew saw his error, turned with a scream, and ran straight for
the ditch, into which he rolled. But he was on his feet again in a
second, and made another dash, now utterly bewildered, right under the
nearest of the coming horses.
The rider tried to save him, but in vain. Down went Pew with a cry that
rang high into the night, and the four hoofs trampled and spurned him
and passed by. He fell on his side, then gently collapsed upon his face,
and moved no more.
I leaped to my feet and hailed the riders. They were pulling up, at any
rate, horrified at the accident, and I soon saw what they were. One,
tailing out behind the rest, was a lad that had gone from the hamlet to
Doctor Livesey's; the rest were revenue officers, whom he had met by the
way, and with whom he had had the intelligence to return at once. Some
news of the lugger in Kitt's Hole had found its way to Supervisor Dance,
and set him forth that night in our direction, and to that circumstance
my mother and I owed our preservation from death.
Pew was dead, stone dead. As for my mother, when we had carried her up
to the hamlet, a little cold water and salts very soon brought her back
again, and she was none the worse for her terror, though she still
continued to deplore the balance of the money.
In the meantime the supervisor rode on, as fast as he could, to Kitt's
Hole; but his men had to dismount and grope down the dingle, leading,
and sometimes supporting, their horses, and in continual fear of
ambushes; so it was no great matter for surprise that when they got
down to the Hole the lugger was already under way, though still close
in. He hailed her. A voice replied, telling him to keep out of the
moonlight, or he would get some lead in him, and at the same time a
bullet whistled close by his arm. Soon after, the lugger doubled the
point and disappeared. Mr. Dance stood there, as he said, "like a fish
out of water," and all he could do was to dispatch a man to B---- to
warn the cutter. "And that," said he, "is just about as good as nothing.
They've got off clean, and there's an end. Only," he added, "I'm glad I
trod on Master Pew's corns"; for by this time he had heard my story.
I went back with him to the "Admiral Benbow," and you cannot imagine a
house in such a state of smash; the very clock had been thrown down by
these fellows in their furious hunt after my mother and myself; and
though nothing had actually been taken away except the captain's
money-bag and a little silver from the till, I could see at once that we
were ruined. Mr. Dance could make nothing of the scene.
"They got the money, you say? Well, then, Hawkins, what in fortune were
they after? More money, I suppose?"
"No, sir; not money, I think," replied I. "In fact, sir, I believe I
have the thing in my breast-pocket; and, to tell you the truth, I should
like to get it put in safety."
"To be sure, boy; quite right," said he. "I'll take it, if you like."
"I thought, perhaps, Doctor Livesey--" I began.
"Perfectly right," he interrupted, very cheerily, "perfectly right--a
gentleman and a magistrate. And, now I come to think of it, I might as
well ride round there myself and report to him or squire. Master Pew's
dead, when all's done; not that I regret it, but he's dead, you see, and
people will make it out against an officer of his Majesty's revenue, if
make it out they can. Now, I'll tell you, Hawkins, if you like, I'll
take you along."
I thanked him heartily for the offer, and we walked back to the hamlet
where the horses were. By the time I had told mother of my purpose they
were all in the saddle.
"Dogger," said Mr. Dance, "you have a good horse; take up this lad
behind you."
As soon as I was mounted, holding on to Dogger's belt, the supervisor
gave the word, and the party struck out at a bouncing trot on the road
to Doctor Livesey's house.
[Illustration]
----------CHAPTER 6---------
THE CAPTAIN'S PAPERS
We rode hard all the way, till we drew up before Doctor Livesey's door.
The house was all dark to the front.
Mr. Dance told me to jump down and knock, and Dogger gave me a stirrup
to descend by. The door was opened almost at once by the maid.
"Is Doctor Livesey in?" I asked.
"No," she said. He had come home in the afternoon, but had gone up to
the Hall to dine and pass the evening with the squire.
"So there we go, boys," said Mr. Dance.
This time, as the distance was short, I did not mount, but ran with
Dogger's stirrup-leather to the lodge gates, and up the long, leafless,
moonlit avenue to where the white line of the Hall buildings looked on
either hand on great old gardens. Here Mr. Dance dismounted and, taking
me along with him, was admitted at a word into the house.
The servant led us down a matted passage, and showed us at the end into
a great library, all lined with bookcases and busts upon top of them,
where the squire and Doctor Livesey sat, pipe in hand, on either side of
a bright fire.
I had never seen the squire so near at hand. He was a tall man, over six
feet high, and broad in proportion, and he had a bluff, rough-and-ready
face, all roughened and reddened and lined in his long travels. His
eyebrows were very black, and moved readily, and this gave him a look of
some temper, not bad, you would say, but quick and high.
"Come in, Mr. Dance," said he, very stately and condescending.
"Good evening, Dance," said the doctor, with a nod. "And good evening to
you, friend Jim. What good wind brings you here?"
The supervisor stood up straight and stiff, and told his story like a
lesson; and you should have seen how the two gentlemen leaned forward
and looked at each other, and forgot to smoke in their surprise and
interest. When they heard how my mother went back to the inn, Doctor
Livesey fairly slapped his thigh, and the squire cried "Bravo!" and
broke his long pipe against the grate. Long before it was done, Mr.
Trelawney (that, you will remember, was the squire's name) had got up
from his seat, and was striding about the room, and the doctor, as if to
hear the better, had taken off his powdered wig, and sat there, looking
very strange indeed with his own close-cropped, black poll.
At last Mr. Dance finished the story.
"Mr. Dance," said the squire, "you are a very noble fellow. And as for
riding down that black, atrocious miscreant, I regard it as an act of
virtue, sir, like stamping on a cockroach. This lad Hawkins is a trump,
I perceive. Hawkins, will you ring that bell? Mr. Dance must have some
ale."
"And so, Jim," said the doctor, "you have the thing that they were
after, have you?"
"Here it is, sir," said I, and gave him the oilskin packet.
The doctor looked it all over, as if his fingers were itching to open
it; but, instead of doing that, he put it quietly in the pocket of his
coat.
"Squire," said he, "when Dance has had his ale he must, of course, be
off on his Majesty's service; but I mean to keep Jim Hawkins here to
sleep at my house, and, with your permission, I propose we should have
up the cold pie, and let him sup."
"As you will, Livesey," said the squire; "Hawkins has earned better than
cold pie."
So a big pigeon pie was brought in and put on a side-table, and I made a
hearty supper, for I was as hungry as a hawk, while Mr. Dance was
further complimented, and at last dismissed.
"And now, squire," said the doctor.
"And now, Livesey," said the squire, in the same breath.
"One at a time, one at a time," laughed Doctor Livesey. "You have heard
of this Flint, I suppose?"
"Heard of him!" cried the squire. "Heard of him, you say! He was the
blood-thirstiest buccaneer that sailed. Blackbeard was a child to Flint.
The Spaniards were so prodigiously afraid of him that, I tell you, sir,
I was sometimes proud he was an Englishman. I've seen his topsails with
these eyes, off Trinidad, and the cowardly son of a rum-puncheon that I
sailed with put back--put back, sir, into Port of Spain."
"Well, I've heard of him myself, in England," said the doctor. "But the
point is, had he money?"
"Money!" cried the squire. "Have you heard the story? What were these
villains after but money? What do they care for but money? For what
would they risk their rascal carcasses but money?"
"That we shall soon know," replied the doctor. "But you are so
confoundedly hot-headed and exclamatory that I cannot get a word in.
What I want to know is this: Supposing that I have here in my pocket
some clue to where Flint buried his treasure, will that treasure amount
to much?"
"Amount, sir!" cried the squire. "It will amount to this: If we have the
clue you talk about, I'll fit out a ship in Bristol dock, and take you
and Hawkins here along, and I'll have that treasure if I search a year."
"Very well," said the doctor. "Now, then, if Jim is agreeable, we'll
open the packet," and he laid it before him on the table.
The bundle was sewn together, and the doctor had to get out his
instrument case and cut the stitches with his medical scissors. It
contained two things--a book and a sealed paper.
"First of all we'll try the book," observed the doctor.
The squire and I were both peering over his shoulder as he opened it,
for Doctor Livesey had kindly motioned me to come round from the
side-table, where I had been eating, to enjoy the sport of the search.
On the first page there were only some scraps of writing, such as a man
with a pen in his hand might make for idleness or practice. One was the
same as the tattoo mark, "Billy Bones his fancy"; then there was "Mr. W.
Bones, mate," "No more rum," "Off Palm Key he got itt," and some other
snatches, mostly single words and unintelligible. I could not help
wondering who it was that had "got itt," and what "itt" was that he got.
A knife in his back as like as not.
"Not much instruction there," said Doctor Livesey, as he passed on.
The next ten or twelve pages were filled with a curious series of
entries. There was a date at one end of the line and at the other a sum
of money, as in common account-books; but instead of explanatory
writing, only a varying number of crosses between the two. On the 12th
of June, 1745, for instance, a sum of seventy pounds had plainly become
due to someone, and there was nothing but six crosses to explain the
cause. In a few cases, to be sure, the name of a place would be added,
as "Offe Caraccas"; or a mere entry of latitude and longitude, as "62
deg. 17' 20", 19 deg. 2' 40"."
The record lasted over nearly twenty years, the amount of the separate
entries growing larger as time went on, and at the end a grand total had
been made out, after five or six wrong additions, and these words
appended, "Bones, his pile."
"I can't make head or tail of this," said Doctor Livesey.
"The thing is as clear as noonday," cried the squire. "This is the
black-hearted hound's account-book. These crosses stand for the names of
ships or towns that they sank or plundered. The sums are the scoundrel's
share, and where he feared an ambiguity, you see he added something
clearer. 'Offe Caraccas,' now; you see, here was some unhappy vessel
boarded off that coast. God help the poor souls that manned her--coral
long ago."
"Right!" said the doctor. "See what it is to be a traveler. Right! And
the amounts increase, you see, as he rose in rank."
There was little else in the volume but a few bearings of places noted
in the blank leaves toward the end, and a table for reducing French,
English, and Spanish moneys to a common value.
"Thrifty man!" cried the doctor. "He wasn't the one to be cheated."
"And now," said the squire, "for the other."
The paper had been sealed in several places with a thimble by way of
seal; the very thimble, perhaps, that I had found in the captain's
pocket. The doctor opened the seals with great care, and there fell out
the map of an island, with latitude and longitude, soundings, names of
hills and bays and inlets, and every particular that would be needed to
bring a ship to a safe anchorage upon its shores. It was about nine
miles long and five across, shaped, you might say, like a fat dragon
standing up, and had two fine landlocked harbors, and a hill in the
center part marked "The Spy-glass." There were several additions of a
later date; but, above all, three crosses of red ink--two on the north
part of the island, one in the southwest, and, beside this last, in the
same red ink, and in a small, neat hand, very different from the
captain's tottery characters, these words: "Bulk of treasure here."
Over on the back the same hand had written this further information:
"Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to the N. of N.N.E.
"Skeleton Island E.S.E. and by E.
"Ten feet.
"The bar silver is in the north cache; you can find it by the trend
of the east hummock, ten fathoms south of the black crag with the
face on it.
"The arms are easy found, in the sandhill, N. point of north inlet
cape, bearing E. and a quarter N.
"J. F."
That was all, but brief as it was, and, to me, incomprehensible, it
filled the squire and Doctor Livesey with delight.
"Livesey," said the squire, "you will give up this wretched practice at
once. To-morrow I start for Bristol. In three weeks' time--three
weeks!--two weeks--ten days--we'll have the best ship, sir, and the
choicest crew in England. Hawkins shall come as cabin-boy. You'll make a
famous cabin-boy, Hawkins. You, Livesey, are ship's doctor; I am
admiral. We'll take Redruth, Joyce, and Hunter. We'll have favorable
winds, a quick passage, and not the least difficulty in finding the
spot, and money to eat--to roll in--to play duck and drake with ever
after."
"Trelawney," said the doctor, "I'll go with you; and I'll go bail for
it, so will Jim, and be a credit to the undertaking. There's only one
man I'm afraid of."
"And who's that?" cried the squire. "Name the dog, sir!"
"You," replied the doctor, "for you cannot hold your tongue. We are not
the only men who know of this paper. These fellows who attacked the inn
to-night--bold, desperate blades, for sure--and the rest who stayed
aboard that lugger, and more, I dare say, not far off, are, one and all,
through thick and thin, bound that they'll get that money. We must none
of us go alone till we get to sea. Jim and I shall stick together in the
meanwhile; you'll take Joyce and Hunter when you ride to Bristol, and,
from first to last, not one of us must breathe a word of what we've
found."
"Livesey," returned the squire, "you are always in the right of it. I'll
be as silent as the grave."
PART II
THE SEA-COOK
|
Treasure Island.part 2.ch | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 7, utilizing the provided context. | chapter 7|chapter 8|chapter 9 | So preparations begin for their sea voyage, but nothing goes quite as planned. Doctor Livesey goes to London to find another doctor to cover for him while he's away, and Squire Trelawney goes to Bristol to arrange for their ship. Jim is left behind to imagine what the map is going to lead them to. Finally he gets a letter from Squire Trelawney. The letter is addressed to Doctor Livesey, but there's a note that says Jim can open it if Doctor Livesey is away. Squire Trelawney has found them a ship. It's called the Hispaniola, named after the Caribbean island that's home to the modern states of Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Unfortunately, in hiring this ship, Squire Trelawney has also told everyone in Bristol that he's on a treasure hunt. Jim knows that Squire Trelawney's chattiness won't make Doctor Livesey happy. Tom Redruth, one of the squire's servants, who is reading the letter alongside Jim, thinks Squire Trelawney should be allowed to do whatever he wants since he's a squire. Jim reads on: Squire Trelawney has had some trouble finding a crew for the ship. One day, Squire Trelawney got lucky: an elderly sailor with one leg approached him. The man is a cook and wants to go out on one last sea voyage. The man tells Squire Trelawney that his name is Long John Silver. Squire Trelawney is impressed that the sailor has lost his leg in a British naval battle. He's sure that Long John Silver is honest. Long John Silver helps Squire Trelawney find the rest of the necessary crew, all tough-looking guys. In fact, Long John Silver is so very helpful that he convinces Squire Trelawney to fire two of the guys he had already hired because they seem to be "fresh-water swabs" - in other words, bad sailors. Squire Trelawney seems to be in a great mood. He encourages Doctor Livesey to come down to Bristol as soon as possible, along with Jim and Tom Redruth, the servant. Squire Trelawney adds one small detail: his servant Blandly is going to send a search party after the Hispaniola if he doesn't hear from the squire and Doctor Livesey by August. It's now March. All in all, Squire Trelawney seems to be regarding this whole thing as a kind of game on the high seas, and he's very excited to get going. Finishing the letter, Jim is also thrilled. He's so excited that he despises the servant, Tom Redruth, for grumbling next to him. The next morning, Jim goes to the Admiral Benbow Inn to visit his mother one last time. Squire Trelawney has had the whole inn repainted, and his mother looks happy and comfortable. The next morning, Jim sets out on his first real trip away from home. Tom and Jim arrive at Bristol the following morning. Squire Trelawney is staying at an inn near the docks. The smell of the sea fills Jim with exciting dreams of sailors and voyages and distant places. Squire Trelawney appears in front of Jim all dressed up like a naval officer. He announces that they are going to set sail the next day. |
----------CHAPTER 7---------
I GO TO BRISTOL
It was longer than the squire imagined ere we were ready for the sea,
and none of our first plans--not even Doctor Livesey's, of keeping me
beside him--could be carried out as we intended. The doctor had to go to
London for a physician to take charge of his practice; the squire was
hard at work at Bristol; and I lived on at the Hall under the charge of
old Redruth, the gamekeeper, almost a prisoner, but full of sea-dreams
and the most charming anticipations of strange islands and adventures. I
brooded by the hour together over the map, all the details of which I
well remembered. Sitting by the fire in the housekeeper's room, I
approached that island, in my fancy, from every possible direction; I
explored every acre of its surface; I climbed a thousand times to that
tall hill they call the Spy-glass, and from the top enjoyed the most
wonderful and changing prospects. Sometimes the isle was thick with
savages, with whom we fought; sometimes full of dangerous animals that
hunted us; but in all my fancies nothing occurred to me so strange and
tragic as our actual adventures.
So the weeks passed on, till one fine day there came a letter addressed
to Doctor Livesey, with this addition, "To be opened in the case of his
absence, by Tom Redruth or Young Hawkins." Obeying this order, we found,
or rather I found--for the gamekeeper was a poor hand at reading
anything but print--the following important news:
"_Old Anchor Inn, Bristol, March 1, 17--._
"DEAR LIVESEY: As I do not know whether you are at the Hall or still
in London, I send this in double to both places.
"The ship is bought and fitted. She lies at anchor, ready for sea.
You never imagined a sweeter schooner--a child might sail her--two
hundred tons; name, _Hispaniola_.
"I got her through my old friend, Blandly, who has proved himself
throughout the most surprising trump. The admirable fellow literally
slaved in my interest, and so, I may say, did every one in Bristol,
as soon as they got wind of the port we sailed for--treasure, I
mean."
"Redruth," said I, interrupting the letter, "Doctor Livesey will not
like that. The squire has been talking, after all."
"Well, who's a better right?" growled the gamekeeper. "A pretty rum go
if Squire ain't to talk for Doctor Livesey, I should think."
At that I gave up all attempt at commentary, and read straight on:
"Blandly himself found the _Hispaniola_, and by the most admirable
management got her for the merest trifle. There is a class of men in
Bristol monstrously prejudiced against Blandly. They go the length
of declaring that this honest creature would do anything for money;
that the _Hispaniola_ belonged to him, and that he sold to me
absurdly high--the most transparent calumnies. None of them dare,
however, to deny the merits of the ship.
"So far there was not a hitch. The workpeople, to be sure--riggers
and what not--were most annoyingly slow, but time cured that. It was
the crew that troubled me.
"I wished a round score of men--in case of natives, buccaneers, or
the odious French--and I had the worry of the deuce itself to find
so much as half a dozen, till the most remarkable stroke of fortune
brought me the very man that I required.
"I was standing on the dock, when, by the merest accident, I fell in
talk with him. I found he was an old sailor, kept a public house,
knew all the seafaring men in Bristol, had lost his health ashore,
and wanted a good berth as cook to get to sea again. He had hobbled
down there that morning, he said, to get a smell of the salt.
"I was monstrously touched--so would you have been--and, out of pure
pity, I engaged him on the spot to be ship's cook. Long John Silver
he is called, and has lost a leg; but that I regarded as a
recommendation, since he lost it in his country's service, under the
immortal Hawke. He has no pension, Livesey. Imagine the abominable
age we live in!
"Well, sir, I thought I had only found a cook, but it was a crew I
had discovered. Between Silver and myself we got together in a few
days a company of the toughest old salts imaginable--not pretty to
look at, but fellows, by their faces, of the most indomitable
spirit. I declare we could fight a frigate.
"Long John even got rid of two out of the six or seven I had already
engaged. He showed me in a moment that they were just the sort of
fresh-water swabs we had to fear in an adventure of importance.
"I am in the most magnificent health and spirits, eating like a
bull, sleeping like a tree, yet I shall not enjoy a moment till I
hear my old tarpaulins tramping round the capstan. Seaward ho! Hang
the treasure! It's the glory of the sea that has turned my head. So
now, Livesey, come post; do not lose an hour, if you respect me.
"Let young Hawkins go at once to see his mother, with Redruth for a
guard, and then both come full speed to Bristol.
"JOHN TRELAWNEY.
"P.S.--I did not tell you that Blandly, who, by the way, is to send
a consort after us if we don't turn up by the end of August, had
found an admirable fellow for sailing-master--a stiff man, which I
regret, but, in all other respects, a treasure. Long John Silver
unearthed a very competent man for a mate, a man named Arrow. I have
a boatswain who pipes, Livesey; so things shall go man-o'-war
fashion on board the good ship _Hispaniola_.
"I forgot to tell you that Silver is a man of substance; I know of
my own knowledge that he has a banker's account, which has never
been overdrawn. He leaves his wife to manage the inn; and as she is
a woman of color, a pair of old bachelors like you and I may be
excused for guessing that it is the wife, quite as much as the
health, that sends him back to roving.
"J. T.
"P.P.S.--Hawkins may stay one night with his mother.
"J. T."
You can fancy the excitement into which that letter put me. I was half
beside myself with glee, and if ever I despised a man, it was old Tom
Redruth, who could do nothing but grumble and lament. Any of the
under-gamekeepers would gladly have changed places with him; but such
was not the squire's pleasure, and the squire's pleasure was like law
among them all. Nobody but old Redruth would have dared so much as even
to grumble.
The next morning he and I set out on foot for the "Admiral Benbow," and
there I found my mother in good health and spirits. The captain, who had
so long been a cause of so much discomfort, was gone where the wicked
cease from troubling. The squire had had everything repaired, and the
public rooms and the sign repainted, and had added some furniture--above
all a beautiful armchair for mother in the bar. He had found her a boy
as an apprentice also, so that she should not want help while I was
gone.
It was on seeing that boy that I understood, for the first time, my
situation. I had thought up to that moment of the adventures before me,
not at all of the home that I was leaving; and now at sight of this
clumsy stranger, who was to stay here in my place beside my mother, I
had my first attack of tears. I am afraid I led that boy a dog's life;
for as he was new to the work, I had a hundred opportunities of setting
him right and putting him down, and I was not slow to profit by them.
The night passed, and the next day, after dinner, Redruth and I were
afoot again and on the road. I said good-by to mother and the cove where
I had lived since I was born, and the dear old "Admiral Benbow"--since
he was repainted, no longer quite so dear. One of my last thoughts was
of the captain, who had so often strode along the beach with his cocked
hat, his saber-cut cheek, and his old brass telescope. Next moment we
had turned the corner, and my home was out of sight.
The mail picked us up about dusk at the "Royal George" on the heath. I
was wedged in between Redruth and a stout old gentleman, and in spite of
the swift motion and the cold night air, I must have dozed a great deal
from the very first, and then slept like a log up hill and down dale,
through stage after stage; for when I was awakened at last, it was by a
punch in the ribs, and I opened my eyes to find that we were standing
still before a large building in a city street, and that the day had
already broken a long time.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"Bristol," said Tom. "Get down."
Mr. Trelawney had taken up his residence at an inn far down the docks,
to superintend the work upon the schooner. Thither we had now to walk,
and our way, to my great delight, lay along the quays and beside the
great multitude of ships of all sizes and rigs and nations. In one,
sailors were singing at their work; in another, there were men aloft,
high over my head, hanging to threads that seemed no thicker than a
spider's. Though I had lived by the shore all my life, I seemed never to
have been near the sea till then. The smell of tar and salt was
something new. I saw the most wonderful figureheads, that had all been
far over the ocean. I saw, besides, many old sailors, with rings in
their ears, and whiskers curled in ringlets, and tarry pig-tails, and
their swaggering, clumsy sea-walk; and if I had seen as many kings or
archbishops I could not have been more delighted.
And I was going to sea myself; to sea in a schooner, with a piping
boatswain, and pig-tailed singing seamen; to sea, bound for an unknown
island, and to seek for buried treasure.
While I was still in this delightful dream, we came suddenly in front of
a large inn, and met Squire Trelawney, all dressed out like a sea
officer, in stout blue cloth, coming out of the door with a smile on his
face, and a capital imitation of a sailor's walk.
"Here you are!" he cried; "and the doctor came last night from London.
Bravo!--the ship's company complete."
"Oh, sir," cried I, "when do we sail?"
"Sail!" says he. "We sail to-morrow."
----------CHAPTER 8---------
AT THE SIGN OF THE "SPY-GLASS"
When I had done breakfasting, the squire gave me a note addressed to
John Silver, at the sign of the "Spy-glass," and told me I should easily
find the place by following the line of the docks, and keeping a bright
lookout for a little tavern with a large brass telescope for a sign. I
set off, overjoyed at this opportunity to see some more of the ships and
seamen, and picked my way among a great crowd of people and carts and
bales, for the dock was now at its busiest, until I found the tavern in
question.
It was a bright enough little place of entertainment. The sign was newly
painted; the windows had neat red curtains; the floor was cleanly
sanded. There was a street on each side, and an open door on both, which
made the large, low room pretty clear to see in, in spite of clouds of
tobacco smoke.
The customers were mostly seafaring men, and they talked so loudly that
I hung at the door, almost afraid to enter.
As I was waiting, a man came out of a side room, and at a glance I was
sure he must be Long John. His left leg was cut off close by the hip,
and under the left shoulder he carried a crutch, which he managed with
wonderful dexterity, hopping about upon it like a bird. He was very tall
and strong, with a face as big as a ham--plain and pale, but
intelligent and smiling. Indeed, he seemed in the most cheerful spirits,
whistling as he moved about among the tables, with a merry word or a
slap on the shoulder for the more favored of his guests.
Now, to tell you the truth, from the very first mention of Long John in
Squire Trelawney's letter, I had taken a fear in my mind that he might
prove to be the very one-legged sailor whom I had watched for so long at
the old "Benbow." But one look at the man before me was enough. I had
seen the captain, and Black Dog, and the blind man Pew, and I thought I
knew what a buccaneer was like--a very different creature, according to
me, from this clean and pleasant-tempered landlord.
I plucked up courage at once, crossed the threshold, and walked right up
to the man where he stood, propped on his crutch, talking to a customer.
"Mr. Silver, sir?" I asked, holding out the note.
"Yes, my lad," said he; "such is my name, to be sure. And who may you
be?" And when he saw the squire's letter he seemed to me to give
something almost like a start.
"Oh!" said he, quite aloud, and offering his hand, "I see. You are our
new cabin-boy; pleased I am to see you."
And he took my hand in his large firm grasp.
Just then one of the customers at the far side rose suddenly and made
for the door. It was close by him, and he was out in the street in a
moment. But his hurry had attracted my notice, and I recognized him at a
glance. It was the tallow-faced man, wanting two fingers, who had come
first to the "Admiral Benbow."
"Oh," I cried, "stop him! it's Black Dog!"
"I don't care two coppers who he is," cried Silver, "but he hasn't paid
his score. Harry, run and catch him."
One of the others who was nearest the door leaped up and started in
pursuit.
"If he were Admiral Hawke he shall pay his score," cried Silver; and
then, relinquishing my hand, "Who did you say he was?" he asked. "Black
what?"
"Dog, sir," said I. "Has Mr. Trelawney not told you of the buccaneers?
He was one of them."
"So?" cried Silver. "In my house! Ben, run and help Harry. One of those
swabs, was he? Was that you drinking with him, Morgan? Step up here."
The man whom he called Morgan--an old, gray-haired, mahogany-faced
sailor--came forward pretty sheepishly, rolling his quid.
[Illustration: _"Now, Morgan," said Long John, very sternly, "you never
clapped your eyes on that Black Dog before, did you, now?"_ (Page 57)]
"Now, Morgan," said Long John, very sternly, "you never clapped your
eyes on that Black--Black Dog before, did you, now?"
"Not I, sir," said Morgan, with a salute.
"You didn't know his name, did you?"
"No, sir."
"By the powers, Tom Morgan, it's as good for you!" exclaimed the
landlord. "If you had been mixed up with the like of that, you would
never have put another foot in my house, you may lay to that. And what
was he saying to you?"
"I don't rightly know, sir," answered Morgan.
"Do you call that a head on your shoulders, or a blessed dead-eye?"
cried Long John. "Don't rightly know, don't you? Perhaps you don't
happen to rightly know who you was speaking to, perhaps? Come, now,
what was he jawing--v'yages, cap'ns, ships? Pipe up! What was it?"
"We was a-talkin' of keel-hauling," answered Morgan.
"Keel-hauling, was you? and a mighty suitable thing, too, and you may
lay to that. Get back to your place for a lubber, Tom."
And then, as Morgan rolled back to his seat, Silver added to me, in a
confidential whisper, that was very flattering, as I thought:
"He's quite an honest man, Tom Morgan, on'y stupid. And now," he ran on
again, aloud, "let's see--Black Dog? No, I don't know the name, not I.
Yet I kind of think I've--yes, I've seen the swab. He used to come here
with a blind beggar, he used."
"That he did, you may be sure," said I. "I knew that blind man, too. His
name was Pew."
"It was!" cried Silver, now quite excited. "Pew! That were his name for
certain. Ah, he looked a shark, he did! If we run down this Black Dog
now, there'll be news for Cap'n Trelawney! Ben's a good runner; few
seamen run better than Ben. He should run him down, hand over hand, by
the powers! He talked o' keel-hauling, did he? _I'll_ keel-haul him!"
All the time he was jerking out these phrases he was stumping up and
down the tavern on his crutch, slapping tables with his hand, and giving
such a show of excitement as would have convinced an Old Bailey judge or
a Bow Street runner. My suspicions had been thoroughly reawakened on
finding Black Dog at the "Spy-glass," and I watched the cook narrowly.
But he was too deep, and too ready, and too clever for me, and by the
time the two men had come back out of breath, and confessed that they
had lost the track in a crowd, and been scolded like thieves, I would
have gone bail for the innocence of Long John Silver.
"See here, now, Hawkins," said he, "here's a blessed hard thing on a man
like me, now, ain't it? There's Cap'n Trelawney--what's he to think?
Here I have this confounded son of a Dutchman sitting in my own house,
drinking of my own rum! Here you comes and tells me of it plain; and
here I let him give us all the slip before my blessed deadlights! Now,
Hawkins, you do me justice with the cap'n. You're a lad, you are, but
you're as smart as paint. I see that when you first came in. Now, here
it is: What could I do, with this old timber I hobble on? When I was an
A B master mariner I'd have come up alongside of him, hand over hand,
and broached him to in a brace of old shakes, I would; and now--"
And then, all of a sudden, he stopped, and his jaw dropped as though he
had remembered something.
"The score!" he burst out. "Three goes o' rum! Why, shiver my timbers,
if I hadn't forgotten my score!"
And, falling on a bench, he laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks.
I could not help joining, and we laughed together, peal after peal,
until the tavern rang again.
"Why, what a precious old sea-calf I am!" he said, at last, wiping his
cheeks. "You and me should get on well, Hawkins, for I'll take my davy I
should be rated ship's boy. But, come, now, stand by to go about. This
won't do. Dooty is dooty, messmates. I'll put on my old cocked hat and
step along of you to Cap'n Trelawney, and report this here affair. For,
mind you, it's serious, young Hawkins; and neither you nor me's come out
of it with what I should make so bold as to call credit. Nor you
neither, says you; not smart--none of the pair of us smart. But dash my
buttons! that was a good 'un about my score."
And he began to laugh again, and that so heartily, that though I did not
see the joke as he did, I was again obliged to join him in his mirth.
On our little walk along the quays he made himself the most interesting
companion, telling me about the different ships that we passed by, their
rig, tonnage, and nationality, explaining the work that was going
forward--how one was discharging, another taking in cargo, and a third
making ready for sea; and every now and then telling me some little
anecdote of ships or seamen, or repeating a nautical phrase till I had
learned it perfectly. I began to see that here was one of the best of
possible shipmates.
When we got to the inn, the squire and Doctor Livesey were seated
together, finishing a quart of ale with a toast in it, before they
should go aboard the schooner on a visit of inspection.
Long John told the story from first to last, with a great deal of spirit
and the most perfect truth. "That was how it were, now, weren't it,
Hawkins?" he would say, now and again, and I could always bear him
entirely out.
The two gentlemen regretted that Black Dog had got away, but we all
agreed there was nothing to be done, and after he had been complimented,
Long John took up his crutch and departed.
"All hands aboard by four this afternoon!" shouted the squire after him.
"Ay, ay, sir," cried the cook, in the passage.
"Well, squire," said Doctor Livesey, "I don't put much faith in your
discoveries, as a general thing, but I will say this--John Silver suits
me."
"That man's a perfect trump," declared the squire.
"And now," added the doctor, "Jim may come on board with us, may he
not?"
"To be sure he may," said the squire. "Take your hat, Hawkins, and we'll
see the ship."
[Illustration]
----------CHAPTER 9---------
POWDER AND ARMS
The _Hispaniola_ lay some way out, and we went under the figureheads and
around the sterns of many other ships, and their cables sometimes grated
beneath our keel, and sometimes swung above us. At last, however, we
swung alongside, and were met and saluted as we stepped aboard by the
mate, Mr. Arrow, a brown old sailor, with earrings in his ears and a
squint. He and the squire were very thick and friendly, but I soon
observed that things were not the same between Mr. Trelawney and the
captain.
This last was a sharp-looking man, who seemed angry with everything on
board, and was soon to tell us why, for we had hardly got down into the
cabin when a sailor followed us.
"Captain Smollett, sir, axing to speak with you," said he.
"I am always at the captain's orders. Show him in," said the squire.
The captain, who was close behind his messenger, entered at once, and
shut the door behind him.
"Well, Captain Smollett, what have you to say? All well, I hope; all
shipshape and seaworthy?"
"Well, sir," said the captain, "better speak plain, I believe, at the
risk of offense. I don't like this cruise; I don't like the men; and I
don't like my officer. That's short and sweet."
"Perhaps, sir, you don't like the ship?" inquired the squire, very
angry, as I could see.
"I can't speak as to that, sir, not having seen her tried," said the
captain. "She seems a clever craft; more I can't say."
"Possibly, sir, you may not like your employer, either?" said the
squire.
But here Doctor Livesey cut in.
"Stay a bit," said he, "stay a bit. No use of such questions as that but
to produce ill-feeling. The captain has said too much or he has said too
little, and I'm bound to say that I require an explanation of his words.
You don't, you say, like this cruise. Now, why?"
"I was engaged, sir, on what we call sealed orders, to sail this ship
for that gentleman where he should bid me," said the captain. "So far so
good. But now I find that every man before the mast knows more than I
do. I don't call that fair, now, do you?"
"No," said Doctor Livesey, "I don't."
"Next," said the captain, "I learn we are going after treasure--hear it
from my own hands, mind you. Now, treasure is ticklish work; I don't
like treasure voyages on any account; and I don't like them, above all,
when they are secret, and when (begging your pardon, Mr. Trelawney) the
secret has been told to the parrot."
"Silver's parrot?" asked the squire.
"It's a way of speaking," said the captain. "Blabbed, I mean. It's my
belief neither of you gentlemen know what you are about; but I'll tell
you my way of it--life or death, and a close run."
"That is all clear, and, I dare say, true enough," replied Doctor
Livesey. "We take the risk, but we are not so ignorant as you believe
us. Next, you say you don't like the crew. Are they not good seamen?"
"I don't like them, sir," returned Captain Smollett. "And I think I
should have had the choosing of my own hands, if you go to that."
"Perhaps you should," replied the doctor. "My friend should, perhaps,
have taken you along with him; but the slight, if there be one, was
unintentional. And you don't like Mr. Arrow?"
"I don't, sir. I believe he's a good seaman, but he's too free with
the crew to be a good officer. A mate should keep himself to
himself--shouldn't drink with the men before the mast."
"Do you mean he drinks?" cried the squire.
"No, sir," replied the captain; "only that he's too familiar."
"Well, now, and the short and long of it, captain?" asked the doctor.
"Tell us what you want."
"Well, gentlemen, are you determined to go on this cruise?"
"Like iron," answered the squire.
"Very good," said the captain. "Then, as you've heard me very patiently,
saying things that I could not prove, hear me a few words more. They are
putting the powder and the arms in the fore hold. Now, you have a good
place under the cabin; why not put them there?--first point. Then you
are bringing four of your own people with you, and they tell me some of
them are to be berthed forward. Why not give them the berths here beside
the cabin?--second point."
"Any more?" asked Mr. Trelawney.
"One more," said the captain. "There's been too much blabbing already."
"Far too much," agreed the doctor.
"I'll tell you what I've heard myself," continued Captain Smollett;
"that you have a map of an island; that there's crosses on the map to
show where treasure is; and that the island lies--" And then he named
the latitude and longitude exactly.
"I never told that," cried the squire, "to a soul."
"The hands know it, sir," returned the captain.
"Livesey, that must have been you or Hawkins," cried the squire.
"It doesn't much matter who it was," replied the doctor. And I could see
that neither he nor the captain paid much regard to Mr. Trelawney's
protestations. Neither did I, to be sure, he was so loose a talker; yet
in this case I believe he was really right, and that nobody had told the
situation of the island.
"Well, gentlemen," continued the captain, "I don't know who has this
map, but I make it a point it shall be kept secret even from me and Mr.
Arrow. Otherwise I would ask you to let me resign."
"I see," said the doctor. "You wish us to keep this matter dark, and to
make a garrison of the stern part of the ship, manned with my friend's
own people, and provided with all the arms and powder on board. In other
words, you fear a mutiny."
"Sir," said Captain Smollett, "with no intention to take offense, I deny
your right to put words into my mouth. No captain, sir, would be
justified in going to sea at all if he had ground enough to say that. As
for Mr. Arrow, I believe him thoroughly honest; some of the men are the
same; all may be for what I know. But I am responsible for the ship's
safety and the life of every man Jack aboard of her. I see things going,
as I think, not quite right; and I ask you to take certain precautions,
or let me resign my berth. And that's all."
"Captain Smollett," began the doctor, with a smile, "did ever you hear
the fable of the mountain and the mouse? You'll excuse me, I dare say,
but you remind me of that fable. When you came in here I'll stake my wig
you meant more than this."
"Doctor," said the captain, "you are smart. When I came in here I meant
to get discharged. I had no thought that Mr. Trelawney would hear a
word."
"No more I would," cried the squire. "Had Livesey not been here I should
have seen you to the deuce. As it is, I have heard you. I will do as you
desire, but I think the worse of you."
"That's as you please, sir," said the captain. "You'll find I do my
duty."
And with that he took his leave.
"Trelawney," said the doctor, "contrary to all my notions, I believe you
have managed to get two honest men on board with you--that man and John
Silver."
"Silver, if you like," cried the squire, "but as for that intolerable
humbug, I declare I think his conduct unmanly, unsailorly, and downright
un-English."
"Well," said the doctor, "we shall see."
When we came on deck the men had begun already to take out the arms and
powder, yo-ho-ing at their work, while the captain and Mr. Arrow stood
by superintending.
The new arrangement was quite to my liking. The whole schooner had been
overhauled; six berths had been made astern, out of what had been the
after-part of the main hold, and this set of cabins was only joined to
the galley and forecastle by a sparred passage on the port side. It had
been originally meant that the captain, Mr. Arrow, Hunter, Joyce, the
doctor, and the squire were to occupy these six berths. Now Redruth and
I were to get two of them, and Mr. Arrow and the captain were to sleep
on deck in the companion, which had been enlarged on each side till you
might almost have called it a round-house. Very low it was still, of
course, but there was room to swing two hammocks, and even the mate
seemed pleased with the arrangement. Even he, perhaps, had been doubtful
as to the crew, but that is only guess, for, as you shall hear, we had
not long the benefit of his opinion.
We were all hard at work changing the powder and the berths, when the
last man or two, and Long John along with them, came off in a
shore-boat.
The cook came up the side like a monkey for cleverness, and, as soon as
he saw what was doing, "So ho, mates!" said he, "what's this!"
"We're a-changing the powder, Jack," answers one.
"Why, by the powers," cried Long John, "if we do, we'll miss the morning
tide!"
"My orders!" said the captain, shortly. "You may go below, my man. Hands
will want supper."
"Ay, ay, sir," answered the cook; and, touching his forelock, he
disappeared at once in the direction of his galley.
"That's a good man, captain," said the doctor.
"Very likely, sir," replied Captain Smollett. "Easy with that,
men--easy," he ran on, to the fellows who were shifting the powder; and
then suddenly observing me examining the swivel we carried amidships, a
long brass nine--"Here, you ship's boy," he cried, "out o' that! Off
with you to the cook and get some work."
And then as I was hurrying off I heard him say, quite loudly, to the
doctor:
"I'll have no favorites on my ship."
I assure you I was quite of the squire's way of thinking, and hated the
captain deeply.
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter 11 with the given context. | chapter 10|chapter 11 | Long John Silver is in the middle of telling a story to the youngest sailor on board, Dick. He's telling Dick about his time serving under Captain Flint. Apparently most of the men under Flint's command are now aboard the Hispaniola - this very ship! Long John Silver says the pirating business has gone downhill. Look at Pew, who had to retire after he went blind. After living like a king, Pew spent all of his cash and had to beg for his supper. Long John Silver compliments Dick for being "smart as paint" . Jim hears this and gets totally jealous: Jim thought he was supposed to be smart as paint. Long John Silver gives Dick a recruitment pitch for piracy: sure, it's dangerous, but the profits are great. After this last trip is done, Long John Silver plans to set himself up as a gentleman, but he started out his piracy career as a lowly sailor just like Dick. Dick says that all Long John Silver's money is gone anyway - it's not like he can go back to Bristol after all of this. Long John Silver explains that his wife will empty all of his accounts in Bristol and join him in some secret place where the two of them will settle down. Dick is impressed by Long John Silver and agrees to join him. Just then someone else strolls up to the two men. It's Israel Hands. Long John Silver tells Israel that Dick is going to join them. Israel wants to know why they haven't mutinied yet - he really wants to get rid of Captain Smollett. Long John Silver tells Israel to wait. Why rise up sooner than they have to, so long as Captain Smollett keeps sailing their ship for them? Dick reminds Long John Silver that they're all sailors. Long John Silver answers that they're all crewmen. Who is supposed to set the course for them? He doesn't know where Doctor Livesey and the squire keep the map, after all. Long John Silver warns them to be patient or they'll all hang. Captain Flint and Pew were impatient and fun-loving and look where they are now: dead. Long John Silver wants them to wait until the right time, but then they should kill all of the officers: after all, dead men tell no tales. Long John Silver wants to be the one to kill Squire Trelawney. Listening to all of this, Jim is terrified. Long John Silver and Israel Hands send Dick to get some alcohol to celebrate. Israel Hands whispers to Long John Silver that Dick's the last of the crewmen who will join. Jim realizes that some of the crew must still be loyal to the captain. Long John Silver, Israel Hands, and Dick drink a toast. Just then, the shout rings out: "Land ho!" . |
----------CHAPTER 10---------
THE VOYAGE
All that night we were in a great bustle getting things stowed in their
place, and boatfuls of the squire's friends, Mr. Blandly and the like,
coming off to wish him a good voyage and a safe return. We never had a
night at the "Admiral Benbow" when I had half the work; and I was
dog-tired when, a little before dawn, the boatswain sounded his pipe,
and the crew began to man the capstan bars. I might have been twice as
weary, yet I would not have left the deck, all was so new and
interesting to me--the brief commands, the shrill notes of the whistle,
the men bustling to their places in the glimmer of the ship's lanterns.
"Now, Barbecue, tip us a stave," cried one voice.
"The old one," cried another.
"Ay, ay, mates," said Long John, who was standing by, with his crutch
under his arm, and at once broke out in the air and words I knew so
well:
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest"--
And then the whole crew bore chorus:
"Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
And at the third "ho!" drove the bars before them with a will.
Even at that exciting moment it carried me back to the old "Admiral
Benbow" in a second, and I seemed to hear the voice of the captain
piping in the chorus. But soon the anchor was short up; soon it was
hanging dripping at the bows; soon the sails began to draw, and the land
and shipping to flit by on either side, and before I could lie down to
snatch an hour of slumber the _Hispaniola_ had begun her voyage to the
Isle of Treasure.
I am not going to relate the voyage in detail. It was fairly prosperous.
The ship proved to be a good ship, the crew were capable seamen, and the
captain thoroughly understood his business. But before we came the
length of Treasure Island, two or three things had happened which
require to be known.
Mr. Arrow, first of all, turned out even worse than the captain had
feared. He had no command among the men, and people did what they
pleased with him. But that was by no means the worst of it; for after a
day or two at sea he began to appear on deck with hazy eye, red cheeks,
stuttering tongue, and other marks of drunkenness. Time after time he
was ordered below in disgrace. Sometimes he fell and cut himself;
sometimes he lay all day long in his little bunk at one side of the
companion; sometimes for a day or two he would be almost sober and
attend to his work at least passably.
In the meantime we could never make out where he got the drink. That was
the ship's mystery. Watch him as we pleased, we could do nothing to
solve it, and when we asked him to his face, he would only laugh, if he
were drunk, and if he were sober, deny solemnly that he ever tasted
anything but water.
He was not only useless as an officer, and a bad influence among the
men, but it was plain that at this rate he must soon kill himself
outright, so nobody was much surprised, nor very sorry, when one dark
night, with a head sea, he disappeared entirely and was seen no more.
"Overboard!" said the captain. "Well, gentlemen, that saves the trouble
of putting him in irons."
But there we were, without a mate, and it was necessary, of course, to
advance one of the men. The boatswain, Job Anderson, was the likeliest
man aboard, and though he kept his old title, he served in a way as
mate. Mr. Trelawney had followed the sea, and his knowledge made him
very useful, for he often took a watch himself in easy weather. And the
coxswain, Israel Hands, was a careful, wily, old, experienced seaman,
who could be trusted at a pinch with almost anything.
He was a great confidant of Long John Silver, and so the mention of his
name leads me on to speak of our ship's cook, Barbecue, as the men
called him.
[Illustration: _It was something to see him get on with his cooking like
someone safe ashore_ (Page 71)]
Aboard ship he carried his crutch by a lanyard round his neck, to have
both hands as free as possible. It was something to see him wedge the
foot of the crutch against a bulkhead, and, propped against it, yielding
to every movement of the ship, get on with his cooking like someone safe
ashore. Still more strange was it to see him in the heaviest of weather
cross the deck. He had a line or two rigged up to help him across the
widest spaces--Long John's earrings, they were called--and he would hand
himself from one place to another, now using the crutch, now trailing it
alongside by the lanyard, as quickly as another man could walk. Yet some
of the men who had sailed with him before expressed their pity to see
him so reduced.
"He's no common man, Barbecue," said the coxswain to me. "He had good
schooling in his young days, and can speak like a book when so minded;
and brave--a lion's nothing alongside of Long John! I seen him grapple
four and knock their heads together--him unarmed."
All the crew respected and even obeyed him. He had a way of talking to
each, and doing everybody some particular service. To me he was
unweariedly kind, and always glad to see me in the galley, which he kept
as clean as a new pin; the dishes hanging up burnished, and his parrot
in a cage in the corner.
"Come away, Hawkins," he would say; "come and have a yarn with John.
Nobody more welcome than yourself, my son. Sit you down and hear the
news. Here's Cap'n Flint--I calls my parrot Cap'n Flint, after the
famous buccaneer--here's Cap'n Flint predicting success to our v'yage.
Wasn't you, Cap'n?"
And the parrot would say, with great rapidity: "Pieces of eight! pieces
of eight! pieces of eight!" till you wondered that it was not out of
breath or till John threw his handkerchief over the cage.
"Now, that bird," he would say, "is, may be, two hundred years old,
Hawkins--they live forever mostly, and if anybody's seen more wickedness
it must be the devil himself. She's sailed with England--the great Cap'n
England, the pirate. She's been at Madagascar, and at Malabar, and
Surinam, and Providence, and Portobello. She was at the fishing up of
the wrecked plate ships. It's there she learned 'Pieces of eight,' and
little wonder; three hundred and fifty thousand of 'em, Hawkins! She was
at the boarding of the _Viceroy of the Indies_ out of Goa, she was, and
to look at her you would think she was a babby. But you smelt
powder--didn't you, cap'n?"
"Stand by to go about," the parrot would scream.
"Ah, she's a handsome craft, she is," the cook would say, and give her
sugar from his pocket, and then the bird would peck at the bars and
swear straight on, passing belief for wickedness. "There," John would
add, "you can't touch pitch and not be mucked, lad. Here's this poor old
innocent bird of mine swearing blue fire and none the wiser, you may lay
to that. She would swear the same, in a manner of speaking, before the
chaplain." And John would touch his forelock with a solemn way he had,
that made me think he was the best of men.
In the meantime the squire and Captain Smollett were still on pretty
distant terms with one another. The squire made no bones about the
matter; he despised the captain. The captain, on his part, never spoke
but when he was spoken to, and then sharp and short and dry, and not a
word wasted. He owned, when driven into a corner, that he seemed to have
been wrong about the crew; that some of them were as brisk as he wanted
to see, and all had behaved fairly well. As for the ship, he had taken a
downright fancy to her. "She'll lie a point nearer the wind than a man
has a right to expect of his own married wife, sir. But," he would add,
"all I say is, we're not home again, and I don't like the cruise."
The squire, at this, would turn away and march up and down the deck,
chin in air.
"A trifle more of that man," he would say, "and I should explode."
We had some heavy weather, which only proved the qualities of the
_Hispaniola_. Every man on board seemed well content, and they must have
been hard to please if they had been otherwise, for it is my belief
there was never a ship's company so spoiled since Noah put to sea.
Double grog was going on the least excuse; there was duff on odd days,
as, for instance, if the squire heard it was any man's birthday; and
always a barrel of apples standing broached in the waist, for anyone to
help himself that had a fancy.
"Never knew good to come of it yet," the captain said to Doctor Livesey.
"Spoil foc's'le hands, make devils. That's my belief."
But good did come of the apple barrel, as you shall hear, for if it had
not been for that we should have had no note of warning and might all
have perished by the hand of treachery.
This is how it came about.
We had run up the trades to get the wind of the island we were after--I
am not allowed to be more plain--and now we were running down for it
with a bright lookout day and night. It was about the last day of our
outward voyage, by the largest computation; some time that night, or, at
latest, before noon of the morrow, we should sight the Treasure Island.
We were heading south-southwest, and had a steady breeze abeam and a
quiet sea. The _Hispaniola_ rolled steadily, dipping her bowsprit now
and then with a whiff of spray. All was drawing alow and aloft; everyone
was in the bravest spirits, because we were now so near an end of the
first part of our adventure.
Now, just after sundown, when all my work was over and I was on my way
to my berth, it occurred to me that I should like an apple. I ran on
deck. The watch was all forward looking out for the island. The man at
the helm was watching the luff of the sail and whistling away gently to
himself, and that was the only sound excepting the swish of the sea
against the bows and around the sides of the ship.
In I got bodily into the apple barrel, and found there was scarce an
apple left; but, sitting down there in the dark, what with the sound of
the waters and the rocking movement of the ship, I had either fallen
asleep, or was on the point of doing so, when a heavy man sat down with
rather a clash close by. The barrel shook as he leaned his shoulders
against it, and I was just about to jump up when the man began to speak.
It was Silver's voice, and, before I had heard a dozen words, I would
not have shown myself for all the world, but lay there, trembling and
listening, in the extreme of fear and curiosity; for from these dozen
words I understood that the lives of all the honest men aboard depended
upon me alone.
----------CHAPTER 11---------
WHAT I HEARD IN THE APPLE BARREL
"No, not I," said Silver. "Flint was cap'n; I was quartermaster, along
of my timber leg. The same broadside I lost my leg, old Pew lost his
deadlights. It was a master surgeon, him that ampytated me--out of
college and all--Latin by the bucket, and what not; but he was hanged
like a dog, and sun-dried like the rest, at Corso Castle. That was
Roberts' men, that was, and comed of changing names to their
ships--_Royal Fortune_ and so on. Now, what a ship was christened, so
let her stay, I says. So it was with the _Cassandra_, as brought us all
safe home from Malabar, after England took the _Viceroy of the Indies_;
so it was with the old _Walrus_, Flint's old ship, as I've seen a-muck
with the red blood and fit to sink with gold."
"Ah!" cried another voice, that of the youngest hand on board, and
evidently full of admiration, "he was the flower of the flock, was
Flint!"
"Davis was a man, too, by all accounts," said Silver. "I never sailed
along of him; first with England, then with Flint, that's my story; and
now here on my own account, in a manner of speaking. I laid by nine
hundred safe, from England, and two thousand after Flint. That ain't bad
for a man before the mast--all safe in bank. 'Tain't earning now, it's
saving does it, you may lay to that. Where's all England's men now? I
dunno. Where's Flint's? Why, most of 'em aboard here, and glad to get
the duff--been begging before that, some of 'em. Old Pew, as had lost
his sight, and might have thought shame, spends twelve hundred pounds in
a year, like a lord in Parliament. Where is he now? Well, he's dead now
and under hatches; but for two years before that, shiver my timbers! the
man was starving. He begged, and he stole, and he cut throats, and
starved at that, by the powers!"
"Well, it ain't much use, after all," said the young seaman.
"'Tain't much use for fools, you may lay to it--that, nor nothing,"
cried Silver. "But now, you look here; you're young, you are, but you're
as smart as paint. I see that when I set my eyes on you, and I'll talk
to you like a man."
You can imagine how I felt when I heard this abominable old rogue
addressing another in the very same words of flattery as he had used to
myself. I think, if I had been able, that I would have killed him
through the barrel. Meantime he ran on, little supposing he was
overheard.
"Here it is about gentlemen of fortune. They lives rough, and they risk
swinging, but they eat and drink like fighting-cocks, and when a cruise
is done, why it's hundreds of pounds instead of hundreds of farthings in
their pockets. Now, the most goes for rum and a good fling, and to sea
again in their shirts. But that's not the course I lay. I puts it all
away, some here, some there, and none too much anywheres, by reason of
suspicion. I'm fifty, mark you; once back from this cruise I set up
gentleman in earnest. Time enough, too, says you. Ah, but I've lived
easy in the meantime; never denied myself o' nothing heart desires, and
slept soft and ate dainty all my days, but when at sea. And how did I
begin? Before the mast, like you!"
"Well," said the other, "but all the other money's gone now, ain't it?
You daren't show face in Bristol after this."
"Why, where might you suppose it was?" asked Silver, derisively.
"At Bristol, in banks and places," answered his companion.
"It were," said the cook; "it were when we weighed anchor. But my old
missis has it all by now. And the 'Spy-glass' is sold, lease and good
will and rigging; and the old girl's off to meet me. I would tell you
where, for I trust you; but it 'ud make jealousy among the mates."
"And you can trust your missis?" asked the other.
"Gentlemen of fortune," returned the cook, "usually trust little among
themselves, and right they are, you may lay to it. But I have a way with
me, I have. When a mate brings a slip on his cable--one as knows me, I
mean--it won't be in the same world with old John. There was some that
was feared of Pew, and some that was feared of Flint; but Flint his own
self was feared of me. Feared he was, and proud. They was the roughest
crew afloat, was Flint's; the devil himself would have been feared to go
to sea with them. Well, now, I tell you, I'm not a boasting man, and you
seen yourself how easy I keep company; but when I was quartermaster,
_lambs_ wasn't the word for Flint's old buccaneers. Ah, you may be sure
of yourself in old John's ship."
"Well, I tell you now," replied the lad, "I didn't half a quarter like
the job till I had this talk with you, John, but there's my hand on it
now."
"And a brave lad you were, and smart, too," answered Silver, shaking
hands so heartily that all the barrel shook, "and a finer figurehead for
a gentleman of fortune I never clapped my eyes on."
By this time I had begun to understand the meaning of their terms. By a
"gentleman of fortune" they plainly meant neither more nor less than a
common pirate, and the little scene that I had overheard was the last
act in the corruption of one of the honest hands--perhaps of the last
one left aboard. But on this point I was soon to be relieved, for,
Silver giving a little whistle, a third man strolled up and sat down by
the party.
"Dick's square," said Silver.
"Oh, I know'd Dick was square," returned the voice of the coxswain,
Israel Hands. "He's no fool, is Dick." And he turned his quid and spat.
"But, look here," he went on, "here's what I want to know, Barbecue--how
long are we a-going to stand off and on like a blessed bumboat? I've had
a'most enough o' Cap'n Smollett; he's hazed me long enough, by thunder!
I want to go into that cabin, I do. I want their pickles and wines, and
that."
"Israel," said Silver, "your head ain't much account, nor never was. But
you're able to hear, I reckon; leastways your ears is big enough. Now,
here's what I say--you'll berth forward, and you'll live hard, and
you'll speak soft, and you'll keep sober, till I give the word; and you
may lay to that, my son."
"Well, I don't say no, do I?" growled the coxswain. "What I say is,
when? That's what I say."
"When! by the powers!" cried Silver. "Well, now, if you want to know,
I'll tell you when. The last moment I can manage; and that's when.
Here's a first-rate seaman, Cap'n Smollett, sails the blessed ship for
us. Here's this squire and doctor with a map and such--I don't know
where it is, do I? No more do you, says you. Well, then, I mean this
squire and doctor shall find the stuff, and help us to get it aboard, by
the powers! Then we'll see. If I was sure of you all, sons of double
Dutchmen, I'd have Cap'n Smollett navigate us halfway back again before
I struck."
"Why, we're all seamen aboard here, I should think," said the lad Dick.
"We're all foc's'le hands, you mean," snapped Silver. "We can steer a
course, but who's to set one? That's what all you gentlemen split on,
first and last. If I had my way, I'd have Cap'n Smollett work us back
into the trades at least; then we'd have no blessed miscalculations and
a spoonful of water a day. But I know the sort you are. I'll finish with
'em at the island, as soon's the blunt's on board, and a pity it is. But
you're never happy till you're drunk. Split my sides, I've a sick heart
to sail with the likes of you!"
"Easy all, Long John," cried Israel. "Who's a-crossin' of you?"
"Why, how many tall ships, think ye, now, have I seen laid aboard? and
how many brisk lads drying in the sun at Execution Dock?" cried Silver;
"and all for this same hurry and hurry and hurry. You hear me? I seen a
thing or two at sea, I have. If you would on'y lay your course, and a
p'int to windward, you would ride in carriages, you would. But not you!
I know you. You'll have your mouthful of rum to-morrow, and go hang."
"Everybody know'd you was a kind of a chapling, John; but there's others
as could hand and steer as well as you," said Israel. "They liked a bit
o' fun, they did. They wasn't so high and dry, nohow, but took their
fling, like jolly companions, everyone."
"So?" said Silver. "Well, and where are they now? Pew was that sort, and
he died a beggar-man. Flint was, and he died of rum at Savannah. Ah,
they was a sweet crew, they was! on'y, where are they?"
"But," asked Dick, "when we do lay 'em athwart, what are we to do with
'em, anyhow?"
"There's the man for me!" cried the cook, admiringly. "That's what I
call business. Well, what would you think? Put 'em ashore like maroons?
That would have been England's way. Or cut 'em down like that much pork?
That would have been Flint's or Billy Bones's."
"Billy was the man for that," said Israel. "'Dead men don't bite,' says
he. Well, he's dead now, hisself; he knows the long and short on it now;
and if ever a rough hand come to port, it was Billy."
"Right you are," said Silver, "rough and ready. But mark you here: I'm
an easy man--I'm quite the gentleman, says you; but this time it's
serious. Dooty is dooty, mates. I give my vote--death. When I'm in
Parlyment, and riding in my coach, I don't want none of these
sea-lawyers in the cabin a-coming home, unlooked for, like the devil at
prayers. Wait is what I say; but when the time comes, why let her rip!"
"John," cried the coxswain, "you're a man!"
"You'll say so, Israel, when you see," said Silver. "Only one thing I
claim--I claim Trelawney. I'll wring his calf's head off his body with
these hands. Dick!" he added, breaking off, "you must jump up, like a
sweet lad, and get me an apple, to wet my pipe like."
You may fancy the terror I was in! I should have leaped out and run for
it, if I had found the strength; but my limbs and heart alike misgave
me. I heard Dick begin to rise, and then some one seemingly stopped him,
and the voice of Hands exclaimed:
"Oh, stow that! Don't you get sucking of that bilge, John. Let's have a
go of the rum."
"Dick," said Silver, "I trust you. I've a gauge on the keg, mind.
There's the key; you fill a pannikin and bring it up."
Terrified as I was, I could not help thinking to myself that this must
have been how Mr. Arrow got the strong waters that destroyed him.
Dick was gone but a little while, and during his absence Israel spoke
straight on in the cook's ear. It was but a word or two that I could
catch, and yet I gathered some important news; for, besides other scraps
that tended to the same purpose, this whole clause was audible: "Not
another man of them'll jine." Hence there were still faithful men on
board.
When Dick returned, one after another of the trio took the pannikin and
drank--one "To luck"; another with a "Here's to old Flint," and Silver
himself saying, in a kind of song, "Here's to ourselves, and hold your
luff, plenty of prizes and plenty of duff."
Just then a sort of brightness fell upon me in the barrel, and, looking
up, I found the moon had risen, and was silvering the mizzen-top and
shining white on the luff of the foresail, and almost at the same time
the voice on the lookout shouted, "Land ho!"
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 12 based on the provided context. | chapter 12|chapter 7|chapter 8 | A lot of people rush across the deck. Jim slips out of the barrel without being seen. He joins Doctor Livesey to look at the island coming into view. Long John Silver tells Captain Smollett that he has seen this island before. There is a safe place to dock on the south side. Captain Smollett hands Long John Silver a chart to show exactly where. The chart is a copy of the original treasure map, but without the marks showing the location of the treasure. Long John Silver claims to be surprised that Captain Smollett has such an accurate map. Jim is frightened and impressed by how carefully Long John Silver hides his feelings at seeing the map and the island. Long John Silver approaches Jim and promises to pack him a snack if Jim wants to go exploring the island. Doctor Livesey calls Jim over to ask him to fetch his pipe. As soon as Jim gets within earshot of Doctor Livesey, Jim whispers that he has some news, but that it has to be kept a secret. Doctor Livesey walks over to Squire Trelawney and Captain Smollett and, without drawing attention to himself, explains that Jim needs to talk to them in private. Captain Smollett calls the men together to offer them grog to celebrate their arrival. After several toasts, the captain, Doctor Livesey, and Squire Trelawney all go below decks to the captain's cabin. They then send for Jim as though nothing were out of the ordinary. Jim describes everything he overheard from Long John Silver. Squire Trelawney apologizes to Captain Smollett for not taking his suspicions seriously. Captain Smollett apologizes for not realizing what the crew has been up to: they've shown no signs of rebellion and mutiny until now. Doctor Livesey remarks that their discipline is the result of the remarkable Long John Silver. Captain Smollett declares several things: 1) they can't turn back because the men will rebel. 2) They still have some time to plan before the treasure is found. 3) Some of the sailors must still be faithful. Given these three things, Captain Smollett suggests that they attack the mutineers when they least expect it. Then the three men try to figure out who is still loyal. They are sure that Squire Trelawney's servants will stand by them, but who else? Doctor Livesey thinks the best thing to do is to rely on Jim. The men are willing to talk around him and he notices everything. Maybe Jim can figure out who will stay loyal. Jim is worried: he knows their odds of winning are bad because, at current count, it's only seven good guys against nineteen pirates. |
----------CHAPTER 12---------
COUNCIL OF WAR
There was a great rush of feet across the deck. I could hear people
tumbling up from the cabin and the foc's'le; and slipping in an instant
outside my barrel, I dived behind the foresail, made a double towards
the stern, and came out upon the open deck in time to join Hunter and
Doctor Livesey in the rush for the weather bow.
There all hands were already congregated. A belt of fog had lifted
almost simultaneously with the appearance of the moon. Away to the
southwest of us we saw two low hills, about a couple of miles apart, and
rising behind one of them a third and higher hill, whose peak was still
buried in the fog. All three seemed sharp and conical in figure.
So much I saw almost in a dream, for I had not yet recovered from my
horrid fear of a minute or two before. And then I heard the voice of
Captain Smollett issuing orders. The _Hispaniola_ was laid a couple of
points nearer the wind, and now sailed a course that would just clear
the island on the east.
"And now, men," said the captain, when all was sheeted home, "has any
one of you ever seen that land ahead?"
"I have, sir," said Silver. "I've watered there with a trader I was cook
in."
"The anchorage is on the south, behind an islet, I fancy?" asked the
captain.
"Yes, sir, Skeleton Island they calls it. It were a main place for
pirates once, and a hand we had on board knowed all their names for it.
That hill to the nor'ard they calls the Foremast Hill; there are three
hills in a row running south'ard--fore, main, and mizzen, sir. But the
main--that's the big 'un, with the cloud on it--they usually calls the
Spy-glass, by reason of a lookout they kept when they was in the
anchorage cleaning; for it's there they cleaned their ships, sir, asking
your pardon."
"I have a chart here," said Captain Smollett. "See if that's the place."
Long John's eyes burned in his head as he took the chart, but, by the
fresh look of the paper, I knew he was doomed to disappointment. This
was not the map we found in Billy Bones's chest, but an accurate copy,
complete in all things--names, and heights, and soundings--with the
single exception of the red crosses and the written notes. Sharp as must
have been his annoyance, Silver had the strength of mind to hide it.
"Yes, sir," said he, "this is the spot, to be sure, and very prettily
drawed out. Who might have done that, I wonder? The pirates were too
ignorant, I reckon. Ay, here it is: 'Captain Kidd's Anchorage'--just the
name my shipmate called it. There's a strong current runs along the
south, and then away nor'ard up the west coast. Right you was, sir,"
said he, "to haul your wind and keep the weather of the island.
Leastways, if such was your intention as to enter and careen, and there
ain't no better place for that in these waters."
"Thank you, my man," said Captain Smollett. "I'll ask you, later on, to
give us a help. You may go."
I was surprised at the coolness with which John avowed his knowledge of
the island, and I own I was half-frightened when I saw him drawing
nearer to myself. He did not know, to be sure, that I had overheard his
council from the apple barrel, and yet I had, by this time, taken such a
horror of his cruelty, duplicity, and power, that I could scarce conceal
a shudder when he laid his hand upon my arm.
"Ah," said he, "this here is a sweet spot, this island--a sweet spot for
a lad to get ashore on. You'll bathe, and you'll climb trees, and you'll
hunt goats, you will, and you'll get aloft on them hills like a goat
yourself. Why, it makes me young again. I was going to forget my timber
leg, I was. It's a pleasant thing to be young, and have ten toes, and
you may lay to that. When you want to go a bit of exploring, you just
ask old John and he'll put up a snack for you to take along."
And clapping me in the friendliest way upon the shoulder, he hobbled off
forward and went below.
Captain Smollett, the squire, and Doctor Livesey were talking together
on the quarter-deck, and anxious as I was to tell them my story, I durst
not interrupt them openly. While I was still casting about in my
thoughts to find some probable excuse, Doctor Livesey called me to his
side. He had left his pipe below, and being a slave to tobacco, had
meant that I should fetch it; but as soon as I was near enough to speak
and not be overheard, I broke out immediately: "Doctor, let me speak.
Get the captain and squire down to the cabin, and then make some
pretense to send for me. I have terrible news."
The doctor changed countenance a little, but next moment he was master
of himself.
"Thank you, Jim," said he, quite loudly; "that was all I wanted to
know," as if he had asked me a question.
And with that he turned on his heel and rejoined the other two. They
spoke together for a little, and though none of them started, or raised
his voice, or so much as whistled, it was plain enough that Doctor
Livesey had communicated my request, for the next thing that I heard was
the captain giving an order to Job Anderson, and all hands were piped on
deck.
"My lads," said Captain Smollett, "I've a word to say to you. This land
that we have sighted is the place we have been sailing to. Mr.
Trelawney, being a very open-handed gentleman, as we all know, has just
asked me a word or two, and as I was able to tell him that every man on
board had done his duty, alow and aloft, as I never ask to see it done
better, why, he and I and the doctor are going below to the cabin to
drink _your_ health and luck, and you'll have grog served out for you to
drink _our_ health and luck. I'll tell you what I think of this: I think
it handsome. And if you think as I do, you'll give a good sea cheer for
the gentleman that does it."
The cheer followed--that was a matter of course--but it rang out so full
and hearty, that I confess I could hardly believe these same men were
plotting for our blood.
"One more cheer for Cap'n Smollett!" cried Long John, when the first had
subsided.
And this also was given with a will.
On the top of that the three gentlemen went below, and not long after,
word was sent forward that Jim Hawkins was wanted in the cabin.
I found them all three seated around the table, a bottle of Spanish wine
and some raisins before them, and the doctor smoking away, with his wig
on his lap, and that, I knew, was a sign that he was agitated. The stern
window was open, for it was a warm night, and you could see the moon
shining behind on the ship's wake.
"Now, Hawkins," said the squire, "you have something to say. Speak up."
I did as I was bid, and, as short as I could make it, told the whole
details of Silver's conversation. Nobody interrupted me till I was done,
nor did anyone of the three of them make so much as a movement, but they
kept their eyes upon my face from first to last.
"Jim," said Doctor Livesey, "take a seat."
And they made me sit down at a table beside them, poured me out a glass
of wine, filled my hands with raisins, and all three, one after the
other, and each with a bow, drank my good health, and their service to
me, for my luck and courage.
"Now, captain," said the squire, "you were right and I was wrong. I own
myself an ass, and I await your orders."
"No more an ass than I, sir," returned the captain. "I never heard of a
crew that meant to mutiny but what showed signs before, for any man that
had an eye in his head to see the mischief and take steps according. But
this crew," he added, "beats me."
"Captain," said the doctor, "with your permission, that's Silver. A very
remarkable man."
"He'd look remarkably well from a yardarm, sir," returned the captain.
"But this is talk; this don't lead to anything. I see three or four
points, and with Mr. Trelawney's permission I'll name them."
"You, sir, are the captain. It is for you to speak," said Mr. Trelawney,
grandly.
"First point," began Mr. Smollett, "we must go on because we can't turn
back. If I gave the word to turn about, they would rise at once. Second
point, we have time before us--at least until this treasure's found.
Third point, there are faithful hands. Now, sir, it's got to come to
blows sooner or later, and what I propose is to take time by the
forelock, as the saying is, and come to blows some fine day when they
least expect it. We can count, I take it, on your own home servants, Mr.
Trelawney?"
"As upon myself," declared the squire.
"Three," reckoned the captain; "ourselves make seven, counting Hawkins
here. Now, about the honest hands?"
"Most likely Trelawney's own men," said the doctor; "those he picked up
for himself before he lit on Silver."
"Nay," replied the squire, "Hands was one of mine."
"I did think I could have trusted Hands," added the captain.
"And to think that they're all Englishmen!" broke out the squire. "Sir,
I could find it in my heart to blow the ship up."
"Well, gentlemen," said the captain, "the best that I can say is not
much. We must lay to, if you please, and keep a bright lookout. It's
trying on a man, I know. It would be pleasanter to come to blows. But
there's no help for it till we know our men. Lay to and whistle for a
wind; that's my view."
"Jim here," said the doctor, "can help us more than anyone. The men are
not shy with him and Jim is a noticing lad."
"Hawkins, I put prodigious faith in you," added the squire.
I began to feel pretty desperate at this, for I felt altogether
helpless; and yet, by an odd train of circumstances, it was indeed
through me that safety came. In the meantime, talk as we pleased, there
were only seven out of the twenty-six on whom we knew we could rely, and
out of these seven one was a boy, so that the grown men on our side were
six to their nineteen.
PART III
MY SHORE ADVENTURE
----------CHAPTER 7---------
I GO TO BRISTOL
It was longer than the squire imagined ere we were ready for the sea,
and none of our first plans--not even Doctor Livesey's, of keeping me
beside him--could be carried out as we intended. The doctor had to go to
London for a physician to take charge of his practice; the squire was
hard at work at Bristol; and I lived on at the Hall under the charge of
old Redruth, the gamekeeper, almost a prisoner, but full of sea-dreams
and the most charming anticipations of strange islands and adventures. I
brooded by the hour together over the map, all the details of which I
well remembered. Sitting by the fire in the housekeeper's room, I
approached that island, in my fancy, from every possible direction; I
explored every acre of its surface; I climbed a thousand times to that
tall hill they call the Spy-glass, and from the top enjoyed the most
wonderful and changing prospects. Sometimes the isle was thick with
savages, with whom we fought; sometimes full of dangerous animals that
hunted us; but in all my fancies nothing occurred to me so strange and
tragic as our actual adventures.
So the weeks passed on, till one fine day there came a letter addressed
to Doctor Livesey, with this addition, "To be opened in the case of his
absence, by Tom Redruth or Young Hawkins." Obeying this order, we found,
or rather I found--for the gamekeeper was a poor hand at reading
anything but print--the following important news:
"_Old Anchor Inn, Bristol, March 1, 17--._
"DEAR LIVESEY: As I do not know whether you are at the Hall or still
in London, I send this in double to both places.
"The ship is bought and fitted. She lies at anchor, ready for sea.
You never imagined a sweeter schooner--a child might sail her--two
hundred tons; name, _Hispaniola_.
"I got her through my old friend, Blandly, who has proved himself
throughout the most surprising trump. The admirable fellow literally
slaved in my interest, and so, I may say, did every one in Bristol,
as soon as they got wind of the port we sailed for--treasure, I
mean."
"Redruth," said I, interrupting the letter, "Doctor Livesey will not
like that. The squire has been talking, after all."
"Well, who's a better right?" growled the gamekeeper. "A pretty rum go
if Squire ain't to talk for Doctor Livesey, I should think."
At that I gave up all attempt at commentary, and read straight on:
"Blandly himself found the _Hispaniola_, and by the most admirable
management got her for the merest trifle. There is a class of men in
Bristol monstrously prejudiced against Blandly. They go the length
of declaring that this honest creature would do anything for money;
that the _Hispaniola_ belonged to him, and that he sold to me
absurdly high--the most transparent calumnies. None of them dare,
however, to deny the merits of the ship.
"So far there was not a hitch. The workpeople, to be sure--riggers
and what not--were most annoyingly slow, but time cured that. It was
the crew that troubled me.
"I wished a round score of men--in case of natives, buccaneers, or
the odious French--and I had the worry of the deuce itself to find
so much as half a dozen, till the most remarkable stroke of fortune
brought me the very man that I required.
"I was standing on the dock, when, by the merest accident, I fell in
talk with him. I found he was an old sailor, kept a public house,
knew all the seafaring men in Bristol, had lost his health ashore,
and wanted a good berth as cook to get to sea again. He had hobbled
down there that morning, he said, to get a smell of the salt.
"I was monstrously touched--so would you have been--and, out of pure
pity, I engaged him on the spot to be ship's cook. Long John Silver
he is called, and has lost a leg; but that I regarded as a
recommendation, since he lost it in his country's service, under the
immortal Hawke. He has no pension, Livesey. Imagine the abominable
age we live in!
"Well, sir, I thought I had only found a cook, but it was a crew I
had discovered. Between Silver and myself we got together in a few
days a company of the toughest old salts imaginable--not pretty to
look at, but fellows, by their faces, of the most indomitable
spirit. I declare we could fight a frigate.
"Long John even got rid of two out of the six or seven I had already
engaged. He showed me in a moment that they were just the sort of
fresh-water swabs we had to fear in an adventure of importance.
"I am in the most magnificent health and spirits, eating like a
bull, sleeping like a tree, yet I shall not enjoy a moment till I
hear my old tarpaulins tramping round the capstan. Seaward ho! Hang
the treasure! It's the glory of the sea that has turned my head. So
now, Livesey, come post; do not lose an hour, if you respect me.
"Let young Hawkins go at once to see his mother, with Redruth for a
guard, and then both come full speed to Bristol.
"JOHN TRELAWNEY.
"P.S.--I did not tell you that Blandly, who, by the way, is to send
a consort after us if we don't turn up by the end of August, had
found an admirable fellow for sailing-master--a stiff man, which I
regret, but, in all other respects, a treasure. Long John Silver
unearthed a very competent man for a mate, a man named Arrow. I have
a boatswain who pipes, Livesey; so things shall go man-o'-war
fashion on board the good ship _Hispaniola_.
"I forgot to tell you that Silver is a man of substance; I know of
my own knowledge that he has a banker's account, which has never
been overdrawn. He leaves his wife to manage the inn; and as she is
a woman of color, a pair of old bachelors like you and I may be
excused for guessing that it is the wife, quite as much as the
health, that sends him back to roving.
"J. T.
"P.P.S.--Hawkins may stay one night with his mother.
"J. T."
You can fancy the excitement into which that letter put me. I was half
beside myself with glee, and if ever I despised a man, it was old Tom
Redruth, who could do nothing but grumble and lament. Any of the
under-gamekeepers would gladly have changed places with him; but such
was not the squire's pleasure, and the squire's pleasure was like law
among them all. Nobody but old Redruth would have dared so much as even
to grumble.
The next morning he and I set out on foot for the "Admiral Benbow," and
there I found my mother in good health and spirits. The captain, who had
so long been a cause of so much discomfort, was gone where the wicked
cease from troubling. The squire had had everything repaired, and the
public rooms and the sign repainted, and had added some furniture--above
all a beautiful armchair for mother in the bar. He had found her a boy
as an apprentice also, so that she should not want help while I was
gone.
It was on seeing that boy that I understood, for the first time, my
situation. I had thought up to that moment of the adventures before me,
not at all of the home that I was leaving; and now at sight of this
clumsy stranger, who was to stay here in my place beside my mother, I
had my first attack of tears. I am afraid I led that boy a dog's life;
for as he was new to the work, I had a hundred opportunities of setting
him right and putting him down, and I was not slow to profit by them.
The night passed, and the next day, after dinner, Redruth and I were
afoot again and on the road. I said good-by to mother and the cove where
I had lived since I was born, and the dear old "Admiral Benbow"--since
he was repainted, no longer quite so dear. One of my last thoughts was
of the captain, who had so often strode along the beach with his cocked
hat, his saber-cut cheek, and his old brass telescope. Next moment we
had turned the corner, and my home was out of sight.
The mail picked us up about dusk at the "Royal George" on the heath. I
was wedged in between Redruth and a stout old gentleman, and in spite of
the swift motion and the cold night air, I must have dozed a great deal
from the very first, and then slept like a log up hill and down dale,
through stage after stage; for when I was awakened at last, it was by a
punch in the ribs, and I opened my eyes to find that we were standing
still before a large building in a city street, and that the day had
already broken a long time.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"Bristol," said Tom. "Get down."
Mr. Trelawney had taken up his residence at an inn far down the docks,
to superintend the work upon the schooner. Thither we had now to walk,
and our way, to my great delight, lay along the quays and beside the
great multitude of ships of all sizes and rigs and nations. In one,
sailors were singing at their work; in another, there were men aloft,
high over my head, hanging to threads that seemed no thicker than a
spider's. Though I had lived by the shore all my life, I seemed never to
have been near the sea till then. The smell of tar and salt was
something new. I saw the most wonderful figureheads, that had all been
far over the ocean. I saw, besides, many old sailors, with rings in
their ears, and whiskers curled in ringlets, and tarry pig-tails, and
their swaggering, clumsy sea-walk; and if I had seen as many kings or
archbishops I could not have been more delighted.
And I was going to sea myself; to sea in a schooner, with a piping
boatswain, and pig-tailed singing seamen; to sea, bound for an unknown
island, and to seek for buried treasure.
While I was still in this delightful dream, we came suddenly in front of
a large inn, and met Squire Trelawney, all dressed out like a sea
officer, in stout blue cloth, coming out of the door with a smile on his
face, and a capital imitation of a sailor's walk.
"Here you are!" he cried; "and the doctor came last night from London.
Bravo!--the ship's company complete."
"Oh, sir," cried I, "when do we sail?"
"Sail!" says he. "We sail to-morrow."
----------CHAPTER 8---------
AT THE SIGN OF THE "SPY-GLASS"
When I had done breakfasting, the squire gave me a note addressed to
John Silver, at the sign of the "Spy-glass," and told me I should easily
find the place by following the line of the docks, and keeping a bright
lookout for a little tavern with a large brass telescope for a sign. I
set off, overjoyed at this opportunity to see some more of the ships and
seamen, and picked my way among a great crowd of people and carts and
bales, for the dock was now at its busiest, until I found the tavern in
question.
It was a bright enough little place of entertainment. The sign was newly
painted; the windows had neat red curtains; the floor was cleanly
sanded. There was a street on each side, and an open door on both, which
made the large, low room pretty clear to see in, in spite of clouds of
tobacco smoke.
The customers were mostly seafaring men, and they talked so loudly that
I hung at the door, almost afraid to enter.
As I was waiting, a man came out of a side room, and at a glance I was
sure he must be Long John. His left leg was cut off close by the hip,
and under the left shoulder he carried a crutch, which he managed with
wonderful dexterity, hopping about upon it like a bird. He was very tall
and strong, with a face as big as a ham--plain and pale, but
intelligent and smiling. Indeed, he seemed in the most cheerful spirits,
whistling as he moved about among the tables, with a merry word or a
slap on the shoulder for the more favored of his guests.
Now, to tell you the truth, from the very first mention of Long John in
Squire Trelawney's letter, I had taken a fear in my mind that he might
prove to be the very one-legged sailor whom I had watched for so long at
the old "Benbow." But one look at the man before me was enough. I had
seen the captain, and Black Dog, and the blind man Pew, and I thought I
knew what a buccaneer was like--a very different creature, according to
me, from this clean and pleasant-tempered landlord.
I plucked up courage at once, crossed the threshold, and walked right up
to the man where he stood, propped on his crutch, talking to a customer.
"Mr. Silver, sir?" I asked, holding out the note.
"Yes, my lad," said he; "such is my name, to be sure. And who may you
be?" And when he saw the squire's letter he seemed to me to give
something almost like a start.
"Oh!" said he, quite aloud, and offering his hand, "I see. You are our
new cabin-boy; pleased I am to see you."
And he took my hand in his large firm grasp.
Just then one of the customers at the far side rose suddenly and made
for the door. It was close by him, and he was out in the street in a
moment. But his hurry had attracted my notice, and I recognized him at a
glance. It was the tallow-faced man, wanting two fingers, who had come
first to the "Admiral Benbow."
"Oh," I cried, "stop him! it's Black Dog!"
"I don't care two coppers who he is," cried Silver, "but he hasn't paid
his score. Harry, run and catch him."
One of the others who was nearest the door leaped up and started in
pursuit.
"If he were Admiral Hawke he shall pay his score," cried Silver; and
then, relinquishing my hand, "Who did you say he was?" he asked. "Black
what?"
"Dog, sir," said I. "Has Mr. Trelawney not told you of the buccaneers?
He was one of them."
"So?" cried Silver. "In my house! Ben, run and help Harry. One of those
swabs, was he? Was that you drinking with him, Morgan? Step up here."
The man whom he called Morgan--an old, gray-haired, mahogany-faced
sailor--came forward pretty sheepishly, rolling his quid.
[Illustration: _"Now, Morgan," said Long John, very sternly, "you never
clapped your eyes on that Black Dog before, did you, now?"_ (Page 57)]
"Now, Morgan," said Long John, very sternly, "you never clapped your
eyes on that Black--Black Dog before, did you, now?"
"Not I, sir," said Morgan, with a salute.
"You didn't know his name, did you?"
"No, sir."
"By the powers, Tom Morgan, it's as good for you!" exclaimed the
landlord. "If you had been mixed up with the like of that, you would
never have put another foot in my house, you may lay to that. And what
was he saying to you?"
"I don't rightly know, sir," answered Morgan.
"Do you call that a head on your shoulders, or a blessed dead-eye?"
cried Long John. "Don't rightly know, don't you? Perhaps you don't
happen to rightly know who you was speaking to, perhaps? Come, now,
what was he jawing--v'yages, cap'ns, ships? Pipe up! What was it?"
"We was a-talkin' of keel-hauling," answered Morgan.
"Keel-hauling, was you? and a mighty suitable thing, too, and you may
lay to that. Get back to your place for a lubber, Tom."
And then, as Morgan rolled back to his seat, Silver added to me, in a
confidential whisper, that was very flattering, as I thought:
"He's quite an honest man, Tom Morgan, on'y stupid. And now," he ran on
again, aloud, "let's see--Black Dog? No, I don't know the name, not I.
Yet I kind of think I've--yes, I've seen the swab. He used to come here
with a blind beggar, he used."
"That he did, you may be sure," said I. "I knew that blind man, too. His
name was Pew."
"It was!" cried Silver, now quite excited. "Pew! That were his name for
certain. Ah, he looked a shark, he did! If we run down this Black Dog
now, there'll be news for Cap'n Trelawney! Ben's a good runner; few
seamen run better than Ben. He should run him down, hand over hand, by
the powers! He talked o' keel-hauling, did he? _I'll_ keel-haul him!"
All the time he was jerking out these phrases he was stumping up and
down the tavern on his crutch, slapping tables with his hand, and giving
such a show of excitement as would have convinced an Old Bailey judge or
a Bow Street runner. My suspicions had been thoroughly reawakened on
finding Black Dog at the "Spy-glass," and I watched the cook narrowly.
But he was too deep, and too ready, and too clever for me, and by the
time the two men had come back out of breath, and confessed that they
had lost the track in a crowd, and been scolded like thieves, I would
have gone bail for the innocence of Long John Silver.
"See here, now, Hawkins," said he, "here's a blessed hard thing on a man
like me, now, ain't it? There's Cap'n Trelawney--what's he to think?
Here I have this confounded son of a Dutchman sitting in my own house,
drinking of my own rum! Here you comes and tells me of it plain; and
here I let him give us all the slip before my blessed deadlights! Now,
Hawkins, you do me justice with the cap'n. You're a lad, you are, but
you're as smart as paint. I see that when you first came in. Now, here
it is: What could I do, with this old timber I hobble on? When I was an
A B master mariner I'd have come up alongside of him, hand over hand,
and broached him to in a brace of old shakes, I would; and now--"
And then, all of a sudden, he stopped, and his jaw dropped as though he
had remembered something.
"The score!" he burst out. "Three goes o' rum! Why, shiver my timbers,
if I hadn't forgotten my score!"
And, falling on a bench, he laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks.
I could not help joining, and we laughed together, peal after peal,
until the tavern rang again.
"Why, what a precious old sea-calf I am!" he said, at last, wiping his
cheeks. "You and me should get on well, Hawkins, for I'll take my davy I
should be rated ship's boy. But, come, now, stand by to go about. This
won't do. Dooty is dooty, messmates. I'll put on my old cocked hat and
step along of you to Cap'n Trelawney, and report this here affair. For,
mind you, it's serious, young Hawkins; and neither you nor me's come out
of it with what I should make so bold as to call credit. Nor you
neither, says you; not smart--none of the pair of us smart. But dash my
buttons! that was a good 'un about my score."
And he began to laugh again, and that so heartily, that though I did not
see the joke as he did, I was again obliged to join him in his mirth.
On our little walk along the quays he made himself the most interesting
companion, telling me about the different ships that we passed by, their
rig, tonnage, and nationality, explaining the work that was going
forward--how one was discharging, another taking in cargo, and a third
making ready for sea; and every now and then telling me some little
anecdote of ships or seamen, or repeating a nautical phrase till I had
learned it perfectly. I began to see that here was one of the best of
possible shipmates.
When we got to the inn, the squire and Doctor Livesey were seated
together, finishing a quart of ale with a toast in it, before they
should go aboard the schooner on a visit of inspection.
Long John told the story from first to last, with a great deal of spirit
and the most perfect truth. "That was how it were, now, weren't it,
Hawkins?" he would say, now and again, and I could always bear him
entirely out.
The two gentlemen regretted that Black Dog had got away, but we all
agreed there was nothing to be done, and after he had been complimented,
Long John took up his crutch and departed.
"All hands aboard by four this afternoon!" shouted the squire after him.
"Ay, ay, sir," cried the cook, in the passage.
"Well, squire," said Doctor Livesey, "I don't put much faith in your
discoveries, as a general thing, but I will say this--John Silver suits
me."
"That man's a perfect trump," declared the squire.
"And now," added the doctor, "Jim may come on board with us, may he
not?"
"To be sure he may," said the squire. "Take your hat, Hawkins, and we'll
see the ship."
[Illustration]
|
null | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter 10 using the context provided. | chapter 9|chapter 10 | After a busy night of getting ready for the voyage, they set sail. Jim finds all this very thrilling. When Long John Silver, at the request of his mates, sings the old sea song Jim was so familiar with. Jim momentarily travels back in his mind to Admiral Benbow and is reminded of the Captain. The anchor is drawn and they set sail. The voyage to the island had begun. Jim says, the voyage was quite a pleasant one except for a couple of incidents. Mr. Arrow turns out to be a complete drunk who had no command on the people under him. Nobody had a clue as to where he got his rum from. With time, he also turned out to be a bad influence among others. One fine morning he disappears, never to be seen again, hardly surprising anybody. Job Anderson, the boatswain takes Arrows position and Mr. Trelawney watched the weather. Jim observes Silver on the deck. His activities make him a favorite amongst the sailors and they call him Barbecue. Israel Hands, a friend of Silver, tell Jim that Silver is no ordinary man. He says that Silver was educated in the best institutions and he was also as brave as a lion. Jim takes a liking to him and the feeling is mutual. Silver often invites Jim to listen to his parrot Captain Flint. The Parrot, wherever asked any question, would reply Pieces of eight, Pieces of eight. Silver often talked about the bird and the amount of wickedness it has seen in its 200 years old long lifetime. The Squire and the Captain, like at the start of the journey, are always at odds. The Squire often loses control over himself. The weather changes drastically but the ship proves its worth when it withstands the test of nature. The crew is tired of the journey and are spoiled as the ration of booze doubles for any trifling reason. They also have a barrel of apples ready for anyone to help himself, though nobody cares for them. Jim says some good did come of the apple barrel as the Hispaniola approached its destination. After sundown when Jim got into the barrel to pick up an apple for himself he finds the whole barrel empty. He fell asleep in the barrel with the calming motion and quiet of the ship. Jim wakes when a man sits down next to the barrel. He hears the voice of Silver. His words surprise and terrify him and Jim is convinced that the lives of men on board are at risk and depend upon him and him alone. |
----------CHAPTER 9---------
POWDER AND ARMS
The _Hispaniola_ lay some way out, and we went under the figureheads and
around the sterns of many other ships, and their cables sometimes grated
beneath our keel, and sometimes swung above us. At last, however, we
swung alongside, and were met and saluted as we stepped aboard by the
mate, Mr. Arrow, a brown old sailor, with earrings in his ears and a
squint. He and the squire were very thick and friendly, but I soon
observed that things were not the same between Mr. Trelawney and the
captain.
This last was a sharp-looking man, who seemed angry with everything on
board, and was soon to tell us why, for we had hardly got down into the
cabin when a sailor followed us.
"Captain Smollett, sir, axing to speak with you," said he.
"I am always at the captain's orders. Show him in," said the squire.
The captain, who was close behind his messenger, entered at once, and
shut the door behind him.
"Well, Captain Smollett, what have you to say? All well, I hope; all
shipshape and seaworthy?"
"Well, sir," said the captain, "better speak plain, I believe, at the
risk of offense. I don't like this cruise; I don't like the men; and I
don't like my officer. That's short and sweet."
"Perhaps, sir, you don't like the ship?" inquired the squire, very
angry, as I could see.
"I can't speak as to that, sir, not having seen her tried," said the
captain. "She seems a clever craft; more I can't say."
"Possibly, sir, you may not like your employer, either?" said the
squire.
But here Doctor Livesey cut in.
"Stay a bit," said he, "stay a bit. No use of such questions as that but
to produce ill-feeling. The captain has said too much or he has said too
little, and I'm bound to say that I require an explanation of his words.
You don't, you say, like this cruise. Now, why?"
"I was engaged, sir, on what we call sealed orders, to sail this ship
for that gentleman where he should bid me," said the captain. "So far so
good. But now I find that every man before the mast knows more than I
do. I don't call that fair, now, do you?"
"No," said Doctor Livesey, "I don't."
"Next," said the captain, "I learn we are going after treasure--hear it
from my own hands, mind you. Now, treasure is ticklish work; I don't
like treasure voyages on any account; and I don't like them, above all,
when they are secret, and when (begging your pardon, Mr. Trelawney) the
secret has been told to the parrot."
"Silver's parrot?" asked the squire.
"It's a way of speaking," said the captain. "Blabbed, I mean. It's my
belief neither of you gentlemen know what you are about; but I'll tell
you my way of it--life or death, and a close run."
"That is all clear, and, I dare say, true enough," replied Doctor
Livesey. "We take the risk, but we are not so ignorant as you believe
us. Next, you say you don't like the crew. Are they not good seamen?"
"I don't like them, sir," returned Captain Smollett. "And I think I
should have had the choosing of my own hands, if you go to that."
"Perhaps you should," replied the doctor. "My friend should, perhaps,
have taken you along with him; but the slight, if there be one, was
unintentional. And you don't like Mr. Arrow?"
"I don't, sir. I believe he's a good seaman, but he's too free with
the crew to be a good officer. A mate should keep himself to
himself--shouldn't drink with the men before the mast."
"Do you mean he drinks?" cried the squire.
"No, sir," replied the captain; "only that he's too familiar."
"Well, now, and the short and long of it, captain?" asked the doctor.
"Tell us what you want."
"Well, gentlemen, are you determined to go on this cruise?"
"Like iron," answered the squire.
"Very good," said the captain. "Then, as you've heard me very patiently,
saying things that I could not prove, hear me a few words more. They are
putting the powder and the arms in the fore hold. Now, you have a good
place under the cabin; why not put them there?--first point. Then you
are bringing four of your own people with you, and they tell me some of
them are to be berthed forward. Why not give them the berths here beside
the cabin?--second point."
"Any more?" asked Mr. Trelawney.
"One more," said the captain. "There's been too much blabbing already."
"Far too much," agreed the doctor.
"I'll tell you what I've heard myself," continued Captain Smollett;
"that you have a map of an island; that there's crosses on the map to
show where treasure is; and that the island lies--" And then he named
the latitude and longitude exactly.
"I never told that," cried the squire, "to a soul."
"The hands know it, sir," returned the captain.
"Livesey, that must have been you or Hawkins," cried the squire.
"It doesn't much matter who it was," replied the doctor. And I could see
that neither he nor the captain paid much regard to Mr. Trelawney's
protestations. Neither did I, to be sure, he was so loose a talker; yet
in this case I believe he was really right, and that nobody had told the
situation of the island.
"Well, gentlemen," continued the captain, "I don't know who has this
map, but I make it a point it shall be kept secret even from me and Mr.
Arrow. Otherwise I would ask you to let me resign."
"I see," said the doctor. "You wish us to keep this matter dark, and to
make a garrison of the stern part of the ship, manned with my friend's
own people, and provided with all the arms and powder on board. In other
words, you fear a mutiny."
"Sir," said Captain Smollett, "with no intention to take offense, I deny
your right to put words into my mouth. No captain, sir, would be
justified in going to sea at all if he had ground enough to say that. As
for Mr. Arrow, I believe him thoroughly honest; some of the men are the
same; all may be for what I know. But I am responsible for the ship's
safety and the life of every man Jack aboard of her. I see things going,
as I think, not quite right; and I ask you to take certain precautions,
or let me resign my berth. And that's all."
"Captain Smollett," began the doctor, with a smile, "did ever you hear
the fable of the mountain and the mouse? You'll excuse me, I dare say,
but you remind me of that fable. When you came in here I'll stake my wig
you meant more than this."
"Doctor," said the captain, "you are smart. When I came in here I meant
to get discharged. I had no thought that Mr. Trelawney would hear a
word."
"No more I would," cried the squire. "Had Livesey not been here I should
have seen you to the deuce. As it is, I have heard you. I will do as you
desire, but I think the worse of you."
"That's as you please, sir," said the captain. "You'll find I do my
duty."
And with that he took his leave.
"Trelawney," said the doctor, "contrary to all my notions, I believe you
have managed to get two honest men on board with you--that man and John
Silver."
"Silver, if you like," cried the squire, "but as for that intolerable
humbug, I declare I think his conduct unmanly, unsailorly, and downright
un-English."
"Well," said the doctor, "we shall see."
When we came on deck the men had begun already to take out the arms and
powder, yo-ho-ing at their work, while the captain and Mr. Arrow stood
by superintending.
The new arrangement was quite to my liking. The whole schooner had been
overhauled; six berths had been made astern, out of what had been the
after-part of the main hold, and this set of cabins was only joined to
the galley and forecastle by a sparred passage on the port side. It had
been originally meant that the captain, Mr. Arrow, Hunter, Joyce, the
doctor, and the squire were to occupy these six berths. Now Redruth and
I were to get two of them, and Mr. Arrow and the captain were to sleep
on deck in the companion, which had been enlarged on each side till you
might almost have called it a round-house. Very low it was still, of
course, but there was room to swing two hammocks, and even the mate
seemed pleased with the arrangement. Even he, perhaps, had been doubtful
as to the crew, but that is only guess, for, as you shall hear, we had
not long the benefit of his opinion.
We were all hard at work changing the powder and the berths, when the
last man or two, and Long John along with them, came off in a
shore-boat.
The cook came up the side like a monkey for cleverness, and, as soon as
he saw what was doing, "So ho, mates!" said he, "what's this!"
"We're a-changing the powder, Jack," answers one.
"Why, by the powers," cried Long John, "if we do, we'll miss the morning
tide!"
"My orders!" said the captain, shortly. "You may go below, my man. Hands
will want supper."
"Ay, ay, sir," answered the cook; and, touching his forelock, he
disappeared at once in the direction of his galley.
"That's a good man, captain," said the doctor.
"Very likely, sir," replied Captain Smollett. "Easy with that,
men--easy," he ran on, to the fellows who were shifting the powder; and
then suddenly observing me examining the swivel we carried amidships, a
long brass nine--"Here, you ship's boy," he cried, "out o' that! Off
with you to the cook and get some work."
And then as I was hurrying off I heard him say, quite loudly, to the
doctor:
"I'll have no favorites on my ship."
I assure you I was quite of the squire's way of thinking, and hated the
captain deeply.
----------CHAPTER 10---------
THE VOYAGE
All that night we were in a great bustle getting things stowed in their
place, and boatfuls of the squire's friends, Mr. Blandly and the like,
coming off to wish him a good voyage and a safe return. We never had a
night at the "Admiral Benbow" when I had half the work; and I was
dog-tired when, a little before dawn, the boatswain sounded his pipe,
and the crew began to man the capstan bars. I might have been twice as
weary, yet I would not have left the deck, all was so new and
interesting to me--the brief commands, the shrill notes of the whistle,
the men bustling to their places in the glimmer of the ship's lanterns.
"Now, Barbecue, tip us a stave," cried one voice.
"The old one," cried another.
"Ay, ay, mates," said Long John, who was standing by, with his crutch
under his arm, and at once broke out in the air and words I knew so
well:
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest"--
And then the whole crew bore chorus:
"Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
And at the third "ho!" drove the bars before them with a will.
Even at that exciting moment it carried me back to the old "Admiral
Benbow" in a second, and I seemed to hear the voice of the captain
piping in the chorus. But soon the anchor was short up; soon it was
hanging dripping at the bows; soon the sails began to draw, and the land
and shipping to flit by on either side, and before I could lie down to
snatch an hour of slumber the _Hispaniola_ had begun her voyage to the
Isle of Treasure.
I am not going to relate the voyage in detail. It was fairly prosperous.
The ship proved to be a good ship, the crew were capable seamen, and the
captain thoroughly understood his business. But before we came the
length of Treasure Island, two or three things had happened which
require to be known.
Mr. Arrow, first of all, turned out even worse than the captain had
feared. He had no command among the men, and people did what they
pleased with him. But that was by no means the worst of it; for after a
day or two at sea he began to appear on deck with hazy eye, red cheeks,
stuttering tongue, and other marks of drunkenness. Time after time he
was ordered below in disgrace. Sometimes he fell and cut himself;
sometimes he lay all day long in his little bunk at one side of the
companion; sometimes for a day or two he would be almost sober and
attend to his work at least passably.
In the meantime we could never make out where he got the drink. That was
the ship's mystery. Watch him as we pleased, we could do nothing to
solve it, and when we asked him to his face, he would only laugh, if he
were drunk, and if he were sober, deny solemnly that he ever tasted
anything but water.
He was not only useless as an officer, and a bad influence among the
men, but it was plain that at this rate he must soon kill himself
outright, so nobody was much surprised, nor very sorry, when one dark
night, with a head sea, he disappeared entirely and was seen no more.
"Overboard!" said the captain. "Well, gentlemen, that saves the trouble
of putting him in irons."
But there we were, without a mate, and it was necessary, of course, to
advance one of the men. The boatswain, Job Anderson, was the likeliest
man aboard, and though he kept his old title, he served in a way as
mate. Mr. Trelawney had followed the sea, and his knowledge made him
very useful, for he often took a watch himself in easy weather. And the
coxswain, Israel Hands, was a careful, wily, old, experienced seaman,
who could be trusted at a pinch with almost anything.
He was a great confidant of Long John Silver, and so the mention of his
name leads me on to speak of our ship's cook, Barbecue, as the men
called him.
[Illustration: _It was something to see him get on with his cooking like
someone safe ashore_ (Page 71)]
Aboard ship he carried his crutch by a lanyard round his neck, to have
both hands as free as possible. It was something to see him wedge the
foot of the crutch against a bulkhead, and, propped against it, yielding
to every movement of the ship, get on with his cooking like someone safe
ashore. Still more strange was it to see him in the heaviest of weather
cross the deck. He had a line or two rigged up to help him across the
widest spaces--Long John's earrings, they were called--and he would hand
himself from one place to another, now using the crutch, now trailing it
alongside by the lanyard, as quickly as another man could walk. Yet some
of the men who had sailed with him before expressed their pity to see
him so reduced.
"He's no common man, Barbecue," said the coxswain to me. "He had good
schooling in his young days, and can speak like a book when so minded;
and brave--a lion's nothing alongside of Long John! I seen him grapple
four and knock their heads together--him unarmed."
All the crew respected and even obeyed him. He had a way of talking to
each, and doing everybody some particular service. To me he was
unweariedly kind, and always glad to see me in the galley, which he kept
as clean as a new pin; the dishes hanging up burnished, and his parrot
in a cage in the corner.
"Come away, Hawkins," he would say; "come and have a yarn with John.
Nobody more welcome than yourself, my son. Sit you down and hear the
news. Here's Cap'n Flint--I calls my parrot Cap'n Flint, after the
famous buccaneer--here's Cap'n Flint predicting success to our v'yage.
Wasn't you, Cap'n?"
And the parrot would say, with great rapidity: "Pieces of eight! pieces
of eight! pieces of eight!" till you wondered that it was not out of
breath or till John threw his handkerchief over the cage.
"Now, that bird," he would say, "is, may be, two hundred years old,
Hawkins--they live forever mostly, and if anybody's seen more wickedness
it must be the devil himself. She's sailed with England--the great Cap'n
England, the pirate. She's been at Madagascar, and at Malabar, and
Surinam, and Providence, and Portobello. She was at the fishing up of
the wrecked plate ships. It's there she learned 'Pieces of eight,' and
little wonder; three hundred and fifty thousand of 'em, Hawkins! She was
at the boarding of the _Viceroy of the Indies_ out of Goa, she was, and
to look at her you would think she was a babby. But you smelt
powder--didn't you, cap'n?"
"Stand by to go about," the parrot would scream.
"Ah, she's a handsome craft, she is," the cook would say, and give her
sugar from his pocket, and then the bird would peck at the bars and
swear straight on, passing belief for wickedness. "There," John would
add, "you can't touch pitch and not be mucked, lad. Here's this poor old
innocent bird of mine swearing blue fire and none the wiser, you may lay
to that. She would swear the same, in a manner of speaking, before the
chaplain." And John would touch his forelock with a solemn way he had,
that made me think he was the best of men.
In the meantime the squire and Captain Smollett were still on pretty
distant terms with one another. The squire made no bones about the
matter; he despised the captain. The captain, on his part, never spoke
but when he was spoken to, and then sharp and short and dry, and not a
word wasted. He owned, when driven into a corner, that he seemed to have
been wrong about the crew; that some of them were as brisk as he wanted
to see, and all had behaved fairly well. As for the ship, he had taken a
downright fancy to her. "She'll lie a point nearer the wind than a man
has a right to expect of his own married wife, sir. But," he would add,
"all I say is, we're not home again, and I don't like the cruise."
The squire, at this, would turn away and march up and down the deck,
chin in air.
"A trifle more of that man," he would say, "and I should explode."
We had some heavy weather, which only proved the qualities of the
_Hispaniola_. Every man on board seemed well content, and they must have
been hard to please if they had been otherwise, for it is my belief
there was never a ship's company so spoiled since Noah put to sea.
Double grog was going on the least excuse; there was duff on odd days,
as, for instance, if the squire heard it was any man's birthday; and
always a barrel of apples standing broached in the waist, for anyone to
help himself that had a fancy.
"Never knew good to come of it yet," the captain said to Doctor Livesey.
"Spoil foc's'le hands, make devils. That's my belief."
But good did come of the apple barrel, as you shall hear, for if it had
not been for that we should have had no note of warning and might all
have perished by the hand of treachery.
This is how it came about.
We had run up the trades to get the wind of the island we were after--I
am not allowed to be more plain--and now we were running down for it
with a bright lookout day and night. It was about the last day of our
outward voyage, by the largest computation; some time that night, or, at
latest, before noon of the morrow, we should sight the Treasure Island.
We were heading south-southwest, and had a steady breeze abeam and a
quiet sea. The _Hispaniola_ rolled steadily, dipping her bowsprit now
and then with a whiff of spray. All was drawing alow and aloft; everyone
was in the bravest spirits, because we were now so near an end of the
first part of our adventure.
Now, just after sundown, when all my work was over and I was on my way
to my berth, it occurred to me that I should like an apple. I ran on
deck. The watch was all forward looking out for the island. The man at
the helm was watching the luff of the sail and whistling away gently to
himself, and that was the only sound excepting the swish of the sea
against the bows and around the sides of the ship.
In I got bodily into the apple barrel, and found there was scarce an
apple left; but, sitting down there in the dark, what with the sound of
the waters and the rocking movement of the ship, I had either fallen
asleep, or was on the point of doing so, when a heavy man sat down with
rather a clash close by. The barrel shook as he leaned his shoulders
against it, and I was just about to jump up when the man began to speak.
It was Silver's voice, and, before I had heard a dozen words, I would
not have shown myself for all the world, but lay there, trembling and
listening, in the extreme of fear and curiosity; for from these dozen
words I understood that the lives of all the honest men aboard depended
upon me alone.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 12, utilizing the provided context. | null | The call of land was the call of relief for Jim. He sneaks out of the barrel and jumps up on the open deck to join Hunter and Dr. Livesey on the bow. They look around, Jim is unable to believe his eyes considering the state he was in moments ago. They are approaching an island and when Captain Smollet asks the crew if anybody had been here before, Silver answers positively. He tells them that the island is called Skeleton Island which was the main place for pirates. The hill to the north, Silver says, is called Foremast hill and the ones running south are fore, main and mizzen. The main one is called Spyglass. When Captain Smollet hands the map to Silver for his confirmation, he nods his agreement though he is thoroughly disappointed to find only a copy of the original map without any markings. Jim is amazed at Silvers cool headedness, when he reveals his knowledge. Jim almost shudders when he places his hand on Jim and tells him about the good times that awaited him on shore. Jim, without wasting anytime, sneaks next to Dr. Livesey and asks him to call a meeting with the Captain and the Squire. He makes him aware of the seriousness of the situation. Dr. Livesey acts quickly and all four assemble in the cabin. Jim narrates the details he had overheard. All three listen to him with acute concentration. Impressed by Jims information, Dr. Livesey offers him a seat with them and treats him as an equal. The Squire is open and accepts his mistake in front of the Captain for his wrong judgment. The Captain is equally surprised at the conduct of the crew, as he didnt suspect anyone. The Captain takes charge of the situation and tells them that they should go on with the mission as they have time and a few faithful men with them. Dr. Livesey acknowledges Jims efforts and entrusts him with more responsibilities. Jim feels pressured and helpless at this but nevertheless realizes the important task he has on hand. |
----------CHAPTER 11---------
WHAT I HEARD IN THE APPLE BARREL
"No, not I," said Silver. "Flint was cap'n; I was quartermaster, along
of my timber leg. The same broadside I lost my leg, old Pew lost his
deadlights. It was a master surgeon, him that ampytated me--out of
college and all--Latin by the bucket, and what not; but he was hanged
like a dog, and sun-dried like the rest, at Corso Castle. That was
Roberts' men, that was, and comed of changing names to their
ships--_Royal Fortune_ and so on. Now, what a ship was christened, so
let her stay, I says. So it was with the _Cassandra_, as brought us all
safe home from Malabar, after England took the _Viceroy of the Indies_;
so it was with the old _Walrus_, Flint's old ship, as I've seen a-muck
with the red blood and fit to sink with gold."
"Ah!" cried another voice, that of the youngest hand on board, and
evidently full of admiration, "he was the flower of the flock, was
Flint!"
"Davis was a man, too, by all accounts," said Silver. "I never sailed
along of him; first with England, then with Flint, that's my story; and
now here on my own account, in a manner of speaking. I laid by nine
hundred safe, from England, and two thousand after Flint. That ain't bad
for a man before the mast--all safe in bank. 'Tain't earning now, it's
saving does it, you may lay to that. Where's all England's men now? I
dunno. Where's Flint's? Why, most of 'em aboard here, and glad to get
the duff--been begging before that, some of 'em. Old Pew, as had lost
his sight, and might have thought shame, spends twelve hundred pounds in
a year, like a lord in Parliament. Where is he now? Well, he's dead now
and under hatches; but for two years before that, shiver my timbers! the
man was starving. He begged, and he stole, and he cut throats, and
starved at that, by the powers!"
"Well, it ain't much use, after all," said the young seaman.
"'Tain't much use for fools, you may lay to it--that, nor nothing,"
cried Silver. "But now, you look here; you're young, you are, but you're
as smart as paint. I see that when I set my eyes on you, and I'll talk
to you like a man."
You can imagine how I felt when I heard this abominable old rogue
addressing another in the very same words of flattery as he had used to
myself. I think, if I had been able, that I would have killed him
through the barrel. Meantime he ran on, little supposing he was
overheard.
"Here it is about gentlemen of fortune. They lives rough, and they risk
swinging, but they eat and drink like fighting-cocks, and when a cruise
is done, why it's hundreds of pounds instead of hundreds of farthings in
their pockets. Now, the most goes for rum and a good fling, and to sea
again in their shirts. But that's not the course I lay. I puts it all
away, some here, some there, and none too much anywheres, by reason of
suspicion. I'm fifty, mark you; once back from this cruise I set up
gentleman in earnest. Time enough, too, says you. Ah, but I've lived
easy in the meantime; never denied myself o' nothing heart desires, and
slept soft and ate dainty all my days, but when at sea. And how did I
begin? Before the mast, like you!"
"Well," said the other, "but all the other money's gone now, ain't it?
You daren't show face in Bristol after this."
"Why, where might you suppose it was?" asked Silver, derisively.
"At Bristol, in banks and places," answered his companion.
"It were," said the cook; "it were when we weighed anchor. But my old
missis has it all by now. And the 'Spy-glass' is sold, lease and good
will and rigging; and the old girl's off to meet me. I would tell you
where, for I trust you; but it 'ud make jealousy among the mates."
"And you can trust your missis?" asked the other.
"Gentlemen of fortune," returned the cook, "usually trust little among
themselves, and right they are, you may lay to it. But I have a way with
me, I have. When a mate brings a slip on his cable--one as knows me, I
mean--it won't be in the same world with old John. There was some that
was feared of Pew, and some that was feared of Flint; but Flint his own
self was feared of me. Feared he was, and proud. They was the roughest
crew afloat, was Flint's; the devil himself would have been feared to go
to sea with them. Well, now, I tell you, I'm not a boasting man, and you
seen yourself how easy I keep company; but when I was quartermaster,
_lambs_ wasn't the word for Flint's old buccaneers. Ah, you may be sure
of yourself in old John's ship."
"Well, I tell you now," replied the lad, "I didn't half a quarter like
the job till I had this talk with you, John, but there's my hand on it
now."
"And a brave lad you were, and smart, too," answered Silver, shaking
hands so heartily that all the barrel shook, "and a finer figurehead for
a gentleman of fortune I never clapped my eyes on."
By this time I had begun to understand the meaning of their terms. By a
"gentleman of fortune" they plainly meant neither more nor less than a
common pirate, and the little scene that I had overheard was the last
act in the corruption of one of the honest hands--perhaps of the last
one left aboard. But on this point I was soon to be relieved, for,
Silver giving a little whistle, a third man strolled up and sat down by
the party.
"Dick's square," said Silver.
"Oh, I know'd Dick was square," returned the voice of the coxswain,
Israel Hands. "He's no fool, is Dick." And he turned his quid and spat.
"But, look here," he went on, "here's what I want to know, Barbecue--how
long are we a-going to stand off and on like a blessed bumboat? I've had
a'most enough o' Cap'n Smollett; he's hazed me long enough, by thunder!
I want to go into that cabin, I do. I want their pickles and wines, and
that."
"Israel," said Silver, "your head ain't much account, nor never was. But
you're able to hear, I reckon; leastways your ears is big enough. Now,
here's what I say--you'll berth forward, and you'll live hard, and
you'll speak soft, and you'll keep sober, till I give the word; and you
may lay to that, my son."
"Well, I don't say no, do I?" growled the coxswain. "What I say is,
when? That's what I say."
"When! by the powers!" cried Silver. "Well, now, if you want to know,
I'll tell you when. The last moment I can manage; and that's when.
Here's a first-rate seaman, Cap'n Smollett, sails the blessed ship for
us. Here's this squire and doctor with a map and such--I don't know
where it is, do I? No more do you, says you. Well, then, I mean this
squire and doctor shall find the stuff, and help us to get it aboard, by
the powers! Then we'll see. If I was sure of you all, sons of double
Dutchmen, I'd have Cap'n Smollett navigate us halfway back again before
I struck."
"Why, we're all seamen aboard here, I should think," said the lad Dick.
"We're all foc's'le hands, you mean," snapped Silver. "We can steer a
course, but who's to set one? That's what all you gentlemen split on,
first and last. If I had my way, I'd have Cap'n Smollett work us back
into the trades at least; then we'd have no blessed miscalculations and
a spoonful of water a day. But I know the sort you are. I'll finish with
'em at the island, as soon's the blunt's on board, and a pity it is. But
you're never happy till you're drunk. Split my sides, I've a sick heart
to sail with the likes of you!"
"Easy all, Long John," cried Israel. "Who's a-crossin' of you?"
"Why, how many tall ships, think ye, now, have I seen laid aboard? and
how many brisk lads drying in the sun at Execution Dock?" cried Silver;
"and all for this same hurry and hurry and hurry. You hear me? I seen a
thing or two at sea, I have. If you would on'y lay your course, and a
p'int to windward, you would ride in carriages, you would. But not you!
I know you. You'll have your mouthful of rum to-morrow, and go hang."
"Everybody know'd you was a kind of a chapling, John; but there's others
as could hand and steer as well as you," said Israel. "They liked a bit
o' fun, they did. They wasn't so high and dry, nohow, but took their
fling, like jolly companions, everyone."
"So?" said Silver. "Well, and where are they now? Pew was that sort, and
he died a beggar-man. Flint was, and he died of rum at Savannah. Ah,
they was a sweet crew, they was! on'y, where are they?"
"But," asked Dick, "when we do lay 'em athwart, what are we to do with
'em, anyhow?"
"There's the man for me!" cried the cook, admiringly. "That's what I
call business. Well, what would you think? Put 'em ashore like maroons?
That would have been England's way. Or cut 'em down like that much pork?
That would have been Flint's or Billy Bones's."
"Billy was the man for that," said Israel. "'Dead men don't bite,' says
he. Well, he's dead now, hisself; he knows the long and short on it now;
and if ever a rough hand come to port, it was Billy."
"Right you are," said Silver, "rough and ready. But mark you here: I'm
an easy man--I'm quite the gentleman, says you; but this time it's
serious. Dooty is dooty, mates. I give my vote--death. When I'm in
Parlyment, and riding in my coach, I don't want none of these
sea-lawyers in the cabin a-coming home, unlooked for, like the devil at
prayers. Wait is what I say; but when the time comes, why let her rip!"
"John," cried the coxswain, "you're a man!"
"You'll say so, Israel, when you see," said Silver. "Only one thing I
claim--I claim Trelawney. I'll wring his calf's head off his body with
these hands. Dick!" he added, breaking off, "you must jump up, like a
sweet lad, and get me an apple, to wet my pipe like."
You may fancy the terror I was in! I should have leaped out and run for
it, if I had found the strength; but my limbs and heart alike misgave
me. I heard Dick begin to rise, and then some one seemingly stopped him,
and the voice of Hands exclaimed:
"Oh, stow that! Don't you get sucking of that bilge, John. Let's have a
go of the rum."
"Dick," said Silver, "I trust you. I've a gauge on the keg, mind.
There's the key; you fill a pannikin and bring it up."
Terrified as I was, I could not help thinking to myself that this must
have been how Mr. Arrow got the strong waters that destroyed him.
Dick was gone but a little while, and during his absence Israel spoke
straight on in the cook's ear. It was but a word or two that I could
catch, and yet I gathered some important news; for, besides other scraps
that tended to the same purpose, this whole clause was audible: "Not
another man of them'll jine." Hence there were still faithful men on
board.
When Dick returned, one after another of the trio took the pannikin and
drank--one "To luck"; another with a "Here's to old Flint," and Silver
himself saying, in a kind of song, "Here's to ourselves, and hold your
luff, plenty of prizes and plenty of duff."
Just then a sort of brightness fell upon me in the barrel, and, looking
up, I found the moon had risen, and was silvering the mizzen-top and
shining white on the luff of the foresail, and almost at the same time
the voice on the lookout shouted, "Land ho!"
----------CHAPTER 12---------
COUNCIL OF WAR
There was a great rush of feet across the deck. I could hear people
tumbling up from the cabin and the foc's'le; and slipping in an instant
outside my barrel, I dived behind the foresail, made a double towards
the stern, and came out upon the open deck in time to join Hunter and
Doctor Livesey in the rush for the weather bow.
There all hands were already congregated. A belt of fog had lifted
almost simultaneously with the appearance of the moon. Away to the
southwest of us we saw two low hills, about a couple of miles apart, and
rising behind one of them a third and higher hill, whose peak was still
buried in the fog. All three seemed sharp and conical in figure.
So much I saw almost in a dream, for I had not yet recovered from my
horrid fear of a minute or two before. And then I heard the voice of
Captain Smollett issuing orders. The _Hispaniola_ was laid a couple of
points nearer the wind, and now sailed a course that would just clear
the island on the east.
"And now, men," said the captain, when all was sheeted home, "has any
one of you ever seen that land ahead?"
"I have, sir," said Silver. "I've watered there with a trader I was cook
in."
"The anchorage is on the south, behind an islet, I fancy?" asked the
captain.
"Yes, sir, Skeleton Island they calls it. It were a main place for
pirates once, and a hand we had on board knowed all their names for it.
That hill to the nor'ard they calls the Foremast Hill; there are three
hills in a row running south'ard--fore, main, and mizzen, sir. But the
main--that's the big 'un, with the cloud on it--they usually calls the
Spy-glass, by reason of a lookout they kept when they was in the
anchorage cleaning; for it's there they cleaned their ships, sir, asking
your pardon."
"I have a chart here," said Captain Smollett. "See if that's the place."
Long John's eyes burned in his head as he took the chart, but, by the
fresh look of the paper, I knew he was doomed to disappointment. This
was not the map we found in Billy Bones's chest, but an accurate copy,
complete in all things--names, and heights, and soundings--with the
single exception of the red crosses and the written notes. Sharp as must
have been his annoyance, Silver had the strength of mind to hide it.
"Yes, sir," said he, "this is the spot, to be sure, and very prettily
drawed out. Who might have done that, I wonder? The pirates were too
ignorant, I reckon. Ay, here it is: 'Captain Kidd's Anchorage'--just the
name my shipmate called it. There's a strong current runs along the
south, and then away nor'ard up the west coast. Right you was, sir,"
said he, "to haul your wind and keep the weather of the island.
Leastways, if such was your intention as to enter and careen, and there
ain't no better place for that in these waters."
"Thank you, my man," said Captain Smollett. "I'll ask you, later on, to
give us a help. You may go."
I was surprised at the coolness with which John avowed his knowledge of
the island, and I own I was half-frightened when I saw him drawing
nearer to myself. He did not know, to be sure, that I had overheard his
council from the apple barrel, and yet I had, by this time, taken such a
horror of his cruelty, duplicity, and power, that I could scarce conceal
a shudder when he laid his hand upon my arm.
"Ah," said he, "this here is a sweet spot, this island--a sweet spot for
a lad to get ashore on. You'll bathe, and you'll climb trees, and you'll
hunt goats, you will, and you'll get aloft on them hills like a goat
yourself. Why, it makes me young again. I was going to forget my timber
leg, I was. It's a pleasant thing to be young, and have ten toes, and
you may lay to that. When you want to go a bit of exploring, you just
ask old John and he'll put up a snack for you to take along."
And clapping me in the friendliest way upon the shoulder, he hobbled off
forward and went below.
Captain Smollett, the squire, and Doctor Livesey were talking together
on the quarter-deck, and anxious as I was to tell them my story, I durst
not interrupt them openly. While I was still casting about in my
thoughts to find some probable excuse, Doctor Livesey called me to his
side. He had left his pipe below, and being a slave to tobacco, had
meant that I should fetch it; but as soon as I was near enough to speak
and not be overheard, I broke out immediately: "Doctor, let me speak.
Get the captain and squire down to the cabin, and then make some
pretense to send for me. I have terrible news."
The doctor changed countenance a little, but next moment he was master
of himself.
"Thank you, Jim," said he, quite loudly; "that was all I wanted to
know," as if he had asked me a question.
And with that he turned on his heel and rejoined the other two. They
spoke together for a little, and though none of them started, or raised
his voice, or so much as whistled, it was plain enough that Doctor
Livesey had communicated my request, for the next thing that I heard was
the captain giving an order to Job Anderson, and all hands were piped on
deck.
"My lads," said Captain Smollett, "I've a word to say to you. This land
that we have sighted is the place we have been sailing to. Mr.
Trelawney, being a very open-handed gentleman, as we all know, has just
asked me a word or two, and as I was able to tell him that every man on
board had done his duty, alow and aloft, as I never ask to see it done
better, why, he and I and the doctor are going below to the cabin to
drink _your_ health and luck, and you'll have grog served out for you to
drink _our_ health and luck. I'll tell you what I think of this: I think
it handsome. And if you think as I do, you'll give a good sea cheer for
the gentleman that does it."
The cheer followed--that was a matter of course--but it rang out so full
and hearty, that I confess I could hardly believe these same men were
plotting for our blood.
"One more cheer for Cap'n Smollett!" cried Long John, when the first had
subsided.
And this also was given with a will.
On the top of that the three gentlemen went below, and not long after,
word was sent forward that Jim Hawkins was wanted in the cabin.
I found them all three seated around the table, a bottle of Spanish wine
and some raisins before them, and the doctor smoking away, with his wig
on his lap, and that, I knew, was a sign that he was agitated. The stern
window was open, for it was a warm night, and you could see the moon
shining behind on the ship's wake.
"Now, Hawkins," said the squire, "you have something to say. Speak up."
I did as I was bid, and, as short as I could make it, told the whole
details of Silver's conversation. Nobody interrupted me till I was done,
nor did anyone of the three of them make so much as a movement, but they
kept their eyes upon my face from first to last.
"Jim," said Doctor Livesey, "take a seat."
And they made me sit down at a table beside them, poured me out a glass
of wine, filled my hands with raisins, and all three, one after the
other, and each with a bow, drank my good health, and their service to
me, for my luck and courage.
"Now, captain," said the squire, "you were right and I was wrong. I own
myself an ass, and I await your orders."
"No more an ass than I, sir," returned the captain. "I never heard of a
crew that meant to mutiny but what showed signs before, for any man that
had an eye in his head to see the mischief and take steps according. But
this crew," he added, "beats me."
"Captain," said the doctor, "with your permission, that's Silver. A very
remarkable man."
"He'd look remarkably well from a yardarm, sir," returned the captain.
"But this is talk; this don't lead to anything. I see three or four
points, and with Mr. Trelawney's permission I'll name them."
"You, sir, are the captain. It is for you to speak," said Mr. Trelawney,
grandly.
"First point," began Mr. Smollett, "we must go on because we can't turn
back. If I gave the word to turn about, they would rise at once. Second
point, we have time before us--at least until this treasure's found.
Third point, there are faithful hands. Now, sir, it's got to come to
blows sooner or later, and what I propose is to take time by the
forelock, as the saying is, and come to blows some fine day when they
least expect it. We can count, I take it, on your own home servants, Mr.
Trelawney?"
"As upon myself," declared the squire.
"Three," reckoned the captain; "ourselves make seven, counting Hawkins
here. Now, about the honest hands?"
"Most likely Trelawney's own men," said the doctor; "those he picked up
for himself before he lit on Silver."
"Nay," replied the squire, "Hands was one of mine."
"I did think I could have trusted Hands," added the captain.
"And to think that they're all Englishmen!" broke out the squire. "Sir,
I could find it in my heart to blow the ship up."
"Well, gentlemen," said the captain, "the best that I can say is not
much. We must lay to, if you please, and keep a bright lookout. It's
trying on a man, I know. It would be pleasanter to come to blows. But
there's no help for it till we know our men. Lay to and whistle for a
wind; that's my view."
"Jim here," said the doctor, "can help us more than anyone. The men are
not shy with him and Jim is a noticing lad."
"Hawkins, I put prodigious faith in you," added the squire.
I began to feel pretty desperate at this, for I felt altogether
helpless; and yet, by an odd train of circumstances, it was indeed
through me that safety came. In the meantime, talk as we pleased, there
were only seven out of the twenty-six on whom we knew we could rely, and
out of these seven one was a boy, so that the grown men on our side were
six to their nineteen.
PART III
MY SHORE ADVENTURE
|
Treasure Island.part 3.ch | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter 13 using the context provided. | chapter 13|chapter 14 | The next morning Jim gets a clear look at the island: it's covered with grey, mournful-looking pine trees. There are also three rocky hills, the highest of which is the Spy-glass. The Spy-glass is the tallest spot on the island. It's sheer cliff on all sides, and the top is flat like a table. Jim hates the look of the island and is feeling miserable. Long John Silver steers the Hispaniola safely to a landing on the south side of the island. Doctor Livesey sniffs the air coming off the island and decides it's an unhealthy place for them to be. Now that they have arrived at the island, the men are barely even pretending to be obedient. To cover up for the men's bad behavior, Long John Silver does his best to be as obviously well-behaved as possible - he still doesn't want to tip off the Captain that they plan to mutiny. Captain Smollett, Squire Trelawney, and the other good guys all hold a meeting. Captain Smollett points out that Long John Silver is as eager to keep things calm as they are. He suggests they give all the men the afternoon off so Long John Silver will have time to convince them to stay calm. Squire Trelawney takes his servants Hunter, Joyce, and Redruth aside to tell them about the plot against him, the Captain, and Doctor Livesey. The three men pledge their loyalty. Captain Smollett tells the men to take the afternoon off, and they all lighten up and look happy. He leaves Long John Silver to arrange the landing parties. Jim has a sudden idea: he notices that Long John Silver only leaves six men on board the Hispaniola. Jim decides to sneak onto the island. He tries to slip unseen onto a boat rowing to the shore, but one of the rowers says his name, and Long John Silver clearly hears it. When Jim's boat reaches the shore, he jumps out and runs off, ignoring the sound of Long John Silver calling his name. |
----------CHAPTER 13---------
HOW MY SHORE ADVENTURE BEGAN
The appearance of the island when I came on deck next morning was
altogether changed. Although the breeze had now utterly ceased, we had
made a great deal of way during the night and were now lying becalmed
about half a mile to the southeast of the low eastern coast.
Gray-colored woods covered a large part of the surface. This even tint
was indeed broken up by streaks of yellow sand-break in the lower lands
and by many tall trees of the pine family, out-topping the others--some
singly, some in clumps; but the general coloring was uniform and sad.
The hills ran up clear above the vegetation in spires of naked rock. All
were strangely shaped, and the Spy-glass, which was by three or four
hundred feet the tallest on the island, was likewise the strangest in
configuration, running up sheer from almost every side and then suddenly
cut off at the top like a pedestal to put a statue on.
The _Hispaniola_ was rolling scuppers under in the ocean swell. The
booms were tearing at the blocks, the rudder was banging to and fro, and
the whole ship creaking, groaning, and jumping like a manufactory. I had
to cling tight to the backstay and the world turned giddily before my
eyes; for though I was a good enough sailor when there was way on, this
standing still and being rolled about like a bottle was a thing I never
learned to stand without a qualm or so, above all in the morning, on an
empty stomach.
Perhaps it was this--perhaps it was the look of the island, with its
gray, melancholy woods, and wild stone spires, and the surf that we
could both see and hear foaming and thundering on the steep beach--at
least, although the sun shone bright and hot, and the shore birds were
fishing and crying all around us, and you would have thought anyone
would have been glad to get to land after being so long at sea, my heart
sank, as the saying is, into my boots, and from that first look onward I
hated the very thought of Treasure Island.
We had a dreary morning's work before us, for there was no sign of any
wind, and the boats had to be got out and manned, and the ship warped
three or four miles round the corner of the island and up the narrow
passage to the haven behind Skeleton Island. I volunteered for one of
the boats, where I had, of course, no business. The heat was sweltering
and the men grumbled fiercely over their work. Anderson was in command
of my boat, and instead of keeping the crew in order he grumbled as loud
as the worst.
"Well," he said, with an oath, "it's not forever."
I thought this was a very bad sign, for, up to that day, the men had
gone briskly and willingly about their business, but the very sight of
the island had relaxed the cords of discipline.
All the way in, Long John stood by the steersman and conned the ship. He
knew the passage like the palm of his hand; and though the man in the
chains got everywhere more water than was down in the chart, John never
hesitated once.
"There's a strong scour with the ebb," he said, "and this here passage
has been dug out, in a manner of speaking, with a spade."
We brought up just where the anchor was in the chart, about a third of a
mile from each shore, the mainland on one side and Skeleton Island on
the other. The bottom was clean sand. The plunge of our anchor sent up
clouds of birds wheeling and crying over the woods, but in less than a
minute they were down again, and all was once more silent.
The place was entirely landlocked, buried in woods, the trees coming
right down to high-water mark, the shores mostly flat, and the hill-tops
standing round at a distance in a sort of amphitheater, one here, one
there. Two little rivers, or rather two swamps, emptied out into this
pond, as you might call it and the foliage round that part of the shore
had a kind of poisonous brightness. From the ship we could see nothing
of the house or stockade, for they were quite buried among trees; and if
it had not been for the chart on the companion, we might have been the
first that had ever anchored there since the islands arose out of the
seas.
There was not a breath of air moving, nor a sound but that of the surf
booming half a mile away along the beaches and against the rocks
outside. A peculiar stagnant smell hung over the anchorage--a smell of
sodden leaves and rotting tree trunks. I observed the doctor sniffing
and sniffing, like someone tasting a bad egg.
"I don't know about treasure," he said, "but I'll stake my wig there's
fever here."
If the conduct of the men had been alarming in the boat, it became truly
threatening when they had come aboard. They lay about the deck,
growling together in talk. The slightest order was received with a black
look, and grudgingly and carelessly obeyed. Even the honest hands must
have caught the infection, for there was not one man aboard to mend
another. Mutiny, it was plain, hung over us like a thundercloud.
And it was not only we of the cabin party who perceived the danger. Long
John was hard at work going from group to group, spending himself in
good advice, and as for example no man could have shown a better. He
fairly outstripped himself in willingness and civility; he was all
smiles to everyone. If an order were given, John would be on his crutch
in an instant, with the cheeriest "Ay, ay, sir!" in the world; and when
there was nothing else to do, he kept up one song after another, as if
to conceal the discontent of the rest.
Of all the gloomy features of that gloomy afternoon, this obvious
anxiety on the part of Long John appeared the worst.
We held a council in the cabin.
"Sir," said the captain, "if I risk another order, the whole ship'll
come about our ears by the run. You see, sir, here it is. I get a rough
answer, do I not? Well, if I speak back, pikes will be going in two
shakes; if I don't, Silver will see there's something under that, and
the game's up. Now, we've only one man to rely on."
"And who is that?" asked the squire.
"Silver, sir," returned the captain; "he's as anxious as you and I to
smother things up. This is a tiff; he'd soon talk 'em out of it if he
had the chance, and what I propose to do is to give him the chance.
Let's allow the men an afternoon ashore. If they all go, why, we'll
fight the ship. If they none of them go, well, then, we hold the cabin,
and God defend the right. If some go, you mark my words, sir, Silver'll
bring 'em aboard again as mild as lambs."
It was so decided; loaded pistols were served out to all the sure men.
Hunter, Joyce, and Redruth were taken into our confidence, and received
the news with less surprise and a better spirit than we had looked for,
and then the captain went on deck and addressed the crew.
"My lads," said he, "we've had a hot day, and are all tired and out of
sorts. A turn ashore'll hurt nobody; the boats are still in the water;
you can take the gigs, and as many as please can go ashore for the
afternoon. I'll fire a gun half an hour before sundown."
I believe the silly fellows must have thought they would break their
shins over treasure as soon as they were landed; for they all came out
of their sulks in a moment, and gave a cheer that started the echo in a
far-away hill, and sent the birds once more flying and squalling round
the anchorage.
The captain was too bright to be in the way. He whipped out of sight in
a moment, leaving Silver to arrange the party, and I fancy it was as
well he did so. Had he been on deck he could no longer so much as have
pretended not to understand the situation. It was as plain as day.
Silver was the captain, and a mighty rebellious crew he had of it. The
honest hands--and I was soon to see it proved that there were such on
board--must have been very stupid fellows. Or, rather, I suppose the
truth was this, that all hands were disaffected by the example of the
ringleaders--only some more, some less; and a few, being good fellows in
the main, could neither be led nor driven any farther. It is one thing
to be idle and skulk, and quite another to take a ship and murder a
number of innocent men.
At last, however, the party was made up. Six fellows were to stay on
board, and the remaining thirteen, including Silver, began to embark.
Then it was that there came into my head the first of the mad notions
that contributed so much to save our lives. If six men were left by
Silver, it was plain our party could not take and fight the ship; and
since only six were left, it was equally plain that the cabin party had
no present need of my assistance. It occurred to me at once to go
ashore. In a jiffy I had slipped over the side and curled up in the
foresheets of the nearest boat, and almost at the same moment she shoved
off.
No one took notice of me, only the bow oar saying, "Is that you, Jim?
Keep your head down." But Silver, from the other boat, looked sharply
over and called out to know if that were me; and from that moment I
began to regret what I had done.
The crews raced for the beach, but the boat I was in, having some start,
and being at once the lighter and the better manned, shot far ahead of
her consort, and the bow had struck among the shore-side trees, and I
had caught a branch and swung myself out, and plunged into the nearest
thicket, while Silver and the rest were still a hundred yards behind.
"Jim, Jim!" I heard him shouting.
But you may suppose I paid no heed; jumping, ducking, and breaking
through, I ran straight before my nose, till I could run no longer.
----------CHAPTER 14---------
THE FIRST BLOW
I was so pleased at having given the slip to Long John, that I began to
enjoy myself and look around me with some interest on the strange land
that I was in. I had crossed a marshy tract full of willows, bulrushes,
and odd, outlandish, swampy trees; and had now come out upon the skirts
of an open piece of undulating, sandy country, about a mile long, dotted
with a few pines, and a great number of contorted trees, not unlike the
oak in growth, but pale in the foliage, like willows. On the far side of
the open stood one of the hills, with two quaint, craggy peaks, shining
vividly in the sun.
I now felt for the first time the joy of exploration. The isle was
uninhabited; my shipmates I had left behind, and nothing lived in front
of me but dumb brutes and fowls. I turned hither and thither among the
trees. Here and there were flowering plants, unknown to me; here and
there I saw snakes, and one raised his head from a ledge of rock and
hissed at me with a noise not unlike the spinning of a top. Little did I
suppose that he was a deadly enemy, and that the noise was the famous
rattle.
Then I came to a long thicket of these oak-like trees--live, or
evergreen, oaks, I heard afterward they should be called--which grew low
along the sand like brambles, the boughs curiously twisted, the foliage
compact, like thatch. The thicket stretched down from the top of one of
the sandy knolls, spreading and growing taller as it went, until it
reached the margin of the broad, reedy fen, through which the nearest of
the little rivers soaked its way into the anchorage. The marsh was
steaming in the strong sun, and the outline of the Spy-glass trembled
through the haze.
All at once there began to go a sort of bustle among the bulrushes; a
wild duck flew up with a quack, another followed, and soon over the
whole surface of the marsh a great cloud of birds hung screaming and
circling in the air. I judged at once that some of my shipmates must be
drawing near along the borders of the fen. Nor was I deceived, for soon
I heard the very distant and low tones of a human voice, which, as I
continued to give ear, grew steadily louder and nearer.
This put me in great fear, and I crawled under cover of the nearest
live-oak, and squatted there, hearkening, as silent as a mouse.
Another voice answered; and then the first voice, which I now recognized
to be Silver's, once more took up the story, and ran on for a long while
in a stream, only now and again interrupted by the other. By the sound
they must have been talking earnestly, and almost fiercely, but no
distinct word came to my hearing.
At last the speakers seemed to have paused, and perhaps to have sat
down, for not only did they cease to draw any nearer, but the birds
themselves began to grow more quiet, and to settle again to their places
in the swamp.
And now I began to feel that I was neglecting my business; that since I
had been so foolhardy as to come ashore with these desperadoes, the
least I could do was to overhear them at their councils, and that my
plain and obvious duty was to draw as close as I could manage, under
the favorable ambush of the crouching trees.
I could tell the direction of the speakers pretty exactly, not only by
the sound of their voices, but by the behavior of the few birds that
still hung in alarm above the heads of the intruders.
Crawling on all-fours, I made steadily but slowly towards them, till at
last, raising my head to an aperture among the leaves, I could see clear
down into a little green dell beside the marsh, and closely set about
with trees, where Long John Silver and another of the crew stood face to
face in conversation.
The sun beat full upon them. Silver had thrown his hat beside him on the
ground, and his great, smooth, blonde face, all shining with heat, was
lifted to the other man's in a kind of appeal.
"Mate," he was saying, "it's because I thinks gold dust of you--gold
dust, and you may lay to that! If I hadn't took to you like pitch, do
you think I'd have been here a-warning of you? All's up--you can't make
nor mend; it's to save your neck that I'm a-speaking, and if one of the
wild 'uns knew it, where 'ud I be, Tom--now tell me, where 'ud I be?"
"Silver," said the other man--and I observed he was not only red in the
face, but spoke as hoarse as a crow, and his voice shook, too, like a
taut rope--"Silver," says he, "you're old, and you're honest, or has the
name for it; and you've money, too, which lots of poor sailors hasn't;
and you're brave, or I'm mistook. And will you tell me you'll let
yourself be led away with that kind of a mess of swabs? Not you! As sure
as God sees me, I'd sooner lose my hand. If I turn agin my dooty--"
And then all of a sudden he was interrupted by a noise. I had found one
of the honest hands--well, here, at that same moment, came news of
another. Far away out in the marsh there arose, all of a sudden, a sound
like the cry of anger, then another on the back of it, and then one
horrid, long-drawn scream. The rocks of the Spy-glass re-echoed it a
score of times; the whole troop of marsh-birds rose again, darkening
heaven with a simultaneous whir; and long after that death-yell was
still ringing in my brain, silence had re-established its empire, and
only the rustle of the redescending birds and the boom of the distant
surges disturbed the languor of the afternoon.
Tom had leaped at the sound, like a horse at the spur; but Silver had
not winked an eye. He stood where he was, resting lightly on his crutch,
watching his companion like a snake about to spring.
"John!" said the sailor, stretching out his hand.
"Hands off!" cried Silver, leaping back a yard, as it seemed to me, with
the speed and security of a trained gymnast.
"Hands off, if you like, John Silver," said the other. "It's a black
conscience that can make you feared of me. But, in heaven's name, tell
me what was that?"
"That?" returned Silver, smiling away, but warier than ever, his eye a
mere pin-point in his big face, but gleaming like a crumb of glass.
"That? Oh, I reckon that'll be Alan."
And at this poor Tom flashed out like a hero.
"Alan!" he cried. "Then rest his soul for a true seaman! And as for you,
John Silver, long you've been a mate of mine, but you're mate of mine no
more. If I die like a dog I'll die in my dooty. You've killed Alan,
have you? Kill me, too, if you can. But I defies you."
And with that this brave fellow turned his back directly on the cook and
set off walking for the beach. But he was not destined to go far. With a
cry John seized the branch of a tree, whipped the crutch out of his
armpit, and sent that uncouth missile hurling through the air. It struck
poor Tom, point foremost, and with stunning violence, right between the
shoulders in the middle of his back. His hands flew up, he gave a sort
of gasp and fell.
Whether he was injured much or little, none could ever tell. Like
enough, to judge from the sound, his back was broken on the spot. But he
had no time given him to recover. Silver, agile as a monkey, even
without leg or crutch, was on the top of him next moment, and had twice
buried his knife up to the hilt in that defenseless body. From my place
of ambush I could hear him pant aloud as he struck the blows.
I do not know what it rightly is to faint, but I do know that for the
next little while the whole world swam away from before me in a whirling
mist; Silver and the birds and the tall Spy-glass hilltop going round
and round and topsy-turvy before my eyes, and all manner of bells
ringing, and distant voices shouting in my ear.
When I came again to myself the monster had pulled himself together, his
crutch under his arm, his hat upon his head. Just before him Tom lay
motionless upon the sward; but the murderer minded him not a whit,
cleansing his blood-stained knife the while upon a whisp of grass.
Everything else was unchanged, the sun still shining mercilessly upon
the steaming marsh and the tall pinnacle of the mountain, and I could
scarce persuade myself that murder had actually been done and a human
life cruelly cut short a moment since, before my eyes.
But now John put his hand into his pocket, brought out a whistle, and
blew upon it several modulated blasts, that rang far across the heated
air. I could not tell, of course, the meaning of the signal, but it
instantly awoke my fears. More men would be coming. I might be
discovered. They had already slain two of the honest people; after Tom
and Alan, might not I come next?
Instantly I began to extricate myself and crawl back again, with what
speed and silence I could manage, to the more open portion of the wood.
As I did so I could hear hails coming and going between the old
buccaneer and his comrades, and this sound of danger lent me wings. As
soon as I was clear of the thicket, I ran as I never ran before, scarce
minding the direction of my flight, so long as it led me from the
murderers, and as I ran, fear grew and grew upon me, until it turned
into a kind of frenzy.
Indeed, could anyone be more entirely lost than I? When the gun fired,
how should I dare to go down to the boats among those fiends, still
smoking from their crime? Would not the first of them who saw me wring
my neck like a snipe's? Would not my absence itself be an evidence to
them of my alarm, and therefore of my fatal knowledge? It was all over,
I thought. Good-by to the _Hispaniola_, good-by to the squire, the
doctor, and the captain. There was nothing left for me but death by
starvation, or death by the hands of the mutineers.
All this while, as I say, I was still running, and, without taking any
notice, I had drawn near to the foot of the little hill with the two
peaks, and had got into a part of the island where the wild oaks grew
more widely apart, and seemed more like forest trees in their bearing
and dimensions. Mingled with these were a few scattered pines, some
fifty, some nearer seventy, feet high. The air, too, smelled more fresh
than down beside the marsh.
And here a fresh alarm brought me to a standstill with a thumping heart.
[Illustration]
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 15 based on the provided context. | chapter 15|chapter 13 | Jim sees a shadow jump behind a rock. Jim tries to retrace his steps back to the beach and the Hispaniola. The dark figure reappears and catches up with Jim. Jim is so afraid of Long John Silver that he decides not to call for help; instead, he turns to face the figure. Jim is totally surprised when the figure throws himself to his knees as though begging Jim for mercy. The figure introduces himself as Ben Gunn. He has been marooned alone on this island for three years, living off oysters, berries, and goat meat. All he wants is a bit of toasted cheese. Ben tells Jim that he's become a god-fearing man again after all this time on the island. Ben promises Jim that he'll give him riches if he helps him. Ben asks Jim if he has come to the island on Flint's ship. Jim says no, but some of the men on the ship were Flint's men. Ben asks if one of them is a man with one leg, Long John Silver. Jim says yes, and Ben asks if he is on Long John Silver's side or not. Jim realizes that Ben may be an enemy of Long John Silver, so he explains the whole story of the Hispaniola's voyage. Ben promises to help in exchange for 1,000 British pounds of the treasure and free passage home. Ben tells Jim that he was sailing with Captain Flint when Flint buried his treasure on this island. Somehow Flint managed to murder six sailors single-handedly in order to keep the treasure's burial place secret. Billy Bones and Long John Silver were both on the ship at this time. Three years ago, Ben was sailing aboard another ship when they passed this island. Ben suggested that they stop and look for Flint's treasure. The captain of the boat wasn't happy about it, but the men insisted. They spent twelve days looking for the treasure but couldn't find it. After wasting almost two weeks, the sailors turned on Ben Gunn. They marooned him on the island along with a gun, a spade, and a pickax so that he could keep looking for Flint's treasure by himself. Having spent three years on the island by himself, Ben seems to have gone a little nuts. Still, he asks Jim to put in a good word for him with Squire Trelawney. Jim asks how he's supposed to get back on board the Hispaniola. Ben says he has a small boat and suggests that they try using it to row to the Hispaniola after dark. Ben and Jim hear the sounds of a fight breaking out. They run over quietly to see what's happening. They hear the sound of a cannon going off, followed by gunfire. There is a pause, then Jim sees the Union Jack flying over the forest. |
----------CHAPTER 15---------
THE MAN OF THE ISLAND
From the side of the hill, which was here steep and stony, a spout of
gravel was dislodged, and fell rattling and bounding through the trees.
My eyes turned instinctively in that direction, and I saw a figure leap
with great rapidity behind the trunk of a pine. What it was, whether
bear, or man, or monkey, I could in nowise tell. It seemed dark and
shaggy; more I knew not. But the terror of this new apparition brought
me to a stand.
I was now, it seemed, cut off upon both sides: behind me the murderers,
before me this lurking nondescript. And immediately I began to prefer
the dangers that I knew to those I knew not. Silver himself appeared
less terrible in contrast with this creature of the woods, and I turned
on my heel, and, looking sharply behind me over my shoulder, began to
retrace my steps in the direction of the boats.
Instantly the figure reappeared, and, making a wide circuit, began to
head me off. I was tired, at any rate, but had I been as fresh as when I
rose, I could see it was in vain for me to contend in speed with such an
adversary. From trunk to trunk the creature flitted like a deer, running
man-like on two legs, but unlike any man that I had ever seen, stooping
almost double as it ran. Yet a man it was! I could no longer be in doubt
about that.
I began to recall what I had heard of cannibals. I was within an ace of
calling for help. But the mere fact that he was a man, however wild, had
somewhat reassured me, and my fear of Silver began to revive in
proportion. I stood still, therefore, and cast about for some method of
escape, and as I was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed
into my mind. As soon as I remembered I was not defenseless, courage
glowed again in my heart, and I set my face resolutely for this man of
the island, and walked briskly toward him.
He was concealed by this time, behind another tree-trunk, but he must
have been watching me closely, for as soon as I began to move in his
direction he reappeared and took a step to meet me. Then he hesitated,
drew back, came forward again, and, at last, to my wonder and confusion,
threw himself on his knees and held out his clasped hands in
supplication.
At that I once more stopped.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Ben Gunn," he answered, and his voice sounded hoarse and awkward, like
a rusty lock. "I'm poor Ben Gunn, I am; and I haven't spoke with a
Christian these three years."
I could now see that he was a white man like myself, and that his
features were even pleasing. His skin, wherever it was exposed, was
burned by the sun; even his lips were black, and his fair eyes looked
quite startling in so dark a face. Of all the beggar-men that I had seen
or fancied, he was the chief for raggedness. He was clothed with tatters
of old ships' canvas and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork
was all held together by a system of the most various and incongruous
fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry gaskin.
About his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather belt, which was the
one thing solid in his whole accouterment.
"Three years!" I cried. "Were you shipwrecked?"
"Nay, mate," said he, "marooned."
I had heard the word and I knew it stood for a horrible kind of
punishment common enough among the buccaneers, in which the offender is
put ashore with a little powder and shot and left behind on some
desolate and distant island.
"Marooned three years agone," he continued, "and lived on goats since
then, and berries and oysters. Wherever a man is, says I, a man can do
for himself. But, mate, my heart is sore for Christian diet. You
mightn't happen to have a piece of cheese about you, now? No? Well,
many's the long night I've dreamed of cheese--toasted, mostly--and woke
up again, and here I were."
"If ever I can get aboard again," said I, "you shall have cheese by the
stone."
All this time he had been feeling the stuff of my jacket, smoothing my
hands, looking at my boots, and generally, in the intervals of his
speech, showing a childish pleasure in the presence of a
fellow-creature. But at my last words he perked up into a kind of
startled slyness.
"If ever you get aboard again, says you?" he repeated. "Why, now, who's
to hinder you?"
"Not you, I know," was my reply.
"And right you was," he cried. "Now you--what do you call yourself,
mate?"
"Jim," I told him.
"Jim, Jim," says he, quite pleased, apparently. "Well, now, Jim, I've
lived that rough as you'd be ashamed to hear of. Now, for instance, you
wouldn't think I had had a pious mother--to look at me?" he asked.
"Why, no, not in particular," I answered.
"Ah, well," said he, "but I had--remarkable pious. And I was a civil,
pious boy, and could rattle off my catechism that fast as you couldn't
tell one word from another. And here's what it come to, Jim, and it
begun with chuck-farthen on the blessed gravestones! That's what it
begun with, but it went further'n that, and so my mother told me, and
predicked the whole, she did, the pious woman. But it were Providence
that put me here. I've thought it all out in this here lonely island and
I'm back on piety. You can't catch me tasting rum so much, but just a
thimbleful for luck, of course, the first chance I have. I'm bound I'll
be good, and I see the way to. And, Jim"--looking all round him and
lowering his voice to a whisper--"I'm rich."
I now felt sure that the poor fellow had gone crazy in his solitude, and
I suppose I must have shown the feeling in my face, for he repeated the
statement hotly:
"Rich! rich! I says. And I'll tell you what, I'll make a man of you,
Jim. Ah, Jim, you'll bless your stars, you will, you was the first that
found me!"
And at this there came suddenly a lowering shadow over his face and he
tightened his grasp upon my hand and raised a forefinger threateningly
before my eyes.
"Now, Jim, you tell me true; that ain't Flint's ship?" he asked.
At this I had a happy inspiration. I began to believe that I had found
an ally and I answered him at once.
"It's not Flint's ship and Flint is dead, but I'll tell you true, as
you ask me--there are some of Flint's hands aboard; worse luck for the
rest of us."
"Not a man--with one--leg?" he gasped.
"Silver?" I asked.
"Ah, Silver!" says he, "that were his name."
"He's the cook, and the ringleader, too."
He was still holding me by the wrist, and at that he gave it quite a
wring. "If you was sent by Long John," he said, "I'm as good as pork and
I know it. But where was you, do you suppose?"
I had made my mind up in a moment, and by way of answer told him the
whole story of our voyage and the predicament in which we found
ourselves. He heard me with the keenest interest, and when I had done he
patted me on the head.
"You're a good lad, Jim," he said, "and you're all in a clove hitch,
ain't you? Well, you just put your trust in Ben Gunn--Ben Gunn's the man
to do it. Would you think it likely, now, that your squire would prove a
liberal-minded one in case of help--him being in a clove hitch, as you
remark?"
I told him the squire was the most liberal of men.
"Ay, but you see," returned Ben Gunn, "I didn't mean giving me a gate to
keep and a suit of livery clothes, and such; that's not my mark, Jim.
What I mean is, would he be likely to come down to the toon of, say one
thousand pounds out of money that's as good as a man's own already?"
"I am sure he would," said I. "As it was, all hands were to share."
"_And_ a passage home?" he added, with a look of great shrewdness.
"Why," I cried, "the squire's a gentleman. And, besides, if we got rid
of the others, we should want you to help work the vessel home."
"Ah," said he, "so you would." And he seemed very much relieved.
"Now, I'll tell you what," he went on. "So much I'll tell you, and no
more. I were in Flint's ship when he buried the treasure; he and six
along--six strong seamen. They was ashore nigh on a week, and us
standing off and on in the old _Walrus_. One fine day up went the
signal, and here come Flint by himself in a little boat, and his head
done up in a blue scarf. The sun was getting up, and mortal white he
looked about the cutwater. But, there he was, you mind, and the six all
dead--dead and buried. How had he done it, not a man aboard us could
make out. It was battle, murder, and sudden death, leastways--him
against six. Billy Bones was the mate; Long John, he was quartermaster;
and they asked him where the treasure was. 'Ah,' says he, 'you can go
ashore, if you like, and stay,' he says; 'but as for the ship, she'll
beat up for more, by thunder!' That's what he said.
"Well, I was in another ship three years back, and we sighted this
island. 'Boys,' said I, 'here's Flint's treasure; let's land and find
it.' The cap'n was displeased at that; but my messmates were all of a
mind, and landed. Twelve days they looked for it, and every day they had
the worse word for me, until one fine morning all hands went aboard. 'As
for you, Benjamin Gunn,' says they, 'here's a musket,' they says, 'and a
spade, and a pickax. You can stay here and find Flint's money for
yourself,' they says.
"Well, Jim, three years have I been here, and not a bite of Christian
diet from that day to this. But now, you look here; look at me. Do I
look like a man before the mast? No, says you. Nor I weren't, neither, I
says."
And with that he winked and pinched me hard.
"Just you mention them words to your squire, Jim," he went on. "Nor he
weren't neither--that's the words. Three years he were the man of this
island, light and dark, fair and rain; and sometimes he would, may be,
think upon a prayer (says you), and sometimes he would, may be, think of
his old mother, so be as she's alive (you'll say); but the most part of
Gunn's time (this is what you'll say)--the most part of his time was
took up with another matter. And then you'll give him a nip, like I do."
And he pinched me again, in the most confidential manner.
"Then," he continued, "then you'll up, and you'll say this: Gunn is a
good man (you'll say), and he puts a precious sight more confidence--a
precious sight, mind that--in a gen'leman born than in these gen'lemen
of fortune, having been one hisself."
"Well," I said, "I don't understand one word that you've been saying.
But that's neither here nor there; for how am I to get on board?"
"Ah," said he, "that's the hitch, for sure. Well, there's my boat that I
made with my two hands. I keep her under the white rock. If the worst
come to the worst, we might try that after dark. Hi!" he broke out,
"what's that?"
For just then, although the sun had still an hour or two to run, all the
echoes of the island awoke and bellowed to the thunder of a cannon.
"They have begun to fight!" I cried. "Follow me!"
And I began to run toward the anchorage, my terrors all forgotten;
while, close at my side, the marooned man in his goat-skins trotted
easily and lightly.
"Left, left," says he; "keep to your left hand, mate Jim! Under the
trees with you! There's where I killed my first goat. They don't come
down here now; they're all mastheaded on them mountings for the fear of
Benjamin Gunn. Ah! and there's the cetemery"--cemetery he must have
meant. "You see the mounds? I come here and prayed, nows and thens, when
I thought maybe a Sunday would be about doo. It weren't quite a chapel,
but it seemed more solemn like; and then, says you, Ben Gunn was
shorthanded--no chapling, nor so much as a Bible and a flag, you says."
So he kept talking as I ran, neither expecting nor receiving any answer.
The cannon-shot was followed, after a considerable interval, by a volley
of small arms.
Another pause, and then, not a quarter of a mile in front of me, I
beheld the Union Jack flutter in the air above a wood.
PART IV
THE STOCKADE
----------CHAPTER 13---------
HOW MY SHORE ADVENTURE BEGAN
The appearance of the island when I came on deck next morning was
altogether changed. Although the breeze had now utterly ceased, we had
made a great deal of way during the night and were now lying becalmed
about half a mile to the southeast of the low eastern coast.
Gray-colored woods covered a large part of the surface. This even tint
was indeed broken up by streaks of yellow sand-break in the lower lands
and by many tall trees of the pine family, out-topping the others--some
singly, some in clumps; but the general coloring was uniform and sad.
The hills ran up clear above the vegetation in spires of naked rock. All
were strangely shaped, and the Spy-glass, which was by three or four
hundred feet the tallest on the island, was likewise the strangest in
configuration, running up sheer from almost every side and then suddenly
cut off at the top like a pedestal to put a statue on.
The _Hispaniola_ was rolling scuppers under in the ocean swell. The
booms were tearing at the blocks, the rudder was banging to and fro, and
the whole ship creaking, groaning, and jumping like a manufactory. I had
to cling tight to the backstay and the world turned giddily before my
eyes; for though I was a good enough sailor when there was way on, this
standing still and being rolled about like a bottle was a thing I never
learned to stand without a qualm or so, above all in the morning, on an
empty stomach.
Perhaps it was this--perhaps it was the look of the island, with its
gray, melancholy woods, and wild stone spires, and the surf that we
could both see and hear foaming and thundering on the steep beach--at
least, although the sun shone bright and hot, and the shore birds were
fishing and crying all around us, and you would have thought anyone
would have been glad to get to land after being so long at sea, my heart
sank, as the saying is, into my boots, and from that first look onward I
hated the very thought of Treasure Island.
We had a dreary morning's work before us, for there was no sign of any
wind, and the boats had to be got out and manned, and the ship warped
three or four miles round the corner of the island and up the narrow
passage to the haven behind Skeleton Island. I volunteered for one of
the boats, where I had, of course, no business. The heat was sweltering
and the men grumbled fiercely over their work. Anderson was in command
of my boat, and instead of keeping the crew in order he grumbled as loud
as the worst.
"Well," he said, with an oath, "it's not forever."
I thought this was a very bad sign, for, up to that day, the men had
gone briskly and willingly about their business, but the very sight of
the island had relaxed the cords of discipline.
All the way in, Long John stood by the steersman and conned the ship. He
knew the passage like the palm of his hand; and though the man in the
chains got everywhere more water than was down in the chart, John never
hesitated once.
"There's a strong scour with the ebb," he said, "and this here passage
has been dug out, in a manner of speaking, with a spade."
We brought up just where the anchor was in the chart, about a third of a
mile from each shore, the mainland on one side and Skeleton Island on
the other. The bottom was clean sand. The plunge of our anchor sent up
clouds of birds wheeling and crying over the woods, but in less than a
minute they were down again, and all was once more silent.
The place was entirely landlocked, buried in woods, the trees coming
right down to high-water mark, the shores mostly flat, and the hill-tops
standing round at a distance in a sort of amphitheater, one here, one
there. Two little rivers, or rather two swamps, emptied out into this
pond, as you might call it and the foliage round that part of the shore
had a kind of poisonous brightness. From the ship we could see nothing
of the house or stockade, for they were quite buried among trees; and if
it had not been for the chart on the companion, we might have been the
first that had ever anchored there since the islands arose out of the
seas.
There was not a breath of air moving, nor a sound but that of the surf
booming half a mile away along the beaches and against the rocks
outside. A peculiar stagnant smell hung over the anchorage--a smell of
sodden leaves and rotting tree trunks. I observed the doctor sniffing
and sniffing, like someone tasting a bad egg.
"I don't know about treasure," he said, "but I'll stake my wig there's
fever here."
If the conduct of the men had been alarming in the boat, it became truly
threatening when they had come aboard. They lay about the deck,
growling together in talk. The slightest order was received with a black
look, and grudgingly and carelessly obeyed. Even the honest hands must
have caught the infection, for there was not one man aboard to mend
another. Mutiny, it was plain, hung over us like a thundercloud.
And it was not only we of the cabin party who perceived the danger. Long
John was hard at work going from group to group, spending himself in
good advice, and as for example no man could have shown a better. He
fairly outstripped himself in willingness and civility; he was all
smiles to everyone. If an order were given, John would be on his crutch
in an instant, with the cheeriest "Ay, ay, sir!" in the world; and when
there was nothing else to do, he kept up one song after another, as if
to conceal the discontent of the rest.
Of all the gloomy features of that gloomy afternoon, this obvious
anxiety on the part of Long John appeared the worst.
We held a council in the cabin.
"Sir," said the captain, "if I risk another order, the whole ship'll
come about our ears by the run. You see, sir, here it is. I get a rough
answer, do I not? Well, if I speak back, pikes will be going in two
shakes; if I don't, Silver will see there's something under that, and
the game's up. Now, we've only one man to rely on."
"And who is that?" asked the squire.
"Silver, sir," returned the captain; "he's as anxious as you and I to
smother things up. This is a tiff; he'd soon talk 'em out of it if he
had the chance, and what I propose to do is to give him the chance.
Let's allow the men an afternoon ashore. If they all go, why, we'll
fight the ship. If they none of them go, well, then, we hold the cabin,
and God defend the right. If some go, you mark my words, sir, Silver'll
bring 'em aboard again as mild as lambs."
It was so decided; loaded pistols were served out to all the sure men.
Hunter, Joyce, and Redruth were taken into our confidence, and received
the news with less surprise and a better spirit than we had looked for,
and then the captain went on deck and addressed the crew.
"My lads," said he, "we've had a hot day, and are all tired and out of
sorts. A turn ashore'll hurt nobody; the boats are still in the water;
you can take the gigs, and as many as please can go ashore for the
afternoon. I'll fire a gun half an hour before sundown."
I believe the silly fellows must have thought they would break their
shins over treasure as soon as they were landed; for they all came out
of their sulks in a moment, and gave a cheer that started the echo in a
far-away hill, and sent the birds once more flying and squalling round
the anchorage.
The captain was too bright to be in the way. He whipped out of sight in
a moment, leaving Silver to arrange the party, and I fancy it was as
well he did so. Had he been on deck he could no longer so much as have
pretended not to understand the situation. It was as plain as day.
Silver was the captain, and a mighty rebellious crew he had of it. The
honest hands--and I was soon to see it proved that there were such on
board--must have been very stupid fellows. Or, rather, I suppose the
truth was this, that all hands were disaffected by the example of the
ringleaders--only some more, some less; and a few, being good fellows in
the main, could neither be led nor driven any farther. It is one thing
to be idle and skulk, and quite another to take a ship and murder a
number of innocent men.
At last, however, the party was made up. Six fellows were to stay on
board, and the remaining thirteen, including Silver, began to embark.
Then it was that there came into my head the first of the mad notions
that contributed so much to save our lives. If six men were left by
Silver, it was plain our party could not take and fight the ship; and
since only six were left, it was equally plain that the cabin party had
no present need of my assistance. It occurred to me at once to go
ashore. In a jiffy I had slipped over the side and curled up in the
foresheets of the nearest boat, and almost at the same moment she shoved
off.
No one took notice of me, only the bow oar saying, "Is that you, Jim?
Keep your head down." But Silver, from the other boat, looked sharply
over and called out to know if that were me; and from that moment I
began to regret what I had done.
The crews raced for the beach, but the boat I was in, having some start,
and being at once the lighter and the better manned, shot far ahead of
her consort, and the bow had struck among the shore-side trees, and I
had caught a branch and swung myself out, and plunged into the nearest
thicket, while Silver and the rest were still a hundred yards behind.
"Jim, Jim!" I heard him shouting.
But you may suppose I paid no heed; jumping, ducking, and breaking
through, I ran straight before my nose, till I could run no longer.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 15, utilizing the provided context. | null | Jim is suddenly aware that he is being trailed by a creature. He cannot tell if it is a man, a monkey, or a bear, but he is terrified. He thinks that he would prefer to die at the hands of Long John Silver, than some strange creature and retraces his steps to the boat. The figure reappears and Jim finds the creature running like a man. Jim suddenly realizes that he had forgotten he has a loaded pistol for his defense. Jim confidently approaches the man hiding behind the tree trunks. The man comes out into the open and kneels in front of Jim. The man tells Jim that his name is Ben Gunn and that he is a Christian. Jim observes that he is white man. Tanned, ragged and uncouth, he is covered in pieces of an old ships canvas held together with brass buttons and bits of stick. He tells Jim that he was marooned here three years ago and has not spoken to a man since. He has lived on berries, oysters and goats and that he was yearning for a piece of cheese. He asks Jim if he has any with him at the moment. Jim promises him to get it if he gets on board again. Then, Jim hears the strangest thing from him. Ben Gunn proclaims that he is rich and he will make Jim rich too. Ben Gunn inquires if the ship anchored here belonged to Captain Flint. Jim tells him that Flint is dead but there are Flints men on board. When Jim mentions Silvers name Ben Gunn recognizes him. Jim tells Ben Gunn about his voyage. He tells Jim that he is a good lad and asks if the Squire was liberal minded, and would he agree to give him a thousand pounds and a ride back home if he helps them. Jim said that they were all going to share, so yes. Ben Tells Jim about his voyage with Flint while he buried his treasure. At that time he had served as a mate with Bill Bones and Silver. He also tells Jim that he was marooned on the island by a group of other sailors, when he had returned to find the treasure, and failed to find it. To get to the ship, Ben Gunn says that he has made a boat which will help them. Just then they hear the thunder of a cannon and small arms fire. They run for their lives. As they run Ben Gunn keeps on talking about things Jim couldnt comprehend. Not far away from them they see a Union Jack flutter. |
----------CHAPTER 14---------
THE FIRST BLOW
I was so pleased at having given the slip to Long John, that I began to
enjoy myself and look around me with some interest on the strange land
that I was in. I had crossed a marshy tract full of willows, bulrushes,
and odd, outlandish, swampy trees; and had now come out upon the skirts
of an open piece of undulating, sandy country, about a mile long, dotted
with a few pines, and a great number of contorted trees, not unlike the
oak in growth, but pale in the foliage, like willows. On the far side of
the open stood one of the hills, with two quaint, craggy peaks, shining
vividly in the sun.
I now felt for the first time the joy of exploration. The isle was
uninhabited; my shipmates I had left behind, and nothing lived in front
of me but dumb brutes and fowls. I turned hither and thither among the
trees. Here and there were flowering plants, unknown to me; here and
there I saw snakes, and one raised his head from a ledge of rock and
hissed at me with a noise not unlike the spinning of a top. Little did I
suppose that he was a deadly enemy, and that the noise was the famous
rattle.
Then I came to a long thicket of these oak-like trees--live, or
evergreen, oaks, I heard afterward they should be called--which grew low
along the sand like brambles, the boughs curiously twisted, the foliage
compact, like thatch. The thicket stretched down from the top of one of
the sandy knolls, spreading and growing taller as it went, until it
reached the margin of the broad, reedy fen, through which the nearest of
the little rivers soaked its way into the anchorage. The marsh was
steaming in the strong sun, and the outline of the Spy-glass trembled
through the haze.
All at once there began to go a sort of bustle among the bulrushes; a
wild duck flew up with a quack, another followed, and soon over the
whole surface of the marsh a great cloud of birds hung screaming and
circling in the air. I judged at once that some of my shipmates must be
drawing near along the borders of the fen. Nor was I deceived, for soon
I heard the very distant and low tones of a human voice, which, as I
continued to give ear, grew steadily louder and nearer.
This put me in great fear, and I crawled under cover of the nearest
live-oak, and squatted there, hearkening, as silent as a mouse.
Another voice answered; and then the first voice, which I now recognized
to be Silver's, once more took up the story, and ran on for a long while
in a stream, only now and again interrupted by the other. By the sound
they must have been talking earnestly, and almost fiercely, but no
distinct word came to my hearing.
At last the speakers seemed to have paused, and perhaps to have sat
down, for not only did they cease to draw any nearer, but the birds
themselves began to grow more quiet, and to settle again to their places
in the swamp.
And now I began to feel that I was neglecting my business; that since I
had been so foolhardy as to come ashore with these desperadoes, the
least I could do was to overhear them at their councils, and that my
plain and obvious duty was to draw as close as I could manage, under
the favorable ambush of the crouching trees.
I could tell the direction of the speakers pretty exactly, not only by
the sound of their voices, but by the behavior of the few birds that
still hung in alarm above the heads of the intruders.
Crawling on all-fours, I made steadily but slowly towards them, till at
last, raising my head to an aperture among the leaves, I could see clear
down into a little green dell beside the marsh, and closely set about
with trees, where Long John Silver and another of the crew stood face to
face in conversation.
The sun beat full upon them. Silver had thrown his hat beside him on the
ground, and his great, smooth, blonde face, all shining with heat, was
lifted to the other man's in a kind of appeal.
"Mate," he was saying, "it's because I thinks gold dust of you--gold
dust, and you may lay to that! If I hadn't took to you like pitch, do
you think I'd have been here a-warning of you? All's up--you can't make
nor mend; it's to save your neck that I'm a-speaking, and if one of the
wild 'uns knew it, where 'ud I be, Tom--now tell me, where 'ud I be?"
"Silver," said the other man--and I observed he was not only red in the
face, but spoke as hoarse as a crow, and his voice shook, too, like a
taut rope--"Silver," says he, "you're old, and you're honest, or has the
name for it; and you've money, too, which lots of poor sailors hasn't;
and you're brave, or I'm mistook. And will you tell me you'll let
yourself be led away with that kind of a mess of swabs? Not you! As sure
as God sees me, I'd sooner lose my hand. If I turn agin my dooty--"
And then all of a sudden he was interrupted by a noise. I had found one
of the honest hands--well, here, at that same moment, came news of
another. Far away out in the marsh there arose, all of a sudden, a sound
like the cry of anger, then another on the back of it, and then one
horrid, long-drawn scream. The rocks of the Spy-glass re-echoed it a
score of times; the whole troop of marsh-birds rose again, darkening
heaven with a simultaneous whir; and long after that death-yell was
still ringing in my brain, silence had re-established its empire, and
only the rustle of the redescending birds and the boom of the distant
surges disturbed the languor of the afternoon.
Tom had leaped at the sound, like a horse at the spur; but Silver had
not winked an eye. He stood where he was, resting lightly on his crutch,
watching his companion like a snake about to spring.
"John!" said the sailor, stretching out his hand.
"Hands off!" cried Silver, leaping back a yard, as it seemed to me, with
the speed and security of a trained gymnast.
"Hands off, if you like, John Silver," said the other. "It's a black
conscience that can make you feared of me. But, in heaven's name, tell
me what was that?"
"That?" returned Silver, smiling away, but warier than ever, his eye a
mere pin-point in his big face, but gleaming like a crumb of glass.
"That? Oh, I reckon that'll be Alan."
And at this poor Tom flashed out like a hero.
"Alan!" he cried. "Then rest his soul for a true seaman! And as for you,
John Silver, long you've been a mate of mine, but you're mate of mine no
more. If I die like a dog I'll die in my dooty. You've killed Alan,
have you? Kill me, too, if you can. But I defies you."
And with that this brave fellow turned his back directly on the cook and
set off walking for the beach. But he was not destined to go far. With a
cry John seized the branch of a tree, whipped the crutch out of his
armpit, and sent that uncouth missile hurling through the air. It struck
poor Tom, point foremost, and with stunning violence, right between the
shoulders in the middle of his back. His hands flew up, he gave a sort
of gasp and fell.
Whether he was injured much or little, none could ever tell. Like
enough, to judge from the sound, his back was broken on the spot. But he
had no time given him to recover. Silver, agile as a monkey, even
without leg or crutch, was on the top of him next moment, and had twice
buried his knife up to the hilt in that defenseless body. From my place
of ambush I could hear him pant aloud as he struck the blows.
I do not know what it rightly is to faint, but I do know that for the
next little while the whole world swam away from before me in a whirling
mist; Silver and the birds and the tall Spy-glass hilltop going round
and round and topsy-turvy before my eyes, and all manner of bells
ringing, and distant voices shouting in my ear.
When I came again to myself the monster had pulled himself together, his
crutch under his arm, his hat upon his head. Just before him Tom lay
motionless upon the sward; but the murderer minded him not a whit,
cleansing his blood-stained knife the while upon a whisp of grass.
Everything else was unchanged, the sun still shining mercilessly upon
the steaming marsh and the tall pinnacle of the mountain, and I could
scarce persuade myself that murder had actually been done and a human
life cruelly cut short a moment since, before my eyes.
But now John put his hand into his pocket, brought out a whistle, and
blew upon it several modulated blasts, that rang far across the heated
air. I could not tell, of course, the meaning of the signal, but it
instantly awoke my fears. More men would be coming. I might be
discovered. They had already slain two of the honest people; after Tom
and Alan, might not I come next?
Instantly I began to extricate myself and crawl back again, with what
speed and silence I could manage, to the more open portion of the wood.
As I did so I could hear hails coming and going between the old
buccaneer and his comrades, and this sound of danger lent me wings. As
soon as I was clear of the thicket, I ran as I never ran before, scarce
minding the direction of my flight, so long as it led me from the
murderers, and as I ran, fear grew and grew upon me, until it turned
into a kind of frenzy.
Indeed, could anyone be more entirely lost than I? When the gun fired,
how should I dare to go down to the boats among those fiends, still
smoking from their crime? Would not the first of them who saw me wring
my neck like a snipe's? Would not my absence itself be an evidence to
them of my alarm, and therefore of my fatal knowledge? It was all over,
I thought. Good-by to the _Hispaniola_, good-by to the squire, the
doctor, and the captain. There was nothing left for me but death by
starvation, or death by the hands of the mutineers.
All this while, as I say, I was still running, and, without taking any
notice, I had drawn near to the foot of the little hill with the two
peaks, and had got into a part of the island where the wild oaks grew
more widely apart, and seemed more like forest trees in their bearing
and dimensions. Mingled with these were a few scattered pines, some
fifty, some nearer seventy, feet high. The air, too, smelled more fresh
than down beside the marsh.
And here a fresh alarm brought me to a standstill with a thumping heart.
[Illustration]
----------CHAPTER 15---------
THE MAN OF THE ISLAND
From the side of the hill, which was here steep and stony, a spout of
gravel was dislodged, and fell rattling and bounding through the trees.
My eyes turned instinctively in that direction, and I saw a figure leap
with great rapidity behind the trunk of a pine. What it was, whether
bear, or man, or monkey, I could in nowise tell. It seemed dark and
shaggy; more I knew not. But the terror of this new apparition brought
me to a stand.
I was now, it seemed, cut off upon both sides: behind me the murderers,
before me this lurking nondescript. And immediately I began to prefer
the dangers that I knew to those I knew not. Silver himself appeared
less terrible in contrast with this creature of the woods, and I turned
on my heel, and, looking sharply behind me over my shoulder, began to
retrace my steps in the direction of the boats.
Instantly the figure reappeared, and, making a wide circuit, began to
head me off. I was tired, at any rate, but had I been as fresh as when I
rose, I could see it was in vain for me to contend in speed with such an
adversary. From trunk to trunk the creature flitted like a deer, running
man-like on two legs, but unlike any man that I had ever seen, stooping
almost double as it ran. Yet a man it was! I could no longer be in doubt
about that.
I began to recall what I had heard of cannibals. I was within an ace of
calling for help. But the mere fact that he was a man, however wild, had
somewhat reassured me, and my fear of Silver began to revive in
proportion. I stood still, therefore, and cast about for some method of
escape, and as I was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed
into my mind. As soon as I remembered I was not defenseless, courage
glowed again in my heart, and I set my face resolutely for this man of
the island, and walked briskly toward him.
He was concealed by this time, behind another tree-trunk, but he must
have been watching me closely, for as soon as I began to move in his
direction he reappeared and took a step to meet me. Then he hesitated,
drew back, came forward again, and, at last, to my wonder and confusion,
threw himself on his knees and held out his clasped hands in
supplication.
At that I once more stopped.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Ben Gunn," he answered, and his voice sounded hoarse and awkward, like
a rusty lock. "I'm poor Ben Gunn, I am; and I haven't spoke with a
Christian these three years."
I could now see that he was a white man like myself, and that his
features were even pleasing. His skin, wherever it was exposed, was
burned by the sun; even his lips were black, and his fair eyes looked
quite startling in so dark a face. Of all the beggar-men that I had seen
or fancied, he was the chief for raggedness. He was clothed with tatters
of old ships' canvas and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork
was all held together by a system of the most various and incongruous
fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry gaskin.
About his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather belt, which was the
one thing solid in his whole accouterment.
"Three years!" I cried. "Were you shipwrecked?"
"Nay, mate," said he, "marooned."
I had heard the word and I knew it stood for a horrible kind of
punishment common enough among the buccaneers, in which the offender is
put ashore with a little powder and shot and left behind on some
desolate and distant island.
"Marooned three years agone," he continued, "and lived on goats since
then, and berries and oysters. Wherever a man is, says I, a man can do
for himself. But, mate, my heart is sore for Christian diet. You
mightn't happen to have a piece of cheese about you, now? No? Well,
many's the long night I've dreamed of cheese--toasted, mostly--and woke
up again, and here I were."
"If ever I can get aboard again," said I, "you shall have cheese by the
stone."
All this time he had been feeling the stuff of my jacket, smoothing my
hands, looking at my boots, and generally, in the intervals of his
speech, showing a childish pleasure in the presence of a
fellow-creature. But at my last words he perked up into a kind of
startled slyness.
"If ever you get aboard again, says you?" he repeated. "Why, now, who's
to hinder you?"
"Not you, I know," was my reply.
"And right you was," he cried. "Now you--what do you call yourself,
mate?"
"Jim," I told him.
"Jim, Jim," says he, quite pleased, apparently. "Well, now, Jim, I've
lived that rough as you'd be ashamed to hear of. Now, for instance, you
wouldn't think I had had a pious mother--to look at me?" he asked.
"Why, no, not in particular," I answered.
"Ah, well," said he, "but I had--remarkable pious. And I was a civil,
pious boy, and could rattle off my catechism that fast as you couldn't
tell one word from another. And here's what it come to, Jim, and it
begun with chuck-farthen on the blessed gravestones! That's what it
begun with, but it went further'n that, and so my mother told me, and
predicked the whole, she did, the pious woman. But it were Providence
that put me here. I've thought it all out in this here lonely island and
I'm back on piety. You can't catch me tasting rum so much, but just a
thimbleful for luck, of course, the first chance I have. I'm bound I'll
be good, and I see the way to. And, Jim"--looking all round him and
lowering his voice to a whisper--"I'm rich."
I now felt sure that the poor fellow had gone crazy in his solitude, and
I suppose I must have shown the feeling in my face, for he repeated the
statement hotly:
"Rich! rich! I says. And I'll tell you what, I'll make a man of you,
Jim. Ah, Jim, you'll bless your stars, you will, you was the first that
found me!"
And at this there came suddenly a lowering shadow over his face and he
tightened his grasp upon my hand and raised a forefinger threateningly
before my eyes.
"Now, Jim, you tell me true; that ain't Flint's ship?" he asked.
At this I had a happy inspiration. I began to believe that I had found
an ally and I answered him at once.
"It's not Flint's ship and Flint is dead, but I'll tell you true, as
you ask me--there are some of Flint's hands aboard; worse luck for the
rest of us."
"Not a man--with one--leg?" he gasped.
"Silver?" I asked.
"Ah, Silver!" says he, "that were his name."
"He's the cook, and the ringleader, too."
He was still holding me by the wrist, and at that he gave it quite a
wring. "If you was sent by Long John," he said, "I'm as good as pork and
I know it. But where was you, do you suppose?"
I had made my mind up in a moment, and by way of answer told him the
whole story of our voyage and the predicament in which we found
ourselves. He heard me with the keenest interest, and when I had done he
patted me on the head.
"You're a good lad, Jim," he said, "and you're all in a clove hitch,
ain't you? Well, you just put your trust in Ben Gunn--Ben Gunn's the man
to do it. Would you think it likely, now, that your squire would prove a
liberal-minded one in case of help--him being in a clove hitch, as you
remark?"
I told him the squire was the most liberal of men.
"Ay, but you see," returned Ben Gunn, "I didn't mean giving me a gate to
keep and a suit of livery clothes, and such; that's not my mark, Jim.
What I mean is, would he be likely to come down to the toon of, say one
thousand pounds out of money that's as good as a man's own already?"
"I am sure he would," said I. "As it was, all hands were to share."
"_And_ a passage home?" he added, with a look of great shrewdness.
"Why," I cried, "the squire's a gentleman. And, besides, if we got rid
of the others, we should want you to help work the vessel home."
"Ah," said he, "so you would." And he seemed very much relieved.
"Now, I'll tell you what," he went on. "So much I'll tell you, and no
more. I were in Flint's ship when he buried the treasure; he and six
along--six strong seamen. They was ashore nigh on a week, and us
standing off and on in the old _Walrus_. One fine day up went the
signal, and here come Flint by himself in a little boat, and his head
done up in a blue scarf. The sun was getting up, and mortal white he
looked about the cutwater. But, there he was, you mind, and the six all
dead--dead and buried. How had he done it, not a man aboard us could
make out. It was battle, murder, and sudden death, leastways--him
against six. Billy Bones was the mate; Long John, he was quartermaster;
and they asked him where the treasure was. 'Ah,' says he, 'you can go
ashore, if you like, and stay,' he says; 'but as for the ship, she'll
beat up for more, by thunder!' That's what he said.
"Well, I was in another ship three years back, and we sighted this
island. 'Boys,' said I, 'here's Flint's treasure; let's land and find
it.' The cap'n was displeased at that; but my messmates were all of a
mind, and landed. Twelve days they looked for it, and every day they had
the worse word for me, until one fine morning all hands went aboard. 'As
for you, Benjamin Gunn,' says they, 'here's a musket,' they says, 'and a
spade, and a pickax. You can stay here and find Flint's money for
yourself,' they says.
"Well, Jim, three years have I been here, and not a bite of Christian
diet from that day to this. But now, you look here; look at me. Do I
look like a man before the mast? No, says you. Nor I weren't, neither, I
says."
And with that he winked and pinched me hard.
"Just you mention them words to your squire, Jim," he went on. "Nor he
weren't neither--that's the words. Three years he were the man of this
island, light and dark, fair and rain; and sometimes he would, may be,
think upon a prayer (says you), and sometimes he would, may be, think of
his old mother, so be as she's alive (you'll say); but the most part of
Gunn's time (this is what you'll say)--the most part of his time was
took up with another matter. And then you'll give him a nip, like I do."
And he pinched me again, in the most confidential manner.
"Then," he continued, "then you'll up, and you'll say this: Gunn is a
good man (you'll say), and he puts a precious sight more confidence--a
precious sight, mind that--in a gen'leman born than in these gen'lemen
of fortune, having been one hisself."
"Well," I said, "I don't understand one word that you've been saying.
But that's neither here nor there; for how am I to get on board?"
"Ah," said he, "that's the hitch, for sure. Well, there's my boat that I
made with my two hands. I keep her under the white rock. If the worst
come to the worst, we might try that after dark. Hi!" he broke out,
"what's that?"
For just then, although the sun had still an hour or two to run, all the
echoes of the island awoke and bellowed to the thunder of a cannon.
"They have begun to fight!" I cried. "Follow me!"
And I began to run toward the anchorage, my terrors all forgotten;
while, close at my side, the marooned man in his goat-skins trotted
easily and lightly.
"Left, left," says he; "keep to your left hand, mate Jim! Under the
trees with you! There's where I killed my first goat. They don't come
down here now; they're all mastheaded on them mountings for the fear of
Benjamin Gunn. Ah! and there's the cetemery"--cemetery he must have
meant. "You see the mounds? I come here and prayed, nows and thens, when
I thought maybe a Sunday would be about doo. It weren't quite a chapel,
but it seemed more solemn like; and then, says you, Ben Gunn was
shorthanded--no chapling, nor so much as a Bible and a flag, you says."
So he kept talking as I ran, neither expecting nor receiving any answer.
The cannon-shot was followed, after a considerable interval, by a volley
of small arms.
Another pause, and then, not a quarter of a mile in front of me, I
beheld the Union Jack flutter in the air above a wood.
PART IV
THE STOCKADE
|
Treasure Island.part 4.ch | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter 16 using the context provided. | chapter 16|chapter 17|chapter 18 | At 1:30, two boatloads of sailors row ashore from the Hispaniola. One of them is humming an Irish marching song, "Lillibullero" . Tom Redruth comes to tell Doctor Livesey that Jim Hawkins has also slipped ashore. Doctor Livesey is worried for Jim's safety. Livesey feels restless and decides to use a tiny rowboat to go ashore with Hunter in secret to look for information. Doctor Livesey finds an abandoned fort at the top of a hill. The best part of the fort is that it has a spring of fresh water. While the ship is well-provisioned and would be easy to defend, there isn't enough water on board for a long battle against the pirates. Doctor Livesey hears a scream . Doctor Livesey thinks it's Jim who's been killed. Livesey and Hunter rush back to the ship. Squire Trelawney is sitting aboard the Hispaniola thinking that it's Doctor Livesey and Hunter who were killed. Captain Smollett points out that one of the six sailors left aboard the ship turned pale when he heard the scream. Captain Smollett thinks that man will join the loyal party. Doctor Livesey explains his plan to use the abandoned stockade to defend themselves. They secretly load up the tiny rowboat with ammunition and provisions. Meanwhile, the Captain and Squire Trelawney stay on deck. Finally, the charade is over: Squire Trelawney takes out his pistol and tells Israel Hands to freeze. The six sailors are totally confused, but since they are surrounded - with Squire Trelawney and Captain Smollett on one end of the ship and Redruth on the other - they obediently go below decks. During all this activity, Doctor Livesey, Hunter, and Joyce manage to set off for shore in their rowboat filled with provisions. They unload the rowboat into the fort, then Doctor Livesey and Hunter row back to the Hispaniola. Joyce stays behind to guard the fort, armed with six guns. Back on the Hispaniola, they load up the rowboat a second time. They dump all of the guns and ammunition they don't have room for over the side of the ship so the pirates can't use them. The tide is starting to go out, and they hear the sounds of the two boatloads of men coming back from their day on the island. Doctor Livesey, Squire Trelawney, and Redruth get into the rowboat. , but he said that Joyce is alone just four paragraphs earlier. Here we see the value of close proofreading!) They paddle around to the front of the boat where the six sailors are trapped below the deck. They hear Captain Smollett's voice from the deck of the ship. Captain Smollett is ordering the sailor they thought might be loyal out of the six - Abraham Gray - to join their party. They hear the sounds of a fight below the decks, and Abraham Gray bursts out and runs over to Captain Smollett. Captain Smollett and Abraham Gray drop aboard the tiny rowboat, and they all set off for shore. |
----------CHAPTER 16---------
NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR--HOW THE SHIP WAS ABANDONED
It was about half-past one--three bells in the sea phrase--that the two
boats went ashore from the _Hispaniola_. The captain, the squire, and I
were talking matters over in the cabin. Had there been a breath of wind,
we should have fallen on the six mutineers who were left aboard with us,
slipped our cable, and away to sea. But the wind was wanting; and, to
complete our helplessness, down came Hunter with the news that Jim
Hawkins had slipped into a boat and was gone ashore with the rest.
It had never occurred to us to doubt Jim Hawkins, but we were alarmed
for his safety. With the men in the temper they were in, it seemed an
even chance if we should see the lad again. We ran on deck. The pitch
was bubbling in the seams; the nasty stench of the place turned me sick;
if ever a man smelled fever and dysentery it was in that abominable
anchorage. The six scoundrels were sitting grumbling under a sail in the
forecastle; ashore we could see the gigs made fast, and a man sitting in
each, hard by where the river runs in. One of them was whistling
"Lillibullero."
Waiting was a strain, and it was decided that Hunter and I should go
ashore with the jolly-boat, in quest of information.
The gigs had leaned to their right, but Hunter and I pulled straight in,
in the direction of the stockade upon the chart. The two who were left
guarding their boats seemed in a bustle at our appearance;
"Lillibullero" stopped off, and I could see the pair discussing what
they ought to do. Had they gone and told Silver, all might have turned
out differently; but they had their orders, I suppose, and decided to
sit quietly where they were and hark back again to "Lillibullero."
There was a slight bend in the coast, and I steered so as to put it
between us. Even before we landed we had thus lost sight of the gigs; I
jumped out and came as near running as I durst, with a big silk
handkerchief under my hat for coolness' sake, and a brace of pistols
ready primed for safety.
I had not gone a hundred yards when I came on the stockade.
This was how it was: A spring of clear water arose at the top of a
knoll. Well, on the knoll, and inclosing the spring, they had clapped a
stout log house, fit to hold two-score people on a pinch, and loopholed
for musketry on every side. All around this they had cleared a wide
space, and then the thing was completed by a paling six feet high,
without door or opening, too strong to pull down without time and labor,
and too open to shelter the besiegers. The people in the log house had
them in every way; they stood quiet in the shelter and shot the others
like partridges. All they wanted was a good watch and food; for, short
of a complete surprise, they might have held the place against a
regiment.
What particularly took my fancy was the spring. For, though we had a
good place of it in the cabin of the _Hispaniola_, with plenty of arms
and ammunition, and things to eat, and excellent wines, there had been
one thing overlooked--we had no water. I was thinking this over, when
there came ringing over the island the cry of a man at the point of
death. I was not new to violent death--I have served his Royal Highness
the Duke of Cumberland, and got a wound myself at Fontenoy--but I know
my pulse went dot and carry one. "Jim Hawkins is gone," was my first
thought.
It is something to have been an old soldier, but more still to have been
a doctor. There is no time to dilly-dally in our work. And so now I made
up my mind instantly, and with no time lost returned to the shore and
jumped on board the jolly-boat.
By good fortune Hunter pulled a good oar. We made the water fly, and the
boat was soon alongside and I aboard the schooner.
I found them all shaken, as was natural. The squire was sitting down, as
white as a sheet, thinking of the harm he had led us to, the good soul!
and one of the six forecastle hands was little better.
"There's a man," said Captain Smollett, nodding toward him, "new to this
work. He came nigh-hand fainting, doctor, when he heard the cry. Another
touch of the rudder and that man would join us."
I told my plan to the captain, and between us we settled on the details
of its accomplishment.
We put old Redruth in the gallery between the cabin and the forecastle,
with three or four loaded muskets and a mattress for protection. Hunter
brought the boat round under the stern port, and Joyce and I set to work
loading her with powder, tins, muskets, bags of biscuits, kegs of pork,
a cask of cognac, and my invaluable medicine chest.
In the meantime the squire and the captain stayed on deck, and the
latter hailed the coxswain, who was the principal man aboard.
"Mr. Hands," he said, "here are two of us with a brace of pistols each.
If any one of you six make a signal of any description, that man's
dead."
They were a good deal taken aback; and, after a little consultation, one
and all tumbled down the fore companion, thinking, no doubt, to take us
on the rear. But when they saw Redruth waiting for them in the sparred
gallery, they went about ship at once, and a head popped out again on
deck.
"Down, dog!" cried the captain.
And the head popped back again, and we heard no more for the time of
these six very faint-hearted seamen.
By this time, tumbling things in as they came, we had the jolly-boat
loaded as much as we dared. Joyce and I got out through the stern port,
and we made for shore again, as fast as oars could take us.
This second trip fairly aroused the watchers along shore. "Lillibullero"
was dropped again, and just before we lost sight of them behind the
little point, one of them whipped ashore and disappeared. I had half a
mind to change my plan and destroy their boats, but I feared that Silver
and the others might be close at hand, and all might very well be lost
by trying for too much.
We had soon touched land in the same place as before and set to work to
provision the blockhouse. All three made the first journey, heavily
laden, and tossed our stores over the palisade. Then, leaving Joyce to
guard them--one man, to be sure, but with half a dozen muskets--Hunter
and I returned to the jolly-boat, and loaded ourselves once more. So we
proceeded, without pausing to take breath, till the whole cargo was
bestowed, when the two servants took up their position in the
blockhouse, and I, with all my power, sculled back to the _Hispaniola_.
That we should have risked a second boat load seems more daring than it
really was. They had the advantage of numbers, of course, but we had the
advantage of arms. Not one of the men ashore had a musket, and before
they could get within range for pistol shooting, we flattered ourselves
we should be able to give a good account of a half dozen at least.
The squire was waiting for me at the stern window, all his faintness
gone from him. He caught the painter and made it fast, and we fell to
loading the boat for our very lives. Pork, powder, and biscuit was the
cargo, with only a musket and a cutlass apiece for squire and me and
Redruth and the captain. The rest of the arms and powder we dropped
overboard in two fathoms and a half of water, so that we could see the
bright steel shining far below us in the sun on the clean, sandy bottom.
By this time the tide was beginning to ebb, and the ship was swinging
round to her anchor. Voices were heard faintly halloaing in the
direction of the two gigs; and though this reassured us for Joyce and
Hunter, who were well to the eastward, it warned our party to be off.
Redruth retreated from his place in the gallery and dropped into the
boat, which we then brought round to the ship's counter, to be handier
for Captain Smollett.
"Now, men," said he, "do you hear me?"
There was no answer from the forecastle.
"It's to you, Abraham Gray--it's to you I am speaking."
Still no reply.
"Gray," resumed Mr. Smollett, a little louder, "I am leaving this ship,
and I order you to follow your captain. I know you are a good man at
bottom, and I dare say not one of the lot of you's as bad as he makes
out. I have my watch here in my hand; I give you thirty seconds to join
me in."
There was a pause.
"Come, my fine fellow," continued the captain, "don't hang so long in
stays. I'm risking my life and the lives of these good gentlemen every
second."
There was a sudden scuffle, a sound of blows, and out burst Abraham Gray
with a knife-cut on the side of the cheek, and came running to the
captain, like a dog to the whistle.
"I'm with you, sir," said he.
And the next moment he and the captain had dropped aboard of us, and we
had shoved off and given way.
We were clear out of the ship, but not yet ashore in our stockade.
----------CHAPTER 17---------
NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR--THE JOLLY-BOAT'S LAST TRIP
This fifth trip was quite different from any of the others. In the first
place, the little gallipot of a boat that we were in was gravely
overloaded. Five grown men, and three of them--Trelawney, Redruth, and
the captain--over six feet high, was already more than she was meant to
carry. Add to that the powder, pork, and the bread-bags. The gunwale was
lipping astern. Several times we shipped a little water, and my breeches
and the tails of my coat were all soaking wet before we had gone a
hundred yards.
The captain made us trim the boat, and we got her to lie a little more
evenly. All the same, we were afraid to breathe.
In the second place, the ebb was now making--a strong, rippling current
running westward through the basin, and then south'ard and seaward down
the straits by which we had entered in the morning. Even the ripples
were a danger to our overloaded craft, but the worst of it was that we
were swept out of our true course, and away from our proper
landing-place behind the point. If we let the current have its way we
should come ashore beside the gigs, where the pirates might appear at
any moment.
"I cannot keep her head for the stockade, sir," said I to the captain. I
was steering, while he and Redruth, two fresh men, were at the oars.
"The tide keeps washing her down. Could you pull a little stronger?"
"Not without swamping the boat," said he. "You must bear up, sir, if you
please--bear up until you see you're gaining."
I tried, and found by experiment that the tide kept sweeping us westward
until I had laid her head due east, or just about right angles to the
way we ought to go.
"We'll never get ashore at this rate," said I.
"If it's the only course that we can lie, sir, we must even lie it,"
returned the captain. "We must keep upstream. You see, sir," he went on,
"if once we dropped to leeward of the landing-place, it's hard to say
where we should get ashore, besides the chance of being boarded by the
gigs; whereas, the way we go the current must slacken, and then we can
dodge back along the shore."
"The current's less a'ready, sir," said the man Gray, who was sitting in
the foresheets; "you can ease her off a bit."
"Thank you, my man," said I, quite as if nothing had happened, for we
had all quietly made up our minds to treat him like one of ourselves.
Suddenly the captain spoke up again, and I thought his voice was a
little changed.
"The gun!" said he.
"I have thought of that," said I, for I made sure he was thinking of a
bombardment of the fort. "They could never get the gun ashore, and if
they did, they could never haul it through the woods."
"Look astern, doctor," replied the captain.
We had entirely forgotten the long nine; and there, to our horror, were
the five rogues busy about her, getting off her jacket, as they called
the stout tarpaulin cover under which she sailed. Not only that, but it
flashed into my mind at the same moment that the round shot and the
powder for the gun had been left behind, and a stroke with an ax would
put it all into the possession of the evil ones aboard.
"Israel was Flint's gunner," said Gray, hoarsely.
At any risk, we put the boat's head direct for the landing-place. By
this time we had got so far out of the run of the current that we kept
steerage way even at our necessarily gentle rate of rowing, and I could
keep her steady for the goal. But the worst of it was, that with the
course I now held, we turned our broadside instead of our stern to the
_Hispaniola_, and offered a target like a barn door.
I could hear, as well as see, that brandy-faced rascal, Israel Hands,
plumping down a round shot on the deck.
"Who's the best shot?" asked the captain.
"Mr. Trelawney, out and away," said I.
"Mr. Trelawney, will you please pick me off one of those men, sir?
Hands, if possible," said the captain.
Trelawney was as cold as steel. He looked to the priming of his gun.
"Now," cried the captain, "easy with that gun, sir, or you'll swamp the
boat. All hands stand by to trim her when he aims."
The squire raised his gun, the rowing ceased, and we leaned over to the
other side to keep the balance, and all was so nicely contrived that we
did not ship a drop.
[Illustration: _They had the gun, by this time, slewed around upon the
swivel_ (Page 125)]
They had the gun, by this time, slewed around upon the swivel, and
Hands, who was at the muzzle, with the rammer, was, in consequence, the
most exposed. However, we had no luck; for just as Trelawney fired,
down he stooped, the ball whistling over him, and it was one of the
other four who fell.
The cry he gave was echoed, not only by his companions on board, but by
a great number of voices from the shore, and looking in that direction I
saw the other pirates trooping out from among the trees and tumbling
into their places in the boats.
"Here come the gigs, sir," said I.
"Give way, then," said the captain. "We mustn't mind if we swamp her
now. If we can't get ashore, all's up."
"Only one of the gigs is being manned, sir," I added; "the crew of the
other is most likely going around by shore to cut us off."
"They'll have a hot run, sir," returned the captain. "Jack ashore, you
know. It's not them I mind; it's the round shot. Carpet bowls! My lady's
maid couldn't miss. Tell us, squire, when you see the match, and we'll
hold water."
In the meantime we had been making headway at a good pace for a boat so
overloaded, and we had shipped but little water in the process. We were
now close in; thirty or forty strokes and we should beach her, for the
ebb had already disclosed a narrow belt of sand below the clustering
trees. The gig was no longer to be feared; the little point had already
concealed it from our eyes. The ebb-tide, which had so cruelly delayed
us, was now making reparation, and delaying our assailants. The one
source of danger was the gun.
"If I durst," said the captain, "I'd stop and pick off another man."
But it was plain that they meant nothing should delay their shot. They
had never so much as looked at their fallen comrade, though he was not
dead, and I could see him trying to crawl away.
"Ready!" cried the squire.
"Hold!" cried the captain, quick as an echo.
And he and Redruth backed with a great heave that sent her astern bodily
under water. The report fell in at the same instant of time. This was
the first that Jim heard, the sound of the squire's shot not having
reached him. When the ball passed, not one of us precisely knew, but I
fancy it must have been over our heads, and that the wind of it may have
contributed to our disaster.
At any rate the boat sunk by the stern, quite gently, in three feet of
water, leaving the captain and myself, facing each other, on our feet.
The other three took complete headers, and came up again, drenched and
bubbling.
So far there was no great harm. No lives were lost, and we could wade
ashore in safety. But there were all our stores at the bottom, and, to
make things worse, only two guns out of five remained in a state for
service. Mine I had snatched from my knees, and held over my head, by a
sort of instinct. As for the captain, he had carried his over his
shoulder by a bandoleer, and, like a wise man, lock uppermost. The other
three had gone down with the boat. To add to our concern, we heard
voices already drawing near us in the woods along the shore; and we had
not only the danger of being cut off from the stockade in our
half-crippled state, but the fear before us whether, if Hunter and Joyce
were attacked by half a dozen, they would have the sense and conduct to
stand firm. Hunter was steady, that we knew; Joyce was a doubtful
case--a pleasant, polite man for a valet, and to brush one's clothes,
but not entirely fitted for a man-of-war.
With all this in our minds, we waded ashore as fast as we could, leaving
behind us the poor jolly-boat, and a good half of all our powder and
provisions.
----------CHAPTER 18---------
NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR--END OF THE FIRST DAY'S FIGHTING
We made our best speed across the strip of wood that now divided us from
the stockade, and at every step we took the voices of the buccaneers
rang nearer. Soon we could hear their footfalls as they ran, and the
cracking of the branches as they breasted across a bit of thicket.
I began to see we should have a brush for it in earnest, and looked to
my priming.
"Captain," said I, "Trelawney is the dead shot. Give him your gun; his
own is useless."
They exchanged guns, and Trelawney, silent and cool, as he had been
since the beginning of the bustle, hung a moment on his heel to see that
all was fit for service. At the same time, observing Gray to be unarmed,
I handed him my cutlass. It did all our hearts good to see him spit in
his hand, knit his brows, and make the blade sing through the air. It
was plain from every line of his body that our new hand was worth his
salt.
Forty paces farther we came to the edge of the wood and saw the stockade
in front of us. We struck the inclosure about the middle of the south
side, and, almost at the same time, seven mutineers--Job Anderson, the
boatswain, at their head--appeared in full cry at the southwestern
corner.
They paused, as if taken aback, and before they recovered, not only the
squire and I, but Hunter and Joyce from the blockhouse, had time to
fire.
The four shots came in rather a scattering volley, but they did the
business; one of the enemy actually fell, and the rest, without
hesitation, turned and plunged into the trees.
After reloading we walked down the outside of the palisade to see to the
fallen enemy. He was stone dead--shot through the heart.
We began to rejoice over our good success, when just at that moment a
pistol cracked in the bush, a ball whistled close past my ear and poor
Tom Redruth stumbled and fell his length on the ground. Both the squire
and I returned the shot, but as we had nothing to aim at, it is probable
we only wasted powder. Then we reloaded and turned our attention to poor
Tom.
The captain and Gray were already examining him, and I saw with half an
eye that all was over.
I believe the readiness of our return volley had scattered the mutineers
once more, for we were suffered without further molestation to get the
poor old gamekeeper hoisted over the stockade, and carried, groaning and
bleeding, into the log-house.
Poor old fellow, he had not uttered one word of surprise, complaint,
fear, or even acquiescence, from the very beginning of our troubles till
now, when we had laid him down in the log-house to die! He had lain like
a Trojan behind his mattress in the gallery; he had followed every order
silently, doggedly, and well; he was the oldest of our party by a score
of years; and now, sullen, old, serviceable servant, it was he that was
to die.
The squire dropped down beside him on his knees and kissed his hand,
crying like a child.
"Be I going, doctor?" he asked.
"Tom, my man," said I, "you're going home."
"I wish I had had a lick at them with the gun first," he replied.
"Tom," said the squire, "say you forgive me, won't you?"
"Would that be respectful like, from me to you, squire?" was the answer.
"Howsoever, so be it, amen!"
After a little while of silence he said he thought somebody might read a
prayer. "It's the custom, sir," he added, apologetically. And not long
after, without another word, he passed away.
In the meantime the captain, whom I had observed to be wonderfully
swollen about the chest and pockets, had turned out a great many various
stores--the British colors, a Bible, a coil of stoutish rope, pen, ink,
the log-book, and pounds of tobacco. He had found a longish fir tree
lying felled and cleared in the inclosure, and, with the help of Hunter,
he had set it up at the corner of the log-house, where the trunks
crossed and made an angle. Then, climbing on the roof, he had with his
own hand bent and run up the colors.
This seemed mightily to relieve him. He re-entered the log-house and set
about counting up the stores, as if nothing else existed. But he had an
eye on Tom's passage for all that, and as soon as all was over came
forward with another flag and reverently spread it on the body.
"Don't you take on, sir," he said, shaking the squire's hand. "All's
well with him; no fear for a hand that's been shot down in his duty to
captain and owner. It mayn't be good divinity, but it's a fact."
Then he pulled me aside.
"Doctor Livesey," he said, "in how many weeks do you and squire expect
the consort?"
I told him it was a question, not of weeks, but of months; that if we
were not back by the end of August Blandly was to send to find us, but
neither sooner nor later. "You can calculate for yourself," I said.
"Why, yes," returned the captain, scratching his head, "and making a
large allowance, sir, for all the gifts of Providence, I should say we
were pretty close hauled."
"How do you mean?" I asked.
"It's a pity, sir, we lost that second load. That's what I mean,"
replied the captain. "As for powder and shot, we'll do. But the rations
are short, very short--so short, Doctor Livesey, that we're perhaps as
well without that extra mouth."
And he pointed to the dead body under the flag.
Just then, with a roar and a whistle, a round shot passed high above the
roof of the log-house and plumped far beyond us in the wood.
"Oho!" said the captain. "Blaze away! You've little enough powder
already, my lads."
At the second trial the aim was better and the ball descended inside the
stockade, scattering a cloud of sand, but doing no further damage.
"Captain," said the squire, "the house is quite invisible from the ship.
It must be the flag they are aiming at. Would it not be wiser to take it
in?"
"Strike my colors!" cried the captain. "No, sir, not I," and as soon as
he had said the words I think we all agreed with him. For it was not
only a piece of stout, seamanly good feeling; it was good policy
besides, and showed our enemies that we despised their cannonade.
All through the evening they kept thundering away. Ball after ball flew
over or fell short, or kicked up the sand in the inclosure; but they had
to fire so high that the shot fell dead and buried itself in the soft
sand. We had no ricochet to fear; and though one popped in through the
roof of the log-house and out again through the floor, we soon got used
to that sort of horse-play and minded it no more than cricket.
"There is one thing good about all this," observed the captain; "the
wood in front of us is likely clear. The ebb has made a good while; our
stores should be uncovered. Volunteers to go and bring in pork."
Gray and Hunter were the first to come forward. Well armed, they stole
out of the stockade, but it proved a useless mission. The mutineers were
bolder than we fancied, or they put more trust in Israel's gunnery, for
four or five of them were busy carrying off our stores and wading out
with them to one of the gigs that lay close by, pulling an oar or so to
hold her steady against the current. Silver was in the stern-sheets in
command, and every man of them was now provided with a musket from some
secret magazine of their own.
The captain sat down to his log, and here is the beginning of the entry:
"Alexander Smollett, master; David Livesey, ship's doctor; Abraham
Gray, carpenter's mate; John Trelawney, owner; John Hunter and
Richard Joyce, owner's servants, landsmen--being all that is left
faithful of the ship's company--with stores for ten days at short
rations, came ashore this day and flew British colors on the
log-house in Treasure Island. Thomas Redruth, owner's servant,
landsman, shot by the mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin-boy--"
And at the same time I was wondering over poor Jim Hawkins' fate.
A hail on the land side.
"Somebody hailing us," said Hunter, who was on guard.
"Doctor! squire! captain! Hallo, Hunter, is that you?" came the cries.
And I ran to the door in time to see Jim Hawkins, safe and sound, come
climbing over the stockade.
[Illustration]
|
null | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter 19 using the context provided. | chapter 19|chapter 20 | Ben Gunn sees the British flag and stops Jim before he can run and join his friends. Ben explains that he doesn't want to go straight to meet the Squire and everyone else until he has their word of honor that they'll strike a deal with him. Ben tells Jim to bring Doctor Livesey or Squire Trelawney to meet with him at the same place where Jim first met Ben. He says he'll be around between noon and six the following day watching the forest. Ben also makes Jim promise he won't tell Long John Silver that Ben is still alive and on the island. Just then, a cannonball lands about a hundred feet away from them. Ben and Jim run in different directions. Jim is afraid, and takes a long time to creep over to the fort. Finally he manages to catch sight of the Hispaniola: the Jolly Roger, the pirate flag, is flying on the mast. Jim sees the pirates breaking something apart with axes - the tiny rowboat the Captain and his party used to come ashore - and partying on the beach. Jim goes back in the direction of the fort. He catches sight of a white rock where, he remembers, Ben Gunn mentioned keeping a boat. Jim joins his friends and tells his story. He learns that Tom Redruth is dead. Captain Smollett divides the group up for guard duty: Doctor Livesey, Abraham Gray, and Jim are one group and Squire Trelawney, Hunter, and Joyce are another. Jim is put on sentry duty at the door of the fort. Doctor Livesey comes over several times to chat. He asks Jim about Ben Gunn. Jim says he doesn't think Ben is sane. Doctor Livesey says that since Jim is unsure, Ben is probably sane - he's just odd because he's been alone for three years. Doctor Livesey explains that he has a piece of Parmesan cheese in his snuff box and he'll gladly give it to Ben in exchange for his help. They eat dinner and bury Tom Redruth. Doctor Livesey, Squire Trelawney, and Captain Smollett get together to discuss plans. They decide they have to kill off as many of the pirates as they can in the hopes that they'll either surrender or leave the island in the Hispaniola. Jim is exhausted and goes to sleep. When he wakes up, he hears a shout: someone is approaching the fort with a white flag. It's Long John Silver! |
----------CHAPTER 19---------
NARRATIVE RESUMED BY JIM HAWKINS--THE GARRISON IN THE STOCKADE
As soon as Ben Gunn saw the colors he came to a halt, stopped me by the
arm and sat down.
"Now," said he, "there's your friends, sure enough."
"Far more likely it's the mutineers," I answered.
"That!" he cried. "Why, in a place like this, where nobody puts in but
gen'lemen of fortune, Silver would fly the Jolly Roger, you don't make
no doubt of that. No, that's your friends. There's been blows, too, and
I reckon your friends has had the best of it; and here they are ashore
in the old stockade, as was made years and years ago by Flint. Ah, he
was the man to have a headpiece, was Flint! Barring rum, his match was
never seen. He were afraid of none, not he; on'y Silver--Silver was that
genteel."
"Well," said I, "that may be so, and so be it; all the more reason that
I should hurry on and join my friends."
"Nay, mate," returned Ben, "not you. You're a good boy, or I'm mistook;
but you're on'y a boy, all told. Now Ben Gunn is fly. Rum wouldn't bring
me there, where you're going--not rum wouldn't, till I see your born
gen'leman, and gets it on his word of honor. And you won't forget my
words: 'A precious sight' (that's what you'll say), 'a precious sight
more confidence'--and then nips him."
And he pinched me the third time with the same air of cleverness.
"And when Ben Gunn is wanted you know where to find him, Jim. Just where
you found him to-day. And him that comes is to have a white thing in his
hand; and he's to come alone. Oh! and you'll say this: 'Ben Gunn,' says
you, 'has reasons of his own.'"
"Well," said I, "I believe I understand. You have something to propose,
and you wish to see the squire or the doctor, and you're to be found
where I found you. Is that all?"
"And when? says you," he added. "Why, from about noon observation to
about six bells."
"Good," says I, "and now may I go?"
"You won't forget?" he inquired, anxiously. "Precious sight, and reasons
of his own, says you. Reasons of his own; that's the mainstay; as
between man and man. Well, then"--still holding me--"I reckon you can
go, Jim. And, Jim, if you was to see Silver, you wouldn't go for to sell
Ben Gunn? wild horses wouldn't draw it from you? No, says you. And if
them pirates came ashore, Jim, what would you say but there'd be widders
in the morning?"
Here he was interrupted by a loud report, and a cannon ball came tearing
through the trees and pitched in the sand, not a hundred yards from
where we two were talking. The next moment each of us had taken to our
heels in a different direction.
For a good hour to come frequent reports shook the island, and balls
kept crashing through the woods. I moved from hiding-place to
hiding-place, always pursued, or so it seemed to me, by these terrifying
missiles. But toward the end of the bombardment, though still I durst
not venture in the direction of the stockade, where the balls fell
oftenest, I had begun, in a manner, to pluck up my heart again; and
after a long detour to the east, crept down among the shore-side trees.
The sun had just set, the sea breeze was rustling and tumbling in the
woods, and ruffling the gray surface of the anchorage; the tide, too,
was far out, and great tracts of sand lay uncovered; the air, after the
heat of the day, chilled me through my jacket.
The _Hispaniola_ still lay where she had anchored; but, sure enough,
there was the Jolly Roger--the black flag of piracy--flying from her
peak. Even as I looked there came another red flash and another report,
that sent the echoes clattering, and one more round shot whistled
through the air. It was the last of the cannonade.
I lay for some time, watching the bustle which succeeded the attack. Men
were demolishing something with axes on the beach near the stockade--the
poor jolly-boat, I afterwards discovered. Away, near the mouth of the
river, a great fire was glowing among the trees, and between that point
and the ship one of the gigs kept coming and going, the men, whom I had
seen so gloomy, shouting at the oars like children. But there was a
sound in their voices which suggested rum.
At length I thought I might return towards the stockade. I was pretty
far down on the low, sandy spit that incloses the anchorage to the east,
and is joined at half-water to Skeleton Island; and now, as I rose to my
feet, I saw, some distance farther down the spit, and rising from among
low bushes, an isolated rock, pretty high, and peculiarly white in
color. It occurred to me that this might be the white rock of which Ben
Gunn had spoken, and that some day or other a boat might be wanted, and
I should know where to look for one.
Then I skirted among the woods until I had regained the rear, or
shoreward side, of the stockade, and was soon warmly welcomed by the
faithful party.
I had soon told my story, and began to look about me. The log-house was
made of unsquared trunks of pine--roof, walls, and floor. The latter
stood in several places as much as a foot or a foot and a half above the
surface of the sand. There was a porch at the door, and under this porch
the little spring welled up into an artificial basin of a rather odd
kind--no other than a great ship's kettle of iron, with the bottom
knocked out, and sunk "to her bearings," as the captain said, among the
sand.
Little had been left beside the framework of the house, but in one
corner there was a stone slab laid down by way of hearth, and an old
rusty iron basket to contain the fire.
The slopes of the knoll and all the inside of the stockade had been
cleared of timber to build the house, and we could see by the stumps
what a fine and lofty grove had been destroyed. Most of the soil had
been washed away or buried in drift after the removal of the trees; only
where the streamlet ran down from the kettle a thick bed of moss and
some ferns and little creeping bushes were still green among the sand.
Very close around the stockade--too close for defense, they said--the
wood still flourished high and dense, all of fir on the land side, but
toward the sea with a large admixture of live-oaks.
The cold evening breeze, of which I have spoken, whistled through every
chink of the rude building, and sprinkled the floor with a continual
rain of fine sand. There was sand in our eyes, sand in our teeth, sand
in our suppers, sand dancing in the spring at the bottom of the kettle,
for all the world like porridge beginning to boil. Our chimney was a
square hole in the roof; it was but a little part of the smoke that
found its way out, and the rest eddied about the house, and kept us
coughing and piping the eye.
Add to this that Gray, the new man, had his face tied up in a bandage
for a cut he had got in breaking away from the mutineers; and that poor
old Tom Redruth, still unburied, lay along the wall, stiff and stark,
under the Union Jack.
If we had been allowed to sit idle, we should all have fallen in the
blues, but Captain Smollett was never the man for that. All hands were
called up before him, and he divided us into watches. The doctor, and
Gray, and I, for one; the squire, Hunter, and Joyce upon the other.
Tired as we all were, two were sent out for firewood, two more were sent
to dig a grave for Redruth, the doctor was named cook, I was put sentry
at the door, and the captain himself went from one to another, keeping
up our spirits and lending a hand wherever it was wanted.
From time to time the doctor came to the door for a little air and to
rest his eyes, which were almost smoked out of his head, and whenever he
did so, he had a word for me.
"That man Smollett," he said once, "is a better man than I am. And when
I say that it means a deal, Jim."
Another time he came and was silent for a while. Then he put his head on
one side, and looked at me.
"Is this Ben Gunn a man?" he asked.
"I do not know, sir," said I. "I am not very sure whether he's sane."
"If there's any doubt about the matter, he is," returned the doctor. "A
man who has been three years biting his nails on a desert island, Jim,
can't expect to appear as sane as you or me. It doesn't lie in human
nature. Was it cheese you said he had a fancy for?"
"Yes, sir, cheese," I answered.
"Well, Jim," says he, "just see the good that comes of being dainty in
your food. You've seen my snuff-box, haven't you? And you never saw me
take snuff; the reason being that in my snuff-box I carry a piece of
Parmesan cheese--a cheese made in Italy, very nutritious. Well, that's
for Ben Gunn!"
Before supper was eaten we buried old Tom in the sand, and stood round
him for a while bare-headed in the breeze. A good deal of firewood had
been got in, but not enough for the captain's fancy, and he shook his
head over it, and told us we "must get back to this to-morrow rather
livelier." Then, when we had eaten our pork, and each had a good stiff
glass of brandy grog, the three chiefs got together in a corner to
discuss our prospects.
It appears they were at their wits' end what to do, the stores being so
low that we must have been starved into surrender long before help came.
But our best hope, it was decided, was to kill off the buccaneers until
they either hauled down their flag or ran away with the _Hispaniola_.
From nineteen they were already reduced to fifteen, two others were
wounded, and one, at least--the man shot beside the gun--severely
wounded, if he were not dead. Every time we had a crack at them, we were
to take it, saving our own lives, with the extremest care. And, beside
that, we had two able allies--rum and the climate.
As for the first, though we were about half a mile away, we could hear
them roaring and singing late into the night; and as for the second, the
doctor staked his wig, that camped where they were in the marsh, and
unprovided with remedies, the half of them would be on their backs
before a week.
"So," he added, "if we are not all shot down first, they'll be glad to
be packing in the schooner. It's always a ship, and they can get to
buccaneering again, I suppose."
"First ship that I ever lost," said Captain Smollett.
I was dead tired, as you may fancy, and when I got to sleep, which was
not till after a great deal of tossing, I slept like a log of wood.
The rest had long been up, and had already breakfasted and increased the
pile of firewood by about half as much again, when I was awakened by a
bustle and the sound of voices.
"Flag of truce!" I heard someone say, and then, immediately after, with
a cry of surprise, "Silver himself!"
And, at that, up I jumped, and, rubbing my eyes, ran to a loophole in
the wall.
----------CHAPTER 20---------
SILVER'S EMBASSY
Sure enough, there were two men just outside the stockade, one of them
waving a white cloth; the other, no less a person than Silver himself,
standing placidly by.
It was still quite early, and the coldest morning that I think I ever
was abroad in; a chill that pierced into the marrow. The sky was bright
and cloudless overhead, and the tops of the trees shone rosily in the
sun. But where Silver stood with his lieutenant all was still in shadow,
and they waded knee-deep in a low, white vapor that had crawled during
the night out of the morass. The chill and the vapor taken together told
a poor tale of the island. It was plainly a damp, feverish, unhealthy
spot.
"Keep indoors, men," said the captain. "Ten to one this is a trick."
Then he hailed the buccaneer.
"Who goes? Stand, or we fire."
"Flag of truce!" cried Silver.
The captain was in the porch, keeping himself carefully out of the way
of a treacherous shot, should any be intended. He turned and spoke to
us.
"Doctor's watch on the lookout. Doctor Livesey, take the north side, if
you please; Jim the east; Gray, west. The watch below, all hands to load
muskets. Lively, men, and careful."
And then he turned again to the mutineers.
"And what do you want with your flag of truce?" he cried.
This time it was the other man who replied.
"Cap'n Silver, sir, to come on board and make terms," he shouted.
"Cap'n Silver! Don't know him. Who's he?" cried the captain. And we
could hear him adding to himself: "Cap'n, is it? My heart, and here's
promotion!"
Long John answered for himself.
"Me, sir. These poor lads have chosen me cap'n, after your desertion,
sir"--laying a particular emphasis upon the word "desertion." "We're
willing to submit, if we can come to terms, and no bones about it. All I
ask is your word, Cap'n Smollett, to let me safe and sound out of this
here stockade, and one minute to get out o' shot before a gun is fired."
"My man," said Captain Smollett, "I have not the slightest desire to
talk to you. If you wish to talk to me, you can come, that's all. If
there's any treachery, it'll be on your side, and the Lord help you."
"That's enough, cap'n," shouted Long John cheerily. "A word from you's
enough. I know a gentleman, and you may lay to that."
We could see the man who carried the flag of truce attempting to hold
Silver back. Nor was that wonderful, seeing how cavalier had been the
captain's answer. But Silver laughed at him aloud, and slapped him on
the back, as if the idea of alarm had been absurd. Then he advanced to
the stockade, threw over his crutch, got a leg up, and with great vigor
and skill succeeded in surmounting the fence and dropping safely to the
other side.
I will confess that I was far too much taken up with what was going on
to be of the slightest use as sentry; indeed, I had already deserted my
eastern loophole and crept up behind the captain, who had now seated
himself on the threshold, with his elbows on his knees, his head in his
hands, and his eyes fixed on the water as it bubbled out of the old iron
kettle in the sand. He was whistling to himself, "Come, Lasses and
Lads."
Silver had terrible hard work getting up the knoll. What with the
steepness of the incline, the thick tree-stumps, and the soft sand, he
and his crutch were as helpless as a ship in stays. But he stuck to it
like a man, in silence, and at last arrived before the captain, whom he
saluted in the handsomest style. He was tricked out in his best; an
immense blue coat, thick with brass buttons, hung as low as to his
knees, and a fine laced hat was set on the back of his head.
"Here you are, my man," said the captain, raising his head. "You had
better sit down."
"You ain't a-going to let me inside, cap'n?" complained Long John. "It's
a main cold morning, to be sure, sir, to sit outside upon the sand."
"Why, Silver," said the captain, "if you had pleased to be an honest man
you might have been sitting in your galley. It's your own doing. You're
either my ship's cook--and then you were treated handsome--or Cap'n
Silver, a common mutineer and pirate, and then you can go hang!"
"Well, well, cap'n," returned the sea-cook, sitting down as he was
bidden on the sand, "you'll have to give me a hand up again, that's all.
A sweet, pretty place you have of it here. Ah, there's Jim! The top of
the morning to you, Jim. Doctor, here's my service. Why, there you all
are together like a happy family, in a manner of speaking."
"If you have anything to say, my man, better say it," said the captain.
"Right you are, Cap'n Smollett," replied Silver. "Dooty is dooty, to be
sure. Well, now, you look here, that was a good lay of yours last night.
I don't deny it was a good lay. Some of you pretty handy with a
handspike-end. And I'll not deny neither but what some of my people was
shook--maybe all was shook; maybe I was shook myself; maybe that's why
I'm here for terms. But you mark me, cap'n, it won't do twice, by
thunder! We'll have to do sentry-go, and ease off a point or so on the
rum. Maybe you think we were all a sheet in the wind's eye. But I'll
tell you I was sober; I was on'y dog tired; and if I'd awoke a second
sooner I'd 'a' caught you at the act, I would. He wasn't dead when I got
round to him, not he."
"Well?" says Captain Smollett, as cool as can be.
All that Silver said was a riddle to him, but you would never have
guessed it from his tone. As for me, I began to have an inkling. Ben
Gunn's last words came back to my mind. I began to suppose that he had
paid the buccaneers a visit while they all lay drunk together round
their fire, and I reckoned up with glee that we had only fourteen
enemies to deal with.
"Well, here it is," said Silver. "We want that treasure, and we'll have
it--that's our point! You would just as soon save your lives, I reckon;
and that's yours. You have a chart, haven't you?"
"That's as may be," replied the captain.
"Oh, well, you have, I know that," returned Long John. "You needn't be
so husky with a man; there ain't a particle of service in that, and you
may lay to it. What I mean is, we want your chart. Now, I never meant
you no harm, myself."
"That won't do with me, my man," interrupted the captain. "We know
exactly what you meant to do, and we don't care; for now, you see, you
can't do it."
And the captain looked at him calmly, and proceeded to fill a pipe.
"If Abe Gray--" Silver broke out.
"Avast there!" cried Mr. Smollett. "Gray told me nothing, and I asked
him nothing; and what's more, I would see you and him and this whole
island blown clean out of the water into blazes first. So there's my
mind for you, my man, on that."
This little whiff of temper seemed to cool Silver down. He had been
growing nettled before, but now he pulled himself together.
"Like enough," said he. "I would set no limits to what gentlemen might
consider shipshape, or might not, as the case were. And, seein' as how
you are about to take a pipe, cap'n, I'll make so free as do likewise."
And he filled a pipe and lighted it; and the two men sat silently
smoking for quite a while, now looking each other in the face, now
stopping their tobacco, now leaning forward to spit. It was as good as
the play to see them.
"Now," resumed Silver, "here it is. You give us the chart to get the
treasure by, and drop shooting poor seamen, and stoving of their heads
in while asleep. You do that and we'll offer you a choice. Either you
come aboard along of us, once the treasure shipped, and then I'll give
you my affy-davy, upon my word of honor, to clap you somewhere safe
ashore. Or, if that ain't to your fancy, some of my hands being rough,
and having old scores, on account of hazing, then you can stay here, you
can. We'll divide stores with you, man for man; and I'll give my
affy-davy, as before, to speak the first ship I sight, and send 'em here
to pick you up. Now you'll own that's talking. Handsomer you couldn't
look to get, not you. And I hope"--raising his voice--"that all hands in
this here blockhouse will overhaul my words, for what is spoke to one is
spoke to all."
Captain Smollett rose from his seat and knocked out the ashes of his
pipe in the palm of his left hand.
"Is that all?" he asked.
"Every last word, by thunder!" answered John. "Refuse that and you've
seen the last of me but musket-balls."
"Very good," said the captain. "Now you'll hear me. If you'll come up
one by one, unarmed, I'll engage to clap you all in irons, and to take
you home to a fair trial in England. If you won't, my name is Alexander
Smollett, I've flown my sovereign's colors, and I'll see you all to Davy
Jones. You can't find the treasure. You can't sail the ship--there's not
a man among you fit to sail the ship. You can't fight us--Gray, there,
got away from five of you. Your ship's in irons, Master Silver; you're
on a lee shore, and so you'll find. I stand here and tell you so, and
they're the last good words you'll get from me; for, in the name of
heaven, I'll put a bullet in your back when next I meet you. Tramp, my
lad. Bundle out of this, please, hand over hand, and double quick."
Silver's face was a picture; his eyes started in his head with wrath. He
shook the fire out of his pipe.
"Give me a hand up!" he cried.
"Not I," returned the captain.
"Who'll give me a hand up?" he roared.
Not a man among us moved. Growling the foulest imprecations, he crawled
along the sand till he got hold of the porch and could hoist himself
again upon his crutch. Then he spat into the spring.
"There!" he cried, "that's what I think of ye. Before an hour's out,
I'll stove in your old blockhouse like a rum puncheon. Laugh, by
thunder, laugh! Before an hour's out, ye'll laugh upon the other side.
Them that die'll be the lucky ones."
And with a dreadful oath he stumbled off, plowed down the sand, was
helped across the stockade, after four or five failures, by the man with
the flag of truce, and disappeared in an instant afterward among the
trees.
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter 21 with the given context. | chapter 21|chapter 16|chapter 17 | Captain Smollett goes back into the fort and finds none of the men where they were supposed to be except Gray. He is surprised at their lack of discipline. They all start loading the muskets to prepare for battle. Captain Smollett says they have a good chance, since they're fighting from a protected place. Captain Smollett orders everyone to the posts he assigns all around the walls of the fort. An hour passes and nothing happens. Joyce is the first to fire his gun and then everyone is shooting. They realize, after the smoke has cleared, that the main attack is going to come from the north. Captain Smollett orders the group to hold their positions. Just then, a bunch of pirates emerge from the north side of the fort and bullets rain out from the forest. One of the bullets shatters Doctor Livesey's gun. Squire Trelawney and Abraham Gray open fire; three men fall and one gets up again and runs into the trees. Four of the pirates keep rushing straight for the house while seven or eight stay in the woods shooting. The leader of the four is Job Anderson. A pirate grabs Hunter's gun muzzle through the hole in the wall Hunter is using, takes the gun, and knocks Hunter unconscious with it. A third pirate starts using his sword to attack Doctor Livesey. Captain Smollett yells for them to give up on the guns and turn to swords for close combat. Jim comes face to face with Job Anderson. Job Anderson raises his sword to kill Jim, but Jim slips and falls down. Abraham Gray kills Job Anderson before he can raise his sword for a second blow. As Jim stands up, he finds that another pirate has been shot just as he was preparing to fire on the house. Doctor Livesey has killed the pirate who attacked him. So, of the four pirates who directly attacked the fort, only one is still alive, and he is running for the forest having dropped his sword. Altogether, they have killed five of the pirates in this battle. Back at the fort, Hunter is still unconscious and Joyce has been shot through the head. Captain Smollett is also injured. Captain Smollett is cheerful, though: it looks like it's now four of them to nine pirates. Captain Smollett has no way of knowing this, but it's actually four to eight - they find out later that the pirate who Squire Trelawney shot when they were rowing away from the Hispaniola died of his wounds. |
----------CHAPTER 21---------
THE ATTACK
As soon as Silver disappeared, the captain, who had been closely
watching him, turned toward the interior of the house, and found not a
man of us at his post but Gray. It was the first time we had ever seen
him angry.
"Quarters!" he roared. And then, as we slunk back to our places, "Gray,"
he said, "I'll put your name in the log; you've stood by your duty like
a seaman. Mr. Trelawney, I'm surprised at you, sir. Doctor, I thought
you had worn the king's coat! If that was how you served at Fontenoy,
sir, you'd have been better in your berth."
The doctor's watch were all back at their loopholes, the rest were busy
loading the spare muskets, and everyone with a red face, you may be
certain, and a flea in his ear, as the saying is.
The captain looked on for a while in silence. Then he spoke.
"My lads," he said, "I've given Silver a broadside. I pitched it in
red-hot on purpose; and before the hour's out, as he said, we shall be
boarded. We're outnumbered, I needn't tell you that, but we fight in
shelter; and, a minute ago, I should have said we fought with
discipline. I've no manner of doubt that we can drub them, if you
choose."
Then he went the rounds, and saw, as he said, that all was clear.
On the two short sides of the house, east and west, there were only two
loopholes; on the south side where the porch was, two again; and on the
north side, five. There was a round score of muskets for the seven of
us; the firewood had been built into four piles--tables, you might
say--one about the middle of each side, and on each of these tables some
ammunition and four loaded muskets were laid ready to the hand of the
defenders. In the middle, the cutlasses lay ranged.
"Toss out the fire," said the captain; "the chill is past, and we
mustn't have smoke in our eyes."
The iron fire basket was carried bodily out by Mr. Trelawney, and the
embers smothered among sand.
"Hawkins hasn't had his breakfast. Hawkins, help yourself, and back to
your post to eat it," continued Captain Smollett. "Lively, now, my lad;
you'll want it before you've done. Hunter, serve out a round of brandy
to all hands."
And while this was going on the captain completed, in his own mind, the
plan of the defense.
"Doctor, you will take the door," he resumed. "See and don't expose
yourself; keep within, and fire through the porch. Hunter, take the east
side, there. Joyce, you stand by the west, my man. Mr. Trelawney, you
are the best shot--you and Gray will take this long north side, with the
five loopholes; it's there the danger is. If they can get up to it, and
fire in upon us through our own ports, things would begin to look dirty.
Hawkins, neither you nor I are much account at the shooting; we'll stand
by to load and bear a hand."
As the captain had said, the chill was past. As soon as the sun had
climbed above our girdle of trees, it fell with all its force upon the
clearing, and drank up the vapors at a draught. Soon the sand was
baking, and the resin melting in the logs of the blockhouse. Jackets and
coats were flung aside; shirts were thrown open at the neck, and rolled
up to the shoulders; and we stood there, each at his post, in a fever of
heat and anxiety.
An hour passed away.
"Hang them!" said the captain. "This is as dull as the doldrums. Gray,
whistle for a wind."
And just at that moment came the first news of the attack.
"If you please, sir," said Joyce, "if I see anyone, am I to fire?"
"I told you so!" cried the captain.
"Thank you, sir," returned Joyce, with the same quiet civility.
Nothing followed for a time, but the remark had set us all on the alert,
straining ears and eyes--the musketeers with their pieces balanced in
their hands, the captain out in the middle of the blockhouse, with his
mouth very tight and a frown on his face.
So some seconds passed, till suddenly Joyce whipped up his musket and
fired. The report had scarcely died away ere it was repeated and
repeated from without in a scattering volley, shot behind shot, like a
string of geese, from every side of the inclosure. Several bullets
struck the log-house, but not one entered; and, as the smoke cleared
away and vanished, the stockade and the woods around it looked as quiet
and empty as before. Not a bough waved, not the gleam of a musket-barrel
betrayed the presence of our foes.
"Did you hit your man?" asked the captain.
"No, sir," replied Joyce. "I believe not, sir."
"Next best thing to tell the truth," muttered Captain Smollett. "Load
his gun, Hawkins. How many should you say there were on your side,
doctor?"
"I know precisely," said Doctor Livesey. "Three shots were fired on this
side. I saw the three flashes--two close together--one farther to the
west."
"Three!" repeated the captain. "And how many on yours, Mr. Trelawney?"
But this was not so easily answered. There had come many from the
north--seven, by the squire's computation; eight or nine, according to
Gray. From the east and west only a single shot had been fired. It was
plain, therefore, that the attack would be developed from the north, and
that on the other three sides we were only to be annoyed by a show of
hostilities. But Captain Smollett made no change in his arrangements. If
the mutineers succeeded in crossing the stockade, he argued, they would
take possession of any unprotected loophole, and shoot us down like rats
in our own stronghold.
Nor had we much time left to us for thought. Suddenly, with a loud
huzza, a little cloud of pirates leaped from the woods on the north
side, and ran straight on the stockade. At the same moment, the fire was
once more opened from the woods, and a rifle-ball sang through the
doorway, and knocked the doctor's musket into bits.
The boarders swarmed over the fence, like monkeys. Squire and Gray fired
again and yet again; three men fell, one forward into the inclosure, two
back on the outside. But of these, one was evidently more frightened
than hurt, for he was on his feet again in a crack, and instantly
disappeared among the trees.
Two had bit the dust, one had fled, four had made good their footing
inside our defenses; while from the shelter of the woods seven or eight
men, each evidently supplied with several muskets, kept up a hot though
useless fire on the log-house.
[Illustration: _In a moment the four pirates had swarmed up the mound
and were upon us_ (Page 153)]
The four who had boarded made straight before them for the building,
shouting as they ran, and the men among the trees shouted back to
encourage them. Several shots were fired, but such was the hurry of the
marksmen, that not one appeared to have taken effect. In a moment the
four pirates had swarmed up the mound and were upon us.
The head of Job Anderson, the boatswain, appeared at the middle
loophole.
"At 'em, all hands--all hands!" he roared, in a voice of thunder.
At the same moment another pirate grasped Hunter's musket by the muzzle,
wrenched it from his hands, plucked it through the loophole, and, with
one stunning blow, laid the poor fellow senseless on the floor.
Meanwhile a third, running unharmed all round the house, appeared
suddenly in the doorway, and fell with his cutlass on the doctor.
Our position was utterly reversed. A moment since we were firing, under
cover, at an exposed enemy; now it was we who lay uncovered, and could
not return a blow.
The log-house was full of smoke, to which we owed our comparative
safety. Cries and confusion, the flashes and reports of pistol-shots,
and one loud groan, rang in my ears.
"Out, lads, out and fight 'em in the open! Cutlasses!" cried the
captain.
I snatched a cutlass from the pile, and someone, at the same time
snatching another, gave me a cut across the knuckles which I hardly
felt. I dashed out of the door into the clear sunlight. Someone was
close behind, I knew not whom. Right in front, the doctor was pursuing
his assailant down the hill, and, just as my eyes fell upon him, beat
down his guard, and sent him sprawling on his back, with a great slash
across his face.
"Round the house, lads! round the house!" cried the captain, and even in
the hurly-burly I perceived a change in his voice.
Mechanically I obeyed, turned eastward, and, with my cutlass raised, ran
round the corner of the house. Next moment I was face to face with
Anderson. He roared aloud, and his hanger went up above his head,
flashing in the sunlight. I had not time to be afraid, but, as the blow
still hung impending, leaped in a trice upon one side, and missing my
footing in the soft sand, rolled headlong down the slope.
When I had first sallied from the door, the other mutineers had been
already swarming up the palisade to make an end of us. One man, in a red
nightcap, with his cutlass in his mouth, had even got upon the top and
thrown a leg across. Well, so short had been the interval, that when I
found my feet again all was in the same posture, the fellow with the red
nightcap still halfway over, another still just showing his head above
the top of the stockade. And yet, in this breath of time, the fight was
over, and the victory ours.
Gray, following close behind me, had cut down the big boatswain ere he
had time to recover from his lost blow. Another had been shot at a
loophole in the very act of firing into the house, and now lay in agony,
the pistol still smoking in his hand. A third, as I had seen, the doctor
had disposed of at a blow. Of the four who had scaled the palisade, one
only remained unaccounted for, and he, having left his cutlass on the
field, was now clambering out again with the fear of death upon him.
"Fire--fire from the house!" cried the doctor. "And you, lads, back into
cover."
But his words were unheeded, no shot was fired, and the last boarder
made good his escape and disappeared with the rest into the wood. In
three seconds nothing remained of the attacking party but the five who
had fallen, four on the inside and one on the outside of the palisade.
The doctor and Gray and I ran full speed for shelter. The survivors
would soon be back where they had left their muskets, and at any moment
the fire might recommence.
The house was by this time somewhat cleared of smoke, and we saw at a
glance the price we had paid for victory. Hunter lay beside his
loophole, stunned; Joyce by his, shot through the head, never to move
again; while right in the center the squire was supporting the captain,
one as pale as the other.
"The captain's wounded," said Mr. Trelawney.
"Have they run?" asked Mr. Smollett.
"All that could, you may be bound," returned the doctor; "but there's
five of them will never run again."
"Five!" cried the captain. "Come, that's better. Five against three
leaves us four to nine. That's better odds than we had at starting. We
were seven to nineteen then, or thought we were, and that's as bad to
bear."[1]
[1] The mutineers were soon only eight in number, for the man shot
by Mr. Trelawney on board the schooner died that same evening of his
wound. But this was, of course, not known till after by the faithful
party.
PART V
MY SEA ADVENTURE
----------CHAPTER 16---------
NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR--HOW THE SHIP WAS ABANDONED
It was about half-past one--three bells in the sea phrase--that the two
boats went ashore from the _Hispaniola_. The captain, the squire, and I
were talking matters over in the cabin. Had there been a breath of wind,
we should have fallen on the six mutineers who were left aboard with us,
slipped our cable, and away to sea. But the wind was wanting; and, to
complete our helplessness, down came Hunter with the news that Jim
Hawkins had slipped into a boat and was gone ashore with the rest.
It had never occurred to us to doubt Jim Hawkins, but we were alarmed
for his safety. With the men in the temper they were in, it seemed an
even chance if we should see the lad again. We ran on deck. The pitch
was bubbling in the seams; the nasty stench of the place turned me sick;
if ever a man smelled fever and dysentery it was in that abominable
anchorage. The six scoundrels were sitting grumbling under a sail in the
forecastle; ashore we could see the gigs made fast, and a man sitting in
each, hard by where the river runs in. One of them was whistling
"Lillibullero."
Waiting was a strain, and it was decided that Hunter and I should go
ashore with the jolly-boat, in quest of information.
The gigs had leaned to their right, but Hunter and I pulled straight in,
in the direction of the stockade upon the chart. The two who were left
guarding their boats seemed in a bustle at our appearance;
"Lillibullero" stopped off, and I could see the pair discussing what
they ought to do. Had they gone and told Silver, all might have turned
out differently; but they had their orders, I suppose, and decided to
sit quietly where they were and hark back again to "Lillibullero."
There was a slight bend in the coast, and I steered so as to put it
between us. Even before we landed we had thus lost sight of the gigs; I
jumped out and came as near running as I durst, with a big silk
handkerchief under my hat for coolness' sake, and a brace of pistols
ready primed for safety.
I had not gone a hundred yards when I came on the stockade.
This was how it was: A spring of clear water arose at the top of a
knoll. Well, on the knoll, and inclosing the spring, they had clapped a
stout log house, fit to hold two-score people on a pinch, and loopholed
for musketry on every side. All around this they had cleared a wide
space, and then the thing was completed by a paling six feet high,
without door or opening, too strong to pull down without time and labor,
and too open to shelter the besiegers. The people in the log house had
them in every way; they stood quiet in the shelter and shot the others
like partridges. All they wanted was a good watch and food; for, short
of a complete surprise, they might have held the place against a
regiment.
What particularly took my fancy was the spring. For, though we had a
good place of it in the cabin of the _Hispaniola_, with plenty of arms
and ammunition, and things to eat, and excellent wines, there had been
one thing overlooked--we had no water. I was thinking this over, when
there came ringing over the island the cry of a man at the point of
death. I was not new to violent death--I have served his Royal Highness
the Duke of Cumberland, and got a wound myself at Fontenoy--but I know
my pulse went dot and carry one. "Jim Hawkins is gone," was my first
thought.
It is something to have been an old soldier, but more still to have been
a doctor. There is no time to dilly-dally in our work. And so now I made
up my mind instantly, and with no time lost returned to the shore and
jumped on board the jolly-boat.
By good fortune Hunter pulled a good oar. We made the water fly, and the
boat was soon alongside and I aboard the schooner.
I found them all shaken, as was natural. The squire was sitting down, as
white as a sheet, thinking of the harm he had led us to, the good soul!
and one of the six forecastle hands was little better.
"There's a man," said Captain Smollett, nodding toward him, "new to this
work. He came nigh-hand fainting, doctor, when he heard the cry. Another
touch of the rudder and that man would join us."
I told my plan to the captain, and between us we settled on the details
of its accomplishment.
We put old Redruth in the gallery between the cabin and the forecastle,
with three or four loaded muskets and a mattress for protection. Hunter
brought the boat round under the stern port, and Joyce and I set to work
loading her with powder, tins, muskets, bags of biscuits, kegs of pork,
a cask of cognac, and my invaluable medicine chest.
In the meantime the squire and the captain stayed on deck, and the
latter hailed the coxswain, who was the principal man aboard.
"Mr. Hands," he said, "here are two of us with a brace of pistols each.
If any one of you six make a signal of any description, that man's
dead."
They were a good deal taken aback; and, after a little consultation, one
and all tumbled down the fore companion, thinking, no doubt, to take us
on the rear. But when they saw Redruth waiting for them in the sparred
gallery, they went about ship at once, and a head popped out again on
deck.
"Down, dog!" cried the captain.
And the head popped back again, and we heard no more for the time of
these six very faint-hearted seamen.
By this time, tumbling things in as they came, we had the jolly-boat
loaded as much as we dared. Joyce and I got out through the stern port,
and we made for shore again, as fast as oars could take us.
This second trip fairly aroused the watchers along shore. "Lillibullero"
was dropped again, and just before we lost sight of them behind the
little point, one of them whipped ashore and disappeared. I had half a
mind to change my plan and destroy their boats, but I feared that Silver
and the others might be close at hand, and all might very well be lost
by trying for too much.
We had soon touched land in the same place as before and set to work to
provision the blockhouse. All three made the first journey, heavily
laden, and tossed our stores over the palisade. Then, leaving Joyce to
guard them--one man, to be sure, but with half a dozen muskets--Hunter
and I returned to the jolly-boat, and loaded ourselves once more. So we
proceeded, without pausing to take breath, till the whole cargo was
bestowed, when the two servants took up their position in the
blockhouse, and I, with all my power, sculled back to the _Hispaniola_.
That we should have risked a second boat load seems more daring than it
really was. They had the advantage of numbers, of course, but we had the
advantage of arms. Not one of the men ashore had a musket, and before
they could get within range for pistol shooting, we flattered ourselves
we should be able to give a good account of a half dozen at least.
The squire was waiting for me at the stern window, all his faintness
gone from him. He caught the painter and made it fast, and we fell to
loading the boat for our very lives. Pork, powder, and biscuit was the
cargo, with only a musket and a cutlass apiece for squire and me and
Redruth and the captain. The rest of the arms and powder we dropped
overboard in two fathoms and a half of water, so that we could see the
bright steel shining far below us in the sun on the clean, sandy bottom.
By this time the tide was beginning to ebb, and the ship was swinging
round to her anchor. Voices were heard faintly halloaing in the
direction of the two gigs; and though this reassured us for Joyce and
Hunter, who were well to the eastward, it warned our party to be off.
Redruth retreated from his place in the gallery and dropped into the
boat, which we then brought round to the ship's counter, to be handier
for Captain Smollett.
"Now, men," said he, "do you hear me?"
There was no answer from the forecastle.
"It's to you, Abraham Gray--it's to you I am speaking."
Still no reply.
"Gray," resumed Mr. Smollett, a little louder, "I am leaving this ship,
and I order you to follow your captain. I know you are a good man at
bottom, and I dare say not one of the lot of you's as bad as he makes
out. I have my watch here in my hand; I give you thirty seconds to join
me in."
There was a pause.
"Come, my fine fellow," continued the captain, "don't hang so long in
stays. I'm risking my life and the lives of these good gentlemen every
second."
There was a sudden scuffle, a sound of blows, and out burst Abraham Gray
with a knife-cut on the side of the cheek, and came running to the
captain, like a dog to the whistle.
"I'm with you, sir," said he.
And the next moment he and the captain had dropped aboard of us, and we
had shoved off and given way.
We were clear out of the ship, but not yet ashore in our stockade.
----------CHAPTER 17---------
NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR--THE JOLLY-BOAT'S LAST TRIP
This fifth trip was quite different from any of the others. In the first
place, the little gallipot of a boat that we were in was gravely
overloaded. Five grown men, and three of them--Trelawney, Redruth, and
the captain--over six feet high, was already more than she was meant to
carry. Add to that the powder, pork, and the bread-bags. The gunwale was
lipping astern. Several times we shipped a little water, and my breeches
and the tails of my coat were all soaking wet before we had gone a
hundred yards.
The captain made us trim the boat, and we got her to lie a little more
evenly. All the same, we were afraid to breathe.
In the second place, the ebb was now making--a strong, rippling current
running westward through the basin, and then south'ard and seaward down
the straits by which we had entered in the morning. Even the ripples
were a danger to our overloaded craft, but the worst of it was that we
were swept out of our true course, and away from our proper
landing-place behind the point. If we let the current have its way we
should come ashore beside the gigs, where the pirates might appear at
any moment.
"I cannot keep her head for the stockade, sir," said I to the captain. I
was steering, while he and Redruth, two fresh men, were at the oars.
"The tide keeps washing her down. Could you pull a little stronger?"
"Not without swamping the boat," said he. "You must bear up, sir, if you
please--bear up until you see you're gaining."
I tried, and found by experiment that the tide kept sweeping us westward
until I had laid her head due east, or just about right angles to the
way we ought to go.
"We'll never get ashore at this rate," said I.
"If it's the only course that we can lie, sir, we must even lie it,"
returned the captain. "We must keep upstream. You see, sir," he went on,
"if once we dropped to leeward of the landing-place, it's hard to say
where we should get ashore, besides the chance of being boarded by the
gigs; whereas, the way we go the current must slacken, and then we can
dodge back along the shore."
"The current's less a'ready, sir," said the man Gray, who was sitting in
the foresheets; "you can ease her off a bit."
"Thank you, my man," said I, quite as if nothing had happened, for we
had all quietly made up our minds to treat him like one of ourselves.
Suddenly the captain spoke up again, and I thought his voice was a
little changed.
"The gun!" said he.
"I have thought of that," said I, for I made sure he was thinking of a
bombardment of the fort. "They could never get the gun ashore, and if
they did, they could never haul it through the woods."
"Look astern, doctor," replied the captain.
We had entirely forgotten the long nine; and there, to our horror, were
the five rogues busy about her, getting off her jacket, as they called
the stout tarpaulin cover under which she sailed. Not only that, but it
flashed into my mind at the same moment that the round shot and the
powder for the gun had been left behind, and a stroke with an ax would
put it all into the possession of the evil ones aboard.
"Israel was Flint's gunner," said Gray, hoarsely.
At any risk, we put the boat's head direct for the landing-place. By
this time we had got so far out of the run of the current that we kept
steerage way even at our necessarily gentle rate of rowing, and I could
keep her steady for the goal. But the worst of it was, that with the
course I now held, we turned our broadside instead of our stern to the
_Hispaniola_, and offered a target like a barn door.
I could hear, as well as see, that brandy-faced rascal, Israel Hands,
plumping down a round shot on the deck.
"Who's the best shot?" asked the captain.
"Mr. Trelawney, out and away," said I.
"Mr. Trelawney, will you please pick me off one of those men, sir?
Hands, if possible," said the captain.
Trelawney was as cold as steel. He looked to the priming of his gun.
"Now," cried the captain, "easy with that gun, sir, or you'll swamp the
boat. All hands stand by to trim her when he aims."
The squire raised his gun, the rowing ceased, and we leaned over to the
other side to keep the balance, and all was so nicely contrived that we
did not ship a drop.
[Illustration: _They had the gun, by this time, slewed around upon the
swivel_ (Page 125)]
They had the gun, by this time, slewed around upon the swivel, and
Hands, who was at the muzzle, with the rammer, was, in consequence, the
most exposed. However, we had no luck; for just as Trelawney fired,
down he stooped, the ball whistling over him, and it was one of the
other four who fell.
The cry he gave was echoed, not only by his companions on board, but by
a great number of voices from the shore, and looking in that direction I
saw the other pirates trooping out from among the trees and tumbling
into their places in the boats.
"Here come the gigs, sir," said I.
"Give way, then," said the captain. "We mustn't mind if we swamp her
now. If we can't get ashore, all's up."
"Only one of the gigs is being manned, sir," I added; "the crew of the
other is most likely going around by shore to cut us off."
"They'll have a hot run, sir," returned the captain. "Jack ashore, you
know. It's not them I mind; it's the round shot. Carpet bowls! My lady's
maid couldn't miss. Tell us, squire, when you see the match, and we'll
hold water."
In the meantime we had been making headway at a good pace for a boat so
overloaded, and we had shipped but little water in the process. We were
now close in; thirty or forty strokes and we should beach her, for the
ebb had already disclosed a narrow belt of sand below the clustering
trees. The gig was no longer to be feared; the little point had already
concealed it from our eyes. The ebb-tide, which had so cruelly delayed
us, was now making reparation, and delaying our assailants. The one
source of danger was the gun.
"If I durst," said the captain, "I'd stop and pick off another man."
But it was plain that they meant nothing should delay their shot. They
had never so much as looked at their fallen comrade, though he was not
dead, and I could see him trying to crawl away.
"Ready!" cried the squire.
"Hold!" cried the captain, quick as an echo.
And he and Redruth backed with a great heave that sent her astern bodily
under water. The report fell in at the same instant of time. This was
the first that Jim heard, the sound of the squire's shot not having
reached him. When the ball passed, not one of us precisely knew, but I
fancy it must have been over our heads, and that the wind of it may have
contributed to our disaster.
At any rate the boat sunk by the stern, quite gently, in three feet of
water, leaving the captain and myself, facing each other, on our feet.
The other three took complete headers, and came up again, drenched and
bubbling.
So far there was no great harm. No lives were lost, and we could wade
ashore in safety. But there were all our stores at the bottom, and, to
make things worse, only two guns out of five remained in a state for
service. Mine I had snatched from my knees, and held over my head, by a
sort of instinct. As for the captain, he had carried his over his
shoulder by a bandoleer, and, like a wise man, lock uppermost. The other
three had gone down with the boat. To add to our concern, we heard
voices already drawing near us in the woods along the shore; and we had
not only the danger of being cut off from the stockade in our
half-crippled state, but the fear before us whether, if Hunter and Joyce
were attacked by half a dozen, they would have the sense and conduct to
stand firm. Hunter was steady, that we knew; Joyce was a doubtful
case--a pleasant, polite man for a valet, and to brush one's clothes,
but not entirely fitted for a man-of-war.
With all this in our minds, we waded ashore as fast as we could, leaving
behind us the poor jolly-boat, and a good half of all our powder and
provisions.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 18, utilizing the provided context. | chapter 18|chapter 19|chapter 20 | The crew makes it to the beach and runs toward the Stockade. They could hear the foot steps of the mutineers behind them. At the request of the doctor, the Captain hands over his gun to the Squire and the doctor gives him his cutlass. The first glimpse of the Stockade also brings them face to face with Job Anderson and seven other men. The fighting starts. In the initial rounds of firing one among the mutineers is killed, which makes some of the others run for cover. After a brief pause, the fighting resumes and Redruth is hit. The doctor recalls the way Redruth has served them. He had never complained whenever called to perform his duties. Now he is laid on the log house, bleeding. The Squire couldnt believe that Redruth was going to die. When Redruth asks if his end is near, the Squire bursts into tears. After requesting to read him prayers, Redruth dies. The Captain uses a fir tree as a flag pole to hoist the Union Jack above the Stockade. They spreads another flag on Redruths body and acknowledges his service as a person who died on duty. The Captain inquires about the consort . The doctor informs his that it will be months before they can expect that help. He is informed that if the mission takes long, they would run short of ration, though there is plenty of gunpowder. Just then a gunshot passes above the roof. The Captain turns down the doctors request to take off the Union Jack. The flag, the Captain proudly states, represents the strong feeling they have towards their duty. The gun fire continues all evening and they get used to it within the protection of the stockade. The Captain make a note that the woods ahead would be clear and orders his men to get the provisions. Though Gray and Hunter volunteer, they meet with disappointment as they find Silver and his men in a better position to attack them. The Captain makes a note of the days happenings. He records Redruths death, while the doctor wonders about what has happened to Jim Hawkins. Just then they are in for a big surprise. Hunter hears someone hailing them. The doctor rushes towards the door to see Jim Hawkins safe and sound, making his way to the stockade. |
----------CHAPTER 18---------
NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR--END OF THE FIRST DAY'S FIGHTING
We made our best speed across the strip of wood that now divided us from
the stockade, and at every step we took the voices of the buccaneers
rang nearer. Soon we could hear their footfalls as they ran, and the
cracking of the branches as they breasted across a bit of thicket.
I began to see we should have a brush for it in earnest, and looked to
my priming.
"Captain," said I, "Trelawney is the dead shot. Give him your gun; his
own is useless."
They exchanged guns, and Trelawney, silent and cool, as he had been
since the beginning of the bustle, hung a moment on his heel to see that
all was fit for service. At the same time, observing Gray to be unarmed,
I handed him my cutlass. It did all our hearts good to see him spit in
his hand, knit his brows, and make the blade sing through the air. It
was plain from every line of his body that our new hand was worth his
salt.
Forty paces farther we came to the edge of the wood and saw the stockade
in front of us. We struck the inclosure about the middle of the south
side, and, almost at the same time, seven mutineers--Job Anderson, the
boatswain, at their head--appeared in full cry at the southwestern
corner.
They paused, as if taken aback, and before they recovered, not only the
squire and I, but Hunter and Joyce from the blockhouse, had time to
fire.
The four shots came in rather a scattering volley, but they did the
business; one of the enemy actually fell, and the rest, without
hesitation, turned and plunged into the trees.
After reloading we walked down the outside of the palisade to see to the
fallen enemy. He was stone dead--shot through the heart.
We began to rejoice over our good success, when just at that moment a
pistol cracked in the bush, a ball whistled close past my ear and poor
Tom Redruth stumbled and fell his length on the ground. Both the squire
and I returned the shot, but as we had nothing to aim at, it is probable
we only wasted powder. Then we reloaded and turned our attention to poor
Tom.
The captain and Gray were already examining him, and I saw with half an
eye that all was over.
I believe the readiness of our return volley had scattered the mutineers
once more, for we were suffered without further molestation to get the
poor old gamekeeper hoisted over the stockade, and carried, groaning and
bleeding, into the log-house.
Poor old fellow, he had not uttered one word of surprise, complaint,
fear, or even acquiescence, from the very beginning of our troubles till
now, when we had laid him down in the log-house to die! He had lain like
a Trojan behind his mattress in the gallery; he had followed every order
silently, doggedly, and well; he was the oldest of our party by a score
of years; and now, sullen, old, serviceable servant, it was he that was
to die.
The squire dropped down beside him on his knees and kissed his hand,
crying like a child.
"Be I going, doctor?" he asked.
"Tom, my man," said I, "you're going home."
"I wish I had had a lick at them with the gun first," he replied.
"Tom," said the squire, "say you forgive me, won't you?"
"Would that be respectful like, from me to you, squire?" was the answer.
"Howsoever, so be it, amen!"
After a little while of silence he said he thought somebody might read a
prayer. "It's the custom, sir," he added, apologetically. And not long
after, without another word, he passed away.
In the meantime the captain, whom I had observed to be wonderfully
swollen about the chest and pockets, had turned out a great many various
stores--the British colors, a Bible, a coil of stoutish rope, pen, ink,
the log-book, and pounds of tobacco. He had found a longish fir tree
lying felled and cleared in the inclosure, and, with the help of Hunter,
he had set it up at the corner of the log-house, where the trunks
crossed and made an angle. Then, climbing on the roof, he had with his
own hand bent and run up the colors.
This seemed mightily to relieve him. He re-entered the log-house and set
about counting up the stores, as if nothing else existed. But he had an
eye on Tom's passage for all that, and as soon as all was over came
forward with another flag and reverently spread it on the body.
"Don't you take on, sir," he said, shaking the squire's hand. "All's
well with him; no fear for a hand that's been shot down in his duty to
captain and owner. It mayn't be good divinity, but it's a fact."
Then he pulled me aside.
"Doctor Livesey," he said, "in how many weeks do you and squire expect
the consort?"
I told him it was a question, not of weeks, but of months; that if we
were not back by the end of August Blandly was to send to find us, but
neither sooner nor later. "You can calculate for yourself," I said.
"Why, yes," returned the captain, scratching his head, "and making a
large allowance, sir, for all the gifts of Providence, I should say we
were pretty close hauled."
"How do you mean?" I asked.
"It's a pity, sir, we lost that second load. That's what I mean,"
replied the captain. "As for powder and shot, we'll do. But the rations
are short, very short--so short, Doctor Livesey, that we're perhaps as
well without that extra mouth."
And he pointed to the dead body under the flag.
Just then, with a roar and a whistle, a round shot passed high above the
roof of the log-house and plumped far beyond us in the wood.
"Oho!" said the captain. "Blaze away! You've little enough powder
already, my lads."
At the second trial the aim was better and the ball descended inside the
stockade, scattering a cloud of sand, but doing no further damage.
"Captain," said the squire, "the house is quite invisible from the ship.
It must be the flag they are aiming at. Would it not be wiser to take it
in?"
"Strike my colors!" cried the captain. "No, sir, not I," and as soon as
he had said the words I think we all agreed with him. For it was not
only a piece of stout, seamanly good feeling; it was good policy
besides, and showed our enemies that we despised their cannonade.
All through the evening they kept thundering away. Ball after ball flew
over or fell short, or kicked up the sand in the inclosure; but they had
to fire so high that the shot fell dead and buried itself in the soft
sand. We had no ricochet to fear; and though one popped in through the
roof of the log-house and out again through the floor, we soon got used
to that sort of horse-play and minded it no more than cricket.
"There is one thing good about all this," observed the captain; "the
wood in front of us is likely clear. The ebb has made a good while; our
stores should be uncovered. Volunteers to go and bring in pork."
Gray and Hunter were the first to come forward. Well armed, they stole
out of the stockade, but it proved a useless mission. The mutineers were
bolder than we fancied, or they put more trust in Israel's gunnery, for
four or five of them were busy carrying off our stores and wading out
with them to one of the gigs that lay close by, pulling an oar or so to
hold her steady against the current. Silver was in the stern-sheets in
command, and every man of them was now provided with a musket from some
secret magazine of their own.
The captain sat down to his log, and here is the beginning of the entry:
"Alexander Smollett, master; David Livesey, ship's doctor; Abraham
Gray, carpenter's mate; John Trelawney, owner; John Hunter and
Richard Joyce, owner's servants, landsmen--being all that is left
faithful of the ship's company--with stores for ten days at short
rations, came ashore this day and flew British colors on the
log-house in Treasure Island. Thomas Redruth, owner's servant,
landsman, shot by the mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin-boy--"
And at the same time I was wondering over poor Jim Hawkins' fate.
A hail on the land side.
"Somebody hailing us," said Hunter, who was on guard.
"Doctor! squire! captain! Hallo, Hunter, is that you?" came the cries.
And I ran to the door in time to see Jim Hawkins, safe and sound, come
climbing over the stockade.
[Illustration]
----------CHAPTER 19---------
NARRATIVE RESUMED BY JIM HAWKINS--THE GARRISON IN THE STOCKADE
As soon as Ben Gunn saw the colors he came to a halt, stopped me by the
arm and sat down.
"Now," said he, "there's your friends, sure enough."
"Far more likely it's the mutineers," I answered.
"That!" he cried. "Why, in a place like this, where nobody puts in but
gen'lemen of fortune, Silver would fly the Jolly Roger, you don't make
no doubt of that. No, that's your friends. There's been blows, too, and
I reckon your friends has had the best of it; and here they are ashore
in the old stockade, as was made years and years ago by Flint. Ah, he
was the man to have a headpiece, was Flint! Barring rum, his match was
never seen. He were afraid of none, not he; on'y Silver--Silver was that
genteel."
"Well," said I, "that may be so, and so be it; all the more reason that
I should hurry on and join my friends."
"Nay, mate," returned Ben, "not you. You're a good boy, or I'm mistook;
but you're on'y a boy, all told. Now Ben Gunn is fly. Rum wouldn't bring
me there, where you're going--not rum wouldn't, till I see your born
gen'leman, and gets it on his word of honor. And you won't forget my
words: 'A precious sight' (that's what you'll say), 'a precious sight
more confidence'--and then nips him."
And he pinched me the third time with the same air of cleverness.
"And when Ben Gunn is wanted you know where to find him, Jim. Just where
you found him to-day. And him that comes is to have a white thing in his
hand; and he's to come alone. Oh! and you'll say this: 'Ben Gunn,' says
you, 'has reasons of his own.'"
"Well," said I, "I believe I understand. You have something to propose,
and you wish to see the squire or the doctor, and you're to be found
where I found you. Is that all?"
"And when? says you," he added. "Why, from about noon observation to
about six bells."
"Good," says I, "and now may I go?"
"You won't forget?" he inquired, anxiously. "Precious sight, and reasons
of his own, says you. Reasons of his own; that's the mainstay; as
between man and man. Well, then"--still holding me--"I reckon you can
go, Jim. And, Jim, if you was to see Silver, you wouldn't go for to sell
Ben Gunn? wild horses wouldn't draw it from you? No, says you. And if
them pirates came ashore, Jim, what would you say but there'd be widders
in the morning?"
Here he was interrupted by a loud report, and a cannon ball came tearing
through the trees and pitched in the sand, not a hundred yards from
where we two were talking. The next moment each of us had taken to our
heels in a different direction.
For a good hour to come frequent reports shook the island, and balls
kept crashing through the woods. I moved from hiding-place to
hiding-place, always pursued, or so it seemed to me, by these terrifying
missiles. But toward the end of the bombardment, though still I durst
not venture in the direction of the stockade, where the balls fell
oftenest, I had begun, in a manner, to pluck up my heart again; and
after a long detour to the east, crept down among the shore-side trees.
The sun had just set, the sea breeze was rustling and tumbling in the
woods, and ruffling the gray surface of the anchorage; the tide, too,
was far out, and great tracts of sand lay uncovered; the air, after the
heat of the day, chilled me through my jacket.
The _Hispaniola_ still lay where she had anchored; but, sure enough,
there was the Jolly Roger--the black flag of piracy--flying from her
peak. Even as I looked there came another red flash and another report,
that sent the echoes clattering, and one more round shot whistled
through the air. It was the last of the cannonade.
I lay for some time, watching the bustle which succeeded the attack. Men
were demolishing something with axes on the beach near the stockade--the
poor jolly-boat, I afterwards discovered. Away, near the mouth of the
river, a great fire was glowing among the trees, and between that point
and the ship one of the gigs kept coming and going, the men, whom I had
seen so gloomy, shouting at the oars like children. But there was a
sound in their voices which suggested rum.
At length I thought I might return towards the stockade. I was pretty
far down on the low, sandy spit that incloses the anchorage to the east,
and is joined at half-water to Skeleton Island; and now, as I rose to my
feet, I saw, some distance farther down the spit, and rising from among
low bushes, an isolated rock, pretty high, and peculiarly white in
color. It occurred to me that this might be the white rock of which Ben
Gunn had spoken, and that some day or other a boat might be wanted, and
I should know where to look for one.
Then I skirted among the woods until I had regained the rear, or
shoreward side, of the stockade, and was soon warmly welcomed by the
faithful party.
I had soon told my story, and began to look about me. The log-house was
made of unsquared trunks of pine--roof, walls, and floor. The latter
stood in several places as much as a foot or a foot and a half above the
surface of the sand. There was a porch at the door, and under this porch
the little spring welled up into an artificial basin of a rather odd
kind--no other than a great ship's kettle of iron, with the bottom
knocked out, and sunk "to her bearings," as the captain said, among the
sand.
Little had been left beside the framework of the house, but in one
corner there was a stone slab laid down by way of hearth, and an old
rusty iron basket to contain the fire.
The slopes of the knoll and all the inside of the stockade had been
cleared of timber to build the house, and we could see by the stumps
what a fine and lofty grove had been destroyed. Most of the soil had
been washed away or buried in drift after the removal of the trees; only
where the streamlet ran down from the kettle a thick bed of moss and
some ferns and little creeping bushes were still green among the sand.
Very close around the stockade--too close for defense, they said--the
wood still flourished high and dense, all of fir on the land side, but
toward the sea with a large admixture of live-oaks.
The cold evening breeze, of which I have spoken, whistled through every
chink of the rude building, and sprinkled the floor with a continual
rain of fine sand. There was sand in our eyes, sand in our teeth, sand
in our suppers, sand dancing in the spring at the bottom of the kettle,
for all the world like porridge beginning to boil. Our chimney was a
square hole in the roof; it was but a little part of the smoke that
found its way out, and the rest eddied about the house, and kept us
coughing and piping the eye.
Add to this that Gray, the new man, had his face tied up in a bandage
for a cut he had got in breaking away from the mutineers; and that poor
old Tom Redruth, still unburied, lay along the wall, stiff and stark,
under the Union Jack.
If we had been allowed to sit idle, we should all have fallen in the
blues, but Captain Smollett was never the man for that. All hands were
called up before him, and he divided us into watches. The doctor, and
Gray, and I, for one; the squire, Hunter, and Joyce upon the other.
Tired as we all were, two were sent out for firewood, two more were sent
to dig a grave for Redruth, the doctor was named cook, I was put sentry
at the door, and the captain himself went from one to another, keeping
up our spirits and lending a hand wherever it was wanted.
From time to time the doctor came to the door for a little air and to
rest his eyes, which were almost smoked out of his head, and whenever he
did so, he had a word for me.
"That man Smollett," he said once, "is a better man than I am. And when
I say that it means a deal, Jim."
Another time he came and was silent for a while. Then he put his head on
one side, and looked at me.
"Is this Ben Gunn a man?" he asked.
"I do not know, sir," said I. "I am not very sure whether he's sane."
"If there's any doubt about the matter, he is," returned the doctor. "A
man who has been three years biting his nails on a desert island, Jim,
can't expect to appear as sane as you or me. It doesn't lie in human
nature. Was it cheese you said he had a fancy for?"
"Yes, sir, cheese," I answered.
"Well, Jim," says he, "just see the good that comes of being dainty in
your food. You've seen my snuff-box, haven't you? And you never saw me
take snuff; the reason being that in my snuff-box I carry a piece of
Parmesan cheese--a cheese made in Italy, very nutritious. Well, that's
for Ben Gunn!"
Before supper was eaten we buried old Tom in the sand, and stood round
him for a while bare-headed in the breeze. A good deal of firewood had
been got in, but not enough for the captain's fancy, and he shook his
head over it, and told us we "must get back to this to-morrow rather
livelier." Then, when we had eaten our pork, and each had a good stiff
glass of brandy grog, the three chiefs got together in a corner to
discuss our prospects.
It appears they were at their wits' end what to do, the stores being so
low that we must have been starved into surrender long before help came.
But our best hope, it was decided, was to kill off the buccaneers until
they either hauled down their flag or ran away with the _Hispaniola_.
From nineteen they were already reduced to fifteen, two others were
wounded, and one, at least--the man shot beside the gun--severely
wounded, if he were not dead. Every time we had a crack at them, we were
to take it, saving our own lives, with the extremest care. And, beside
that, we had two able allies--rum and the climate.
As for the first, though we were about half a mile away, we could hear
them roaring and singing late into the night; and as for the second, the
doctor staked his wig, that camped where they were in the marsh, and
unprovided with remedies, the half of them would be on their backs
before a week.
"So," he added, "if we are not all shot down first, they'll be glad to
be packing in the schooner. It's always a ship, and they can get to
buccaneering again, I suppose."
"First ship that I ever lost," said Captain Smollett.
I was dead tired, as you may fancy, and when I got to sleep, which was
not till after a great deal of tossing, I slept like a log of wood.
The rest had long been up, and had already breakfasted and increased the
pile of firewood by about half as much again, when I was awakened by a
bustle and the sound of voices.
"Flag of truce!" I heard someone say, and then, immediately after, with
a cry of surprise, "Silver himself!"
And, at that, up I jumped, and, rubbing my eyes, ran to a loophole in
the wall.
----------CHAPTER 20---------
SILVER'S EMBASSY
Sure enough, there were two men just outside the stockade, one of them
waving a white cloth; the other, no less a person than Silver himself,
standing placidly by.
It was still quite early, and the coldest morning that I think I ever
was abroad in; a chill that pierced into the marrow. The sky was bright
and cloudless overhead, and the tops of the trees shone rosily in the
sun. But where Silver stood with his lieutenant all was still in shadow,
and they waded knee-deep in a low, white vapor that had crawled during
the night out of the morass. The chill and the vapor taken together told
a poor tale of the island. It was plainly a damp, feverish, unhealthy
spot.
"Keep indoors, men," said the captain. "Ten to one this is a trick."
Then he hailed the buccaneer.
"Who goes? Stand, or we fire."
"Flag of truce!" cried Silver.
The captain was in the porch, keeping himself carefully out of the way
of a treacherous shot, should any be intended. He turned and spoke to
us.
"Doctor's watch on the lookout. Doctor Livesey, take the north side, if
you please; Jim the east; Gray, west. The watch below, all hands to load
muskets. Lively, men, and careful."
And then he turned again to the mutineers.
"And what do you want with your flag of truce?" he cried.
This time it was the other man who replied.
"Cap'n Silver, sir, to come on board and make terms," he shouted.
"Cap'n Silver! Don't know him. Who's he?" cried the captain. And we
could hear him adding to himself: "Cap'n, is it? My heart, and here's
promotion!"
Long John answered for himself.
"Me, sir. These poor lads have chosen me cap'n, after your desertion,
sir"--laying a particular emphasis upon the word "desertion." "We're
willing to submit, if we can come to terms, and no bones about it. All I
ask is your word, Cap'n Smollett, to let me safe and sound out of this
here stockade, and one minute to get out o' shot before a gun is fired."
"My man," said Captain Smollett, "I have not the slightest desire to
talk to you. If you wish to talk to me, you can come, that's all. If
there's any treachery, it'll be on your side, and the Lord help you."
"That's enough, cap'n," shouted Long John cheerily. "A word from you's
enough. I know a gentleman, and you may lay to that."
We could see the man who carried the flag of truce attempting to hold
Silver back. Nor was that wonderful, seeing how cavalier had been the
captain's answer. But Silver laughed at him aloud, and slapped him on
the back, as if the idea of alarm had been absurd. Then he advanced to
the stockade, threw over his crutch, got a leg up, and with great vigor
and skill succeeded in surmounting the fence and dropping safely to the
other side.
I will confess that I was far too much taken up with what was going on
to be of the slightest use as sentry; indeed, I had already deserted my
eastern loophole and crept up behind the captain, who had now seated
himself on the threshold, with his elbows on his knees, his head in his
hands, and his eyes fixed on the water as it bubbled out of the old iron
kettle in the sand. He was whistling to himself, "Come, Lasses and
Lads."
Silver had terrible hard work getting up the knoll. What with the
steepness of the incline, the thick tree-stumps, and the soft sand, he
and his crutch were as helpless as a ship in stays. But he stuck to it
like a man, in silence, and at last arrived before the captain, whom he
saluted in the handsomest style. He was tricked out in his best; an
immense blue coat, thick with brass buttons, hung as low as to his
knees, and a fine laced hat was set on the back of his head.
"Here you are, my man," said the captain, raising his head. "You had
better sit down."
"You ain't a-going to let me inside, cap'n?" complained Long John. "It's
a main cold morning, to be sure, sir, to sit outside upon the sand."
"Why, Silver," said the captain, "if you had pleased to be an honest man
you might have been sitting in your galley. It's your own doing. You're
either my ship's cook--and then you were treated handsome--or Cap'n
Silver, a common mutineer and pirate, and then you can go hang!"
"Well, well, cap'n," returned the sea-cook, sitting down as he was
bidden on the sand, "you'll have to give me a hand up again, that's all.
A sweet, pretty place you have of it here. Ah, there's Jim! The top of
the morning to you, Jim. Doctor, here's my service. Why, there you all
are together like a happy family, in a manner of speaking."
"If you have anything to say, my man, better say it," said the captain.
"Right you are, Cap'n Smollett," replied Silver. "Dooty is dooty, to be
sure. Well, now, you look here, that was a good lay of yours last night.
I don't deny it was a good lay. Some of you pretty handy with a
handspike-end. And I'll not deny neither but what some of my people was
shook--maybe all was shook; maybe I was shook myself; maybe that's why
I'm here for terms. But you mark me, cap'n, it won't do twice, by
thunder! We'll have to do sentry-go, and ease off a point or so on the
rum. Maybe you think we were all a sheet in the wind's eye. But I'll
tell you I was sober; I was on'y dog tired; and if I'd awoke a second
sooner I'd 'a' caught you at the act, I would. He wasn't dead when I got
round to him, not he."
"Well?" says Captain Smollett, as cool as can be.
All that Silver said was a riddle to him, but you would never have
guessed it from his tone. As for me, I began to have an inkling. Ben
Gunn's last words came back to my mind. I began to suppose that he had
paid the buccaneers a visit while they all lay drunk together round
their fire, and I reckoned up with glee that we had only fourteen
enemies to deal with.
"Well, here it is," said Silver. "We want that treasure, and we'll have
it--that's our point! You would just as soon save your lives, I reckon;
and that's yours. You have a chart, haven't you?"
"That's as may be," replied the captain.
"Oh, well, you have, I know that," returned Long John. "You needn't be
so husky with a man; there ain't a particle of service in that, and you
may lay to it. What I mean is, we want your chart. Now, I never meant
you no harm, myself."
"That won't do with me, my man," interrupted the captain. "We know
exactly what you meant to do, and we don't care; for now, you see, you
can't do it."
And the captain looked at him calmly, and proceeded to fill a pipe.
"If Abe Gray--" Silver broke out.
"Avast there!" cried Mr. Smollett. "Gray told me nothing, and I asked
him nothing; and what's more, I would see you and him and this whole
island blown clean out of the water into blazes first. So there's my
mind for you, my man, on that."
This little whiff of temper seemed to cool Silver down. He had been
growing nettled before, but now he pulled himself together.
"Like enough," said he. "I would set no limits to what gentlemen might
consider shipshape, or might not, as the case were. And, seein' as how
you are about to take a pipe, cap'n, I'll make so free as do likewise."
And he filled a pipe and lighted it; and the two men sat silently
smoking for quite a while, now looking each other in the face, now
stopping their tobacco, now leaning forward to spit. It was as good as
the play to see them.
"Now," resumed Silver, "here it is. You give us the chart to get the
treasure by, and drop shooting poor seamen, and stoving of their heads
in while asleep. You do that and we'll offer you a choice. Either you
come aboard along of us, once the treasure shipped, and then I'll give
you my affy-davy, upon my word of honor, to clap you somewhere safe
ashore. Or, if that ain't to your fancy, some of my hands being rough,
and having old scores, on account of hazing, then you can stay here, you
can. We'll divide stores with you, man for man; and I'll give my
affy-davy, as before, to speak the first ship I sight, and send 'em here
to pick you up. Now you'll own that's talking. Handsomer you couldn't
look to get, not you. And I hope"--raising his voice--"that all hands in
this here blockhouse will overhaul my words, for what is spoke to one is
spoke to all."
Captain Smollett rose from his seat and knocked out the ashes of his
pipe in the palm of his left hand.
"Is that all?" he asked.
"Every last word, by thunder!" answered John. "Refuse that and you've
seen the last of me but musket-balls."
"Very good," said the captain. "Now you'll hear me. If you'll come up
one by one, unarmed, I'll engage to clap you all in irons, and to take
you home to a fair trial in England. If you won't, my name is Alexander
Smollett, I've flown my sovereign's colors, and I'll see you all to Davy
Jones. You can't find the treasure. You can't sail the ship--there's not
a man among you fit to sail the ship. You can't fight us--Gray, there,
got away from five of you. Your ship's in irons, Master Silver; you're
on a lee shore, and so you'll find. I stand here and tell you so, and
they're the last good words you'll get from me; for, in the name of
heaven, I'll put a bullet in your back when next I meet you. Tramp, my
lad. Bundle out of this, please, hand over hand, and double quick."
Silver's face was a picture; his eyes started in his head with wrath. He
shook the fire out of his pipe.
"Give me a hand up!" he cried.
"Not I," returned the captain.
"Who'll give me a hand up?" he roared.
Not a man among us moved. Growling the foulest imprecations, he crawled
along the sand till he got hold of the porch and could hoist himself
again upon his crutch. Then he spat into the spring.
"There!" he cried, "that's what I think of ye. Before an hour's out,
I'll stove in your old blockhouse like a rum puncheon. Laugh, by
thunder, laugh! Before an hour's out, ye'll laugh upon the other side.
Them that die'll be the lucky ones."
And with a dreadful oath he stumbled off, plowed down the sand, was
helped across the stockade, after four or five failures, by the man with
the flag of truce, and disappeared in an instant afterward among the
trees.
|
Treasure Island.part 5.ch | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 22, utilizing the provided context. | chapter 22|chapter 23 | The pirates don't attack again that day, so there's time for Doctor Livesey to tend to his patients: one of the pirates who got shot at the wall of the fort, Hunter, and Captain Smollett. Of those three, only Captain Smollett recovers - he's been badly injured, but he'll live. Even so, the captain is now out of the action. He's not allowed to move or talk more than he has to. Squire Trelawney, Doctor Livesey, and Captain Smollett discuss what to do next. Abraham Gray is totally astonished to see Doctor Livesey walking in the forest outside the fort. Jim guesses correctly that Doctor Livesey is going to see Ben Gunn. Jim feels more and more restless and cooped up. He decides to fill his pockets with biscuits, grab a couple pistols, and head out on his own. He wants to return to that odd white boulder to see if Ben Gunn's boat is tied up there. Jim knows he wouldn't be allowed to do this if he asked, so he decides to sneak out when no one is looking. Jim doesn't even think about the fact that he's leaving only two able-bodied men to guard the fort, Abraham Gray and Squire Trelawney. He makes up his mind and goes. Jim is enjoying his stroll down to the beach when, in the distance, he sees Long John Silver talking and laughing with a couple of crew members and holding his parrot, Captain Flint. The two crew members get into a rowboat and set off for the Hispaniola. The day is growing foggy and the sun is setting, so Jim creeps across to the white rock. Sure enough, he sees a little tent hidden near the rock with a tiny homemade goatskin boat next to it. Jim suddenly gets another bright idea: under the cover of night and fog, he decides to row quietly out to the Hispaniola, cut the rope attached to the anchor, and let it float off. He waits until the dead of night, picks up the tiny boat, and sets it on the ocean to row out to the Hispaniola. |
----------CHAPTER 22---------
HOW MY SEA ADVENTURE BEGAN
There was no return of the mutineers--not so much as another shot out of
the woods. They had "got their rations for that day," as the captain put
it, and we had the place to ourselves and a quiet time to overhaul the
wounded and get dinner. Squire and I cooked outside, in spite of the
danger, and even outside we could hardly tell what we were at, for the
horror of the loud groans that reached us from the doctor's patients.
Out of the eight men who had fallen in the action only three still
breathed--that one of the pirates who had been shot at the loophole,
Hunter, and Captain Smollett--and of these the first two were as good as
dead; the mutineer, indeed, died under the doctor's knife, and Hunter,
do what we could, never recovered consciousness in this world. He
lingered all day, breathing loudly like the old buccaneer at home in his
apoplectic fit; but the bones of his chest had been crushed by the blow
and his skull fractured in falling, and some time in the following
night, without sign or sound, he went to his Maker.
As for the captain, his wounds were grievous indeed, but not dangerous.
No organ was fatally injured. Anderson's ball--for it was Job that shot
him first--had broken his shoulder-blade and touched the lung, not
badly; the second had only torn and displaced some muscles in the calf.
He was sure to recover, the doctor said, but in the meantime, and for
weeks to come, he must not walk nor move his arm, nor so much as speak
when he could help it.
My own accidental cut across the knuckles was a flea-bite. Doctor
Livesey patched it up with plaster, and pulled my ears for me into the
bargain.
After dinner the squire and the doctor sat by the captain's side awhile
in consultation; and when they had talked to their heart's content, it
being then a little past noon, the doctor took up his hat and pistols,
girt on a cutlass, put the chart in his pocket, and with a musket over
his shoulder, crossed the palisade on the north side and set off briskly
through the trees.
Gray and I were sitting together at the far end of the blockhouse, to be
out of earshot of our officers, consulting, and Gray took his pipe out
of his mouth and fairly forgot to put it back again, so thunderstruck he
was at this occurrence.
"Why, in the name of Davy Jones," said he, "is Doctor Livesey mad?"
"Why, no," says I. "He's about the last of this crew for that, I take
it."
"Well, shipmate," said Gray, "mad he may not be, but if _he's_ not, mark
my words, _I_ am."
"I take it," replied I, "the doctor has his idea, and if I am right,
he's going now to see Ben Gunn."
I was right, as appeared later; but in the meantime, the house being
stifling hot, and the little patch of sand inside the palisade ablaze
with midday sun, I began to get another thought into my head which was
not by any means so right. What I began to do was to envy the doctor,
walking in the cool shadow of the woods, with the birds about him and
the pleasant smell of the pines, while I sat grilling, with my clothes
stuck to the hot resin, and so much blood about me, and so many poor
dead bodies lying all around, that I took a disgust of the place that
was almost as strong as fear.
All the time I was washing out the blockhouse, and then washing up the
things from dinner, this disgust and envy kept growing stronger and
stronger, till at last, being near a bread-bag, and no one then
observing me, I took the first step toward my escapade and filled both
pockets of my coat with biscuit.
I was a fool, if you like, and certainly I was going to do a foolish,
over-bold act, but I was determined to do it with all the precautions in
my power. These biscuits, should anything befall me, would keep me at
least from starving till far on in the next day.
The next thing I laid hold of was a brace of pistols, and as I already
had a powder-horn and bullets, I felt myself well supplied with arms.
As for the scheme I had in my head, it was not a bad one in itself. It
was to go down the sandy spit that divides the anchorage on the east
from the open sea, find the white rock I had observed last evening, and
ascertain whether it was there or not that Ben Gunn had hidden his
boat--a thing quite worth doing, as I still believe. But as I was
certain I should not be allowed to leave the inclosure, my only plan was
to take French leave and slip out when nobody was watching, and that was
so bad a way of doing it as made the thing itself wrong. But I was only
a boy and I had made my mind up.
Well, as things at last fell out, I found an admirable opportunity. The
squire and Gray were busy helping the captain with his bandages; the
coast was clear; I made a bolt for it over the stockade and into the
thickest of the trees, and before my absence was observed I was out of
cry of my companions.
This was my second folly, far worse than the first, as I left but two
sound men to guard the house; but, like the first, it was a help toward
saving all of us.
I took my way straight for the east coast of the island, for I was
determined to go down the seaside of the spit to avoid all chance of
observation from the anchorage. It was already late in the afternoon,
although still warm and sunny. As I continued to thread the tall woods I
could hear from far before me not only the continuous thunder of the
surf, but a certain tossing of foliage and grinding of boughs which
showed me the sea breeze set in higher than usual. Soon cool draughts of
air began to reach me, and a few steps farther I came forth into the
open borders of the grove and saw the sea lying blue and sunny to the
horizon and the surf tumbling and tossing its foam along the beach.
I have never seen the sea quiet round Treasure Island. The sun might
blaze overhead, the air be without a breath, the surface smooth and
blue, but still these great rollers would be running along all the
external coast, thundering and thundering by day and night, and I scarce
believe there is one spot in the island where a man would be out of
earshot of their noise.
I walked along beside the surf with great enjoyment, till, thinking I
was now got far enough to the south, I took the cover of some thick
bushes and crept warily up to the ridge of the spit.
Behind me was the sea; in front, the anchorage. The sea-breeze, as
though it had the sooner blown itself out by its unusual violence, was
already at an end; it had been succeeded by light, variable airs from
the south and southeast, carrying great banks of fog; and the anchorage,
under lee of Skeleton Island, lay still and leaden as when first we
entered it. The _Hispaniola_, in that unbroken mirror, was exactly
portrayed from the truck to the water-line, the Jolly Roger hanging from
her peak.
Alongside lay one of the gigs, Silver in the stern-sheets--him I could
always recognize--while a couple of men were leaning over the stern
bulwarks, one of them with a red cap--the very rogue that I had seen
some hours before stride-legs upon the palisade. Apparently they were
talking and laughing, though at that distance--upward of a mile--I could
of course hear no word of what was said.
All at once there began the most horrid, unearthly screaming, which at
first startled me badly, though I had soon remembered the voice of
Captain Flint, and even thought I could make out the bird by her bright
plumage as she sat perched upon her master's wrist.
Soon after the jolly-boat shoved off and pulled for shore, and the man
with the red cap and his comrade went below by the cabin companion.
Just about the same time the sun had gone down behind the Spy-glass, and
as the fog was collecting rapidly, it began to grow dark in earnest. I
saw I must lose no time if I were to find the boat that evening.
The white rock, visible enough above the brush, was still some eighth of
a mile farther down the spit, and it took me a goodish while to get up
with it, crawling, often on all-fours, among the scrub. Night had almost
come when I laid my hand on its rough sides. Right below it there was
an exceedingly small hollow of green turf, hidden by banks and a thick
underwood about knee-deep, that grew there very plentifully; and in the
center of the dell, sure enough, a little tent of goat-skins, like what
the gypsies carry about with them in England.
I dropped into the hollow, lifted the side of the tent, and there was
Ben Gunn's boat--homemade if ever anything was homemade--a rude,
lopsided framework of tough wood, and stretched upon that a covering of
goat-skin, with the hair inside. The thing was extremely small, even for
me, and I can hardly imagine that it could have floated with a
full-sized man. There was one thwart set as low as possible, a kind of
stretcher in the bows, and a double paddle for propulsion.
I had not then seen a coracle, such as the ancient Britons made, but I
have seen one since, and I can give you no fairer idea of Ben Gunn's
boat than by saying it was like the first and the worst coracle ever
made by man. But the great advantage of the coracle it certainly
possessed, for it was exceedingly light and portable.
Well, now that I had found the boat, you would have thought I had had
enough of truantry for once; but in the meantime I had taken another
notion, and become so obstinately fond of it that I would have carried
it out, I believe, in the teeth of Captain Smollett himself. This was to
slip out under cover of the night, cut the _Hispaniola_ adrift, and let
her go ashore where she fancied. I had quite made up my mind that the
mutineers, after their repulse of the morning, had nothing nearer their
hearts than to up anchor and away to sea; this, I thought, it would be a
fine thing to prevent, and now that I had seen how they left their
watchman unprovided with a boat, I thought it might be done with little
risk.
Down I sat to wait for darkness, and made a hearty meal of biscuit. It
was a night out of ten thousand for my purpose. The fog had now buried
all heaven. As the last rays of daylight dwindled and disappeared,
absolute blackness settled down on Treasure Island. And when, at last, I
shouldered the coracle, and groped my way stumblingly out of the hollow
where I had supped, there were but two points visible on the whole
anchorage.
One was the great fire on shore, by which the defeated pirates lay
carousing in the swamp. The other, a mere blur of light upon the
darkness, indicated the position of the anchored ship. She had swung
round to the ebb--her bow was now toward me--the only lights on board
were in the cabin; and what I saw was merely a reflection on the fog of
the strong rays that flowed from the stern window.
The ebb had already run some time, and I had to wade through a long belt
of swampy sand, where I sank several times above the ankle, before I
came to the edge of the retreating water, and wading a little way in,
with some strength and dexterity, set my coracle, keel downward, on the
surface.
----------CHAPTER 23---------
THE EBB-TIDE RUNS
The coracle--as I had ample reason to know before I was done with
her--was a very safe boat for a person of my height and weight, both
buoyant and clever in a sea-way; but she was the most cross-grained,
lopsided craft to manage. Do as you pleased, she always made more leeway
than anything else, and turning round and round was the maneuver she was
best at. Even Ben Gunn himself has admitted that she was "queer to
handle till you knew her way."
Certainly I did not know her way. She turned in every direction but the
one I was bound to go; the most part of the time we were broadside on,
and I am very sure I never should have made the ship at all but for the
tide. By good fortune, paddle as I pleased, the tide was still sweeping
me down; and there lay the _Hispaniola_ right in the fairway, hardly to
be missed.
First she loomed before me like a blot of something yet blacker than
darkness, then her spars and hull began to take shape, and the next
moment, as it seemed (for the further I went the brisker grew the
current of the ebb), I was alongside of her hawser, and had laid hold.
The hawser was as taut as a bowstring and the current so strong she
pulled upon her anchor. All round the hull, in the blackness, the
rippling current bubbled and chattered like a little mountain stream.
One cut with my sea gully, and the _Hispaniola_ would go humming down
the tide.
So far so good; but it next occurred to my recollection that a taut
hawser, suddenly cut, is a thing as dangerous as a kicking horse. Ten to
one, if I were so foolhardy as to cut the _Hispaniola_ from her anchor,
I and the coracle would be knocked clean out of the water.
This brought me to a full stop, and if fortune had not again
particularly favored me, I should have had to abandon my design. But the
light airs which had begun blowing from the southeast and south had
hauled round after nightfall into the southwest. Just while I was
meditating, a puff came, caught the _Hispaniola_, and forced her up into
the current; and, to my great joy, I felt the hawser slacken in my
grasp, and the hand by which I held it dip for a second under water.
With that I made my mind up, took out my gully, opened it with my teeth,
and cut one strand after another, till the vessel swung only by two.
Then I lay quiet, waiting to sever these last when the strain should be
once more lightened by a breath of wind.
All this time I had heard the sound of loud voices from the cabin; but,
to say truth, my mind had been so entirely taken up with other thoughts
that I had scarcely given ear. Now, however, when I had nothing else to
do, I began to pay more heed.
One I recognized for the coxswain's, Israel Hands, that had been Flint's
gunner in former days. The other was, of course, my friend of the red
nightcap. Both men were plainly the worse of drink, and they were still
drinking; for, even while I was listening, one of them, with a drunken
cry, opened the stern window and threw out something, which I divined
to be an empty bottle. But they were not only tipsy; it was plain that
they were furiously angry. Oaths flew like hailstones, and every now and
then there came forth such an explosion as I thought was sure to end in
blows. But each time the quarrel passed off, and the voices grumbled
lower for a while, until the next crisis came, and, in its turn, passed
away without result.
On shore, I could see the glow of the great camp fire burning warmly
through the shore-side trees. Someone was singing a dull, old droning
sailor's song, with a droop and a quaver at the end of every verse, and
seemingly no end to it at all but the patience of the singer. I had
heard it on the voyage more than once, and remembered these words:
"But one man of the crew alive,
What put to sea with seventy-five."
And I thought it was a ditty rather too dolefully appropriate for a
company that had met such cruel losses in the morning. But, indeed, from
what I saw, all these buccaneers were as callous as the sea they sailed
on.
At last the breeze came; the schooner sidled and drew nearer in the
dark; I felt the hawser slacken once more, and with a good, tough
effort, cut the last fibers through.
The breeze had but little action on the coracle, and I was almost
instantly swept against the bows of the _Hispaniola_. At the same time
the schooner began to turn upon her heel, spinning slowly, end for end,
across the current.
I wrought like a fiend, for I expected every moment to be swamped; and
since I found I could not push the coracle directly off, I now shoved
straight astern. At length I was clear of my dangerous neighbor, and
just as I gave the last impulsion, my hands came across a light cord
that was trailing overboard across the stern bulwarks. Instantly I
grasped it.
Why I should have done so I can hardly say. It was at first mere
instinct, but once I had it in my hands and found it fast, curiosity
began to get the upper hand, and I determined I should have one look
through the cabin window.
I pulled in hand over hand on the cord, and, when I judged myself near
enough, rose at infinite risk to about half my height, and thus
commanded the roof and a slice of the interior of the cabin.
By this time the schooner and her little consort were gliding pretty
swiftly through the water; indeed, we had already fetched up level with
the camp fire. The ship was talking, as sailors say, loudly, treading
the innumerable ripples with an incessant weltering splash; and until I
got my eye above the window sill I could not comprehend why the watchmen
had taken no alarm. One glance, however, was sufficient; and it was only
one glance that I durst take from that unsteady skiff. It showed me
Hands and his companion locked together in deadly wrestle, each with a
hand upon the other's throat.
I dropped upon the thwart again, none too soon, for I was near
overboard. I could see nothing for the moment but these two furious,
encrimsoned faces, swaying together under the smoky lamp; and I shut my
eyes to let them grow once more familiar with the darkness.
The endless ballad had come to an end at last, and the whole diminished
company about the camp fire had broken into the chorus I had heard so
often:
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest--
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
I was just thinking how busy drink and the devil were at that very
moment in the cabin of the _Hispaniola_, when I was surprised by a
sudden lurch of the coracle. At the same moment she yawed sharply and
seemed to change her course. The speed in the meantime had strangely
increased.
I opened my eyes at once. All around me were little ripples, combing
over with a sharp, bristling sound and slightly phosphorescent. The
_Hispaniola_ herself, a few yards in whose wake I was still being
whirled along, seemed to stagger in her course, and I saw her spars toss
a little against the blackness of the night; nay, as I looked longer, I
made sure she also was wheeling to the southward.
I glanced over my shoulder and my heart jumped against my ribs. There,
right behind me, was the glow of the camp fire. The current had turned
at right angles, sweeping round along with it the tall schooner and the
little dancing coracle; ever quickening, ever bubbling higher, ever
muttering louder, it went spinning through the narrows for the open sea.
Suddenly the schooner in front of me gave a violent yaw, turning,
perhaps, through twenty degrees; and almost at the same moment one shout
followed another from on board. I could hear feet pounding on the
companion ladder, and I knew that the two drunkards had at last been
interrupted in their quarrel and awakened to a sense of their disaster.
I lay down flat in the bottom of that wretched skiff and devoutly
recommended my spirit to its Maker. At the end of the straits I made
sure we must fall into some bar of raging breakers, where all my
troubles would be ended speedily; and though I could perhaps bear to
die, I could not bear to look upon my fate as it approached.
So I must have lain for hours, continually beaten to and fro upon the
billows, now and again wetted with flying sprays, and never ceasing to
expect death at the next plunge. Gradually weariness grew upon me; a
numbness, an occasional stupor, fell upon my mind even in the midst of
my terrors, until sleep at last intervened, and in my sea-tossed coracle
I lay and dreamed of home and the old "Admiral Benbow."
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 25, utilizing the provided context. | chapter 24|chapter 25 | Jim nearly gets thrown off into the sea when the pole that is supposed to keep the sails open - the jib - flies out and almost hits him. Jim crawls up the bowsprit to the deck. There he sees the two pirate watchmen. One of them, the red-capped man , is lying stiff on his back. The other, Israel Hands, is hunched against the side of the boat. They are both surrounded by dark puddles of blood. In a still moment, Israel Hands straightens up a little bit and groans. Jim approaches him slowly. Israel asks for one thing: brandy. Jim goes quickly below deck. He sees that the captain's cabin is a total wreck, filled with empty bottles. Jim realizes that, since the mutiny began, not one of the sailors has been sober. He finds a bottle half full of brandy for Israel Hands and a bit of food for himself. Israel drinks a lot of brandy before he's ready to talk. He says that if Doctor Livesey were on board, he'd soon be healed of his wounds, but he doesn't have that kind of luck. Jim announces that he's now the captain of the Hispaniola. As the ship's new captain, he pulls down the Jolly Roger flag and throws it overboard. Israel Hands offers to help Jim sail the ship if Jim will bring him food, alcohol, and something to bandage his wound. Jim plans to sail to the North Inlet to beach the boat quietly; he doesn't want to go to Captain Kidd's anchorage, where the pirates are waiting. Israel Hands agrees. He knows he has no choice but to help Jim. Jim sets the boat sailing towards the north end of the island. Then he helps Israel Hands wrap up the stab wound on his thigh. After some more brandy, Israel Hands perks right up. Jim is happy to have captured the ship so easily. He is sure that his friends will forgive him for leaving the fort without permission. Still, Jim is a little unsettled: Israel Hands keeps watching him with a knowing, crafty smile. |
----------CHAPTER 24---------
THE CRUISE OF THE CORACLE
It was broad day when I awoke and found myself tossing at the southwest
end of Treasure Island. The sun was up, but was still hid from me behind
the great bulk of the Spy-glass, which on this side descended almost to
the sea in formidable cliffs.
Haulbowline Head and Mizzen-mast Hill were at my elbow, the hill bare
and dark, the head bound with cliffs forty or fifty feet high and
fringed with great masses of fallen rock. I was scarce a quarter of a
mile to seaward, and it was my first thought to paddle in and land.
That notion was soon given over. Among the fallen rocks the breakers
spouted and bellowed; loud reverberations, heavy sprays flying and
falling, succeeded one another from second to second; and I saw myself,
if I ventured nearer, dashed to death upon the rough shore or spending
my strength in vain to scale the beetling crags.
Nor was that all, for crawling together on flat tables of rock, or
letting themselves drop into the sea with loud reports, I beheld huge
slimy monsters--soft snails, as it were, of incredible bigness--two or
three score of them together, making the rocks to echo with their
barkings.
I have understood since that they were sea lions, and entirely harmless.
But the look of them, added to the difficulty of the shore and the high
running of the surf, was more than enough to disgust me of that
landing-place. I felt willing rather to starve at sea than to confront
such perils.
In the meantime I had a better chance, as I supposed, before me. North
of Haulbowline Head the land runs in a long way, leaving, at low tide, a
long stretch of yellow sand. To the north of that, again, there comes
another cape--Cape of the Woods, as it was marked upon the chart--buried
in tall green pines, which descended to the margin of the sea.
I remembered what Silver had said about the current that sets northward
along the whole west coast of Treasure Island; and seeing from my
position that I was already under its influence, I preferred to leave
Haulbowline Head behind me, and reserve my strength for an attempt to
land upon the kindlier-looking Cape of the Woods.
There was a great, smooth swell upon the sea. The wind blowing steady
and gentle from the south, there was no contrariety between that and the
current, and the billows rose and fell unbroken.
Had it been otherwise, I must long ago have perished; but as it was, it
is surprising how easily and securely my little and light boat could
ride. Often, as I still lay at the bottom, and kept no more than an eye
above the gunwale, I would see a big blue summit heaving close above me;
yet the coracle would but bounce a little, dance as if on springs, and
subside on the other side into the trough as lightly as a bird.
I began after a little to grow very bold, and sat up to try my skill at
paddling. But even a small change in the disposition of the weight will
produce violent changes in the behavior of a coracle. And I had hardly
moved before the boat, giving up at once her gentle, dancing movement,
ran straight down a slope of water so steep that it made me giddy, and
struck her nose, with a spout of spray, deep into the side of the next
wave.
I was drenched and terrified, and fell instantly back into my old
position, whereupon the coracle seemed to find her head again, and led
me softly as before among the billows. It was plain she was not to be
interfered with, and at that rate, since I could in no way influence her
course, what hope had I left of reaching land?
I began to be horribly frightened, but I kept my head, for all that.
First, moving with all care, I gradually bailed out the coracle with my
sea cap; then getting my eye once more above the gunwale, I set myself
to study how it was she managed to slip so quietly through the rollers.
I found each wave, instead of the big, smooth, glossy mountain it looks
from shore, or from a vessel's deck, was for all the world like any
range of hills on the dry land, full of peaks and smooth places and
valleys. The coracle, left to herself, turning from side to side,
threaded, so to speak, her way through these lower parts, and avoided
the steep slopes and higher toppling summits of the wave.
"Well, now," thought I to myself, "it is plain I must lie where I am,
and not disturb the balance; but it is plain, also, that I can put the
paddle over the side, and from time to time, in smooth places, give her
a shove or two towards land." No sooner thought upon than done. There I
lay on my elbows, in the most trying attitude, and every now and again
gave a weak stroke or two to turn her head to shore.
It was very tiring and slow work, yet I did visibly gain ground; and, as
we drew near the Cape of the Woods, though I saw I must infallibly miss
that point, I had still made some hundred yards of easting. I was,
indeed, close in. I could see the cool, green tree-tops swaying together
in the breeze, and I felt sure I should make the next promontory without
fail.
It was high time, for I now began to be tortured with thirst. The glow
of the sun from above, its thousand-fold reflection from the waves, the
sea water that fell and dried upon me, caking my very lips with salt,
combined to make my throat burn and my brain ache. The sight of the
trees so near at hand had almost made me sick with longing; but the
current had soon carried me past the point; and, as the next reach of
sea opened out, I beheld a sight that changed the nature of my thoughts.
Right in front of me, not half a mile away, I beheld the _Hispaniola_
under sail. I made sure, of course, that I should be taken, but I was so
distressed for want of water, that I scarce knew whether to be glad or
sorry at the thought; and, long before I had come to a conclusion,
surprise had taken possession of my mind, and I could do nothing but
stare and wonder.
The _Hispaniola_ was under her mainsail and two jibs, and the beautiful
white canvas shone in the sun like snow or silver. When I first sighted
her, all her sails were drawing, she was laying a course about
northwest, and I presumed the men on board were going round the island
on their way back to the anchorage. Presently she began to fetch more
and more to the westward, so that I thought they had sighted me and were
going about in chase. At last, however, she fell right into the wind's
eye, was taken dead aback, and stood there awhile helpless, with her
sails shivering.
"Clumsy fellows," said I, "they must still be drunk as owls." And I
thought how Captain Smollett would have set them skipping.
Meanwhile the schooner gradually fell off, and filled again upon another
tack, sailed swiftly for a minute or so, and brought up once more dead
in the wind's eye. Again and again was this repeated. To and fro, up and
down, north, south, east, and west, the _Hispaniola_ sailed by swoops
and dashes, and at each repetition ended as she had begun, with idly
flapping canvas. It became plain to me that nobody was steering. And, if
so, where were the men? Either they were dead drunk, or had deserted
her, I thought, and perhaps if I could get on board, I might return the
vessel to her captain.
The current was bearing coracle and schooner southward at an equal rate.
As for the latter's sailing, it was so wild and intermittent, and she
hung each time so long in irons, that she certainly gained nothing, if
she did not even lose. If I only dared to sit up and paddle, I made sure
that I could overhaul her. The scheme had an air of adventure that
inspired me, and the thought of the water breaker beside the
fore companion doubled my growing courage.
Up I got, was welcomed almost instantly by another cloud of spray, but
this time stuck to my purpose and set myself with all my strength and
caution to paddle after the unsteered _Hispaniola_. Once I shipped a sea
so heavy that I had to stop and bail, with my heart fluttering like a
bird, but gradually I got into the way of the thing and guided my
coracle among the waves, with only now and then a blow upon her bows
and a dash of foam in my face.
I was now gaining rapidly on the schooner. I could see the brass glisten
on the tiller as it banged about, and still no soul appeared upon her
decks. I could not choose but suppose she was deserted. If not, the men
were lying drunk below, where I might batten them down, perhaps, and do
what I chose with the ship.
For some time she had been doing the worst thing possible for
me--standing still. She headed nearly due south, yawing, of course, all
the time. Each time she fell off her sails partly filled, and these
brought her, in a moment, right to the wind again. I have said this was
the worst thing possible for me; for, helpless as she looked in this
situation, with the canvas crackling like cannon, and the blocks
trundling and banging on the deck, she still continued to run away from
me, not only with the speed of the current, but by the whole amount of
her leeway, which was naturally great.
But now, at last, I had my chance. The breeze fell, for some seconds,
very low, and the current gradually turning her, the _Hispaniola_
revolved slowly round her center and at last presented me her stern,
with the cabin window still gaping open and the lamp over the table
still burning on into the day. The mainsail hung drooped like a banner.
She was stock-still but for the current.
For the last little while I had even lost, but now, redoubling my
efforts, I began once more to overhaul the chase.
I was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came again in a clap;
she filled on the port tack and was off again, stooping and skimming
like a swallow.
My first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy.
Round she came, till she was broadside on to me--round still till she
had covered a half, and then two-thirds, and then three-quarters of the
distance that separated us. I could see the waves boiling white under
her forefoot. Immensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the
coracle.
And then, of a sudden, I began to comprehend. I had scarce time to
think--scarce time to act and save myself. I was on the summit of one
swell when the schooner came stooping over the next. The bowsprit was
over my head. I sprang to my feet and leaped, stamping the coracle under
water. With one hand I caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged
between the stay and the brace, and as I still clung there panting, a
dull blow told me that the schooner had charged down upon and struck the
coracle and that I was left without retreat on the _Hispaniola_.
----------CHAPTER 25---------
I STRIKE THE JOLLY ROGER
I had scarce gained a position on the bowsprit when the flying jib
flapped and filled upon the other tack with a report like a gun. The
schooner trembled to her keel under the reverse, but next moment, the
other sails still drawing, the jib flapped back again and hung idle.
This had nearly tossed me off into the sea, and now I lost no time,
crawled back along the bowsprit and tumbled headforemost on the deck.
I was on the lee side of the forecastle, and the mainsail, which was
still drawing, concealed from me a certain portion of the after-deck.
Not a soul was to be seen. The planks, which had not been swabbed since
the mutiny, bore the print of many feet; and an empty bottle, broken by
the neck, tumbled to and fro like a live thing in the scuppers.
Suddenly the _Hispaniola_ came right into the wind. The jibs behind me
cracked aloud; the rudder slammed to; the whole ship gave a sickening
heave and shudder; and at the same moment the main-boom swung inboard,
the sheet groaning in the blocks, and showed me the lee after-deck.
There were the two watchmen, sure enough; Red-cap on his back, as stiff
as a handspike, with his arms stretched out like those of a crucifix,
and his teeth showing through his open lips; Israel Hands propped
against the bulwarks, his chin on his chest, his hands lying open before
him on the deck, his face as white, under its tan, as a tallow candle.
For a while the ship kept bucking and sidling like a vicious horse, the
sails filling, now on one tack, now on another, and the boom swinging to
and fro till the mast groaned aloud under the strain. Now and again,
too, there would come a cloud of light sprays over the bulwark, and a
heavy blow of the ship's bows against the swell--so much heavier weather
was made of it by this great rigged ship than by my homemade, lopsided
coracle, now gone to the bottom of the sea.
At every jump of the schooner, Red-cap slipped to and fro; but--what was
ghastly to behold--neither his attitude nor his fixed teeth-disclosing
grin was any way disturbed by this rough usage. At every jump, too,
Hands appeared still more to sink into himself and settle down upon the
deck, his feet sliding ever the farther out, and the whole body canting
toward the stern, so that his face became, little by little, hid from
me; and at last I could see nothing beyond his ear and the frayed
ringlet of one whisker.
At the same time I observed, around both of them, splashes of dark blood
upon the planks, and began to feel sure that they had killed each other
in their drunken wrath.
While I was thus looking and wondering, in a calm moment when the ship
was still, Israel Hands turned partly round, and with a low moan,
writhed himself back to the position in which I had seen him first. The
moan, which told of pain and deadly weakness, and the way in which his
jaw hung open, went right to my heart. But when I remembered the talk I
had overheard from the apple barrel, all pity left me.
I walked aft until I reached the mainmast.
"Come aboard, Mr. Hands," I said, ironically.
He rolled his eyes round heavily, but he was too far gone to express
surprise. All he could do was to utter one word, "Brandy."
It occurred to me there was no time to lose, and dodging the boom as it
once more lurched across the deck, I slipped aft and down the
companion-stairs into the cabin.
It was such a scene of confusion as you can hardly fancy. All the
lock-fast places had been broken open in quest of the chart. The floor
was thick with mud, where the ruffians had sat down to drink or consult
after wading in the marshes round their camp. The bulkheads, all painted
in clear white, and beaded round with gilt, bore a pattern of dirty
hands. Dozens of empty bottles clinked together in corners to the
rolling of the ship. One of the doctor's medical books lay open on the
table, half of the leaves gutted out, I suppose, for pipe-lights. In the
midst of all this the lamp still cast a smoky glow, obscure and brown as
umber.
I went into the cellar; all the barrels were gone, and of the bottles a
most surprising number had been drunk out and thrown away. Certainly,
since the mutiny began, not a man of them could ever have been sober.
Foraging about I found a bottle with some brandy left, for Hands; and
for myself I routed out some biscuit, some pickled fruits, a great bunch
of raisins, and a piece of cheese. With these I came on deck, put down
my own stock behind the rudder-head, and well out of the coxswain's
reach, went forward to the water-breaker, and had a good, deep drink of
water, and then, and not until then, gave Hands the brandy.
He must have drunk a gill before he took the bottle from his mouth.
"Ay," said he, "by thunder, but I wanted some o' that!"
I had sat down already in my own corner and begun to eat.
"Much hurt?" I asked him.
He grunted, or, rather, I might say, he barked.
"If that doctor was aboard," he said, "I'd be right enough in a couple
of turns; but I don't have no manner of luck, you see, and that's what's
the matter with me. As for that swab, he's good and dead, he is," he
added, indicating the man with the red cap. "He warn't no seaman,
anyhow. And where mought you have come from?"
"Well," said I, "I've come aboard to take possession of this ship, Mr.
Hands, and you'll please regard me as your captain until further
notice."
He looked at me sourly enough, but said nothing. Some of the color had
come back into his cheeks, though he still looked very sick and still
continued to slip out and settle down as the ship banged about.
"By the by," I continued, "I can't have these colors, Mr. Hands; and by
your leave I'll strike 'em. Better none than these."
And, again dodging the boom, I ran to the color lines, hauled down their
cursed black flag, and chucked it overboard.
"God save the king!" said I, waving my cap; "and there's an end to
Captain Silver."
He watched me keenly and slyly, his chin all the while on his breast.
"I reckon," he said at last--"I reckon, Cap'n Hawkins, you'll kind o'
want to get ashore, now. S'pose we talks."
"Why, yes," says I, "with all my heart, Mr. Hands. Say on." And I went
back to my meal with a good appetite.
"This man," he began, nodding feebly at the corpse--"O'Brien were his
name--a rank Irelander--this man and me got the canvas on her, meaning
for to sail her back. Well, _he's_ dead now, he is--as dead as bilge;
and who's to sail this ship, I don't see. Without I give you a hint, you
ain't that man, as far's I can tell. Now, look here, you gives me food
and drink, and a old scarf or ankercher to tie my wound up, you do; and
I'll tell you how to sail her; and that's about square all round, I take
it."
"I'll tell you one thing," says I; "I'm not going back to Captain Kidd's
anchorage. I mean to get into North Inlet, and beach her quietly there."
"To be sure you did," he cried. "Why, I ain't sich an infernal lubber,
after all. I can see, can't I? I've tried my fling, I have, and I've
lost, and it's you has the wind of me. North Inlet? Why, I haven't no
ch'ice, not I. I'd help you sail her up to Execution Dock, by thunder!
so I would."
Well, as it seemed to me, there was some sense in this. We struck our
bargain on the spot. In three minutes I had the _Hispaniola_ sailing
easily before the wind along the coast of Treasure Island, with good
hopes of turning the northern point ere noon, and beating down again as
far as North Inlet before high water, when we might beach her safely,
and wait till the subsiding tide permitted us to land.
Then I lashed the tiller and went below to my own chest, where I got a
soft silk handkerchief of my mother's. With this, and with my aid, Hands
bound up the great bleeding stab he had received in the thigh, and after
he had eaten a little and had a swallow or two more of the brandy, he
began to pick up visibly, sat straighter up, spoke louder and clearer,
and looked in every way another man.
The breeze served us admirably. We skimmed before it like a bird, the
coast of the island flashing by, and the view changing every minute.
Soon we were past the high lands and bowling beside low, sandy country,
sparsely dotted with dwarf pines, and soon we were beyond that again,
and had turned the corner of the rocky hill that ends the island on the
north.
I was greatly elated with my new command, and pleased with the bright,
sunshiny weather and these different prospects of the coast. I had now
plenty of water and good things to eat, and my conscience, which had
smitten me hard for my desertion, was quieted by the great conquest I
had made. I should, I think, have had nothing left me to desire but for
the eyes of the coxswain as they followed me derisively about the deck,
and the odd smile that appeared continually on his face. It was a smile
that had in it something both of pain and weakness--a haggard, old man's
smile; but there was, besides that, a grain of derision, a shadow of
treachery, in his expression as he craftily watched, and watched, and
watched me at my work.
|
null | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter 26 using the context provided. | chapter 26|chapter 27 | The Hispaniola arrives at the northern end of the island. Because they have no anchor, they have to wait until the tide goes out a bit so they can beach the ship. So Jim hangs out with Israel Hands. Israel wants Jim to throw O'Brien's body overboard because it's bad luck to have a corpse aboard, but Jim isn't strong enough. Israel wants Jim to go below deck to get a bottle of wine - he claims the brandy has become too strong for him. Jim starts to get suspicious of why Israel wants him off the deck, but he decides to play along. He says he'll go below for wine, but that he'll have to spend a long time looking for it. Jim makes a lot of noise as he goes below deck, then creeps back up to watch Israel Hands. Even though he's injured, Israel gets up and manages to find a knife hidden in a coil of rope. Jim realizes that he can move around and is now armed. Jim is sure Israel Hands means to kill him. But before that happens, he and Hands both want the same thing: they want to beach the ship in a sheltered place so that it will be safe. Jim thinks Israel Hands won't kill him until the Hispaniola is ashore. Jim slips back into the cabin, grabs a bottle of wine, and brings it to Israel Hands. Israel pretends not to have moved. He also acts like he's on his deathbed. Jim tells him he should say his prayers. Israel Hands replies that he's been at sea 30 years, and he's never seen anything good happen to a good man. Hands then tells Jim to follow his directions exactly so they can arrive at the North Inlet. Jim gets so involved in this final bit of steering that he forgets to watch Hands. It's only instinct that makes him turn around just as Hands is drawing a knife on him. Jim leaps to the side and lets go of the steering lever, which suddenly hits Hands in the chest. Jim uses this moment to reach for one of his pistols. He pulls the trigger but nothing happens - the pistol has become soaked with seawater and isn't usable. Hands leaps for Jim again, and the two start dodging back and forth. Suddenly, the Hispaniola hits ground and tips at an angle. Both Israel Hands and Jim roll straight down the deck. Jim quickly recovers and climbs up to the top of the mast. There he reloads his pistols while Hands starts climbing up the rigging with his knife in his teeth. Jim warns Hands that if he keeps climbing, Jim will blow his brains out. Hands says he and Jim will have to come to an agreement - but even as he's saying this, something comes flying through the air to pin Jim's shoulder to the mast. It's the knife: Hands has thrown it at him. As the knife hits Jim, he fires his two pistols. The bullets hit Hands, who falls dead into the sea below. |
----------CHAPTER 26---------
ISRAEL HANDS
The wind, serving us to a desire, now hauled into the west. We could run
so much easier from the northeast corner of the island to the mouth of
the North Inlet. Only, as we had no power to anchor, and dared not beach
her until the tide had flowed a good deal farther, time hung on our
hands. The coxswain told me how to lay the ship to; after a good many
trials I succeeded, and we both sat in silence over another meal.
"Cap'n," said he, at length, with that same uncomfortable smile, "here's
my old shipmate, O'Brien; s'pose you was to heave him overboard. I ain't
partic'lar, as a rule, and I don't take no blame for settling his hash;
but I don't reckon him ornamental, now, do you?"
"I'm not strong enough, and I don't like the job; and there he lies, for
me," said I.
"This here's an unlucky ship--the _Hispaniola_, Jim," he went on,
blinking. "There's a power of men been killed in this _Hispaniola_--a
sight o' poor seamen dead and gone since you and me took ship to
Bristol. I never seen such dirty luck, not I. There was this here
O'Brien, now--he's dead, ain't he? Well, now, I'm no scholar, and you're
a lad as can read and figure; and, to put it straight, do you take it as
a dead man is dead for good, or do he come alive again?"
"You can kill the body, Mr. Hands, but not the spirit; you must know
that already," I replied. "O'Brien, there, is in another world, and may
be watching us."
"Ah!" says he. "Well, that's unfort'nate--appears as if killing parties
was a waste of time. Howsomever, sperrits don't reckon for much, by what
I've seen. I'll chance it with the sperrits, Jim. And now you've spoke
up free, and I'll take it kind if you'd step down into that there cabin
and get me a--well, a--shiver my timbers! I can't hit the name on't.
Well, you get me a bottle of wine, Jim--this here brandy's too strong
for my head."
Now the coxswain's hesitation seemed to be unnatural; and as for the
notion of his preferring wine to brandy, I entirely disbelieved it. The
whole story was a pretext. He wanted me to leave the deck--so much was
plain, but with what purpose I could in no way imagine. His eyes never
met mine; they kept wandering to and fro, up and down, now with a look
to the sky, now with a flitting glance upon the dead O'Brien. All the
time he kept smiling and putting his tongue out in the most guilty,
embarrassed manner, so that a child could have told that he was bent on
some deception. I was prompt with my answer, however, for I saw where my
advantage lay, and that with a fellow so densely stupid I could easily
conceal my suspicions to the end.
"Some wine?" I said. "Far better. Will you have white or red?"
"Well, I reckon it's about the blessed same to me, shipmate," he
replied; "so it's strong, and plenty of it, what's the odds?"
"All right," I answered. "I'll bring you port, Mr. Hands. But I'll have
to dig for it."
With that I scuttled down the companion with all the noise I could,
slipped off my shoes, ran quietly along the sparred gallery, mounted the
forecastle ladder and popped my head out of the fore companion. I knew
he would not expect to see me there, yet I took every precaution
possible, and certainly the worst of my suspicions proved too true.
He had risen from his position to his hands and knees, and though his
leg obviously hurt him pretty sharply when he moved--for I could hear
him stifle a groan--yet it was at a good, rattling rate that he trailed
himself across the deck. In half a minute he had reached the port
scuppers, and picked out of a coil of rope a long knife, or rather a
short dirk, discolored to the hilt with blood. He looked upon it for a
moment, thrusting forth his under jaw, tried the point upon his hand,
and then hastily concealing it in the bosom of his jacket, trundled back
again into his old place against the bulwark.
This was all that I required to know. Israel could move about; he was
now armed, and if he had been at so much trouble to get rid of me, it
was plain that I was meant to be the victim. What he would do
afterward--whether he would try to crawl right across the island from
North Inlet to the camp among the swamps, or whether he would fire Long
Tom, trusting that his own comrades might come first to help him, was,
of course, more than I could say.
Yet I felt sure that I could trust him in one point, since in that our
interests jumped together, and that was in the disposition of the
schooner. We both desired to have her stranded safe enough, in a
sheltered place, and so that when the time came, she could be got off
again with as little labor and danger as might be; and until that was
done I considered that my life would certainly be spared.
While I was thus turning the business over in my mind I had not been
idle with my body. I had stolen back to the cabin, slipped once more
into my shoes and laid my hand at random on a bottle of wine, and now
with this for an excuse, I made my reappearance on the deck.
Hands lay as I had left him, all fallen together in a bundle, and with
his eyelids lowered as though he were too weak to bear the light. He
looked up, however, at my coming, knocked the neck off the bottle like a
man who had done the same thing often, and took a good swig, with his
favorite toast of "Here's luck!" Then he lay quiet for a little, and
then, pulling out a stick of tobacco, begged me to cut him a quid.
"Cut me a junk o' that," says he, "for I haven't no knife, and hardly
strength enough, so be as I had. Ah, Jim, Jim, I reckon I've missed
stays! Cut me a quid as'll likely be the last, lad; for I'm for my long
home, and no mistake."
"Well," said I, "I'll cut you some tobacco, but if I was you and thought
myself so badly, I would go to my prayers, like a Christian man."
"Why?" said he. "Now you tell me why."
"Why?" I cried. "You were asking me just now about the dead. You've
broken your trust; you've lived in sin and lies and blood; there's a man
you killed lying at your feet this moment; and you ask me why! For God's
mercy, Mr. Hands, that's why."
I spoke with a little heat, thinking of the bloody dirk he had hidden in
his pocket, and designed, in his ill thoughts, to end me with. He, for
his part, took a great draught of the wine and spoke with the most
unusual solemnity.
"For thirty year," he said, "I've sailed the seas and seen good and bad,
better and worse, fair weather and foul, provisions running out, knives
going, and what not. Well, now I tell you, I never seen good come o'
goodness yet. Him as strikes first is my fancy; dead men don't bite;
them's my views--amen, so be it. And now, you look here," he added,
suddenly changing his tone, "we've had about enough of this foolery. The
tide's made good enough by now. You just take my orders, Cap'n Hawkins,
and we'll sail slap in and be done with it."
All told, we had scarce two miles to run, but the navigation was
delicate, the entrance to this northern anchorage was not only narrow
and shoal, but lay east and west, so that the schooner must be nicely
handled to be got in. I think I was a good, prompt subaltern, and I am
very sure that Hands was an excellent pilot; for we went about and
about, and dodged in, shaving the banks, with a certainty and a neatness
that were a pleasure to behold.
Scarcely had we passed the head before the land closed around us. The
shores of North Inlet were as thickly wooded as those of the southern
anchorage, but the space was longer and narrower, and more like, what in
truth it was, the estuary of a river. Right before us, at the southern
end, we saw the wreck of a ship in the last stages of dilapidation. It
had been a great vessel of three masts, but had lain so long exposed to
the injuries of the weather that it was hung about with great webs of
dripping seaweed, and on the deck of it shore bushes had taken root,
and now flourished thick with flowers. It was a sad sight, but it showed
us that the anchorage was calm.
"Now," said Hands, "look there; there's a pet bit for to beach a ship
in. Fine flat sand, never a catspaw, trees all around of it, and flowers
a-blowing like a garding on that old ship."
"And, once beached," I inquired, "how shall we get her off again?"
"Why, so," he replied; "you take a line ashore there on the other side
at low water; take a turn about one o' them big pines; bring it back,
take a turn around the capstan and lie-to for the tide. Come high water,
all hands take a pull upon the line, and off she comes as sweet as
natur'. And now, boy, you stand by. We're near the bit now, and she's
too much way on her. Starboard a little--so--steady--starboard--larboard
a little--steady--steady!"
So he issued his commands, which I breathlessly obeyed; till, all of a
sudden, he cried: "Now, my hearty, luff!" And I put the helm hard up,
and the _Hispaniola_ swung round rapidly and ran stem on for the low
wooded shore.
The excitement of these last maneuvers had somewhat interfered with the
watch I had kept hitherto, sharply enough, upon the coxswain. Even then
I was still so much interested, waiting for the ship to touch, that I
had quite forgot the peril that hung over my head, and stood craning
over the starboard bulwarks and watching the ripples spreading wide
before the bows. I might have fallen without a struggle for my life, had
not a sudden disquietude seized upon me and made me turn my head.
Perhaps I had heard a creak or seen his shadow moving with the tail of
my eye; perhaps it was an instinct like a cat's; but, sure enough, when
I looked round, there was Hands, already halfway toward me, with the
dirk in his right hand.
We must both have cried out aloud when our eyes met, but while mine was
the shrill cry of terror, his was a roar of fury like a charging bull's.
At the same instant he threw himself forward and I leaped sideways
toward the bows. As I did so I let go of the tiller, which sprung sharp
to leeward; and I think this saved my life, for it struck Hands across
the chest, and stopped him, for the moment, dead.
Before he could recover I was safe out of the corner where he had me
trapped, with all the deck to dodge about. Just forward of the mainmast
I stopped, drew a pistol from my pocket, took a cool aim, though he had
already turned and was once more coming directly after me, and drew the
trigger. The hammer fell, but there followed neither flash nor sound;
the priming was useless with sea water. I cursed myself for my neglect.
Why had not I, long before, reprimed and reloaded my only weapons? Then
I should not have been as now, a mere fleeing sheep before this butcher.
Wounded as he was, it was wonderful how fast he could move, his grizzled
hair tumbling over his face and his face itself as red as a red ensign
with his haste and fury. I had no time to try my other pistol, nor,
indeed, much inclination, for I was sure it would be useless. One thing
I saw plainly: I must not simply retreat before him, or he would
speedily hold me boxed into the bows, as a moment since he had so nearly
boxed me in the stern. Once so caught, and nine or ten inches of the
blood-stained dirk would be my last experience on this side of eternity.
I placed my palms against the mainmast, which was of a goodish bigness,
and waited, every nerve upon the stretch.
Seeing that I meant to dodge he also paused, and a moment or two passed
in feints on his part and corresponding movements upon mine. It was such
a game as I had often played at home about the rocks of Black Hill Cove;
but never before, you may be sure, with such a wildly beating heart as
now. Still, as I say it, it was a boy's game, and I thought I could hold
my own at it against an elderly seaman with a wounded thigh. Indeed, my
courage had begun to rise so high that I allowed myself a few darting
thoughts on what would be the end of the affair; and while I saw
certainly that I could spin it out for long, I saw no hope of any
ultimate escape.
Well, while things stood thus, suddenly the _Hispaniola_ struck,
staggered, ground for an instant in the sand, and then, swift as a blow,
canted over to the port side, till the deck stood at an angle of
forty-five degrees, and about a puncheon of water splashed into the
scupper holes, and lay in a pool between the deck and bulwark.
We were both of us capsized in a second, and both of us rolled, almost
together, into the scuppers, the dead Red-cap, with his arms still
spread out, tumbling stiffly after us. So near were we, indeed, that my
head came against the coxswain's foot with a crack that made my teeth
rattle. Blow and all, I was the first afoot again, for Hands had got
involved with the dead body. The sudden canting of the ship had made the
deck no place for running on; I had to find some new way of escape, and
that upon the instant, for my foe was almost touching me. Quick as
thought, I sprang into the mizzen shrouds, rattled up hand over hand,
and did not draw a breath till I was seated on the crosstrees.
[Illustration: _Quick as thought, I sprang into the mizzen shrouds_
(Page 193)]
I had been saved by being prompt; the dirk had struck not half a foot
below me as I pursued my upward flight; and there stood Israel Hands
with his mouth open and his face upturned to mine, a perfect statue of
surprise and disappointment.
Now that I had a moment to myself, I lost no time in changing the
priming of my pistol, and then, having one ready for service, and to
make assurance doubly sure, I proceeded to draw the load of the other,
and recharge it afresh from the beginning.
My new employment struck Hands all of a heap; he began to see the dice
going against him, and after an obvious hesitation, he also hauled
himself heavily into the shrouds, and, with the dirk in his teeth, began
slowly and painfully to mount. It cost him no end of time and groans to
haul his wounded leg behind him; and I had quietly finished my
arrangements before he was much more than a third of the way up. Then,
with a pistol in either hand, I addressed him:
"One more step, Mr. Hands," said I, "and I'll blow your brains out! Dead
men don't bite, you know," I added, with a chuckle.
He stopped instantly. I could see by the workings of his face that he
was trying to think, and the process was so slow and laborious that, in
my new-found security, I laughed aloud. At last, with a swallow or two,
he spoke, his face still wearing the same expression of extreme
perplexity. In order to speak he had to take the dagger from his mouth,
but, in all else, he remained unmoved.
"Jim," says he, "I reckon we're fouled, you and me, and we'll have to
sign articles. I'd have had you but for that there lurch; but I don't
have no luck, not I; and I reckon I'll have to strike, which comes hard,
you see, for a master mariner to a ship's younker like you, Jim."
I was drinking in his words and smiling away, as conceited as a cock
upon a walk, when, all in a breath, back went his right hand over his
shoulder. Something sang like an arrow through the air; I felt a blow
and then a sharp pang, and there I was pinned by the shoulder to the
mast. In the horrid pain and surprise of the moment--I scarce can say it
was by my own volition, and I am sure it was without a conscious
aim--both my pistols went off, and both escaped out of my hands. They
did not fall alone; with a choked cry the coxswain loosed his grasp upon
the shrouds, and plunged head first into the water.
----------CHAPTER 27---------
"PIECES OF EIGHT"
Owing to the cant of the vessel, the masts hung far out over the water,
and from my perch on the crosstrees I had nothing below me but the
surface of the bay. Hands, who was not so far up, was, in consequence,
nearer to the ship, and fell between me and the bulwarks. He rose once
to the surface in a lather of foam and blood, and then sank again for
good. As the water settled, I could see him lying huddled together on
the clean, bright sand in the shadow of the vessel's sides. A fish or
two whipped past his body. Sometimes, by the quivering of the water, he
appeared to move a little, as if he were trying to rise. But he was dead
enough, for all that, being both shot and drowned, and was food for fish
in the very place where he had designed my slaughter.
I was no sooner certain of this than I began to feel sick, faint, and
terrified. The hot blood was running over my back and chest. The dirk,
where it had pinned my shoulder to the mast, seemed to burn like a hot
iron; yet it was not so much these real sufferings that distressed me,
for these, it seemed to me, I could bear without a murmur; it was the
horror I had upon my mind of falling from the crosstree into that still,
green water beside the body of the coxswain.
I clung with both hands till my nails ached, and I shut my eyes as if to
cover up the peril. Gradually my mind came back again, my pulses
quieted down to a more natural time, and I was once more in possession
of myself.
It was my first thought to pluck forth the dirk; but either it stuck too
hard or my nerve failed me, and I desisted with a violent shudder. Oddly
enough, that very shudder did the business. The knife, in fact, had come
the nearest in the world to missing me altogether; it held me by a mere
pinch of skin, and this the shudder tore away. The blood ran down the
faster, to be sure, but I was my own master again, and only tacked to
the mast by my coat and shirt.
These last I broke through with a sudden jerk, and then regained the
deck by the starboard shrouds. For nothing in the world would I have
again ventured, shaken as I was, upon the overhanging port shrouds, from
which Israel had so lately fallen.
I went below and did what I could for my wound; it pained me a good
deal, and still bled freely, but it was neither deep nor dangerous, nor
did it greatly gall me when I used my arm. Then I looked around me, and
as the ship was now, in a sense, my own, I began to think of clearing it
from its last passenger--the dead man, O'Brien.
He had pitched, as I have said, against the bulwarks, where he lay like
some horrid, ungainly sort of puppet; life-size, indeed, but how
different from life's color or life's comeliness! In that position, I
could easily have my way with him, and as the habit of tragical
adventures had worn off almost all my terror for the dead, I took him by
the waist as if he had been a sack of bran, and, with one good heave,
tumbled him overboard. He went in with a sounding plunge; the red cap
came off, and remained floating on the surface; and as soon as the
splash subsided, I could see him and Israel lying side by side, both
wavering with the tremulous movement of the water. O'Brien, though still
quite a young man, was very bald. There he lay with that bald head
across the knees of the man who killed him, and the quick fishes
steering to and fro over both.
I was now alone upon the ship; the tide had just turned. The sun was
within so few degrees of setting that already the shadow of the pines
upon the western shore began to reach right across the anchorage and
fall in patterns on the deck. The evening breeze had sprung up, and
though it was well warded off by the hill with the two peaks upon the
east, the cordage had begun to sing a little softly to itself and the
idle sails to rattle to and fro.
I began to see a danger to the ship. The jibs I speedily doused and
brought tumbling to the deck, but the mainsail was a harder matter. Of
course, when the schooner canted over, the boom had swung outboard, and
the cap of it and a foot or two of sail hung even under water. I thought
this made it still more dangerous, yet the strain was so heavy that I
half feared to meddle. At last I got my knife and cut the halyards. The
peak dropped instantly, a great belly of loose canvas floated broad upon
the water; and since, pull as I liked, I could not budge the downhaul,
that was the extent of what I could accomplish. For the rest, the
_Hispaniola_ must trust to luck, like myself.
By this time the whole anchorage had fallen into shadow--the last rays,
I remember, falling through a glade of the wood, and shining bright as
jewels on the flowery mantle of the wreck. It began to be chill, the
tide was rapidly fleeting seaward, the schooner settling more and more
on her beam-ends.
I scrambled forward and looked over. It seemed shallow enough, and
holding the cut hawser in both hands for a last security, I let myself
drop softly overboard. The water scarcely reached my waist; the sand was
firm and covered with ripple-marks, and I waded ashore in great spirits,
leaving the _Hispaniola_ on her side, with her mainsail trailing wide
upon the surface of the bay. About the same time the sun went fairly
down, and the breeze whistled low in the dusk among the tossing pines.
At least, and at last, I was off the sea, nor had I returned thence
empty-handed. There lay the schooner, clear at last from buccaneers and
ready for our own men to board and get to sea again. I had nothing
nearer my fancy than to get home to the stockade and boast of my
achievements. Possibly I might be blamed a bit for my truantry, but the
recapture of the _Hispaniola_ was a clinching answer, and I hoped that
even Captain Smollett would confess I had not lost my time.
So thinking, and in famous spirits, I began to set my face homeward for
the blockhouse and my companions. I remembered that the most easterly of
the rivers which drain into Captain Kidd's anchorage ran from the
two-peaked hill upon my left; and I bent my course in that direction
that I might pass the stream while it was small. The wood was pretty
open, and keeping along the lower spurs, I had soon turned the corner of
that hill, and not long after waded to the mid-calf across the
watercourse.
This brought me near to where I had encountered Ben Gunn, the maroon,
and I walked more circumspectly, keeping an eye on every side. The dusk
had come nigh hand completely, and, as I opened out the cleft between
the two peaks, I became aware of a wavering glow against the sky, where,
as I judged, the man of the island was cooking his supper before a
roaring fire. And yet I wondered, in my heart, that he should show
himself so careless. For if I could see this radiance, might it not
reach the eye of Silver himself where he camped upon the shore among the
marshes?
Gradually the night fell blacker; it was all I could do to guide myself
even roughly toward my destination; the double hill behind me and the
Spy-glass on my right hand loomed faint and fainter, the stars were few
and pale, and in the low ground where I wandered I kept tripping among
bushes and rolling into sandy pits.
Suddenly a kind of brightness fell about me. I looked up; a pale glimmer
of moonbeams had alighted on the summit of the Spy-glass, and soon after
I saw something broad and silvery moving low down behind the trees, and
knew the moon had risen.
With this to help me, I passed rapidly over what remained to me of my
journey; and, sometimes walking, sometimes running, impatiently drew
near to the stockade. Yet, as I began to thread the grove that lies
before it, I was not so thoughtless but that I slacked my pace and went
a trifle warily. It would have been a poor end of my adventures to get
shot down by my own party in mistake.
The moon was climbing higher and higher; its light began to fall here
and there in masses through the more open districts of the wood, and
right in front of me a glow of a different color appeared among the
trees. It was red and hot, and now and again it was a little
darkened--as it were the embers of a bonfire smoldering.
For the life of me I could not think what it might be.
At last I came right down upon the borders of the clearing. The western
end was already steeped in moon-shine; the rest, and the blockhouse
itself, still lay in a black shadow, chequered with long, silvery
streaks of light. On the other side of the house an immense fire had
burned itself into clear embers and shed a steady, red reverberation,
contrasting strongly with the mellow paleness of the moon. There was not
a soul stirring, nor a sound beside the noises of the breeze.
I stopped, with much wonder in my heart, and perhaps a little terror
also. It had not been our way to build great fires; we were, indeed, by
the captain's orders, somewhat niggardly of firewood, and I began to
fear that something had gone wrong while I was absent.
I stole round by the eastern end, keeping close in shadow, and at a
convenient place, where the darkness was thickest, crossed the palisade.
To make assurance surer, I got upon my hands and knees, and crawled,
without a sound, toward the corner of the house. As I drew nearer, my
heart was suddenly and greatly lightened. It was not a pleasant noise in
itself, and I have often complained of it at other times, but just then
it was like music to hear my friends snoring together so loud and
peaceful in their sleep. The sea-cry of the watch, that beautiful "All's
well," never fell more reassuringly on my ear.
In the meantime there was no doubt of one thing; they kept an infamous
bad watch. If it had been Silver and his lads that were now creeping in
on them, not a soul would have seen daybreak. That was what it was,
thought I, to have the captain wounded; and again I blamed myself
sharply for leaving them in that danger with so few to mount guard.
By this time I had got to the door and stood up. All was dark within, so
that I could distinguish nothing by the eye. As for sounds, there was
the steady drone of the snorers, and a small occasional noise, a
flickering or pecking that I could in no way account for.
With my arms before me I walked steadily in. I should lie down in my own
place (I thought, with a silent chuckle) and enjoy their faces when they
found me in the morning. My foot struck something yielding--it was a
sleeper's leg, and he turned and groaned, but without awaking.
And then, all of a sudden, a shrill voice broke forth out of the
darkness:
"Pieces of eight! pieces of eight! pieces of eight! pieces of eight!
pieces of eight!" and so forth, without pause or change, like the
clacking of a tiny mill.
Silver's green parrot, Captain Flint! It was she whom I had heard
pecking at a piece of bark; it was she, keeping better watch than any
human being, who thus announced my arrival with her wearisome refrain.
I had no time left me to recover. At the sharp clipping tone of the
parrot, the sleepers awoke and sprang up, and with a mighty oath the
voice of Silver cried:
"Who goes?"
I turned to run, struck violently against one person, recoiled, and ran
full into the arms of a second, who, for his part, closed upon and held
me tight.
"Bring a torch, Dick," said Silver, when my capture was thus assured.
And one of the men left the log-house, and presently returned with a
lighted brand.
[Illustration]
PART VI
CAPTAIN SILVER
|
null | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter 23 using the context provided. | chapter 22|chapter 23 | Handling the coracle (Gunn's small boat) was very difficult, though the boat is small and appropriate for a person of his size. He rows the boat with the water currents. He grasps the hawser when he gets closer to the Hispaniola. Suddenly it occurs to Jim that cutting the hawser means cutting free the huge Hispaniola. With her size and weight it would easily topple the coracle. This thought makes him change his plans but the south sea wind comes to his relief. He feels the hawser loosen his hand. The wind forces the Hispaniola to move in the opposite direction. So, Jim picks up the knife and cuts the hawser loose leaving just two strands of fiber uncut. He waits for another strong wind to finish the task. Jim hears loud voices from the cabin and recognizes Israel Hands voice. Jim hears the crew arguing violently inside. When the long awaited breeze comes, Jim cuts loose the last fibers of the hawser. The Hispaniola begins to spin and this terrifies Jim. When the coracle moves with the motion of the ship, Jim impulsively, holds a chord hanging from the ship. He decides to climb up the chord to get a look at what is going on within the cabin of the ship. One glance tells Jim that men are all drunk. He climbs down to his boat. The coracle changes its course and moves toward the sea. The ship too makes its way southward. The men on board, Jim knows, dont realize that the ship has been freed from it's anchor. Suddenly the ship turns by twenty degrees. Violent shouts follow this and the crew and now Jim sees that the men are aware of the disaster. Unable to face the fact that his life might end on high sea, he lies down in the coracle and prays. Soon he goes to sleep dreaming of his home and the Admiral Benbow. |
----------CHAPTER 22---------
HOW MY SEA ADVENTURE BEGAN
There was no return of the mutineers--not so much as another shot out of
the woods. They had "got their rations for that day," as the captain put
it, and we had the place to ourselves and a quiet time to overhaul the
wounded and get dinner. Squire and I cooked outside, in spite of the
danger, and even outside we could hardly tell what we were at, for the
horror of the loud groans that reached us from the doctor's patients.
Out of the eight men who had fallen in the action only three still
breathed--that one of the pirates who had been shot at the loophole,
Hunter, and Captain Smollett--and of these the first two were as good as
dead; the mutineer, indeed, died under the doctor's knife, and Hunter,
do what we could, never recovered consciousness in this world. He
lingered all day, breathing loudly like the old buccaneer at home in his
apoplectic fit; but the bones of his chest had been crushed by the blow
and his skull fractured in falling, and some time in the following
night, without sign or sound, he went to his Maker.
As for the captain, his wounds were grievous indeed, but not dangerous.
No organ was fatally injured. Anderson's ball--for it was Job that shot
him first--had broken his shoulder-blade and touched the lung, not
badly; the second had only torn and displaced some muscles in the calf.
He was sure to recover, the doctor said, but in the meantime, and for
weeks to come, he must not walk nor move his arm, nor so much as speak
when he could help it.
My own accidental cut across the knuckles was a flea-bite. Doctor
Livesey patched it up with plaster, and pulled my ears for me into the
bargain.
After dinner the squire and the doctor sat by the captain's side awhile
in consultation; and when they had talked to their heart's content, it
being then a little past noon, the doctor took up his hat and pistols,
girt on a cutlass, put the chart in his pocket, and with a musket over
his shoulder, crossed the palisade on the north side and set off briskly
through the trees.
Gray and I were sitting together at the far end of the blockhouse, to be
out of earshot of our officers, consulting, and Gray took his pipe out
of his mouth and fairly forgot to put it back again, so thunderstruck he
was at this occurrence.
"Why, in the name of Davy Jones," said he, "is Doctor Livesey mad?"
"Why, no," says I. "He's about the last of this crew for that, I take
it."
"Well, shipmate," said Gray, "mad he may not be, but if _he's_ not, mark
my words, _I_ am."
"I take it," replied I, "the doctor has his idea, and if I am right,
he's going now to see Ben Gunn."
I was right, as appeared later; but in the meantime, the house being
stifling hot, and the little patch of sand inside the palisade ablaze
with midday sun, I began to get another thought into my head which was
not by any means so right. What I began to do was to envy the doctor,
walking in the cool shadow of the woods, with the birds about him and
the pleasant smell of the pines, while I sat grilling, with my clothes
stuck to the hot resin, and so much blood about me, and so many poor
dead bodies lying all around, that I took a disgust of the place that
was almost as strong as fear.
All the time I was washing out the blockhouse, and then washing up the
things from dinner, this disgust and envy kept growing stronger and
stronger, till at last, being near a bread-bag, and no one then
observing me, I took the first step toward my escapade and filled both
pockets of my coat with biscuit.
I was a fool, if you like, and certainly I was going to do a foolish,
over-bold act, but I was determined to do it with all the precautions in
my power. These biscuits, should anything befall me, would keep me at
least from starving till far on in the next day.
The next thing I laid hold of was a brace of pistols, and as I already
had a powder-horn and bullets, I felt myself well supplied with arms.
As for the scheme I had in my head, it was not a bad one in itself. It
was to go down the sandy spit that divides the anchorage on the east
from the open sea, find the white rock I had observed last evening, and
ascertain whether it was there or not that Ben Gunn had hidden his
boat--a thing quite worth doing, as I still believe. But as I was
certain I should not be allowed to leave the inclosure, my only plan was
to take French leave and slip out when nobody was watching, and that was
so bad a way of doing it as made the thing itself wrong. But I was only
a boy and I had made my mind up.
Well, as things at last fell out, I found an admirable opportunity. The
squire and Gray were busy helping the captain with his bandages; the
coast was clear; I made a bolt for it over the stockade and into the
thickest of the trees, and before my absence was observed I was out of
cry of my companions.
This was my second folly, far worse than the first, as I left but two
sound men to guard the house; but, like the first, it was a help toward
saving all of us.
I took my way straight for the east coast of the island, for I was
determined to go down the seaside of the spit to avoid all chance of
observation from the anchorage. It was already late in the afternoon,
although still warm and sunny. As I continued to thread the tall woods I
could hear from far before me not only the continuous thunder of the
surf, but a certain tossing of foliage and grinding of boughs which
showed me the sea breeze set in higher than usual. Soon cool draughts of
air began to reach me, and a few steps farther I came forth into the
open borders of the grove and saw the sea lying blue and sunny to the
horizon and the surf tumbling and tossing its foam along the beach.
I have never seen the sea quiet round Treasure Island. The sun might
blaze overhead, the air be without a breath, the surface smooth and
blue, but still these great rollers would be running along all the
external coast, thundering and thundering by day and night, and I scarce
believe there is one spot in the island where a man would be out of
earshot of their noise.
I walked along beside the surf with great enjoyment, till, thinking I
was now got far enough to the south, I took the cover of some thick
bushes and crept warily up to the ridge of the spit.
Behind me was the sea; in front, the anchorage. The sea-breeze, as
though it had the sooner blown itself out by its unusual violence, was
already at an end; it had been succeeded by light, variable airs from
the south and southeast, carrying great banks of fog; and the anchorage,
under lee of Skeleton Island, lay still and leaden as when first we
entered it. The _Hispaniola_, in that unbroken mirror, was exactly
portrayed from the truck to the water-line, the Jolly Roger hanging from
her peak.
Alongside lay one of the gigs, Silver in the stern-sheets--him I could
always recognize--while a couple of men were leaning over the stern
bulwarks, one of them with a red cap--the very rogue that I had seen
some hours before stride-legs upon the palisade. Apparently they were
talking and laughing, though at that distance--upward of a mile--I could
of course hear no word of what was said.
All at once there began the most horrid, unearthly screaming, which at
first startled me badly, though I had soon remembered the voice of
Captain Flint, and even thought I could make out the bird by her bright
plumage as she sat perched upon her master's wrist.
Soon after the jolly-boat shoved off and pulled for shore, and the man
with the red cap and his comrade went below by the cabin companion.
Just about the same time the sun had gone down behind the Spy-glass, and
as the fog was collecting rapidly, it began to grow dark in earnest. I
saw I must lose no time if I were to find the boat that evening.
The white rock, visible enough above the brush, was still some eighth of
a mile farther down the spit, and it took me a goodish while to get up
with it, crawling, often on all-fours, among the scrub. Night had almost
come when I laid my hand on its rough sides. Right below it there was
an exceedingly small hollow of green turf, hidden by banks and a thick
underwood about knee-deep, that grew there very plentifully; and in the
center of the dell, sure enough, a little tent of goat-skins, like what
the gypsies carry about with them in England.
I dropped into the hollow, lifted the side of the tent, and there was
Ben Gunn's boat--homemade if ever anything was homemade--a rude,
lopsided framework of tough wood, and stretched upon that a covering of
goat-skin, with the hair inside. The thing was extremely small, even for
me, and I can hardly imagine that it could have floated with a
full-sized man. There was one thwart set as low as possible, a kind of
stretcher in the bows, and a double paddle for propulsion.
I had not then seen a coracle, such as the ancient Britons made, but I
have seen one since, and I can give you no fairer idea of Ben Gunn's
boat than by saying it was like the first and the worst coracle ever
made by man. But the great advantage of the coracle it certainly
possessed, for it was exceedingly light and portable.
Well, now that I had found the boat, you would have thought I had had
enough of truantry for once; but in the meantime I had taken another
notion, and become so obstinately fond of it that I would have carried
it out, I believe, in the teeth of Captain Smollett himself. This was to
slip out under cover of the night, cut the _Hispaniola_ adrift, and let
her go ashore where she fancied. I had quite made up my mind that the
mutineers, after their repulse of the morning, had nothing nearer their
hearts than to up anchor and away to sea; this, I thought, it would be a
fine thing to prevent, and now that I had seen how they left their
watchman unprovided with a boat, I thought it might be done with little
risk.
Down I sat to wait for darkness, and made a hearty meal of biscuit. It
was a night out of ten thousand for my purpose. The fog had now buried
all heaven. As the last rays of daylight dwindled and disappeared,
absolute blackness settled down on Treasure Island. And when, at last, I
shouldered the coracle, and groped my way stumblingly out of the hollow
where I had supped, there were but two points visible on the whole
anchorage.
One was the great fire on shore, by which the defeated pirates lay
carousing in the swamp. The other, a mere blur of light upon the
darkness, indicated the position of the anchored ship. She had swung
round to the ebb--her bow was now toward me--the only lights on board
were in the cabin; and what I saw was merely a reflection on the fog of
the strong rays that flowed from the stern window.
The ebb had already run some time, and I had to wade through a long belt
of swampy sand, where I sank several times above the ankle, before I
came to the edge of the retreating water, and wading a little way in,
with some strength and dexterity, set my coracle, keel downward, on the
surface.
----------CHAPTER 23---------
THE EBB-TIDE RUNS
The coracle--as I had ample reason to know before I was done with
her--was a very safe boat for a person of my height and weight, both
buoyant and clever in a sea-way; but she was the most cross-grained,
lopsided craft to manage. Do as you pleased, she always made more leeway
than anything else, and turning round and round was the maneuver she was
best at. Even Ben Gunn himself has admitted that she was "queer to
handle till you knew her way."
Certainly I did not know her way. She turned in every direction but the
one I was bound to go; the most part of the time we were broadside on,
and I am very sure I never should have made the ship at all but for the
tide. By good fortune, paddle as I pleased, the tide was still sweeping
me down; and there lay the _Hispaniola_ right in the fairway, hardly to
be missed.
First she loomed before me like a blot of something yet blacker than
darkness, then her spars and hull began to take shape, and the next
moment, as it seemed (for the further I went the brisker grew the
current of the ebb), I was alongside of her hawser, and had laid hold.
The hawser was as taut as a bowstring and the current so strong she
pulled upon her anchor. All round the hull, in the blackness, the
rippling current bubbled and chattered like a little mountain stream.
One cut with my sea gully, and the _Hispaniola_ would go humming down
the tide.
So far so good; but it next occurred to my recollection that a taut
hawser, suddenly cut, is a thing as dangerous as a kicking horse. Ten to
one, if I were so foolhardy as to cut the _Hispaniola_ from her anchor,
I and the coracle would be knocked clean out of the water.
This brought me to a full stop, and if fortune had not again
particularly favored me, I should have had to abandon my design. But the
light airs which had begun blowing from the southeast and south had
hauled round after nightfall into the southwest. Just while I was
meditating, a puff came, caught the _Hispaniola_, and forced her up into
the current; and, to my great joy, I felt the hawser slacken in my
grasp, and the hand by which I held it dip for a second under water.
With that I made my mind up, took out my gully, opened it with my teeth,
and cut one strand after another, till the vessel swung only by two.
Then I lay quiet, waiting to sever these last when the strain should be
once more lightened by a breath of wind.
All this time I had heard the sound of loud voices from the cabin; but,
to say truth, my mind had been so entirely taken up with other thoughts
that I had scarcely given ear. Now, however, when I had nothing else to
do, I began to pay more heed.
One I recognized for the coxswain's, Israel Hands, that had been Flint's
gunner in former days. The other was, of course, my friend of the red
nightcap. Both men were plainly the worse of drink, and they were still
drinking; for, even while I was listening, one of them, with a drunken
cry, opened the stern window and threw out something, which I divined
to be an empty bottle. But they were not only tipsy; it was plain that
they were furiously angry. Oaths flew like hailstones, and every now and
then there came forth such an explosion as I thought was sure to end in
blows. But each time the quarrel passed off, and the voices grumbled
lower for a while, until the next crisis came, and, in its turn, passed
away without result.
On shore, I could see the glow of the great camp fire burning warmly
through the shore-side trees. Someone was singing a dull, old droning
sailor's song, with a droop and a quaver at the end of every verse, and
seemingly no end to it at all but the patience of the singer. I had
heard it on the voyage more than once, and remembered these words:
"But one man of the crew alive,
What put to sea with seventy-five."
And I thought it was a ditty rather too dolefully appropriate for a
company that had met such cruel losses in the morning. But, indeed, from
what I saw, all these buccaneers were as callous as the sea they sailed
on.
At last the breeze came; the schooner sidled and drew nearer in the
dark; I felt the hawser slacken once more, and with a good, tough
effort, cut the last fibers through.
The breeze had but little action on the coracle, and I was almost
instantly swept against the bows of the _Hispaniola_. At the same time
the schooner began to turn upon her heel, spinning slowly, end for end,
across the current.
I wrought like a fiend, for I expected every moment to be swamped; and
since I found I could not push the coracle directly off, I now shoved
straight astern. At length I was clear of my dangerous neighbor, and
just as I gave the last impulsion, my hands came across a light cord
that was trailing overboard across the stern bulwarks. Instantly I
grasped it.
Why I should have done so I can hardly say. It was at first mere
instinct, but once I had it in my hands and found it fast, curiosity
began to get the upper hand, and I determined I should have one look
through the cabin window.
I pulled in hand over hand on the cord, and, when I judged myself near
enough, rose at infinite risk to about half my height, and thus
commanded the roof and a slice of the interior of the cabin.
By this time the schooner and her little consort were gliding pretty
swiftly through the water; indeed, we had already fetched up level with
the camp fire. The ship was talking, as sailors say, loudly, treading
the innumerable ripples with an incessant weltering splash; and until I
got my eye above the window sill I could not comprehend why the watchmen
had taken no alarm. One glance, however, was sufficient; and it was only
one glance that I durst take from that unsteady skiff. It showed me
Hands and his companion locked together in deadly wrestle, each with a
hand upon the other's throat.
I dropped upon the thwart again, none too soon, for I was near
overboard. I could see nothing for the moment but these two furious,
encrimsoned faces, swaying together under the smoky lamp; and I shut my
eyes to let them grow once more familiar with the darkness.
The endless ballad had come to an end at last, and the whole diminished
company about the camp fire had broken into the chorus I had heard so
often:
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest--
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
I was just thinking how busy drink and the devil were at that very
moment in the cabin of the _Hispaniola_, when I was surprised by a
sudden lurch of the coracle. At the same moment she yawed sharply and
seemed to change her course. The speed in the meantime had strangely
increased.
I opened my eyes at once. All around me were little ripples, combing
over with a sharp, bristling sound and slightly phosphorescent. The
_Hispaniola_ herself, a few yards in whose wake I was still being
whirled along, seemed to stagger in her course, and I saw her spars toss
a little against the blackness of the night; nay, as I looked longer, I
made sure she also was wheeling to the southward.
I glanced over my shoulder and my heart jumped against my ribs. There,
right behind me, was the glow of the camp fire. The current had turned
at right angles, sweeping round along with it the tall schooner and the
little dancing coracle; ever quickening, ever bubbling higher, ever
muttering louder, it went spinning through the narrows for the open sea.
Suddenly the schooner in front of me gave a violent yaw, turning,
perhaps, through twenty degrees; and almost at the same moment one shout
followed another from on board. I could hear feet pounding on the
companion ladder, and I knew that the two drunkards had at last been
interrupted in their quarrel and awakened to a sense of their disaster.
I lay down flat in the bottom of that wretched skiff and devoutly
recommended my spirit to its Maker. At the end of the straits I made
sure we must fall into some bar of raging breakers, where all my
troubles would be ended speedily; and though I could perhaps bear to
die, I could not bear to look upon my fate as it approached.
So I must have lain for hours, continually beaten to and fro upon the
billows, now and again wetted with flying sprays, and never ceasing to
expect death at the next plunge. Gradually weariness grew upon me; a
numbness, an occasional stupor, fell upon my mind even in the midst of
my terrors, until sleep at last intervened, and in my sea-tossed coracle
I lay and dreamed of home and the old "Admiral Benbow."
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 24, utilizing the provided context. | chapter 24|chapter 25 | Jim finds himself floating at the southwest end of the island when he wakes up. He is a quarter of a mile away from the shore and thinks about paddling in. He changes his mind when he sees huge waves, carrying large shiny sea lions. In the meantime, Jim decides to approach land with the help of the current that moves northward. The sea behaves in its natural way, but Jim couldnt control the coracle as Jim was new to all this. Unable to do anything against the huge waves Jim lies down in the coracle just watching them. The waves look like mountains, hills and valleys. Every now and then Jim musters up his courage and strokes the coracle when his hopes look up and he sees the trees swaying not far away from him, he knows he was approaching land. He expects to reach the shore with the next stroke when a current pulls Jim back to the open sea. Here Jim witnesses the most unexpected scene. Half a mile away he sees the Hispaniola sailing. For a moment, he thinks about getting on board as he is dying of thirst. The ship is still uncontrolled by the men on board. Jim feels an urge to take control of the vessel and return it to the Captain. Jim rows his coracle towards the ship. A wind pulls the coracle closer. He decides to desert the coracle and grasps the jib-boom of the ship. The wave that helps Jim to get hold of the jib-boom makes the ship swagger and it hits the coracle. Jim is left hanging on the Hispaniola. |
----------CHAPTER 24---------
THE CRUISE OF THE CORACLE
It was broad day when I awoke and found myself tossing at the southwest
end of Treasure Island. The sun was up, but was still hid from me behind
the great bulk of the Spy-glass, which on this side descended almost to
the sea in formidable cliffs.
Haulbowline Head and Mizzen-mast Hill were at my elbow, the hill bare
and dark, the head bound with cliffs forty or fifty feet high and
fringed with great masses of fallen rock. I was scarce a quarter of a
mile to seaward, and it was my first thought to paddle in and land.
That notion was soon given over. Among the fallen rocks the breakers
spouted and bellowed; loud reverberations, heavy sprays flying and
falling, succeeded one another from second to second; and I saw myself,
if I ventured nearer, dashed to death upon the rough shore or spending
my strength in vain to scale the beetling crags.
Nor was that all, for crawling together on flat tables of rock, or
letting themselves drop into the sea with loud reports, I beheld huge
slimy monsters--soft snails, as it were, of incredible bigness--two or
three score of them together, making the rocks to echo with their
barkings.
I have understood since that they were sea lions, and entirely harmless.
But the look of them, added to the difficulty of the shore and the high
running of the surf, was more than enough to disgust me of that
landing-place. I felt willing rather to starve at sea than to confront
such perils.
In the meantime I had a better chance, as I supposed, before me. North
of Haulbowline Head the land runs in a long way, leaving, at low tide, a
long stretch of yellow sand. To the north of that, again, there comes
another cape--Cape of the Woods, as it was marked upon the chart--buried
in tall green pines, which descended to the margin of the sea.
I remembered what Silver had said about the current that sets northward
along the whole west coast of Treasure Island; and seeing from my
position that I was already under its influence, I preferred to leave
Haulbowline Head behind me, and reserve my strength for an attempt to
land upon the kindlier-looking Cape of the Woods.
There was a great, smooth swell upon the sea. The wind blowing steady
and gentle from the south, there was no contrariety between that and the
current, and the billows rose and fell unbroken.
Had it been otherwise, I must long ago have perished; but as it was, it
is surprising how easily and securely my little and light boat could
ride. Often, as I still lay at the bottom, and kept no more than an eye
above the gunwale, I would see a big blue summit heaving close above me;
yet the coracle would but bounce a little, dance as if on springs, and
subside on the other side into the trough as lightly as a bird.
I began after a little to grow very bold, and sat up to try my skill at
paddling. But even a small change in the disposition of the weight will
produce violent changes in the behavior of a coracle. And I had hardly
moved before the boat, giving up at once her gentle, dancing movement,
ran straight down a slope of water so steep that it made me giddy, and
struck her nose, with a spout of spray, deep into the side of the next
wave.
I was drenched and terrified, and fell instantly back into my old
position, whereupon the coracle seemed to find her head again, and led
me softly as before among the billows. It was plain she was not to be
interfered with, and at that rate, since I could in no way influence her
course, what hope had I left of reaching land?
I began to be horribly frightened, but I kept my head, for all that.
First, moving with all care, I gradually bailed out the coracle with my
sea cap; then getting my eye once more above the gunwale, I set myself
to study how it was she managed to slip so quietly through the rollers.
I found each wave, instead of the big, smooth, glossy mountain it looks
from shore, or from a vessel's deck, was for all the world like any
range of hills on the dry land, full of peaks and smooth places and
valleys. The coracle, left to herself, turning from side to side,
threaded, so to speak, her way through these lower parts, and avoided
the steep slopes and higher toppling summits of the wave.
"Well, now," thought I to myself, "it is plain I must lie where I am,
and not disturb the balance; but it is plain, also, that I can put the
paddle over the side, and from time to time, in smooth places, give her
a shove or two towards land." No sooner thought upon than done. There I
lay on my elbows, in the most trying attitude, and every now and again
gave a weak stroke or two to turn her head to shore.
It was very tiring and slow work, yet I did visibly gain ground; and, as
we drew near the Cape of the Woods, though I saw I must infallibly miss
that point, I had still made some hundred yards of easting. I was,
indeed, close in. I could see the cool, green tree-tops swaying together
in the breeze, and I felt sure I should make the next promontory without
fail.
It was high time, for I now began to be tortured with thirst. The glow
of the sun from above, its thousand-fold reflection from the waves, the
sea water that fell and dried upon me, caking my very lips with salt,
combined to make my throat burn and my brain ache. The sight of the
trees so near at hand had almost made me sick with longing; but the
current had soon carried me past the point; and, as the next reach of
sea opened out, I beheld a sight that changed the nature of my thoughts.
Right in front of me, not half a mile away, I beheld the _Hispaniola_
under sail. I made sure, of course, that I should be taken, but I was so
distressed for want of water, that I scarce knew whether to be glad or
sorry at the thought; and, long before I had come to a conclusion,
surprise had taken possession of my mind, and I could do nothing but
stare and wonder.
The _Hispaniola_ was under her mainsail and two jibs, and the beautiful
white canvas shone in the sun like snow or silver. When I first sighted
her, all her sails were drawing, she was laying a course about
northwest, and I presumed the men on board were going round the island
on their way back to the anchorage. Presently she began to fetch more
and more to the westward, so that I thought they had sighted me and were
going about in chase. At last, however, she fell right into the wind's
eye, was taken dead aback, and stood there awhile helpless, with her
sails shivering.
"Clumsy fellows," said I, "they must still be drunk as owls." And I
thought how Captain Smollett would have set them skipping.
Meanwhile the schooner gradually fell off, and filled again upon another
tack, sailed swiftly for a minute or so, and brought up once more dead
in the wind's eye. Again and again was this repeated. To and fro, up and
down, north, south, east, and west, the _Hispaniola_ sailed by swoops
and dashes, and at each repetition ended as she had begun, with idly
flapping canvas. It became plain to me that nobody was steering. And, if
so, where were the men? Either they were dead drunk, or had deserted
her, I thought, and perhaps if I could get on board, I might return the
vessel to her captain.
The current was bearing coracle and schooner southward at an equal rate.
As for the latter's sailing, it was so wild and intermittent, and she
hung each time so long in irons, that she certainly gained nothing, if
she did not even lose. If I only dared to sit up and paddle, I made sure
that I could overhaul her. The scheme had an air of adventure that
inspired me, and the thought of the water breaker beside the
fore companion doubled my growing courage.
Up I got, was welcomed almost instantly by another cloud of spray, but
this time stuck to my purpose and set myself with all my strength and
caution to paddle after the unsteered _Hispaniola_. Once I shipped a sea
so heavy that I had to stop and bail, with my heart fluttering like a
bird, but gradually I got into the way of the thing and guided my
coracle among the waves, with only now and then a blow upon her bows
and a dash of foam in my face.
I was now gaining rapidly on the schooner. I could see the brass glisten
on the tiller as it banged about, and still no soul appeared upon her
decks. I could not choose but suppose she was deserted. If not, the men
were lying drunk below, where I might batten them down, perhaps, and do
what I chose with the ship.
For some time she had been doing the worst thing possible for
me--standing still. She headed nearly due south, yawing, of course, all
the time. Each time she fell off her sails partly filled, and these
brought her, in a moment, right to the wind again. I have said this was
the worst thing possible for me; for, helpless as she looked in this
situation, with the canvas crackling like cannon, and the blocks
trundling and banging on the deck, she still continued to run away from
me, not only with the speed of the current, but by the whole amount of
her leeway, which was naturally great.
But now, at last, I had my chance. The breeze fell, for some seconds,
very low, and the current gradually turning her, the _Hispaniola_
revolved slowly round her center and at last presented me her stern,
with the cabin window still gaping open and the lamp over the table
still burning on into the day. The mainsail hung drooped like a banner.
She was stock-still but for the current.
For the last little while I had even lost, but now, redoubling my
efforts, I began once more to overhaul the chase.
I was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came again in a clap;
she filled on the port tack and was off again, stooping and skimming
like a swallow.
My first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy.
Round she came, till she was broadside on to me--round still till she
had covered a half, and then two-thirds, and then three-quarters of the
distance that separated us. I could see the waves boiling white under
her forefoot. Immensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the
coracle.
And then, of a sudden, I began to comprehend. I had scarce time to
think--scarce time to act and save myself. I was on the summit of one
swell when the schooner came stooping over the next. The bowsprit was
over my head. I sprang to my feet and leaped, stamping the coracle under
water. With one hand I caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged
between the stay and the brace, and as I still clung there panting, a
dull blow told me that the schooner had charged down upon and struck the
coracle and that I was left without retreat on the _Hispaniola_.
----------CHAPTER 25---------
I STRIKE THE JOLLY ROGER
I had scarce gained a position on the bowsprit when the flying jib
flapped and filled upon the other tack with a report like a gun. The
schooner trembled to her keel under the reverse, but next moment, the
other sails still drawing, the jib flapped back again and hung idle.
This had nearly tossed me off into the sea, and now I lost no time,
crawled back along the bowsprit and tumbled headforemost on the deck.
I was on the lee side of the forecastle, and the mainsail, which was
still drawing, concealed from me a certain portion of the after-deck.
Not a soul was to be seen. The planks, which had not been swabbed since
the mutiny, bore the print of many feet; and an empty bottle, broken by
the neck, tumbled to and fro like a live thing in the scuppers.
Suddenly the _Hispaniola_ came right into the wind. The jibs behind me
cracked aloud; the rudder slammed to; the whole ship gave a sickening
heave and shudder; and at the same moment the main-boom swung inboard,
the sheet groaning in the blocks, and showed me the lee after-deck.
There were the two watchmen, sure enough; Red-cap on his back, as stiff
as a handspike, with his arms stretched out like those of a crucifix,
and his teeth showing through his open lips; Israel Hands propped
against the bulwarks, his chin on his chest, his hands lying open before
him on the deck, his face as white, under its tan, as a tallow candle.
For a while the ship kept bucking and sidling like a vicious horse, the
sails filling, now on one tack, now on another, and the boom swinging to
and fro till the mast groaned aloud under the strain. Now and again,
too, there would come a cloud of light sprays over the bulwark, and a
heavy blow of the ship's bows against the swell--so much heavier weather
was made of it by this great rigged ship than by my homemade, lopsided
coracle, now gone to the bottom of the sea.
At every jump of the schooner, Red-cap slipped to and fro; but--what was
ghastly to behold--neither his attitude nor his fixed teeth-disclosing
grin was any way disturbed by this rough usage. At every jump, too,
Hands appeared still more to sink into himself and settle down upon the
deck, his feet sliding ever the farther out, and the whole body canting
toward the stern, so that his face became, little by little, hid from
me; and at last I could see nothing beyond his ear and the frayed
ringlet of one whisker.
At the same time I observed, around both of them, splashes of dark blood
upon the planks, and began to feel sure that they had killed each other
in their drunken wrath.
While I was thus looking and wondering, in a calm moment when the ship
was still, Israel Hands turned partly round, and with a low moan,
writhed himself back to the position in which I had seen him first. The
moan, which told of pain and deadly weakness, and the way in which his
jaw hung open, went right to my heart. But when I remembered the talk I
had overheard from the apple barrel, all pity left me.
I walked aft until I reached the mainmast.
"Come aboard, Mr. Hands," I said, ironically.
He rolled his eyes round heavily, but he was too far gone to express
surprise. All he could do was to utter one word, "Brandy."
It occurred to me there was no time to lose, and dodging the boom as it
once more lurched across the deck, I slipped aft and down the
companion-stairs into the cabin.
It was such a scene of confusion as you can hardly fancy. All the
lock-fast places had been broken open in quest of the chart. The floor
was thick with mud, where the ruffians had sat down to drink or consult
after wading in the marshes round their camp. The bulkheads, all painted
in clear white, and beaded round with gilt, bore a pattern of dirty
hands. Dozens of empty bottles clinked together in corners to the
rolling of the ship. One of the doctor's medical books lay open on the
table, half of the leaves gutted out, I suppose, for pipe-lights. In the
midst of all this the lamp still cast a smoky glow, obscure and brown as
umber.
I went into the cellar; all the barrels were gone, and of the bottles a
most surprising number had been drunk out and thrown away. Certainly,
since the mutiny began, not a man of them could ever have been sober.
Foraging about I found a bottle with some brandy left, for Hands; and
for myself I routed out some biscuit, some pickled fruits, a great bunch
of raisins, and a piece of cheese. With these I came on deck, put down
my own stock behind the rudder-head, and well out of the coxswain's
reach, went forward to the water-breaker, and had a good, deep drink of
water, and then, and not until then, gave Hands the brandy.
He must have drunk a gill before he took the bottle from his mouth.
"Ay," said he, "by thunder, but I wanted some o' that!"
I had sat down already in my own corner and begun to eat.
"Much hurt?" I asked him.
He grunted, or, rather, I might say, he barked.
"If that doctor was aboard," he said, "I'd be right enough in a couple
of turns; but I don't have no manner of luck, you see, and that's what's
the matter with me. As for that swab, he's good and dead, he is," he
added, indicating the man with the red cap. "He warn't no seaman,
anyhow. And where mought you have come from?"
"Well," said I, "I've come aboard to take possession of this ship, Mr.
Hands, and you'll please regard me as your captain until further
notice."
He looked at me sourly enough, but said nothing. Some of the color had
come back into his cheeks, though he still looked very sick and still
continued to slip out and settle down as the ship banged about.
"By the by," I continued, "I can't have these colors, Mr. Hands; and by
your leave I'll strike 'em. Better none than these."
And, again dodging the boom, I ran to the color lines, hauled down their
cursed black flag, and chucked it overboard.
"God save the king!" said I, waving my cap; "and there's an end to
Captain Silver."
He watched me keenly and slyly, his chin all the while on his breast.
"I reckon," he said at last--"I reckon, Cap'n Hawkins, you'll kind o'
want to get ashore, now. S'pose we talks."
"Why, yes," says I, "with all my heart, Mr. Hands. Say on." And I went
back to my meal with a good appetite.
"This man," he began, nodding feebly at the corpse--"O'Brien were his
name--a rank Irelander--this man and me got the canvas on her, meaning
for to sail her back. Well, _he's_ dead now, he is--as dead as bilge;
and who's to sail this ship, I don't see. Without I give you a hint, you
ain't that man, as far's I can tell. Now, look here, you gives me food
and drink, and a old scarf or ankercher to tie my wound up, you do; and
I'll tell you how to sail her; and that's about square all round, I take
it."
"I'll tell you one thing," says I; "I'm not going back to Captain Kidd's
anchorage. I mean to get into North Inlet, and beach her quietly there."
"To be sure you did," he cried. "Why, I ain't sich an infernal lubber,
after all. I can see, can't I? I've tried my fling, I have, and I've
lost, and it's you has the wind of me. North Inlet? Why, I haven't no
ch'ice, not I. I'd help you sail her up to Execution Dock, by thunder!
so I would."
Well, as it seemed to me, there was some sense in this. We struck our
bargain on the spot. In three minutes I had the _Hispaniola_ sailing
easily before the wind along the coast of Treasure Island, with good
hopes of turning the northern point ere noon, and beating down again as
far as North Inlet before high water, when we might beach her safely,
and wait till the subsiding tide permitted us to land.
Then I lashed the tiller and went below to my own chest, where I got a
soft silk handkerchief of my mother's. With this, and with my aid, Hands
bound up the great bleeding stab he had received in the thigh, and after
he had eaten a little and had a swallow or two more of the brandy, he
began to pick up visibly, sat straighter up, spoke louder and clearer,
and looked in every way another man.
The breeze served us admirably. We skimmed before it like a bird, the
coast of the island flashing by, and the view changing every minute.
Soon we were past the high lands and bowling beside low, sandy country,
sparsely dotted with dwarf pines, and soon we were beyond that again,
and had turned the corner of the rocky hill that ends the island on the
north.
I was greatly elated with my new command, and pleased with the bright,
sunshiny weather and these different prospects of the coast. I had now
plenty of water and good things to eat, and my conscience, which had
smitten me hard for my desertion, was quieted by the great conquest I
had made. I should, I think, have had nothing left me to desire but for
the eyes of the coxswain as they followed me derisively about the deck,
and the odd smile that appeared continually on his face. It was a smile
that had in it something both of pain and weakness--a haggard, old man's
smile; but there was, besides that, a grain of derision, a shadow of
treachery, in his expression as he craftily watched, and watched, and
watched me at my work.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 27, utilizing the provided context. | null | Hands rises just once in a lather of foam and blood before he sinks. This sight together with the pain of the wound, caused by Hands dagger, sickens Jim. What terrifies Jim most is the thought of falling into the water. He manages to regain his composure and learns that the knife wasn't stuck very deep. He pulls it out with a jerk and tries to regain his composure over himself. The wound bleeds profusely. As he looks around he sees the only companion he is left with is dead OBrien. Jim gets rid of his body as well. It is almost evening. Jim has difficulty controlling the ship. He cant do much and he leaves the fate of the ship on luck, just like himself. Few minutes pass by and suddenly Jim notices that the ship is in shallow waters. Finally Jim steps on land. He cant wait to get to the stockade to tell them about his achievement. He thinks that the news of recapturing the Hispaniola would make them happy. Jim finds the topography of the land quite familiar. He is familiar with Captain Kid's anchorage, the two peaks on his left and the place where he met Ben Gunn for the first time. He notices a glow of fire against the sky and presumes that someone is cooking supper. The night grows darker and darker. Strange sounds in the jungle fill Jims ears. Jim notices firewood burning and notices a strangeness in the way it is lit. Terror strikes him. He wonders if anything wrong has happened at the stockade in his absence. He draws a little closer on his knees. He hears, as Jim says, the sweet sound of his friend snoring. He was sure that nothing had gone wrong, for it were Silvers men he wouldnt have lived to tell the story. As he doesnt find a sentry, he blames himself for this, as he had run away from his duty. Suddenly he trips on a leg as he made his way to the sleeping place allotted to him by his Captain. A shrill voice breaks the silence. It is Captains Flint, Silvers parrot. This scream awakens the sleeping men. Jim knows he was in the wrong camp. As he tries to make his way back, he is held by a tight hand. He sees his end near when he hears Silver shouting for a torch to recognize the intruder. |
----------CHAPTER 26---------
ISRAEL HANDS
The wind, serving us to a desire, now hauled into the west. We could run
so much easier from the northeast corner of the island to the mouth of
the North Inlet. Only, as we had no power to anchor, and dared not beach
her until the tide had flowed a good deal farther, time hung on our
hands. The coxswain told me how to lay the ship to; after a good many
trials I succeeded, and we both sat in silence over another meal.
"Cap'n," said he, at length, with that same uncomfortable smile, "here's
my old shipmate, O'Brien; s'pose you was to heave him overboard. I ain't
partic'lar, as a rule, and I don't take no blame for settling his hash;
but I don't reckon him ornamental, now, do you?"
"I'm not strong enough, and I don't like the job; and there he lies, for
me," said I.
"This here's an unlucky ship--the _Hispaniola_, Jim," he went on,
blinking. "There's a power of men been killed in this _Hispaniola_--a
sight o' poor seamen dead and gone since you and me took ship to
Bristol. I never seen such dirty luck, not I. There was this here
O'Brien, now--he's dead, ain't he? Well, now, I'm no scholar, and you're
a lad as can read and figure; and, to put it straight, do you take it as
a dead man is dead for good, or do he come alive again?"
"You can kill the body, Mr. Hands, but not the spirit; you must know
that already," I replied. "O'Brien, there, is in another world, and may
be watching us."
"Ah!" says he. "Well, that's unfort'nate--appears as if killing parties
was a waste of time. Howsomever, sperrits don't reckon for much, by what
I've seen. I'll chance it with the sperrits, Jim. And now you've spoke
up free, and I'll take it kind if you'd step down into that there cabin
and get me a--well, a--shiver my timbers! I can't hit the name on't.
Well, you get me a bottle of wine, Jim--this here brandy's too strong
for my head."
Now the coxswain's hesitation seemed to be unnatural; and as for the
notion of his preferring wine to brandy, I entirely disbelieved it. The
whole story was a pretext. He wanted me to leave the deck--so much was
plain, but with what purpose I could in no way imagine. His eyes never
met mine; they kept wandering to and fro, up and down, now with a look
to the sky, now with a flitting glance upon the dead O'Brien. All the
time he kept smiling and putting his tongue out in the most guilty,
embarrassed manner, so that a child could have told that he was bent on
some deception. I was prompt with my answer, however, for I saw where my
advantage lay, and that with a fellow so densely stupid I could easily
conceal my suspicions to the end.
"Some wine?" I said. "Far better. Will you have white or red?"
"Well, I reckon it's about the blessed same to me, shipmate," he
replied; "so it's strong, and plenty of it, what's the odds?"
"All right," I answered. "I'll bring you port, Mr. Hands. But I'll have
to dig for it."
With that I scuttled down the companion with all the noise I could,
slipped off my shoes, ran quietly along the sparred gallery, mounted the
forecastle ladder and popped my head out of the fore companion. I knew
he would not expect to see me there, yet I took every precaution
possible, and certainly the worst of my suspicions proved too true.
He had risen from his position to his hands and knees, and though his
leg obviously hurt him pretty sharply when he moved--for I could hear
him stifle a groan--yet it was at a good, rattling rate that he trailed
himself across the deck. In half a minute he had reached the port
scuppers, and picked out of a coil of rope a long knife, or rather a
short dirk, discolored to the hilt with blood. He looked upon it for a
moment, thrusting forth his under jaw, tried the point upon his hand,
and then hastily concealing it in the bosom of his jacket, trundled back
again into his old place against the bulwark.
This was all that I required to know. Israel could move about; he was
now armed, and if he had been at so much trouble to get rid of me, it
was plain that I was meant to be the victim. What he would do
afterward--whether he would try to crawl right across the island from
North Inlet to the camp among the swamps, or whether he would fire Long
Tom, trusting that his own comrades might come first to help him, was,
of course, more than I could say.
Yet I felt sure that I could trust him in one point, since in that our
interests jumped together, and that was in the disposition of the
schooner. We both desired to have her stranded safe enough, in a
sheltered place, and so that when the time came, she could be got off
again with as little labor and danger as might be; and until that was
done I considered that my life would certainly be spared.
While I was thus turning the business over in my mind I had not been
idle with my body. I had stolen back to the cabin, slipped once more
into my shoes and laid my hand at random on a bottle of wine, and now
with this for an excuse, I made my reappearance on the deck.
Hands lay as I had left him, all fallen together in a bundle, and with
his eyelids lowered as though he were too weak to bear the light. He
looked up, however, at my coming, knocked the neck off the bottle like a
man who had done the same thing often, and took a good swig, with his
favorite toast of "Here's luck!" Then he lay quiet for a little, and
then, pulling out a stick of tobacco, begged me to cut him a quid.
"Cut me a junk o' that," says he, "for I haven't no knife, and hardly
strength enough, so be as I had. Ah, Jim, Jim, I reckon I've missed
stays! Cut me a quid as'll likely be the last, lad; for I'm for my long
home, and no mistake."
"Well," said I, "I'll cut you some tobacco, but if I was you and thought
myself so badly, I would go to my prayers, like a Christian man."
"Why?" said he. "Now you tell me why."
"Why?" I cried. "You were asking me just now about the dead. You've
broken your trust; you've lived in sin and lies and blood; there's a man
you killed lying at your feet this moment; and you ask me why! For God's
mercy, Mr. Hands, that's why."
I spoke with a little heat, thinking of the bloody dirk he had hidden in
his pocket, and designed, in his ill thoughts, to end me with. He, for
his part, took a great draught of the wine and spoke with the most
unusual solemnity.
"For thirty year," he said, "I've sailed the seas and seen good and bad,
better and worse, fair weather and foul, provisions running out, knives
going, and what not. Well, now I tell you, I never seen good come o'
goodness yet. Him as strikes first is my fancy; dead men don't bite;
them's my views--amen, so be it. And now, you look here," he added,
suddenly changing his tone, "we've had about enough of this foolery. The
tide's made good enough by now. You just take my orders, Cap'n Hawkins,
and we'll sail slap in and be done with it."
All told, we had scarce two miles to run, but the navigation was
delicate, the entrance to this northern anchorage was not only narrow
and shoal, but lay east and west, so that the schooner must be nicely
handled to be got in. I think I was a good, prompt subaltern, and I am
very sure that Hands was an excellent pilot; for we went about and
about, and dodged in, shaving the banks, with a certainty and a neatness
that were a pleasure to behold.
Scarcely had we passed the head before the land closed around us. The
shores of North Inlet were as thickly wooded as those of the southern
anchorage, but the space was longer and narrower, and more like, what in
truth it was, the estuary of a river. Right before us, at the southern
end, we saw the wreck of a ship in the last stages of dilapidation. It
had been a great vessel of three masts, but had lain so long exposed to
the injuries of the weather that it was hung about with great webs of
dripping seaweed, and on the deck of it shore bushes had taken root,
and now flourished thick with flowers. It was a sad sight, but it showed
us that the anchorage was calm.
"Now," said Hands, "look there; there's a pet bit for to beach a ship
in. Fine flat sand, never a catspaw, trees all around of it, and flowers
a-blowing like a garding on that old ship."
"And, once beached," I inquired, "how shall we get her off again?"
"Why, so," he replied; "you take a line ashore there on the other side
at low water; take a turn about one o' them big pines; bring it back,
take a turn around the capstan and lie-to for the tide. Come high water,
all hands take a pull upon the line, and off she comes as sweet as
natur'. And now, boy, you stand by. We're near the bit now, and she's
too much way on her. Starboard a little--so--steady--starboard--larboard
a little--steady--steady!"
So he issued his commands, which I breathlessly obeyed; till, all of a
sudden, he cried: "Now, my hearty, luff!" And I put the helm hard up,
and the _Hispaniola_ swung round rapidly and ran stem on for the low
wooded shore.
The excitement of these last maneuvers had somewhat interfered with the
watch I had kept hitherto, sharply enough, upon the coxswain. Even then
I was still so much interested, waiting for the ship to touch, that I
had quite forgot the peril that hung over my head, and stood craning
over the starboard bulwarks and watching the ripples spreading wide
before the bows. I might have fallen without a struggle for my life, had
not a sudden disquietude seized upon me and made me turn my head.
Perhaps I had heard a creak or seen his shadow moving with the tail of
my eye; perhaps it was an instinct like a cat's; but, sure enough, when
I looked round, there was Hands, already halfway toward me, with the
dirk in his right hand.
We must both have cried out aloud when our eyes met, but while mine was
the shrill cry of terror, his was a roar of fury like a charging bull's.
At the same instant he threw himself forward and I leaped sideways
toward the bows. As I did so I let go of the tiller, which sprung sharp
to leeward; and I think this saved my life, for it struck Hands across
the chest, and stopped him, for the moment, dead.
Before he could recover I was safe out of the corner where he had me
trapped, with all the deck to dodge about. Just forward of the mainmast
I stopped, drew a pistol from my pocket, took a cool aim, though he had
already turned and was once more coming directly after me, and drew the
trigger. The hammer fell, but there followed neither flash nor sound;
the priming was useless with sea water. I cursed myself for my neglect.
Why had not I, long before, reprimed and reloaded my only weapons? Then
I should not have been as now, a mere fleeing sheep before this butcher.
Wounded as he was, it was wonderful how fast he could move, his grizzled
hair tumbling over his face and his face itself as red as a red ensign
with his haste and fury. I had no time to try my other pistol, nor,
indeed, much inclination, for I was sure it would be useless. One thing
I saw plainly: I must not simply retreat before him, or he would
speedily hold me boxed into the bows, as a moment since he had so nearly
boxed me in the stern. Once so caught, and nine or ten inches of the
blood-stained dirk would be my last experience on this side of eternity.
I placed my palms against the mainmast, which was of a goodish bigness,
and waited, every nerve upon the stretch.
Seeing that I meant to dodge he also paused, and a moment or two passed
in feints on his part and corresponding movements upon mine. It was such
a game as I had often played at home about the rocks of Black Hill Cove;
but never before, you may be sure, with such a wildly beating heart as
now. Still, as I say it, it was a boy's game, and I thought I could hold
my own at it against an elderly seaman with a wounded thigh. Indeed, my
courage had begun to rise so high that I allowed myself a few darting
thoughts on what would be the end of the affair; and while I saw
certainly that I could spin it out for long, I saw no hope of any
ultimate escape.
Well, while things stood thus, suddenly the _Hispaniola_ struck,
staggered, ground for an instant in the sand, and then, swift as a blow,
canted over to the port side, till the deck stood at an angle of
forty-five degrees, and about a puncheon of water splashed into the
scupper holes, and lay in a pool between the deck and bulwark.
We were both of us capsized in a second, and both of us rolled, almost
together, into the scuppers, the dead Red-cap, with his arms still
spread out, tumbling stiffly after us. So near were we, indeed, that my
head came against the coxswain's foot with a crack that made my teeth
rattle. Blow and all, I was the first afoot again, for Hands had got
involved with the dead body. The sudden canting of the ship had made the
deck no place for running on; I had to find some new way of escape, and
that upon the instant, for my foe was almost touching me. Quick as
thought, I sprang into the mizzen shrouds, rattled up hand over hand,
and did not draw a breath till I was seated on the crosstrees.
[Illustration: _Quick as thought, I sprang into the mizzen shrouds_
(Page 193)]
I had been saved by being prompt; the dirk had struck not half a foot
below me as I pursued my upward flight; and there stood Israel Hands
with his mouth open and his face upturned to mine, a perfect statue of
surprise and disappointment.
Now that I had a moment to myself, I lost no time in changing the
priming of my pistol, and then, having one ready for service, and to
make assurance doubly sure, I proceeded to draw the load of the other,
and recharge it afresh from the beginning.
My new employment struck Hands all of a heap; he began to see the dice
going against him, and after an obvious hesitation, he also hauled
himself heavily into the shrouds, and, with the dirk in his teeth, began
slowly and painfully to mount. It cost him no end of time and groans to
haul his wounded leg behind him; and I had quietly finished my
arrangements before he was much more than a third of the way up. Then,
with a pistol in either hand, I addressed him:
"One more step, Mr. Hands," said I, "and I'll blow your brains out! Dead
men don't bite, you know," I added, with a chuckle.
He stopped instantly. I could see by the workings of his face that he
was trying to think, and the process was so slow and laborious that, in
my new-found security, I laughed aloud. At last, with a swallow or two,
he spoke, his face still wearing the same expression of extreme
perplexity. In order to speak he had to take the dagger from his mouth,
but, in all else, he remained unmoved.
"Jim," says he, "I reckon we're fouled, you and me, and we'll have to
sign articles. I'd have had you but for that there lurch; but I don't
have no luck, not I; and I reckon I'll have to strike, which comes hard,
you see, for a master mariner to a ship's younker like you, Jim."
I was drinking in his words and smiling away, as conceited as a cock
upon a walk, when, all in a breath, back went his right hand over his
shoulder. Something sang like an arrow through the air; I felt a blow
and then a sharp pang, and there I was pinned by the shoulder to the
mast. In the horrid pain and surprise of the moment--I scarce can say it
was by my own volition, and I am sure it was without a conscious
aim--both my pistols went off, and both escaped out of my hands. They
did not fall alone; with a choked cry the coxswain loosed his grasp upon
the shrouds, and plunged head first into the water.
----------CHAPTER 27---------
"PIECES OF EIGHT"
Owing to the cant of the vessel, the masts hung far out over the water,
and from my perch on the crosstrees I had nothing below me but the
surface of the bay. Hands, who was not so far up, was, in consequence,
nearer to the ship, and fell between me and the bulwarks. He rose once
to the surface in a lather of foam and blood, and then sank again for
good. As the water settled, I could see him lying huddled together on
the clean, bright sand in the shadow of the vessel's sides. A fish or
two whipped past his body. Sometimes, by the quivering of the water, he
appeared to move a little, as if he were trying to rise. But he was dead
enough, for all that, being both shot and drowned, and was food for fish
in the very place where he had designed my slaughter.
I was no sooner certain of this than I began to feel sick, faint, and
terrified. The hot blood was running over my back and chest. The dirk,
where it had pinned my shoulder to the mast, seemed to burn like a hot
iron; yet it was not so much these real sufferings that distressed me,
for these, it seemed to me, I could bear without a murmur; it was the
horror I had upon my mind of falling from the crosstree into that still,
green water beside the body of the coxswain.
I clung with both hands till my nails ached, and I shut my eyes as if to
cover up the peril. Gradually my mind came back again, my pulses
quieted down to a more natural time, and I was once more in possession
of myself.
It was my first thought to pluck forth the dirk; but either it stuck too
hard or my nerve failed me, and I desisted with a violent shudder. Oddly
enough, that very shudder did the business. The knife, in fact, had come
the nearest in the world to missing me altogether; it held me by a mere
pinch of skin, and this the shudder tore away. The blood ran down the
faster, to be sure, but I was my own master again, and only tacked to
the mast by my coat and shirt.
These last I broke through with a sudden jerk, and then regained the
deck by the starboard shrouds. For nothing in the world would I have
again ventured, shaken as I was, upon the overhanging port shrouds, from
which Israel had so lately fallen.
I went below and did what I could for my wound; it pained me a good
deal, and still bled freely, but it was neither deep nor dangerous, nor
did it greatly gall me when I used my arm. Then I looked around me, and
as the ship was now, in a sense, my own, I began to think of clearing it
from its last passenger--the dead man, O'Brien.
He had pitched, as I have said, against the bulwarks, where he lay like
some horrid, ungainly sort of puppet; life-size, indeed, but how
different from life's color or life's comeliness! In that position, I
could easily have my way with him, and as the habit of tragical
adventures had worn off almost all my terror for the dead, I took him by
the waist as if he had been a sack of bran, and, with one good heave,
tumbled him overboard. He went in with a sounding plunge; the red cap
came off, and remained floating on the surface; and as soon as the
splash subsided, I could see him and Israel lying side by side, both
wavering with the tremulous movement of the water. O'Brien, though still
quite a young man, was very bald. There he lay with that bald head
across the knees of the man who killed him, and the quick fishes
steering to and fro over both.
I was now alone upon the ship; the tide had just turned. The sun was
within so few degrees of setting that already the shadow of the pines
upon the western shore began to reach right across the anchorage and
fall in patterns on the deck. The evening breeze had sprung up, and
though it was well warded off by the hill with the two peaks upon the
east, the cordage had begun to sing a little softly to itself and the
idle sails to rattle to and fro.
I began to see a danger to the ship. The jibs I speedily doused and
brought tumbling to the deck, but the mainsail was a harder matter. Of
course, when the schooner canted over, the boom had swung outboard, and
the cap of it and a foot or two of sail hung even under water. I thought
this made it still more dangerous, yet the strain was so heavy that I
half feared to meddle. At last I got my knife and cut the halyards. The
peak dropped instantly, a great belly of loose canvas floated broad upon
the water; and since, pull as I liked, I could not budge the downhaul,
that was the extent of what I could accomplish. For the rest, the
_Hispaniola_ must trust to luck, like myself.
By this time the whole anchorage had fallen into shadow--the last rays,
I remember, falling through a glade of the wood, and shining bright as
jewels on the flowery mantle of the wreck. It began to be chill, the
tide was rapidly fleeting seaward, the schooner settling more and more
on her beam-ends.
I scrambled forward and looked over. It seemed shallow enough, and
holding the cut hawser in both hands for a last security, I let myself
drop softly overboard. The water scarcely reached my waist; the sand was
firm and covered with ripple-marks, and I waded ashore in great spirits,
leaving the _Hispaniola_ on her side, with her mainsail trailing wide
upon the surface of the bay. About the same time the sun went fairly
down, and the breeze whistled low in the dusk among the tossing pines.
At least, and at last, I was off the sea, nor had I returned thence
empty-handed. There lay the schooner, clear at last from buccaneers and
ready for our own men to board and get to sea again. I had nothing
nearer my fancy than to get home to the stockade and boast of my
achievements. Possibly I might be blamed a bit for my truantry, but the
recapture of the _Hispaniola_ was a clinching answer, and I hoped that
even Captain Smollett would confess I had not lost my time.
So thinking, and in famous spirits, I began to set my face homeward for
the blockhouse and my companions. I remembered that the most easterly of
the rivers which drain into Captain Kidd's anchorage ran from the
two-peaked hill upon my left; and I bent my course in that direction
that I might pass the stream while it was small. The wood was pretty
open, and keeping along the lower spurs, I had soon turned the corner of
that hill, and not long after waded to the mid-calf across the
watercourse.
This brought me near to where I had encountered Ben Gunn, the maroon,
and I walked more circumspectly, keeping an eye on every side. The dusk
had come nigh hand completely, and, as I opened out the cleft between
the two peaks, I became aware of a wavering glow against the sky, where,
as I judged, the man of the island was cooking his supper before a
roaring fire. And yet I wondered, in my heart, that he should show
himself so careless. For if I could see this radiance, might it not
reach the eye of Silver himself where he camped upon the shore among the
marshes?
Gradually the night fell blacker; it was all I could do to guide myself
even roughly toward my destination; the double hill behind me and the
Spy-glass on my right hand loomed faint and fainter, the stars were few
and pale, and in the low ground where I wandered I kept tripping among
bushes and rolling into sandy pits.
Suddenly a kind of brightness fell about me. I looked up; a pale glimmer
of moonbeams had alighted on the summit of the Spy-glass, and soon after
I saw something broad and silvery moving low down behind the trees, and
knew the moon had risen.
With this to help me, I passed rapidly over what remained to me of my
journey; and, sometimes walking, sometimes running, impatiently drew
near to the stockade. Yet, as I began to thread the grove that lies
before it, I was not so thoughtless but that I slacked my pace and went
a trifle warily. It would have been a poor end of my adventures to get
shot down by my own party in mistake.
The moon was climbing higher and higher; its light began to fall here
and there in masses through the more open districts of the wood, and
right in front of me a glow of a different color appeared among the
trees. It was red and hot, and now and again it was a little
darkened--as it were the embers of a bonfire smoldering.
For the life of me I could not think what it might be.
At last I came right down upon the borders of the clearing. The western
end was already steeped in moon-shine; the rest, and the blockhouse
itself, still lay in a black shadow, chequered with long, silvery
streaks of light. On the other side of the house an immense fire had
burned itself into clear embers and shed a steady, red reverberation,
contrasting strongly with the mellow paleness of the moon. There was not
a soul stirring, nor a sound beside the noises of the breeze.
I stopped, with much wonder in my heart, and perhaps a little terror
also. It had not been our way to build great fires; we were, indeed, by
the captain's orders, somewhat niggardly of firewood, and I began to
fear that something had gone wrong while I was absent.
I stole round by the eastern end, keeping close in shadow, and at a
convenient place, where the darkness was thickest, crossed the palisade.
To make assurance surer, I got upon my hands and knees, and crawled,
without a sound, toward the corner of the house. As I drew nearer, my
heart was suddenly and greatly lightened. It was not a pleasant noise in
itself, and I have often complained of it at other times, but just then
it was like music to hear my friends snoring together so loud and
peaceful in their sleep. The sea-cry of the watch, that beautiful "All's
well," never fell more reassuringly on my ear.
In the meantime there was no doubt of one thing; they kept an infamous
bad watch. If it had been Silver and his lads that were now creeping in
on them, not a soul would have seen daybreak. That was what it was,
thought I, to have the captain wounded; and again I blamed myself
sharply for leaving them in that danger with so few to mount guard.
By this time I had got to the door and stood up. All was dark within, so
that I could distinguish nothing by the eye. As for sounds, there was
the steady drone of the snorers, and a small occasional noise, a
flickering or pecking that I could in no way account for.
With my arms before me I walked steadily in. I should lie down in my own
place (I thought, with a silent chuckle) and enjoy their faces when they
found me in the morning. My foot struck something yielding--it was a
sleeper's leg, and he turned and groaned, but without awaking.
And then, all of a sudden, a shrill voice broke forth out of the
darkness:
"Pieces of eight! pieces of eight! pieces of eight! pieces of eight!
pieces of eight!" and so forth, without pause or change, like the
clacking of a tiny mill.
Silver's green parrot, Captain Flint! It was she whom I had heard
pecking at a piece of bark; it was she, keeping better watch than any
human being, who thus announced my arrival with her wearisome refrain.
I had no time left me to recover. At the sharp clipping tone of the
parrot, the sleepers awoke and sprang up, and with a mighty oath the
voice of Silver cried:
"Who goes?"
I turned to run, struck violently against one person, recoiled, and ran
full into the arms of a second, who, for his part, closed upon and held
me tight.
"Bring a torch, Dick," said Silver, when my capture was thus assured.
And one of the men left the log-house, and presently returned with a
lighted brand.
[Illustration]
PART VI
CAPTAIN SILVER
|
Treasure Island.part 6.ch | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 29 based on the provided context. | chapter 28|chapter 29 | The pirate council outside takes a long time. Finally, the five pirates come back inside. The youngest one is holding something in his hand, which he gives fearfully to Long John Silver. It's the black spot , but it's been cut out of a Bible, which Long John Silver says is awful luck. It was Dick Johnson who cut the circle of paper out of the Bible. Long John Silver says he's doomed. George Merry points to the reverse side of the spot, where it says, "Deposed" . Long John Silver says he's still captain until he hears the crew's problems with him and has a chance to answer. George answers that: 1) Long John Silver has messed up the whole plan; 2) he let their enemies leave their fort just because they wanted to; 3) he prevented the pirates from attacking their enemies as they were leaving the fort; and 4) he let Jim Hawkins live. George says they'll all be hanged thanks to Long John Silver and his mistakes. Long John Silver replies that it's not him who messed up the plan. He wanted to play everything more carefully. It was Job Anderson, Israel Hands, and George Merry who blundered into this mess. Why should they kill Jim when he's a readymade hostage? And the final point: Long John Silver let their enemies live and leave the fort because he's gotten the treasure map in exchange. The pirates are deeply impressed by this revelation. They're all immediately on Long John Silver's side again. Long John Silver says the only thing the black spot has done is spoiled Dick Johnson's Bible. Johnson asks if his Bible will still be good to pray with. Long John Silver says it's no more than a songbook now, but Dick Johnson seems to feel that even that's something. Long John Silver gives Jim the black spot to keep as a memento. They all go to bed, except for one guard. Jim has trouble falling asleep. He can't stop thinking about Long John Silver and the dangerous game he's playing. |
----------CHAPTER 28---------
IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP
The red glare of the torch lighting up the interior of the blockhouse
showed me the worst of my apprehensions realized. The pirates were in
possession of the house and stores; there was the cask of cognac, there
were the pork and bread, as before; and, what tenfold increased my
horror, not a sign of any prisoner. I could only judge that all had
perished, and my heart smote me sorely that I had not been there to
perish with them.
There were six of the buccaneers, all told; not another man was left
alive. Five of them were on their feet, flushed and swollen, suddenly
called out of the first sleep of drunkenness. The sixth had only risen
upon his elbow; he was deadly pale, and the blood-stained bandage round
his head told that he had recently been wounded, and still more recently
dressed. I remembered the man who had been shot and run back among the
woods in the great attack, and doubted not that this was he.
The parrot sat, preening her plumage, on Long John's shoulder. He
himself, I thought, looked somewhat paler and more stern than I was used
to. He still wore his fine broadcloth suit in which he had fulfilled his
mission, but it was bitterly the worse for wear, daubed with clay and
torn with sharp briers of the wood.
"So," said he, "here's Jim Hawkins, shiver my timbers! dropped in,
like, eh? Well, come, I take that friendly."
And thereupon he sat down across the brandy-cask, and began to fill a
pipe.
"Give me the loan of a link, Dick," said he; and then, when he had a
good light, "That'll do, my lad," he added, "stick the glim in the wood
heap; and you, gentlemen, bring yourselves to!--you needn't stand up for
Mr. Hawkins; _he'll_ excuse you, you may lay to that. And so,
Jim"--stopping the tobacco--"here you are, and quite a pleasant surprise
for poor old John. I see you were smart when first I set my eyes on you,
but this here gets away from me clean, it do."
To all this, as may be well supposed, I made no answer. They had set me
with my back against the wall, and I stood there, looking Silver in the
face, pluckily enough, I hope, to all outward appearance, but with black
despair in my heart.
Silver took a whiff or two of his pipe with great composure, and then
ran on again:
"Now, you see, Jim, so be as you _are_ here," says he, "I'll give you a
piece of my mind. I've always liked you, I have, for a lad of spirit,
and the picter of my own self when I was young and handsome. I always
wanted you to jine and take your share, and die a gentleman, and now, my
cock, you've got to. Cap'n Smollett's a fine seaman, as I'll own up to
any day, but stiff on discipline. 'Dooty is dooty,' says he, and right
he is. Just you keep clear of the cap'n. The doctor himself is gone dead
again you--'ungrateful scamp' was what he said; and the short and long
of the whole story is about here: You can't go back to your own lot, for
they won't have you; and, without you start a third ship's company all
by yourself, which might be lonely, you'll have to jine with Cap'n
Silver."
So far so good. My friends, then, were still alive, and though I partly
believed the truth of Silver's statement, that the cabin party were
incensed at me for my desertion, I was more relieved than distressed by
what I heard.
"I don't say nothing as to your being in our hands," continued Silver,
"though there you are, and you may lay to it. I'm all for argyment; I
never seen good come out o' threatening. If you like the service, well,
you'll jine; and if you don't, Jim, why, you're free to answer no--free
and welcome, shipmate; and if fairer can be said by mortal seaman,
shiver my sides!"
"Am I to answer, then?" I asked, with a very tremulous voice. Through
all this sneering talk I was made to feel the threat of death that
overhung me, and my cheeks burned and my heart beat painfully in my
breast.
"Lad," said Silver, "no one's a-pressing of you. Take your bearings.
None of us won't hurry you, mate; time goes so pleasant in your company,
you see."
"Well," says I, growing a bit bolder, "if I'm to choose, I declare I
have a right to know what's what, and why you're here, and where my
friends are."
"Wot's wot?" repeated one of the buccaneers, in a deep growl. "Ah, he'd
be a lucky one as knowed that!"
"You'll, perhaps, batten down your hatches till you're spoke to, my
friend," cried Silver, truculently, to this speaker. And then, in his
first gracious tones, he replied to me: "Yesterday morning, Mr.
Hawkins," said he, "in the dogwatch, down came Doctor Livesey with a
flag of truce. Says he: 'Cap'n Silver, you're sold out. Ship's gone!'
Well, maybe we'd been taking a glass, and a song to help it round. I
won't say no. Leastways, none of us had looked out. We looked out, and,
by thunder! the old ship was gone. I never seen a pack o' fools look
fishier; and you may lay to that, if I tells you that I looked the
fishiest. 'Well,' says the doctor, 'let's bargain.' We bargained, him
and I, and here we are; stores, brandy, blockhouse, the firewood you was
thoughtful enough to cut, and, in a manner of speaking, the whole
blessed boat, from crosstrees to keelson. As for them, they've tramped;
I don't know where's they are."
He drew again quietly at his pipe.
"And lest you should take it into that head of yours," he went on, "that
you was included in the treaty, here's the last word that was said: 'How
many are you,' says I, 'to leave?' 'Four,' says he--'four, and one of us
wounded. As for that boy, I don't know where he is, confound him,' says
he, 'nor I don't much care. We're about sick of him.' These was his
words."
"Is that all?" I asked.
"Well, it's all you're to hear, my son," returned Silver.
"And now I am to choose?"
"And now you are to choose, and you may lay to that," said Silver.
"Well," said I, "I am not such a fool but I know pretty well what I have
to look for. Let the worst come to the worst, it's little I care. I've
seen too many die since I fell in with you. But there's a thing or two I
have to tell you," I said, and by this time I was quite excited; "and
the first is this: Here you are, in a bad way; ship lost, treasure lost,
men lost; your whole business gone to wreck; and if you want to know who
did it--it was I! I was in the apple barrel the night we sighted land,
and I heard you, John, and you, Dick Johnson, and Hands, who is now at
the bottom of the sea, and told every word you said before the hour was
out. And as for the schooner, it was I who cut her cable, and it was I
who killed the men you had aboard of her, and it was I who brought her
where you'll never see her more, not one of you. The laugh's on my side;
I've had the top of this business from the first; I no more fear you
than I fear a fly. Kill me, if you please, or spare me. But one thing
I'll say, and no more; if you spare me, bygones are bygones, and when
you fellows are in court for piracy, I'll save you all I can. It is for
you to choose. Kill another and do yourselves no good, or spare me and
keep a witness to save you from the gallows."
I stopped, for, I tell you, I was out of breath, and, to my wonder, not
a man of them moved, but all sat staring at me like as many sheep. And
while they were still staring I broke out again:
"And now, Mr. Silver," I said, "I believe you're the best man here, and
if things go to the worst, I'll take it kind of you to let the doctor
know the way I took it."
"I'll bear it in mind," said Silver, with an accent so curious that I
could not, for the life of me, decide whether he were laughing at my
request or had been favorably affected by my courage.
"I'll put one to that," cried the old mahogany-faced seaman--Morgan by
name--whom I had seen in Long John's public-house upon the quays of
Bristol. "It was him that knowed Black Dog."
"Well, and see here," added the sea-cook, "I'll put another again to
that, by thunder! for it was this same boy that faked the chart from
Billy Bones. First and last we've split upon Jim Hawkins!"
"Then here goes!" said Morgan, with an oath.
And he sprang up, drawing his knife as if he had been twenty.
"Avast, there!" cried Silver. "Who are you, Tom Morgan? Maybe you
thought you were captain here, perhaps. By the powers, but I'll teach
you better! Cross me and you'll go where many a good man's gone before
you, first and last, these thirty year back--some to the yardarm, shiver
my sides! and some by the board, and all to feed the fishes. There's
never a man looked me between the eyes and seen a good day a'terward,
Tom Morgan, you may lay to that."
Morgan paused, but a hoarse murmur rose from the others.
"Tom's right," said one.
"I stood hazing long enough from one," added another. "I'll be hanged if
I'll be hazed by you, John Silver."
"Did any of you gentlemen want to have it out with _me_?" roared Silver,
bending far forward from his position on the keg, with his pipe still
glowing in his right hand. "Put a name on what you're at; you ain't
dumb, I reckon. Him that wants shall get it. Have I lived this many
years to have a son of a rum puncheon cock his hat athwart my hawser at
the latter end of it? You know the way; you're all gentlemen o' fortune,
by your account. Well, I'm ready. Take a cutlass, him that dares, and
I'll see the color of his inside, crutch and all, before that pipe's
empty."
Not a man stirred; not a man answered.
"That's your sort, is it?" he added, returning his pipe to his mouth.
"Well, you're a gay lot to look at, any way. Not worth much to fight,
you ain't. P'r'aps you can understand King George's English. I'm cap'n
here by 'lection. I'm cap'n here because I'm the best man by a long
sea-mile. You won't fight, as gentlemen o' fortune should; then, by
thunder, you'll obey, and you may lay to it! I like that boy, now; I
never seen a better boy than that. He's more a man than any pair of rats
of you in this here house, and what I say is this: Let me see him
that'll lay a hand on him--that's what I say, and you may lay to it."
There was a long pause after this. I stood straight up against the wall,
my heart still going like a sledgehammer, but with a ray of hope now
shining in my bosom. Silver leant back against the wall, his arms
crossed, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, as calm as though he had
been in church; yet his eye kept wandering furtively, and he kept the
tail of it on his unruly followers. They, on their part, drew gradually
together toward the far end of the blockhouse, and the low hiss of their
whispering sounded in my ears continuously, like a stream. One after
another they would look up, and the red light of the torch would fall
for a second on their nervous faces; but it was not toward me, it was
toward Silver that they turned their eyes.
"You seem to have a lot to say," remarked Silver, spitting far into the
air. "Pipe up and let me hear it, or lay to."
"Ax your pardon, sir," returned one of the men; "you're pretty free with
some of the rules, maybe you'll kindly keep an eye upon the rest. This
crew's dissatisfied; this crew don't vally bullying a marlinspike; this
crew has its rights like other crews, I'll make so free as that; and by
your own rules I take it we can talk together. I ax your pardon, sir,
acknowledging you for to be capting at this present, but I claim my
right and steps outside for a council."
And with an elaborate sea-salute this fellow, a long, ill-looking,
yellow-eyed man of five-and-thirty, stepped coolly toward the door and
disappeared out of the house. One after another the rest followed his
example, each making a salute as he passed, each adding some apology.
"According to rules," said one. "Foc's'le council," said Morgan. And so
with one remark or another, all marched out and left Silver and me alone
with the torch.
The sea-cook instantly removed his pipe.
"Now, look you here, Jim Hawkins," he said in a steady whisper that was
no more than audible, "you're within half a plank of death, and, what's
a long sight worse, of torture. They're going to throw me off. But you
mark, I stand by you through thick and thin. I didn't mean to; no, not
till you spoke up. I was about desperate to lose that much blunt, and be
hanged into the bargain. But I see you was the right sort. I says to
myself: You stand by Hawkins, John, and Hawkins'll stand by you. You're
his last card, and by the living thunder, John, he's yours! Back to
back, says I. You save your witness and he'll save your neck!"
I began dimly to understand.
"You mean all's lost?" I asked.
"Ay, by gum, I do!" he answered. "Ship gone, neck gone--that's the size
of it. Once I looked into that bay, Jim Hawkins, and seen no
schooner--well, I'm tough, but I gave out. As for that lot and their
council, mark me, they're outright fools and cowards. I'll save your
life--if so be as I can--from them. But see here, Jim--tit for tat--you
save Long John from swinging."
I was bewildered; it seemed a thing so hopeless he was asking--he, the
old buccaneer, the ringleader throughout.
"What I can do, that I'll do," I said.
"It's a bargain!" cried Long John. "You speak up plucky, and by thunder,
I've a chance."
He hobbled to the torch, where it stood propped among the firewood, and
took a fresh light to his pipe.
"Understand me, Jim," he said, returning. "I've a head on my shoulders,
I have. I'm on squire's side now. I know you've got that ship safe
somewheres. How you done it I don't know, but safe it is. I guess Hands
and O'Brien turned soft. I never much believed in neither of _them_. Now
you mark me. I ask no questions, nor I won't let others. I know when a
game's up, I do; and I know a lad that's stanch. Ah, you that's
young--you and me might have done a power of good together!"
He drew some cognac from the cask into a tin cannikin.
"Will you taste, messmate?" he asked, and when I had refused, "Well,
I'll take a drain myself, Jim," said he. "I need a caulker, for there's
trouble on hand. And, talking o' trouble, why did that doctor give me
the chart, Jim?"
My face expressed a wonder so unaffected that he saw the needlessness of
further questions.
"Ah, well, he did, though," said he. "And there's something under that,
no doubt--something, surely, under that, Jim--bad or good."
And he took another swallow of the brandy, shaking his great fair head
like a man who looks forward to the worst.
----------CHAPTER 29---------
THE BLACK SPOT AGAIN
The council of the buccaneers had lasted some time, when one of them
re-entered the house, and with a repetition of the same salute, which
had in my eyes an ironical air, begged for a moment's loan of the torch.
Silver briefly agreed, and this emissary retired again, leaving us
together in the dark.
"There's a breeze coming, Jim," said Silver, who had by this time
adopted quite a friendly and familiar tone.
I turned to the loophole nearest me and looked out. The embers of the
great fire had so far burned themselves out, and now glowed so low and
duskily, that I understood why these conspirators desired a torch. About
halfway down the slope to the stockade they were collected in a group;
one held the light; another was on his knees in their midst, and I saw
the blade of an open knife shine in his hand with varying colors, in the
moon and torchlight. The rest were all somewhat stooping, as though
watching the maneuvers of this last. I could just make out that he had a
book as well as a knife in his hand; and was still wondering how
anything so incongruous had come in their possession, when the kneeling
figure rose once more to his feet, and the whole party began to move
together toward the house.
"Here they come," said I; and I returned to my former position, for it
seemed beneath my dignity that they should find me watching them.
"Well, let 'em come, lad--let 'em come," said Silver, cheerily. "I've
still a shot in my locker."
The door opened, and the five men, standing huddled together just
inside, pushed one of their number forward. In any other circumstances
it would have been comical to see his slow advance, hesitating as he set
down each foot, but holding his closed right hand in front of him.
"Step up, lad," cried Silver. "I won't eat you. Hand it over, lubber. I
know the rules, I do; I won't hurt a depytation."
Thus encouraged the buccaneer stepped forth more briskly, and having
passed something to Silver, from hand to hand, slipped yet more smartly
back again to his companions.
The sea-cook looked at what had been given him.
"The black spot! I thought so," he observed. "Where might you have got
the paper? Why, hello! look here, now; this ain't lucky! You've gone and
cut this out of a Bible. What fool's cut a Bible?"
"Ah, there," said Morgan, "there! Wot did I say? No good'll come o'
that, I said."
"Well, you've about fixed it now, among you," continued Silver. "You'll
all swing now, I reckon. What soft-headed lubber had a Bible?"
"It was Dick," said one.
"Dick, was it? Then Dick can get to prayers," said Silver. "He's seen
his slice of luck, has Dick, and you may lay to that."
But here the long man with the yellow eyes struck in.
"Belay that talk, John Silver," he said. "This crew has tipped you the
black spot in full council, as in dooty bound; just you turn it over, as
in dooty bound, and see what's wrote there. Then you can talk."
"Thanky, George," replied the sea-cook. "You always was brisk for
business, and has the rules by heart, George, as I'm pleased to see.
Well, what is it, anyway? Ah! 'Deposed'--that's it, is it? Very pretty
wrote, to be sure; like print, I swear. Your hand o' write, George? Why,
you was gettin' quite a leadin' man in this here crew. You'll be cap'n
next, I shouldn't wonder. Just oblige me with that torch again, will
you? this pipe don't draw."
"Come, now," said George, "you don't fool this crew no more. You're a
funny man, by your account; but you're over now, and you'll maybe step
down off that barrel, and help vote."
"I thought you said you knowed the rules," returned Silver,
contemptuously. "Leastways, if you don't, I do; and I wait here--and I'm
still your cap'n, mind--till you outs with your grievances, and I reply;
in the meantime, your black spot ain't worth a biscuit. After that we'll
see."
"Oh," replied George, "you don't be under no kind of apprehension;
_we're_ all square, we are. First, you've made a hash of this
cruise--you'll be a bold man to say no to that. Second, you let the
enemy out o' this here trap for nothing. Why did they want out? I dunno,
but it's pretty plain they wanted it. Third, you wouldn't let us go at
them upon the march. Oh, we see through you, John Silver; you want to
play booty, that's what's wrong with you. And then, fourth, there's this
here boy."
"Is that all?" asked Silver, quietly.
"Enough, too," retorted George. "We'll all swing and sun-dry for your
bungling."
"Well, now, look here, I'll answer these four p'ints; one after another
I'll answer 'em. I made a hash o' this cruise, did I? Well, now, you all
know what I wanted; and you all know, if that had been done, that we'd
'a' been aboard the _Hispaniola_ this night as ever was, every man of us
alive, and fit, and full of good plum-duff, and the treasure in the hold
of her, by thunder! Well, who crossed me? Who forced my hand, as was the
lawful cap'n? Who tipped me the black spot the day we landed, and began
this dance? Ah, it's a fine dance--I'm with you there--and looks mighty
like a hornpipe in a rope's end at Execution Dock by London town, it
does. But who done it? Why, it was Anderson, and Hands, and you, George
Merry! And you're the last above board of that same meddling crew; and
you have the Davy Jones insolence to up and stand for cap'n over
me--you, that sunk the lot of us! By the powers! but this tops the
stiffest yarn to nothing."
Silver paused, and I could see by the faces of George and his late
comrades that these words had not been said in vain.
"That's for number one," cried the accused, wiping the sweat from his
brow, for he had been talking with a vehemence that shook the house.
"Why, I give you my word, I'm sick to speak to you. You've neither sense
nor memory, and I leave it to fancy where your mothers was that let you
come to sea. Sea! Gentlemen o' fortune! I reckon tailors is your trade."
"Go on, John," said Morgan. "Speak up to the others."
"Ah, the others!" returned John. "They're a nice lot, ain't they? You
say this cruise is bungled. Ah! by gum, if you could understand how bad
it's bungled, you would see! We're that near the gibbet that my neck's
stiff with thinking on it. You've seen 'em, maybe, hanged in chains,
birds about 'em, seamen p'inting 'em out as they go down with the tide.
'Who's that?' says one. 'That! Why, that's John Silver. I knowed him
well,' says another. And you can hear the chains a-jangle as you go
about and reach for the other buoy. Now, that's about where we are,
every mother's son of us, thanks to him, and Hands, and Anderson, and
other ruination fools of you. And if you want to know about number four,
and that boy, why, shiver my timbers! isn't he a hostage? Are we a-going
to waste a hostage? No, not us; he might be our last chance, and I
shouldn't wonder. Kill that boy? not me, mates! And number three? Ah,
well, there's a deal to say to number three. Maybe you don't count it
nothing to have a real college doctor come to see you every day--you,
John, with your head broke--or you, George Merry, that had the ague
shakes upon you not six hours agone, and has your eyes the color of
lemon peel to this same moment on the clock? And maybe, perhaps, you
didn't know there was a consort coming, either? But there is, and not so
long till then; and we'll see who'll be glad to have a hostage when it
comes to that. And as for number two, and why I made a bargain--well,
you come crawling on your knees to me to make it--on your knees you
came, you was that downhearted--and you'd have starved, too, if I
hadn't--but that's a trifle! you look there--that's why!"
And he cast down upon the floor a paper that I instantly
recognized--none other than the chart on yellow paper, with the three
red crosses, that I had found in the oilcloth at the bottom of the
captain's chest. Why the doctor had given it to him was more than I
could fancy.
But if it were inexplicable to me, the appearance of the chart was
incredible to the surviving mutineers. They leaped upon it like cats
upon a mouse. It went from hand to hand, one tearing it from another;
and by the oaths and the cries and the childish laughter with which they
accompanied their examination, you would have thought, not only they
were fingering the very gold, but were at sea with it, besides, in
safety.
"Yes," said one, "that's Flint, sure enough. J. F., and a score below,
with a close hitch to it, so he done ever."
"Mighty pretty," said George. "But how are we to get away with it, and
us no ship?"
Silver suddenly sprang up, and supporting himself with a hand against
the wall: "Now, I give you warning, George," he cried. "One more word of
your sauce, and I'll call you down and fight you. How? Why, how do I
know? You had ought to tell me that--you and the rest, that lost me my
schooner, with your interference, burn you! But not you, you can't; you
ain't got the invention of a cockroach. But civil you can speak, and
shall, George Merry, you may lay to that."
"That's fair enow," said the old man Morgan.
"Fair! I reckon so," said the sea-cook. "You lost the ship; I found the
treasure. Who's the better man at that? And now I resign, by thunder!
Elect whom you please to be your cap'n now; I'm done with it."
"Silver!" they cried. "Barbecue forever! Barbecue for cap'n!"
"So that's the toon, is it?" cried the cook. "George, I reckon you'll
have to wait another turn, friend, and lucky for you as I'm not a
revengeful man. But that was never my way. And now, shipmates, this
black spot? 'Tain't much good now, is it? Dick's crossed his luck and
spoiled his Bible, and that's about all."
"It'll do to kiss the book on still, won't it?" growled Dick, who was
evidently uneasy at the curse he had brought upon himself.
"A Bible with a bit cut out!" returned Silver, derisively. "Not it. It
don't bind no more'n a ballad-book."
"Don't it, though?" cried Dick, with a sort of joy. "Well, I reckon
that's worth having, too."
"Here, Jim--here's a cur'osity for you," said Silver, and he tossed me
the paper.
It was a round about the size of a crown piece. One side was blank, for
it had been the last leaf; the other contained a verse or two of
Revelation--these words among the rest, which struck sharply home upon
my mind: "Without are dogs and murderers." The printed side had been
blackened with wood ash, which already began to come off and soil my
fingers; on the blank side had been written with the same material the
one word "Deposed." I have that curiosity beside me at this moment; but
not a trace of writing now remains beyond a single scratch, such as a
man might make with his thumb-nail.
That was the end of the night's business. Soon after, with a drink all
round, we lay down to sleep, and the outside of Silver's vengeance was
to put George Merry up for sentinel, and threaten him with death if he
should prove unfaithful.
It was long ere I could close an eye, and heaven knows I had matter
enough for thought in the man whom I had slain that afternoon, in my own
most perilous position, and, above all, in the remarkable game that I
saw Silver now engaged upon--keeping the mutineers together with one
hand, and grasping, with the other, after every means, possible and
impossible, to make his peace and save his miserable life. He himself
slept peacefully, and snored aloud; yet my heart was sore for him,
wicked as he was, to think on the dark perils that environed, and the
shameful gibbet that awaited him.
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter 30 with the given context. | chapter 30|chapter 31 | Jim wakes up to a voice calling into the fort, announcing that Doctor Livesey is there. Jim is glad to see the Doctor, but he's also ashamed because of his desertion. Long John Silver greets him heartily. Doctor Livesey is coming to treat the pirates for their injuries and sickness. Long John Silver has a surprise for him: Jim! Doctor Livesey is so shocked to see Jim that he stops for a moment without speaking. Before asking what's going on, Doctor Livesey goes in to see the pirates. Even though he knows they might kill him at any time, he doesn't behave as though anything is out of the ordinary. The fellow with the bandaged head is looking a bit better, but George Merry and Dick Johnson are both feverish. Doctor Livesey swears he'll do his best to keep them alive so they can stand trial and be hanged back in England. After treating them all, Doctor Livesey wants to have a word with Jim. George says that's not OK, but Long John Silver allows it as long as Jim swears not to run away. The pirates protest, but Long John Silver tells them to shut up - they'll keep the treaty until the right time, he insists. Long John Silver walks down with Doctor Livesey and Jim to the gate. Long John Silver warns Jim to walk slowly - the pirates are looking for any excuse to turn on Jim and him. Long John Silver wants Jim to stand witness that he saved Jim's life, at great personal risk to himself. Long John Silver leaves Jim and Doctor Livesey to their talk. Doctor Livesey says he's disappointed that Jim ran off like a coward the minute Captain Smollett got injured, and that he'll get what he deserves. Jim starts to cry. Doctor Livesey doesn't need to remind him he's done wrong, and Jim knows he's doomed anyway. Doctor Livesey feels bad and suggests that he and Jim run away. Jim can't - he promised Long John Silver. But Jim is worried that, if he's tortured, he'll reveal that he knows where the ship is. Jim quickly outlines everything he's done since he snuck out of the stockade. Doctor Livesey promises he won't let Jim be killed, since Jim has saved their lives more than once by uncovering the plot and finding Ben Gunn. Doctor Livesey then calls out to Long John Silver, warning him to steer clear of the treasure, or else he'll find more trouble. Long John Silver answers that he can't; he needs that treasure to save his and Jim's lives. Long John Silver asks why Doctor Livesey gave him the map in the first place. Why doesn't Doctor Livesey just come straight out and say what's going on? Doctor Livesey says he can't share a secret that isn't his. Still, Livesey promises to do his best to save Long John Silver if they all get out of this. He also advises that Long John Silver keep Jim close by his side. With that, Doctor Livesey heads back into the forest. |
----------CHAPTER 30---------
ON PAROLE
I was wakened--indeed, we were all wakened, for I could see even the
sentinel shake himself together from where he had fallen against the
doorpost--by a clear, hearty voice hailing us from the margin of the
wood:
"Blockhouse, ahoy!" it cried. "Here's the doctor."
And the doctor it was. Although I was glad to hear the sound, yet my
gladness was not without admixture. I remembered with confusion my
insubordinate and stealthy conduct; and when I saw where it had brought
me--among what companions and surrounded by what dangers--I felt ashamed
to look him in the face.
He must have risen in the dark, for the day had hardly come; and when I
ran to a loophole and looked out, I saw him standing, like Silver once
before, up to the mid-leg in creeping vapor.
"You, doctor! Top o' the morning to you, sir!" cried Silver, broad awake
and beaming with good nature in a moment. "Bright and early, to be sure;
and it's the early bird, as the saying goes, that gets the rations.
George, shake up your timbers, son, and help Doctor Livesey over the
ship's side. All a-doin' well, your patients was--all well and merry."
So he pattered on, standing on the hilltop, with his crutch under his
elbow, and one hand upon the side of the log-house--quite the old John
in voice, manner, and expression.
"We've quite a surprise for you, too, sir," he continued. "We've a
little stranger here--he! he! A noo boarder and lodger, sir, and looking
fit and taut as a fiddle; slep' like a supercargo, he did, right
alongside of John--stem to stem we was, all night."
Doctor Livesey was by this time across the stockade and pretty near the
cook, and I could hear the alteration in his voice as he said:
"Not Jim?"
"The very same Jim as ever was," says Silver.
The doctor stopped outright, although he did not speak, and it was some
seconds before he seemed able to move on.
"Well, well," he said at last, "duty first and pleasure afterwards, as
you might have said yourself, Silver. Let us overhaul these patients of
yours."
A moment afterwards he had entered the blockhouse, and, with one grim
nod to me, proceeded with his work among the sick. He seemed under no
apprehension, though he must have known that his life, among these
treacherous demons, depended on a hair, and he rattled on to his
patients as if he were paying an ordinary professional visit in a quiet
English family. His manner, I suppose, reacted on the men, for they
behaved to him as if nothing had occurred--as if he were still ship's
doctor, and they still faithful hands before the mast.
"You're doing well, my friend," he said to the fellow with the bandaged
head, "and if ever any person had a close shave, it was you; your head
must be as hard as iron. Well, George, how goes it? You're a pretty
color, certainly; why, your liver, man, is upside down. Did you take
that medicine? Did he take that medicine, men?"
"Ay, ay, sir, he took it sure enough," returned Morgan.
"Because, you see, since I am mutineers' doctor, or prison doctor, as I
prefer to call it," says Doctor Livesey, in his pleasantest way, "I make
it a point of honor not to lose a man for King George (God bless him!)
and the gallows."
The rogues looked at each other, but swallowed the home-thrust in
silence.
"Dick don't feel well, sir," said one.
"Don't he?" replied the doctor. "Well, step up here, Dick, and let me
see your tongue. No, I should be surprised if he did; the man's tongue
is fit to frighten the French. Another fever."
"Ah, there," said Morgan, "that comed of sp'iling Bibles."
"That comed--as you call it--of being arrant asses," retorted the
doctor, "and not having sense enough to know honest air from poison, and
the dry land from a vile, pestiferous slough. I think it most
probable--though, of course, it's only an opinion--that you'll all have
the deuce to pay before you get that malaria out of your systems. Camp
in a bog, would you? Silver, I'm surprised at you. You're less of a fool
than many, take you all round; but you don't appear to me to have the
rudiments of a notion of the rules of health.
"Well," he added, after he had dosed them round, and they had taken his
prescriptions, with really laughable humility, more like charity
school-children than blood-guilty mutineers and pirates, "well, that's
done for to-day. And now I should wish to have a talk with that boy,
please."
And he nodded his head in my direction carelessly.
George Merry was at the door, spitting and spluttering over some
bad-tasted medicine; but at the first word of the doctor's proposal he
swung round with a deep flush, and cried, "No!" and swore.
Silver struck the barrel with his open hand.
"Si-lence!" he roared, and looked about him positively like a lion.
"Doctor," he went on, in his usual tones, "I was thinking of that,
knowing as how you had a fancy for the boy. We're all humbly grateful
for your kindness, and, as you see, puts faith in you, and takes the
drugs down like that much grog. And I take it I've found a way as'll
suit all. Hawkins, will you give me your word of honor as a young
gentleman--for a young gentleman you are, although poor born--your word
of honor not to slip your cable?"
I readily gave the pledge required.
"Then, doctor," said Silver, "you just step outside o' that stockade,
and once you're there, I'll bring the boy down on the inside, and I
reckon you can yarn through the spars. Good-day to you, sir, and all our
dooties to the squire and Cap'n Smollett."
The explosion of disapproval, which nothing but Silver's black looks had
restrained, broke out immediately the doctor had left the house. Silver
was roundly accused of playing double--of trying to make a separate
peace for himself--of sacrificing the interests of his accomplices and
victims; and, in one word, of the identical, exact thing that he was
doing. It seemed to me so obvious, in this case, that I could not
imagine how he was to turn their anger. But he was twice the man the
rest were, and his last night's victory had given him a huge
preponderance on their minds. He called them all the fools and dolts
you can imagine, said it was necessary I should talk to the doctor,
fluttered the chart in their faces, asked them if they could afford to
break the treaty the very day they were bound a-treasure-hunting.
"No, by thunder!" he cried, "it's us must break the treaty when the time
comes; and till then I'll gammon that doctor, if I have to ile his boots
with brandy."
And then he bade them get the fire lit, and stalked out upon his crutch,
with his hand on my shoulder, leaving them in a disarray, and silenced
by his volubility rather than convinced.
"Slow, lad, slow," he said. "They might round upon us in a twinkle of an
eye if we was seen to hurry."
Very deliberately, then, did we advance across the sand to where the
doctor awaited us on the other side of the stockade, and as soon as we
were within easy speaking distance, Silver stopped.
"You'll make a note of this here also, doctor," said he, "and the boy'll
tell you how I saved his life, and were deposed for it, too, and you may
lay to that. Doctor, when a man's steering as near to the wind as
me--playing chuck-farthing with the last breath in his body, like--you
wouldn't think it too much, mayhap, to give him one good word! You'll
please bear in mind it's not my life only now--it's that boy's into the
bargain; and you'll speak me fair, doctor, and give me a bit o' hope to
go on, for the sake of mercy."
Silver was a changed man, once he was out there and had his back to his
friends and the blockhouse; his cheeks seemed to have fallen in, his
voice trembled; never was a soul more dead in earnest.
"Why, John, you're not afraid?" asked Doctor Livesey.
"Doctor, I'm no coward; no, not I--not _so_ much!" and he snapped his
fingers. "If I was I wouldn't say it. But I'll own up fairly, I've the
shakes upon me for the gallows. You're a good man and a true; I never
seen a better man! And you'll not forget what I done good, not any more
than you'll forget the bad, I know. And I step aside--see here--and
leave you and Jim alone. And you'll put that down for me, too, for it's
a long stretch, is that!"
So saying, he stepped back a little way till he was out of earshot, and
there sat down upon a tree-stump and began to whistle, spinning round
now and again upon his seat so as to command a sight, sometimes of me
and the doctor, and sometimes of his unruly ruffians as they went to and
fro in the sand, between the fire--which they were busy rekindling--and
the house, from which they brought forth pork and bread to make the
breakfast.
"So, Jim," said the doctor, sadly, "here you are. As you have brewed, so
shall you drink, my boy. Heaven knows I cannot find it in my heart to
blame you; but this much I will say, be it kind or unkind: when Captain
Smollett was well you dared not have gone off, and when he was ill, and
couldn't help it by George, it was downright cowardly!"
I will own that I here began to weep. "Doctor," I said, "you might spare
me. I have blamed myself enough; my life's forfeit anyway, and I should
have been dead now if Silver hadn't stood for me; and, doctor, believe
this, I can die--and I dare say I deserve it--but what I fear is
torture. If they come to torture me--"
"Jim," the doctor interrupted, and his voice was quite changed, "Jim, I
can't have this. Whip over, and we'll run for it."
"Doctor," said I, "I passed my word."
"I know, I know," he cried. "We can't help that, Jim, now. I'll take it
on my shoulders, holus-bolus, blame and shame, my boy; but stay here, I
cannot let you. Jump! One jump and you're out, and we'll run for it like
antelopes."
"No," I replied, "you know right well you wouldn't do the thing
yourself; neither you, nor squire, nor captain, and no more will I.
Silver trusted me; I passed my word, and back I go. But, doctor, you did
not let me finish. If they come to torture me, I might let slip a word
of where the ship is; for I got the ship, part by luck and part by
risking, and she lies in North Inlet, on the southern beach, and just
below high water. At half-tide she must be high and dry."
"The ship!" exclaimed the doctor.
Rapidly I described to him my adventures, and he heard me out in
silence.
"There's a kind of fate in this," he observed, when I had done. "Every
step it's you that save our lives, and do you suppose by any chance that
we are going to let you lose yours? That would be a poor return, my boy.
You found out the plot; you found Ben Gunn--the best deed that ever you
did, or will do, though you live to ninety. Oh, by Jupiter! and talking
of Ben Gunn, why, this is the mischief in person. Silver!" he cried,
"Silver! I'll give you a piece of advice," he continued, as the cook
drew near again; "don't you be in any great hurry after that treasure."
"Why, sir, I do my possible, which that ain't," said Silver. "I can
only, asking your pardon, save my life and the boy's by seeking for that
treasure; and you may lay to that."
"Well, Silver," replied the doctor, "if that is so, I'll go one step
farther; look out for squalls when you find it!"
"Sir," said Silver, "as between man and man, that's too much and too
little. What you're after, why you left the blockhouse, why you've given
me that there chart, I don't know, now, do I? and yet I done your
bidding with my eyes shut and never a word of hope! But no, this here's
too much. If you won't tell me what you mean plain out, just say so, and
I'll leave the helm."
"No," said the doctor, musingly, "I've no right to say more; it's not my
secret, you see, Silver, or, I give you my word, I'd tell it you. But
I'll go as far with you as I dare go, and a step beyond, for I'll have
my wig sorted by the captain, or I'm mistaken! And first, I'll give you
a bit of hope. Silver, if we both get out alive out of this wolf-trap,
I'll do my best to save you, short of perjury."
Silver's face was radiant. "You couldn't say more, I am sure, sir, not
if you was my mother," he cried.
"Well, that's my first concession," added the doctor. "My second is a
piece of advice. Keep the boy close beside you, and when you need help,
halloo. I'm off to seek it for you, and that itself will show you if I
speak at random. Good-by, Jim."
And Doctor Livesey shook hands with me through the stockade, nodded to
Silver, and set off at a brisk pace into the wood.
----------CHAPTER 31---------
THE TREASURE-HUNT--FLINT'S POINTER
"Jim," said Silver, when we were alone, "if I saved your life, you saved
mine, and I'll not forget it. I seen the doctor waving you to run for
it--with the tail of my eye, I did--and I seen you say no, as plain as
hearing. Jim, that's one to you. This is the first glint of hope I had
since the attack failed, and I owe it to you. And now, Jim, we're to go
in for this here treasure-hunting, with sealed orders, too, and I don't
like it; and you and me must stick close, back to back like, and we'll
save our necks in spite o' fate and fortune."
Just then a man hailed us from the fire that breakfast was ready, and we
were soon seated here and there about the sand over biscuit and fried
junk. They had lighted a fire fit to roast an ox; and it was now grown
so hot that they could only approach it from the windward, and even
there not without precaution. In the same wasteful spirit, they had
cooked, I suppose, three times more than we could eat; and one of them,
with an empty laugh, threw what was left into the fire, which blazed and
roared again over this unusual fuel. I never in my life saw men so
careless of the morrow; hand to mouth is the only word that can describe
their way of doing; and what with wasted food and sleeping sentries,
though they were bold enough for a brush and be done with it, I could
see their entire unfitness for anything like a prolonged campaign.
Even Silver, eating away, with Captain Flint upon his shoulder, had not
a word of blame for their recklessness. And this the more surprised me,
for I thought he had never showed himself so cunning as he did then.
"Ay, mates," said he, "it's lucky you have Barbecue to think for you
with this here head. I got what I wanted, I did. Sure enough, they have
the ship. Where they have it, I don't know yet; but once we hit the
treasure, we'll have to jump about and find out. And then, mates, us
that has the boats, I reckon, has the upper hand."
Thus he kept running on, with his mouth full of the hot bacon; thus he
restored their hope and confidence, and, I more than suspect, repaired
his own at the same time.
"As for hostage," he continued, "that's his last talk, I guess, with
them he loves so dear. I've got my piece o' news, and thanky to him for
that; but it's over and done. I'll take him in a line when we go
treasure-hunting, for we'll keep him like so much gold, in case of
accidents, you mark, and in the meantime. Once we got the ship and
treasure both, and off to sea like jolly companions, why, then we'll
talk Mr. Hawkins over, we will, and we'll give him his share, to be
sure, for all his kindness."
It was no wonder the men were in a good humor now. For my part, I was
horribly cast down. Should the scheme he had now sketched prove
feasible, Silver, already doubly a traitor, would not hesitate to adopt
it. He had still a foot in either camp, and there was no doubt he would
prefer wealth and freedom with the pirates to a bare escape from
hanging, which was the best he had to hope on our side.
Nay, and even if things so fell out that he was forced to keep his faith
with Doctor Livesey, even then what danger lay before us! What a moment
that would be when the suspicions of his followers turned to certainty,
and he and I should have to fight for dear life--he, a cripple, and I, a
boy--against five strong and active seamen!
Add to this double apprehension the mystery that still hung over the
behavior of my friends; their unexplained desertion of the stockade;
their inexplicable cession of the chart; or, harder still to understand,
the doctor's last warning to Silver, "Look out for squalls when you find
it"; and you will readily believe how little taste I found in my
breakfast, and with how uneasy a heart I set forth behind my captors on
the quest for treasure.
We made a curious figure, had anyone been there to see us; all in soiled
sailor clothes, and all but me armed to the teeth. Silver had two guns
slung about him, one before and one behind--besides the great cutlass at
his waist, and a pistol in each pocket of his square-tailed coat. To
complete his strange appearance, Captain Flint sat perched upon his
shoulder and gabbled odds and ends of purposeless sea-talk. I had a line
about my waist, and followed obediently after the sea-cook, who held the
loose end of the rope, now in his free hand, now between his powerful
teeth. For all the world, I was led like a dancing bear.
The other men were variously burdened; some carrying picks and
shovels--for that had been the very first necessary they brought ashore
from the _Hispaniola_--others laden with pork, bread, and brandy for the
midday meal. All the stores, I observed, came from our stock, and I
could see the truth of Silver's words the night before. Had he not
struck a bargain with the doctor, he and his mutineers, deserted by the
ship, must have been driven to subsist on clear water, and the proceeds
of their hunting. Water would have been little to their taste; a sailor
is not usually a good shot; and, besides all that, when they were so
short of eatables, it was not likely they would be very flush of powder.
Well, thus equipped, we all set out--even the fellow with the broken
head, who should certainly have kept in shadow--and straggled, one after
another, to the beach, where the two gigs awaited us. Even these bore
trace of the drunken folly of the pirates, one in a broken thwart, and
both in their muddied and unbailed condition. Both were to be carried
along with us, for the sake of safety; and so, with our numbers divided
between them, we set forth upon the bosom of the anchorage.
As we pulled over, there was some discussion on the chart. The red cross
was, of course, far too large to be a guide; and the terms of the note
on the back, as you will hear, admitted of some ambiguity. They ran, the
reader may remember, thus:
"Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to the N. of N.N.E.
"Skeleton Island E.S.E. and by E.
"Ten feet."
A tall tree was thus the principal mark. Now, right before us, the
anchorage was bounded by a plateau from two to three hundred feet high,
adjoining on the north the sloping southern shoulder of the Spy-glass,
and rising again toward the south into the rough, cliffy eminence called
the Mizzen-mast Hill. The top of the plateau was dotted thickly with
pine trees of varying height. Every here and there, one of a different
species rose forty or fifty feet clear above its neighbors, and which of
these was the particular "tall tree" of Captain Flint could only be
decided on the spot, and by the readings of the compass.
Yet, although that was the case, every man on board the boats had picked
a favorite of his own ere we were halfway over, Long John alone
shrugging his shoulders and bidding them wait till they were there.
We pulled easily, by Silver's directions, not to weary the hands
prematurely; and, after quite a long passage, landed at the mouth of the
second river--that which runs down a woody cleft of the Spy-glass.
Thence, bending to our left, we began to ascend the slope towards the
plateau.
At the first outset, heavy, miry ground and a matted, marsh vegetation
greatly delayed our progress; but by little and little the hill began to
steepen and become stony under foot, and the wood to change its
character and to grow in a more open order. It was, indeed, a most
pleasant portion of the island that we were now approaching. A
heavy-scented broom and many flowering shrubs had almost taken the place
of grass. Thickets of green nutmeg-trees were dotted here and there with
the red columns and the broad shadow of the pines, and the first mingled
their spice with the aroma of the others. The air, besides, was fresh
and stirring, and this, under the sheer sunbeams, was a wonderful
refreshment to our senses.
The party spread itself abroad, in a fan shape, shouting and leaping to
and fro. About the center, and a good way behind the rest, Silver and I
followed--I tethered by my rope, he plowing, with deep pants, among the
sliding gravel. From time to time, indeed, I had to lend him a hand, or
he must have missed his footing and fallen backward down the hill.
We had thus proceeded for about half a mile, and were approaching the
brow of the plateau, when the man upon the farthest left began to cry
aloud, as if in terror. Shout after shout came from him, and the others
began to run in his direction.
"He can't 'a' found the treasure," said old Morgan, hurrying past us
from the right, "for that's clean a-top."
Indeed, as we found when we also reached the spot, it was something very
different. At the foot of a pretty big pine, and involved in a green
creeper, which had even partly lifted some of the smaller bones, a human
skeleton lay, with a few shreds of clothing, on the ground. I believe a
chill struck for a moment to every heart.
"He was a seaman," said George Merry, who, bolder than the rest, had
gone up close, and was examining the rags of clothing. "Leastways, this
is good sea-cloth."
"Ay, ay," said Silver, "like enough; you wouldn't look to find a bishop
here, I reckon. But what sort of a way is that for bones to lie? 'Tain't
in natur'."
Indeed, on a second glance, it seemed impossible to fancy that the body
was in a natural position. But for some disarray (the work, perhaps, of
the birds that had fed upon him, or of the slow-growing creeper that had
gradually enveloped his remains) the man lay perfectly straight--his
feet pointing in one direction, his hands raised above his head like a
diver's, pointing directly in the opposite.
"I've taken a notion into my old numskull," observed Silver. "Here's the
compass; there's the tip-top p'int of Skeleton Island, stickin' out like
a tooth. Just take a bearing, will you, along the line of them bones."
It was done. The body pointed straight in the direction of the island,
and the compass read duly E.S.E. by E.
"I thought so," cried the cook; "this here is a p'inter. Right up there
is our line for the Pole Star and the jolly dollars. But, by thunder! if
it don't make me cold inside to think of Flint. This is one of _his_
jokes, and no mistake. Him and these six was alone here; he killed 'em,
every man; and this one he hauled here and laid down by compass, shiver
my timbers! They're long bones, and the hair's been yellow. Ay, that
would be Allardyce. You mind Allardyce, Tom Morgan?"
"Ay, ay," returned Morgan, "I mind him; he owed me money, he did, and
took my knife ashore with him."
"Speaking of knives," said another, "why don't we find his'n lying
round? Flint warn't the man to pick a seaman's pocket; and the birds, I
guess, would leave it be."
"By the powers and that's true!" cried Silver.
"There ain't a thing left here," said Merry, still feeling round among
the bones; "not a copper doit nor a baccy box. It don't look nat'ral to
me."
"No, by gum, it don't," agreed Silver; "not nat'ral, nor not nice, says
you. Great guns, messmates, but if Flint was living this would be a hot
spot for you and me! Six they were, and six are we; and bones is what
they are now."
"I saw him dead with these here deadlights," said Morgan. "Billy took me
in. There he laid, with penny-pieces on his eyes."
"Dead--ay, sure enough he's dead and gone below," said the fellow with
the bandage; "but if ever sperrit walked it would be Flint's. Dear
heart, but he died bad, did Flint!"
"Ay, that he did," observed another; "now he raged and now he hollered
for the rum, and now he sang. 'Fifteen Men' were his only song, mates;
and I tell you true, I never rightly liked to hear it since. It was main
hot and the windy was open, and I hear that old song comin' out as clear
as clear--and the death-haul on the man already."
"Come, come," said Silver, "stow this talk. He's dead, and he don't
walk, that I know; leastways he won't walk by day, and you may lay to
that. Care killed a cat. Fetch ahead for the doubloons."
We started, certainly, but in spite of the hot sun and the staring
daylight, the pirates no longer ran separate and shouting through the
wood, but kept side by side and spoke with bated breath. The terror of
the dead buccaneer had fallen on their spirits.
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter 32 with the given context. | chapter 32|chapter 33 | The pirates stop to take a rest after reaching the top of the hill. Tom Morgan says he's not feeling well; he's still thinking about Captain Flint. They start talking about the pirate captain again. Suddenly a high voice somewhere in the trees starts singing, "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest/ Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum!" . The six pirates truly freak out - Tom Morgan actually falls to the ground. Long John Silver is pale and frightened, but he tells the other pirates it's just someone messing around. Then the voice calls, "Fetch aft the rum, Darby!" . Apparently, these were Flint's last words. Long John Silver won't let the other terrified pirates turn back. He points out that the call had an echo - and no spirit voice echoes, does it? George Merry seems comforted by Long John Silver's observation. They realize that the voice doesn't sound like Captain Flint at all - it sounds like Ben Gunn! George Merry says no one cares about the ghost of Ben Gunn. So all the pirates seem to feel much better, and they continue on. Dick Johnson is still holding his Bible fearfully, and Long John Silver makes fun of him for it. Finally they reach the three tall pines where the treasure is buried. Thinking he's about to find a vast treasure, Long John Silver looks menacingly at Jim. Jim realizes that if the pirates find the treasure, Long John Silver may not honor the treaty he struck with Doctor Livesey. Dick Johnson has started babbling - he's caught a bad fever and he's becoming incoherent. Then they find something that's a complete shock: the treasure has already been dug up! |
----------CHAPTER 32---------
THE TREASURE-HUNT--THE VOICE AMONG THE TREES
Partly from the damping influence of this alarm, partly to rest Silver
and the sick folk, the whole party sat down as soon as they had gained
the brow of the ascent.
The plateau being somewhat tilted toward the west, this spot on which we
had paused commanded a wide prospect on either hand. Before us, over the
tree-tops, we beheld the Cape of the Woods fringed with surf; behind, we
not only looked down upon the anchorage and Skeleton Island, but
saw--clear across the spit and the eastern lowlands--a great field of
open sea upon the east. Sheer above us rose the Spy-glass, here dotted
with single pines, there black with precipices. There was no sound but
that of the distant breakers mounting from all around, and the chirp of
countless insects in the brush. Not a man, not a sail upon the sea; the
very largeness of the view increased the sense of solitude.
Silver, as he sat, took certain bearings with his compass.
"There are three 'tall trees,'" said he, "about in the right line from
Skeleton Island. 'Spy-glass Shoulder,' I take it, means that lower p'int
there. It's child's play to find the stuff now. I've half a mind to dine
first."
"I don't feel sharp," growled Morgan. "Thinkin' o' Flint--I think it
were--as done me."
"Ah, well, my son, you praise your stars he's dead," said Silver.
"He was an ugly devil," cried a third pirate, with a shudder; "that blue
in the face, too!"
"That was how the rum took him," added Merry. "Blue! well I reckon he
was blue. That's a true word."
Ever since they had found the skeleton and got upon this train of
thought, they had spoken lower and lower, and they had almost got to
whispering by now, so that the sound of their talk hardly interrupted
the silence of the wood. All of a sudden, out of the middle of the trees
in front of us, a thin, high, trembling voice struck up the well-known
air and words:
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
I never have seen men more dreadfully affected than the pirates. The
color went from their six faces like enchantment; some leaped to their
feet, some clawed hold of others; Morgan groveled on the ground.
"It's Flint, by ----!" cried Merry.
The song had stopped as suddenly as it began--broken off, you would have
said, in the middle of a note, as though someone had laid his hand upon
the singer's mouth. Coming so far through the clear, sunny atmosphere
among the green tree-tops, I thought it had sounded airily and sweetly,
and the effect on my companions was the stranger.
"Come," said Silver, struggling with his ashen lips to get the word out,
"that won't do. Stand by to go about. This is a rum start, and I can't
name the voice, but it's someone skylarking--someone that's flesh and
blood, and you may lay to that."
His courage had come back as he spoke, and some of the color to his face
along with it. Already the others had begun to lend an ear to this
encouragement, and were coming a little to themselves, when the same
voice broke out again--not this time singing, but in a faint, distant
hail, that echoed yet fainter among the clefts of the Spy-glass.
"Darby M'Graw," it wailed--for that is the word that best describes the
sound--"Darby M'Graw! Darby M'Graw!" again and again and again; and then
rising a little higher, and with an oath that I leave out: "Fetch aft
the rum, Darby!"
The buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes starting from
their heads. Long after the voice had died away they still stared in
silence, dreadfully, before them.
"That fixes it!" gasped one. "Let's go."
"They was his last words," moaned Morgan, "his last words above-board."
Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had been well brought
up, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.
Still, Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle in his
head, but he had not yet surrendered.
"Nobody in this here island ever heard of Darby," he muttered; "not one
but us that's here." And then, making a great effort: "Shipmates," he
cried, "I'm here to get that stuff, and I'll not be beat by man nor
devil. I never was feared of Flint in his life, and, by the powers, I'll
face him dead. There's seven hundred thousand pound not a quarter of a
mile from here. When did ever a gentleman o' fortune show his stern to
that much dollars for a boozy old seaman with a blue mug--and him dead,
too?"
But there was no sign of reawakening courage in his followers; rather,
indeed, of growing terror at the irreverence of his words.
"Belay there, John!" said Merry. "Don't you cross a sperrit."
And the rest were all too terrified to reply. They would have run away
severally had they dared, but fear kept them together, and kept them
close by John, as if his daring helped them. He, on his part, had pretty
well fought his weakness down.
"Sperrit? Well, maybe," he said. "But there's one thing not clear to me.
There was an echo. Now, no man ever seen a sperrit with a shadow. Well,
then, what's he doing with an echo to him, I should like to know? That
ain't in natur', surely."
This argument seemed weak enough to me. But you can never tell what will
affect the superstitious, and, to my wonder, George Merry was greatly
relieved.
"Well, that's so," he said. "You've a head upon your shoulders, John,
and no mistake. 'Bout ship, mates! This here crew is on a wrong tack, I
do believe. And come to think on it, it was like Flint's voice, I grant
you, but not just so clear away like it, after all. It was liker
somebody else's voice now--it was liker--"
"By the powers, Ben Gunn!" roared Silver.
"Ay, and so it were," cried Morgan, springing on his knees. "Ben Gunn it
were!"
"It don't make much odds, do it, now?" asked Dick. "Ben Gunn's not here
in the body, any more'n Flint."
But the older hands greeted this remark with scorn.
"Why, nobody minds Ben Gunn," cried Merry; "dead or alive, nobody minds
him!"
It was extraordinary how their spirits had returned, and how the natural
color had revived in their faces. Soon they were chatting together, with
intervals of listening; and not long after, hearing no further sound,
they shouldered the tools and set forth again, Merry walking first with
Silver's compass to keep them on the right line with Skeleton Island. He
had said the truth; dead or alive, nobody minded Ben Gunn.
Dick alone still held his Bible, and looked around him as he went, with
fearful glances; but he found no sympathy, and Silver even joked him on
his precautions.
"I told you," said he, "I told you you had sp'iled your Bible. If it
ain't no good to swear by, what do you suppose a sperrit would give for
it? Not that!" and he snapped his big fingers, halting a moment on his
crutch.
But Dick was not to be comforted; indeed, it was soon plain to me that
the lad was falling sick; hastened by heat, exhaustion, and the shock of
his alarm, the fever, predicted by Doctor Livesey, was evidently growing
swiftly higher.
It was fine open walking here, upon the summit; our way lay a little
downhill, for, as I have said, the plateau tilted toward the west. The
pines, great and small, grew wide apart; and even between the clumps of
nutmeg and azalea, wide open spaces baked in the hot sunshine. Striking,
as we did, pretty near northwest across the island, we drew, on the one
hand, ever nearer under the shoulders of the Spy-glass, and on the
other, looked ever wider over that western bay where I had once tossed
and trembled in the coracle.
The first of the tall trees was reached, and by the bearing, proved the
wrong one. So with the second. The third rose nearly two hundred feet
into the air above a clump of underwood; a giant of a vegetable, with a
red column as big as a cottage, and a wide shadow around in which a
company could have maneuvered. It was conspicuous far to sea, both on
the east and west, and might have been entered as a sailing mark upon
the chart.
But it was not its size that now impressed my companions; it was the
knowledge that seven hundred thousand pounds in gold lay somewhere
buried below its spreading shadow. The thought of the money, as they
drew nearer, swallowed up their previous terrors. Their eyes burned in
their heads; their feet grew speedier and lighter; their whole soul was
bound up in that fortune, that whole lifetime of extravagance and
pleasure, that lay waiting there for each of them.
Silver hobbled, grunting, on his crutch; his nostrils stood out and
quivered; he cursed like a madman when the flies settled on his hot and
shiny countenance; he plucked furiously at the line that held me to him,
and, from time to time, turned his eyes upon me with a deadly look.
Certainly he took no pains to hide his thoughts; and certainly I read
them like print. In the immediate nearness of the gold, all else had
been forgotten; his promise and the doctor's warning were both things of
the past; and I could not doubt that he hoped to seize upon the
treasure, find and board the _Hispaniola_ under cover of night, cut
every honest throat about that island, and sail away as he had at first
intended, laden with crimes and riches.
Shaken as I was with these alarms, it was hard for me to keep up with
the rapid pace of the treasure-hunters. Now and again I stumbled, and it
was then that Silver plucked so roughly at the rope and launched at me
his murderous glances. Dick, who had dropped behind us, and now brought
up the rear, was babbling to himself both prayers and curses, as his
fever kept rising. This also added to my wretchedness, and, to crown
all, I was haunted by the thought of the tragedy that had once been
acted on that plateau, when that ungodly buccaneer with the blue
face--he who had died at Savannah, singing and shouting for drink--had
there, with his own hand, cut down his six accomplices. This grove, that
was now so peaceful, must then have rung with cries, I thought; and even
with the thought I could believe I heard it ringing still.
We were now at the margin of the thicket.
"Huzza, mates, altogether!" shouted Merry, and the foremost broke into a
run.
And suddenly, not ten yards farther, we beheld them stop. A low cry
arose. Silver doubled his pace, digging away with the foot of his crutch
like one possessed, and next moment he and I had come also to a dead
halt.
Before us was a great excavation, not very recent, for the sides had
fallen in and grass had sprouted on the bottom. In this were the shaft
of a pick broken in two and the boards of several packing cases strewn
around. On one of these boards I saw branded with a hot iron, the name
_Walrus_--the name of Flint's ship.
All was clear to probation. The _cache_ had been found and rifled--the
seven hundred thousand pounds were gone!
----------CHAPTER 33---------
THE FALL OF A CHIEFTAIN
There never was such an overturn in this world. Each of these six men
was as though he had been struck. But with Silver the blow passed almost
instantly. Every thought of his soul had been set full-stretch, like a
racer, on that money; well, he was brought up in a single second, dead;
and he kept his head, found his temper, and changed his plan before the
others had had time to realize the disappointment.
"Jim," he whispered, "take that, and stand by for trouble."
And he passed me a double-barreled pistol.
At the same time he began quietly moving northward, and in a few steps
had put the hollow between us two and the other five. Then he looked at
me and nodded, as much as to say: "Here is a narrow corner," as, indeed,
I thought it was. His looks were now quite friendly, and I was so
revolted at these constant changes that I could not forbear whispering:
"So you've changed sides again."
There was no time left for him to answer in. The buccaneers, with oaths
and cries, began to leap, one after another, into the pit, and to dig
with their fingers, throwing the boards aside as they did so. Morgan
found a piece of gold. He held it up with a perfect spout of oaths. It
was a two-guinea piece, and it went from hand to hand among them for a
quarter of a minute.
"Two guineas!" roared Merry, shaking it at Silver. "That's your seven
hundred thousand pounds, is it? You're the man for bargains, ain't you?
You're him that never bungled nothing, you wooden-headed lubber!"
"Dig away, boys," said Silver, with the coolest insolence; "you'll find
some pig-nuts, and I shouldn't wonder."
"Pig-nuts!" repeated Merry, in a scream. "Mates, do you hear that? I
tell you now, that man there knew it all along. Look in the face of him,
and you'll see it wrote there."
"Ah, Merry," remarked Silver, "standing for cap'n again? You're a
pushing lad, to be sure."
But this time every one was entirely in Merry's favor. They began to
scramble out of the excavation, darting furious glances behind them. One
thing I observed, which looked well for us; they all got out upon the
opposite side from Silver.
Well, there we stood, two on one side, five on the other, the pit
between us, and nobody screwed up high enough to offer the first blow.
Silver never moved; he watched them, very upright on his crutch, and
looked as cool as ever I saw him. He was brave, and no mistake.
At last, Merry seemed to think a speech might help matters.
"Mates," says he, "there's two of them alone there; one's the old
cripple that brought us all here and blundered us down to this; the
other's that cub that I mean to have the heart of. Now, mates--"
He was raising his arm and his voice, and plainly meant to lead a
charge. But just then--crack! crack! crack!--three musket-shots flashed
out of the thicket. Merry tumbled headforemost into the excavation; the
man with the bandage spun round like a teetotum, and fell all his length
upon his side, where he lay dead, but still twitching; and the other
three turned and ran for it with all their might.
Before you could wink Long John had fired two barrels of a pistol into
the struggling Merry; and as the man rolled up his eyes at him in the
last agony, "George," said he, "I reckon I settled you."
At the same moment the doctor, Gray, and Ben Gunn joined us, with
smoking muskets, from among the nutmeg-trees.
"Forward!" cried the doctor. "Double quick, my lads. We must head 'em
off the boats."
And we set off at a great pace, sometimes plunging through the bushes to
the chest.
I tell you, but Silver was anxious to keep up with us. The work that man
went through, leaping on his crutch till the muscles of his chest were
fit to burst, was work no sound man ever equaled; and so thinks the
doctor. As it was, he was already thirty yards behind us, and on the
verge of strangling, when we reached the brow of the slope.
"Doctor," he hailed, "see there! no hurry!"
Sure enough there was no hurry. In a more open part of the plateau we
could see the three survivors still running in the same direction as
they had started, right for Mizzen-mast Hill. We were already between
them and the boats, and so we four sat down to breathe, while Long John,
mopping his face, came slowly up with us.
"Thank ye kindly, doctor," says he. "You came in in about the nick, I
guess, for me and Hawkins. And so it's you, Ben Gunn!" he added. "Well,
you're a nice one, to be sure."
"I'm Ben Gunn, I am," replied the maroon, wriggling like an eel in his
embarrassment. "And," he added, after a long pause, "how do, Mr. Silver!
Pretty well, I thank ye, says you."
"Ben, Ben," murmured Silver, "to think as you've done me!"
The doctor sent back Gray for one of the pickaxes deserted, in their
flight, by the mutineers; and then as we proceeded leisurely downhill to
where the boats were lying, related, in a few words, what had taken
place. It was a story that profoundly interested Silver, and Ben Gunn,
the half-idiot maroon, was the hero from beginning to end.
Ben, in his long, lonely wanderings about the island, had found the
skeleton. It was he that had rifled it; he had found the treasure; he
had dug it up (it was the haft of his pickax that lay broken in the
excavation); he had carried it on his back, in many weary journeys, from
the foot of the tall pine to a cave he had on the two-pointed hill at
the northeast angle of the island, and there it had lain stored in
safety since two months before the arrival of the _Hispaniola_.
When the doctor had wormed this secret from him, on the afternoon of the
attack, and when, next morning, he saw the anchorage deserted, he had
gone to Silver, given him the chart, which was now useless; given him
the stores, for Ben Gunn's cave was well supplied with goats' meat
salted by himself; given anything and everything to get a chance of
moving in safety from the stockade to the two-pointed hill, there to be
clear of malaria and keep a guard upon the money.
"As for you, Jim," he said, "it went against my heart, but I did what I
thought best for those who had stood by their duty; and if you were not
one of these, whose fault was it?"
That morning, finding that I was to be involved in the horrid
disappointment he had prepared for the mutineers, he had run all the way
to the cave, and, leaving squire to guard the captain, had taken Gray
and the maroon, and started, making the diagonal across the island, to
be at hand beside the pine. Soon, however, he saw that our party had the
start of him; and Ben Gunn, being fleet of foot, had been dispatched in
front to do his best alone. Then it had occurred to him to work upon the
superstitions of his former shipmates; and he was so far successful that
Gray and the doctor had come up and were already ambushed before the
arrival of the treasure-hunters.
"Ah," said Silver, "it was fortunate for me that I had Hawkins here. You
would have let old John be cut to bits, and never given it a thought,
doctor."
"Not a thought," replied Doctor Livesey, cheerily.
And by this time we had reached the gigs. The doctor, with the pickax,
demolished one of them, and then we all got aboard the other, and set
out to go round by the sea for North Inlet.
This was a run of eight or nine miles. Silver, though he was almost
killed already with fatigue, was set to an oar, like the rest of us, and
we were soon skimming swiftly over a smooth sea. Soon we passed out of
the straits and doubled the southeast corner of the island, round which,
four days ago, we had towed the _Hispaniola_.
As we passed the two-pointed hill we could see the black mouth of Ben
Gunn's cave, and a figure standing by it, leaning on a musket. It was
the squire, and we waved a handkerchief and gave him three cheers, in
which the voice of Silver joined as heartily as any.
Three miles farther, just inside the mouth of North Inlet, what should
we meet but the _Hispaniola_, cruising by herself! The last flood had
lifted her, and had there been much wind, or a strong tide current, as
in the southern anchorage, we should never have found her more, or found
her stranded beyond help. As it was, there was little amiss, beyond the
wreck of the mainsail. Another anchor was got ready, and dropped in a
fathom and a half of water. We all pulled round again to Rum Cove, the
nearest point for Ben Gunn's treasure-house; and then Gray,
single-handed, returned with the gig to the _Hispaniola_, where he was
to pass the night on guard.
A gentle slope ran up from the beach to the entrance of the cave. At the
top, the squire met us. To me he was cordial and kind, saying nothing of
my escapade, either in the way of blame or praise. At Silver's polite
salute he somewhat flushed.
"John Silver," he said, "you're a prodigious villain and impostor--a
monstrous impostor, sir. I am told I am not to prosecute you. Well,
then, I will not. But the dead men, sir, hang about your neck like
millstones."
"Thank you kindly, sir," replied Long John, again saluting.
"I dare you to thank me!" cried the squire. "It is a gross dereliction
of my duty. Stand back!"
And thereupon we all entered the cave. It was a large, airy place, with
a little spring and a pool of clear water, overhung with ferns. The
floor was sand. Before a big fire lay Captain Smollett; and in a far
corner, only duskily flickered over by the blaze, I beheld great heaps
of coin and quadrilaterals built of bars of gold. That was Flint's
treasure that we had come so far to seek, and that had cost already the
lives of seventeen men from the _Hispaniola_. How many it had cost in
the amassing, what blood and sorrow, what good ships scuttled on the
deep, what brave men walking the plank blindfold, what shot of cannon,
what shame and lies and cruelty, perhaps no man alive could tell. Yet
there were still three upon that island--Silver, and old Morgan, and Ben
Gunn--who had each taken his share in these crimes, as each had hoped in
vain to share in the reward.
"Come in, Jim," said the captain. "You're a good boy in your line, Jim;
but I don't think you and me'll go to sea again. You're too much of the
born favorite for me. Is that you, John Silver? What brings you here,
man?"
"Come back to my dooty, sir," returned Silver.
"Ah!" said the captain, and that was all he said.
What a supper I had of it that night, with all my friends around me; and
what a meal it was, with Ben Gunn's salted goat, and some delicacies and
a bottle of old wine from the _Hispaniola_. Never, I am sure, were
people gayer or happier. And there was Silver, sitting back almost out
of the firelight, but eating heartily, prompt to spring forward when
anything was wanted, even joining quietly in our laughter--the same
bland, polite, obsequious seaman of the voyage out.
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 34 based on the provided context. | chapter 34|chapter 28 | The next morning the group goes back and forth between the cave and the Hispaniola carrying their gold to the ship. Jim amuses himself by sorting the various coins from the treasure pile. They don't see any sign of the three remaining pirates - Tom Morgan, Dick Johnson, and a third unnamed dude. On the third night of this, Doctor Livesey and Jim are out walking when they hear some distant singing. It's the pirates, either drunk or delirious with fever. Doctor Livesey says that if he was sure it was fever and not drunkenness, he would go out and treat them, no matter how dangerous it would be to him personally. Long John Silver replies that that would cost him his life - the pirates would never trust Doctor Livesey, even if he meant them no harm. They set sail on the Hispaniola with the British flag flying. As they pass the southern point of the island, they see all three of the pirates kneeling on the ground and begging to be taken aboard the ship. They feel full of pity, but they don't want to take the risk of bringing the pirates on board. Plus, why save their lives just to bring them back to England to be hanged? Doctor Livesey shouts to the three marooned pirates that they've left supplies and ammunition on the island for them. The pirates keep begging to be rescued. As the Hispaniola sails out of earshot, one of them takes his gun and shoots right at Long John Silver. He misses, but it's close. Jim is glad to see Treasure Island disappearing in the distance. They set sail for "Spanish America" to get a new crew to sail with them back to England. Once they arrive at a friendly harbor, Doctor Livesey, Squire Trelawney, and Jim all head out for a night on the town to recover from their long, hard stay on Treasure Island. Once they come back to the ship, Ben Gunn informs them that Long John Silver has run off. He admits that he helped Long John Silver into a rowboat to get away because he was afraid that if he stuck around they would never be safe. Long John Silver managed to get away with one bag of treasure. Everyone is relieved that he's gone. They hire some crew members and get safely back to England just as Squire Trelawney's servant, Mr. Blandly, was thinking of sailing after them. They all had lots of treasure to share among them, which they used pretty much as you would expect. Captain Smollett retires from the sea. Abraham Gray saves his money, buys shares in a boat of his own, and starts a family. Ben Gunn receives his thousand pounds , but spends it all in about nineteen days. He settles in the country and becomes a big churchgoer. They don't hear anything more of Long John Silver, but Jim assumes that he's living his days happily with his wife and parrot. There's still treasure on the island - silver and weapons - but Jim decides you couldn't pay him enough to go back. Indeed, the worst dreams he has are of the waves on Treasure Island's coasts and the parrot Captain Flint saying, "Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" . |
----------CHAPTER 34---------
AND LAST
The next morning we fell early to work, for the transportation of this
great mass of gold near a mile by land to the beach, and thence three
miles by boat to the _Hispaniola_, was a considerable task for so small
a number of workmen. The three fellows still abroad upon the island did
not greatly trouble us; a single sentry on the shoulder of the hill was
sufficient to insure us against any sudden onslaught, and we thought,
besides, they had had more than enough of fighting.
Therefore the work was pushed on briskly. Gray and Ben Gunn came and
went with the boat, while the rest during their absences piled treasure
on the beach. Two of the bars, slung in a rope's end, made a good load
for a grown man--one that he was glad to walk slowly with. For my part,
as I was not much use at carrying, I was kept busy all day in the cave,
packing the minted money into bread-bags.
It was a strange collection, like Billy Bones's hoard for the diversity
of coinage, but so much larger and so much more varied that I think I
never had more pleasure than in sorting them. English, French, Spanish,
Portuguese, Georges, and Louises, doubloons and double guineas and
moidores and sequins, the pictures of all the kings of Europe for the
last hundred years, strange oriental pieces stamped with what looked
like wisps of string or bits of spider's web, round pieces and square
pieces, and pieces bored through the middle, as if to wear them round
your neck--nearly every variety of money in the world must, I think,
have found a place in that collection; and for number, I am sure they
were like autumn leaves, so that my back ached with stooping and my
fingers with sorting them out.
[Illustration: _Nearly every variety of money in the world must have
found a place in that collection_ (Page 253)]
Day after day this work went on; by every evening a fortune had been
stowed aboard, but there was another fortune waiting for the morrow; and
all this time we heard nothing of the three surviving mutineers.
At last--I think it was on the third night--the doctor and I were
strolling on the shoulder of the hill where it overlooks the lowlands of
the isle, when, from out the thick darkness below, the wind brought us a
noise between shrieking and singing. It was only a snatch that reached
our ears, followed by the former silence.
"Heaven forgive them," said the doctor; "'tis the mutineers!"
"All drunk, sir," struck in the voice of Silver from behind us.
Silver, I should say, was allowed his entire liberty, and, in spite of
daily rebuffs, seemed to regard himself once more as quite a privileged
and friendly dependent. Indeed, it was remarkable how well he bore these
slights, and with what unwearying politeness he kept at trying to
ingratiate himself with all. Yet, I think, none treated him better than
a dog, unless it was Ben Gunn, who was still terribly afraid of his old
quartermaster, or myself, who had really something to thank him for;
although for that matter, I suppose, I had reason to think even worse of
him than anybody else, for I had seen him meditating a fresh treachery
upon the plateau. Accordingly, it was pretty gruffly that the doctor
answered him.
"Drunk or raving," said he.
"Right you were, sir," replied Silver; "and precious little odds which,
to you and me."
"I suppose you would hardly ask me to call you a humane man," returned
the doctor, with a sneer, "and so my feelings may surprise you, Master
Silver. But if I were sure they were raving--as I am morally certain
one, at least, of them is down with fever--I should leave this camp,
and, at whatever risk to my own carcass, take them the assistance of my
skill."
"Ask your pardon, sir, you would be very wrong," quoth Silver. "You
would lose your precious life, and you may lay to that. I'm on your side
now, hand and glove; and I shouldn't wish for to see the party weakened,
let alone yourself, seeing as I know what I owes you. But these men down
there, they couldn't keep their word--no, not supposing they wished
to--and what's more, they couldn't believe as you could."
"No," said the doctor. "You're the man to keep your word, we know that."
Well, that was about the last news we had of the three pirates. Only
once we heard a gunshot a great way off, and supposed them to be
hunting. A council was held and it was decided that we must desert them
on the island--to the huge glee, I must say, of Ben Gunn, and with the
strong approval of Gray. We left a good stock of powder and shot, the
bulk of the salt goat, a few medicines and some other necessaries,
tools, clothing, a spare sail, a fathom or two of rope, and, by the
particular desire of the doctor, a handsome present of tobacco.
That was about our last doing on the island. Before that we had got the
treasure stowed and had shipped enough water and the remainder of the
goat meat, in case of any distress; and at last, one fine morning, we
weighed anchor, which was about all that we could manage, and stood out
of North Inlet, the same colors flying that the captain had flown and
fought under at the palisade.
The three fellows must have been watching us closer than we thought for,
as we soon had proved. For, coming through the narrows we had to lie
very near the southern point, and there we saw all three of them
kneeling together on a spit of sand with their arms raised in
supplication. It went to all our hearts, I think, to leave them in that
wretched state, but we could not risk another mutiny, and to take them
home for the gibbet would have been a cruel sort of kindness. The doctor
hailed them and told them of the stores we had left, and where they were
to find them, but they continued to call us by name and appeal to us for
God's sake to be merciful and not leave them to die in such a place.
At last, seeing the ship still bore on her course, and was now swiftly
drawing out of earshot, one of them--I know not which it was--leaped to
his feet with a hoarse cry, whipped his musket to his shoulder, and sent
a shot whistling over Silver's head and through the mainsail.
After that we kept under cover of the bulwarks, and when next I looked
out they had disappeared from the spit, and the spit itself had almost
melted out of sight in the growing distance. That was, at least, the end
of that; and before noon, to my inexpressible joy, the highest rock of
Treasure Island had sunk into the blue round of sea.
We were so short of men that everyone on board had to bear a hand--only
the captain lying on a mattress in the stern and giving his orders, for
though greatly recovered he was still in want of quiet. We laid her head
for the nearest port in Spanish America, for we could not risk the
voyage home without fresh hands; and as it was, what with baffling winds
and a couple of fresh gales, we were all worn out before we reached it.
It was just at sundown when we cast anchor in a most beautiful
landlocked gulf, and were immediately surrounded by shore boats full of
negroes and Mexican Indians and half-bloods, selling fruits and
vegetables, and offering to dive for bits of money. The sight of so many
good-humored faces (especially the blacks), the taste of the tropical
fruits, and above all, the lights that began to shine in the town, made
a most charming contrast to our dark and bloody sojourn on the island;
and the doctor and the squire, taking me along with them, went ashore to
pass the early part of the night. Here they met the captain of an
English man-of-war, fell in talk with him, went on board his ship, and
in short, had so agreeable a time that day was breaking when we came
alongside the _Hispaniola_.
Ben Gunn was on deck alone, and as soon as we came on board he began,
with wonderful contortions, to make us a confession. Silver was gone.
The maroon had connived at his escape in a shore boat some hours ago,
and he now assured us he had only done so to preserve our lives, which
would certainly have been forfeited if "that man with the one leg had
stayed aboard." But this was not all. The sea-cook had not gone
empty-handed. He had cut through a bulkhead unobserved, and had removed
one of the sacks of coin, worth, perhaps, three or four hundred
guineas, to help him on his further wanderings.
I think we were all pleased to be so cheaply quit of him.
Well, to make a long story short, we got a few hands on board, made a
good cruise home, and the _Hispaniola_ reached Bristol just as Mr.
Blandly was beginning to think of fitting out her consort. Five men only
of those who had sailed returned with her. "Drink and the devil had done
for the rest" with a vengeance, although, to be sure, we were not quite
in so bad a case as that other ship they sang about:
"With one man of the crew alive,
What put to sea with seventy-five."
All of us had an ample share of the treasure, and used it wisely or
foolishly, according to our natures. Captain Smollett is now retired
from the sea. Gray not only saved his money, but, being suddenly smit
with the desire to rise, also studied his profession, and he is now mate
and part owner of a fine full-rigged ship; married besides, and the
father of a family. As for Ben Gunn, he got a thousand pounds, which he
spent or lost in three weeks, or, to be more exact, in nineteen days,
for he was back begging on the twentieth. Then he was given a lodge to
keep, exactly as he had feared upon the island; and he still lives, a
great favorite, though something of a butt with the country boys, and a
notable singer in church on Sundays and saints' days.
Of Silver we have heard no more. That formidable seafaring man with one
leg has at last gone clean out of my life, but I dare say he met his old
negress, and perhaps still lives in comfort with her and Captain Flint.
It is to be hoped so, I suppose, for his chances of comfort in another
world are very small.
The bar silver and the arms still lie, for all that I know, where Flint
buried them; and certainly they shall lie there for me. Oxen and
wain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed island, and
the worst dreams that ever I have are when I hear the surf booming about
its coasts, or start upright in bed, with the sharp voice of Captain
Flint still ringing in my ears: "Pieces of eight! pieces of eight!"
[Illustration]
----------CHAPTER 28---------
IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP
The red glare of the torch lighting up the interior of the blockhouse
showed me the worst of my apprehensions realized. The pirates were in
possession of the house and stores; there was the cask of cognac, there
were the pork and bread, as before; and, what tenfold increased my
horror, not a sign of any prisoner. I could only judge that all had
perished, and my heart smote me sorely that I had not been there to
perish with them.
There were six of the buccaneers, all told; not another man was left
alive. Five of them were on their feet, flushed and swollen, suddenly
called out of the first sleep of drunkenness. The sixth had only risen
upon his elbow; he was deadly pale, and the blood-stained bandage round
his head told that he had recently been wounded, and still more recently
dressed. I remembered the man who had been shot and run back among the
woods in the great attack, and doubted not that this was he.
The parrot sat, preening her plumage, on Long John's shoulder. He
himself, I thought, looked somewhat paler and more stern than I was used
to. He still wore his fine broadcloth suit in which he had fulfilled his
mission, but it was bitterly the worse for wear, daubed with clay and
torn with sharp briers of the wood.
"So," said he, "here's Jim Hawkins, shiver my timbers! dropped in,
like, eh? Well, come, I take that friendly."
And thereupon he sat down across the brandy-cask, and began to fill a
pipe.
"Give me the loan of a link, Dick," said he; and then, when he had a
good light, "That'll do, my lad," he added, "stick the glim in the wood
heap; and you, gentlemen, bring yourselves to!--you needn't stand up for
Mr. Hawkins; _he'll_ excuse you, you may lay to that. And so,
Jim"--stopping the tobacco--"here you are, and quite a pleasant surprise
for poor old John. I see you were smart when first I set my eyes on you,
but this here gets away from me clean, it do."
To all this, as may be well supposed, I made no answer. They had set me
with my back against the wall, and I stood there, looking Silver in the
face, pluckily enough, I hope, to all outward appearance, but with black
despair in my heart.
Silver took a whiff or two of his pipe with great composure, and then
ran on again:
"Now, you see, Jim, so be as you _are_ here," says he, "I'll give you a
piece of my mind. I've always liked you, I have, for a lad of spirit,
and the picter of my own self when I was young and handsome. I always
wanted you to jine and take your share, and die a gentleman, and now, my
cock, you've got to. Cap'n Smollett's a fine seaman, as I'll own up to
any day, but stiff on discipline. 'Dooty is dooty,' says he, and right
he is. Just you keep clear of the cap'n. The doctor himself is gone dead
again you--'ungrateful scamp' was what he said; and the short and long
of the whole story is about here: You can't go back to your own lot, for
they won't have you; and, without you start a third ship's company all
by yourself, which might be lonely, you'll have to jine with Cap'n
Silver."
So far so good. My friends, then, were still alive, and though I partly
believed the truth of Silver's statement, that the cabin party were
incensed at me for my desertion, I was more relieved than distressed by
what I heard.
"I don't say nothing as to your being in our hands," continued Silver,
"though there you are, and you may lay to it. I'm all for argyment; I
never seen good come out o' threatening. If you like the service, well,
you'll jine; and if you don't, Jim, why, you're free to answer no--free
and welcome, shipmate; and if fairer can be said by mortal seaman,
shiver my sides!"
"Am I to answer, then?" I asked, with a very tremulous voice. Through
all this sneering talk I was made to feel the threat of death that
overhung me, and my cheeks burned and my heart beat painfully in my
breast.
"Lad," said Silver, "no one's a-pressing of you. Take your bearings.
None of us won't hurry you, mate; time goes so pleasant in your company,
you see."
"Well," says I, growing a bit bolder, "if I'm to choose, I declare I
have a right to know what's what, and why you're here, and where my
friends are."
"Wot's wot?" repeated one of the buccaneers, in a deep growl. "Ah, he'd
be a lucky one as knowed that!"
"You'll, perhaps, batten down your hatches till you're spoke to, my
friend," cried Silver, truculently, to this speaker. And then, in his
first gracious tones, he replied to me: "Yesterday morning, Mr.
Hawkins," said he, "in the dogwatch, down came Doctor Livesey with a
flag of truce. Says he: 'Cap'n Silver, you're sold out. Ship's gone!'
Well, maybe we'd been taking a glass, and a song to help it round. I
won't say no. Leastways, none of us had looked out. We looked out, and,
by thunder! the old ship was gone. I never seen a pack o' fools look
fishier; and you may lay to that, if I tells you that I looked the
fishiest. 'Well,' says the doctor, 'let's bargain.' We bargained, him
and I, and here we are; stores, brandy, blockhouse, the firewood you was
thoughtful enough to cut, and, in a manner of speaking, the whole
blessed boat, from crosstrees to keelson. As for them, they've tramped;
I don't know where's they are."
He drew again quietly at his pipe.
"And lest you should take it into that head of yours," he went on, "that
you was included in the treaty, here's the last word that was said: 'How
many are you,' says I, 'to leave?' 'Four,' says he--'four, and one of us
wounded. As for that boy, I don't know where he is, confound him,' says
he, 'nor I don't much care. We're about sick of him.' These was his
words."
"Is that all?" I asked.
"Well, it's all you're to hear, my son," returned Silver.
"And now I am to choose?"
"And now you are to choose, and you may lay to that," said Silver.
"Well," said I, "I am not such a fool but I know pretty well what I have
to look for. Let the worst come to the worst, it's little I care. I've
seen too many die since I fell in with you. But there's a thing or two I
have to tell you," I said, and by this time I was quite excited; "and
the first is this: Here you are, in a bad way; ship lost, treasure lost,
men lost; your whole business gone to wreck; and if you want to know who
did it--it was I! I was in the apple barrel the night we sighted land,
and I heard you, John, and you, Dick Johnson, and Hands, who is now at
the bottom of the sea, and told every word you said before the hour was
out. And as for the schooner, it was I who cut her cable, and it was I
who killed the men you had aboard of her, and it was I who brought her
where you'll never see her more, not one of you. The laugh's on my side;
I've had the top of this business from the first; I no more fear you
than I fear a fly. Kill me, if you please, or spare me. But one thing
I'll say, and no more; if you spare me, bygones are bygones, and when
you fellows are in court for piracy, I'll save you all I can. It is for
you to choose. Kill another and do yourselves no good, or spare me and
keep a witness to save you from the gallows."
I stopped, for, I tell you, I was out of breath, and, to my wonder, not
a man of them moved, but all sat staring at me like as many sheep. And
while they were still staring I broke out again:
"And now, Mr. Silver," I said, "I believe you're the best man here, and
if things go to the worst, I'll take it kind of you to let the doctor
know the way I took it."
"I'll bear it in mind," said Silver, with an accent so curious that I
could not, for the life of me, decide whether he were laughing at my
request or had been favorably affected by my courage.
"I'll put one to that," cried the old mahogany-faced seaman--Morgan by
name--whom I had seen in Long John's public-house upon the quays of
Bristol. "It was him that knowed Black Dog."
"Well, and see here," added the sea-cook, "I'll put another again to
that, by thunder! for it was this same boy that faked the chart from
Billy Bones. First and last we've split upon Jim Hawkins!"
"Then here goes!" said Morgan, with an oath.
And he sprang up, drawing his knife as if he had been twenty.
"Avast, there!" cried Silver. "Who are you, Tom Morgan? Maybe you
thought you were captain here, perhaps. By the powers, but I'll teach
you better! Cross me and you'll go where many a good man's gone before
you, first and last, these thirty year back--some to the yardarm, shiver
my sides! and some by the board, and all to feed the fishes. There's
never a man looked me between the eyes and seen a good day a'terward,
Tom Morgan, you may lay to that."
Morgan paused, but a hoarse murmur rose from the others.
"Tom's right," said one.
"I stood hazing long enough from one," added another. "I'll be hanged if
I'll be hazed by you, John Silver."
"Did any of you gentlemen want to have it out with _me_?" roared Silver,
bending far forward from his position on the keg, with his pipe still
glowing in his right hand. "Put a name on what you're at; you ain't
dumb, I reckon. Him that wants shall get it. Have I lived this many
years to have a son of a rum puncheon cock his hat athwart my hawser at
the latter end of it? You know the way; you're all gentlemen o' fortune,
by your account. Well, I'm ready. Take a cutlass, him that dares, and
I'll see the color of his inside, crutch and all, before that pipe's
empty."
Not a man stirred; not a man answered.
"That's your sort, is it?" he added, returning his pipe to his mouth.
"Well, you're a gay lot to look at, any way. Not worth much to fight,
you ain't. P'r'aps you can understand King George's English. I'm cap'n
here by 'lection. I'm cap'n here because I'm the best man by a long
sea-mile. You won't fight, as gentlemen o' fortune should; then, by
thunder, you'll obey, and you may lay to it! I like that boy, now; I
never seen a better boy than that. He's more a man than any pair of rats
of you in this here house, and what I say is this: Let me see him
that'll lay a hand on him--that's what I say, and you may lay to it."
There was a long pause after this. I stood straight up against the wall,
my heart still going like a sledgehammer, but with a ray of hope now
shining in my bosom. Silver leant back against the wall, his arms
crossed, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, as calm as though he had
been in church; yet his eye kept wandering furtively, and he kept the
tail of it on his unruly followers. They, on their part, drew gradually
together toward the far end of the blockhouse, and the low hiss of their
whispering sounded in my ears continuously, like a stream. One after
another they would look up, and the red light of the torch would fall
for a second on their nervous faces; but it was not toward me, it was
toward Silver that they turned their eyes.
"You seem to have a lot to say," remarked Silver, spitting far into the
air. "Pipe up and let me hear it, or lay to."
"Ax your pardon, sir," returned one of the men; "you're pretty free with
some of the rules, maybe you'll kindly keep an eye upon the rest. This
crew's dissatisfied; this crew don't vally bullying a marlinspike; this
crew has its rights like other crews, I'll make so free as that; and by
your own rules I take it we can talk together. I ax your pardon, sir,
acknowledging you for to be capting at this present, but I claim my
right and steps outside for a council."
And with an elaborate sea-salute this fellow, a long, ill-looking,
yellow-eyed man of five-and-thirty, stepped coolly toward the door and
disappeared out of the house. One after another the rest followed his
example, each making a salute as he passed, each adding some apology.
"According to rules," said one. "Foc's'le council," said Morgan. And so
with one remark or another, all marched out and left Silver and me alone
with the torch.
The sea-cook instantly removed his pipe.
"Now, look you here, Jim Hawkins," he said in a steady whisper that was
no more than audible, "you're within half a plank of death, and, what's
a long sight worse, of torture. They're going to throw me off. But you
mark, I stand by you through thick and thin. I didn't mean to; no, not
till you spoke up. I was about desperate to lose that much blunt, and be
hanged into the bargain. But I see you was the right sort. I says to
myself: You stand by Hawkins, John, and Hawkins'll stand by you. You're
his last card, and by the living thunder, John, he's yours! Back to
back, says I. You save your witness and he'll save your neck!"
I began dimly to understand.
"You mean all's lost?" I asked.
"Ay, by gum, I do!" he answered. "Ship gone, neck gone--that's the size
of it. Once I looked into that bay, Jim Hawkins, and seen no
schooner--well, I'm tough, but I gave out. As for that lot and their
council, mark me, they're outright fools and cowards. I'll save your
life--if so be as I can--from them. But see here, Jim--tit for tat--you
save Long John from swinging."
I was bewildered; it seemed a thing so hopeless he was asking--he, the
old buccaneer, the ringleader throughout.
"What I can do, that I'll do," I said.
"It's a bargain!" cried Long John. "You speak up plucky, and by thunder,
I've a chance."
He hobbled to the torch, where it stood propped among the firewood, and
took a fresh light to his pipe.
"Understand me, Jim," he said, returning. "I've a head on my shoulders,
I have. I'm on squire's side now. I know you've got that ship safe
somewheres. How you done it I don't know, but safe it is. I guess Hands
and O'Brien turned soft. I never much believed in neither of _them_. Now
you mark me. I ask no questions, nor I won't let others. I know when a
game's up, I do; and I know a lad that's stanch. Ah, you that's
young--you and me might have done a power of good together!"
He drew some cognac from the cask into a tin cannikin.
"Will you taste, messmate?" he asked, and when I had refused, "Well,
I'll take a drain myself, Jim," said he. "I need a caulker, for there's
trouble on hand. And, talking o' trouble, why did that doctor give me
the chart, Jim?"
My face expressed a wonder so unaffected that he saw the needlessness of
further questions.
"Ah, well, he did, though," said he. "And there's something under that,
no doubt--something, surely, under that, Jim--bad or good."
And he took another swallow of the brandy, shaking his great fair head
like a man who looks forward to the worst.
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 30 based on the provided context. | chapter 29|chapter 30 | The wake up call comes from the sentinel who shouts on seeing Dr. Livesey. Though Jim is happy to hear this, he cant face him as he feels ashamed of his conduct. Silver welcomes the Doctor and tells him that he has a surprise for him. Dr. Livesey asks Silver if it was Jim. He proceeds to treat his patients without paying much attention to Jim. He is quite absorbed in his work. After checking on everyone, Dr. Livesey asks Silver if he can speak to Jim in private. Silver accompanies Jim outside and leaves him with the Doctor. The Doctor had a lot to say. He tells Jim that leaving his crew and running away during the time he was needed most was unkind and cowardly. Jim weeps at this and tells the Doctor that he had blamed himself enough for it. When the Doctor begs him to escape, he tells him about the word given to Silver. He tells the Doctor that he had recaptured the ship and briefly describes his adventures. Dr. Livesey is delighted to hear this and praises Jim for his efforts. He asks Silver not to rush for treasure. Silver agrees to it. He tells him that he wont, at least not at the cost of his and Jims life. Dr. Livesey assures him a fair trial after they get back. Silver is thrilled to hear this. After asking Silver to take care of Jim, the Doctor leaves the stockade alone. |
----------CHAPTER 29---------
THE BLACK SPOT AGAIN
The council of the buccaneers had lasted some time, when one of them
re-entered the house, and with a repetition of the same salute, which
had in my eyes an ironical air, begged for a moment's loan of the torch.
Silver briefly agreed, and this emissary retired again, leaving us
together in the dark.
"There's a breeze coming, Jim," said Silver, who had by this time
adopted quite a friendly and familiar tone.
I turned to the loophole nearest me and looked out. The embers of the
great fire had so far burned themselves out, and now glowed so low and
duskily, that I understood why these conspirators desired a torch. About
halfway down the slope to the stockade they were collected in a group;
one held the light; another was on his knees in their midst, and I saw
the blade of an open knife shine in his hand with varying colors, in the
moon and torchlight. The rest were all somewhat stooping, as though
watching the maneuvers of this last. I could just make out that he had a
book as well as a knife in his hand; and was still wondering how
anything so incongruous had come in their possession, when the kneeling
figure rose once more to his feet, and the whole party began to move
together toward the house.
"Here they come," said I; and I returned to my former position, for it
seemed beneath my dignity that they should find me watching them.
"Well, let 'em come, lad--let 'em come," said Silver, cheerily. "I've
still a shot in my locker."
The door opened, and the five men, standing huddled together just
inside, pushed one of their number forward. In any other circumstances
it would have been comical to see his slow advance, hesitating as he set
down each foot, but holding his closed right hand in front of him.
"Step up, lad," cried Silver. "I won't eat you. Hand it over, lubber. I
know the rules, I do; I won't hurt a depytation."
Thus encouraged the buccaneer stepped forth more briskly, and having
passed something to Silver, from hand to hand, slipped yet more smartly
back again to his companions.
The sea-cook looked at what had been given him.
"The black spot! I thought so," he observed. "Where might you have got
the paper? Why, hello! look here, now; this ain't lucky! You've gone and
cut this out of a Bible. What fool's cut a Bible?"
"Ah, there," said Morgan, "there! Wot did I say? No good'll come o'
that, I said."
"Well, you've about fixed it now, among you," continued Silver. "You'll
all swing now, I reckon. What soft-headed lubber had a Bible?"
"It was Dick," said one.
"Dick, was it? Then Dick can get to prayers," said Silver. "He's seen
his slice of luck, has Dick, and you may lay to that."
But here the long man with the yellow eyes struck in.
"Belay that talk, John Silver," he said. "This crew has tipped you the
black spot in full council, as in dooty bound; just you turn it over, as
in dooty bound, and see what's wrote there. Then you can talk."
"Thanky, George," replied the sea-cook. "You always was brisk for
business, and has the rules by heart, George, as I'm pleased to see.
Well, what is it, anyway? Ah! 'Deposed'--that's it, is it? Very pretty
wrote, to be sure; like print, I swear. Your hand o' write, George? Why,
you was gettin' quite a leadin' man in this here crew. You'll be cap'n
next, I shouldn't wonder. Just oblige me with that torch again, will
you? this pipe don't draw."
"Come, now," said George, "you don't fool this crew no more. You're a
funny man, by your account; but you're over now, and you'll maybe step
down off that barrel, and help vote."
"I thought you said you knowed the rules," returned Silver,
contemptuously. "Leastways, if you don't, I do; and I wait here--and I'm
still your cap'n, mind--till you outs with your grievances, and I reply;
in the meantime, your black spot ain't worth a biscuit. After that we'll
see."
"Oh," replied George, "you don't be under no kind of apprehension;
_we're_ all square, we are. First, you've made a hash of this
cruise--you'll be a bold man to say no to that. Second, you let the
enemy out o' this here trap for nothing. Why did they want out? I dunno,
but it's pretty plain they wanted it. Third, you wouldn't let us go at
them upon the march. Oh, we see through you, John Silver; you want to
play booty, that's what's wrong with you. And then, fourth, there's this
here boy."
"Is that all?" asked Silver, quietly.
"Enough, too," retorted George. "We'll all swing and sun-dry for your
bungling."
"Well, now, look here, I'll answer these four p'ints; one after another
I'll answer 'em. I made a hash o' this cruise, did I? Well, now, you all
know what I wanted; and you all know, if that had been done, that we'd
'a' been aboard the _Hispaniola_ this night as ever was, every man of us
alive, and fit, and full of good plum-duff, and the treasure in the hold
of her, by thunder! Well, who crossed me? Who forced my hand, as was the
lawful cap'n? Who tipped me the black spot the day we landed, and began
this dance? Ah, it's a fine dance--I'm with you there--and looks mighty
like a hornpipe in a rope's end at Execution Dock by London town, it
does. But who done it? Why, it was Anderson, and Hands, and you, George
Merry! And you're the last above board of that same meddling crew; and
you have the Davy Jones insolence to up and stand for cap'n over
me--you, that sunk the lot of us! By the powers! but this tops the
stiffest yarn to nothing."
Silver paused, and I could see by the faces of George and his late
comrades that these words had not been said in vain.
"That's for number one," cried the accused, wiping the sweat from his
brow, for he had been talking with a vehemence that shook the house.
"Why, I give you my word, I'm sick to speak to you. You've neither sense
nor memory, and I leave it to fancy where your mothers was that let you
come to sea. Sea! Gentlemen o' fortune! I reckon tailors is your trade."
"Go on, John," said Morgan. "Speak up to the others."
"Ah, the others!" returned John. "They're a nice lot, ain't they? You
say this cruise is bungled. Ah! by gum, if you could understand how bad
it's bungled, you would see! We're that near the gibbet that my neck's
stiff with thinking on it. You've seen 'em, maybe, hanged in chains,
birds about 'em, seamen p'inting 'em out as they go down with the tide.
'Who's that?' says one. 'That! Why, that's John Silver. I knowed him
well,' says another. And you can hear the chains a-jangle as you go
about and reach for the other buoy. Now, that's about where we are,
every mother's son of us, thanks to him, and Hands, and Anderson, and
other ruination fools of you. And if you want to know about number four,
and that boy, why, shiver my timbers! isn't he a hostage? Are we a-going
to waste a hostage? No, not us; he might be our last chance, and I
shouldn't wonder. Kill that boy? not me, mates! And number three? Ah,
well, there's a deal to say to number three. Maybe you don't count it
nothing to have a real college doctor come to see you every day--you,
John, with your head broke--or you, George Merry, that had the ague
shakes upon you not six hours agone, and has your eyes the color of
lemon peel to this same moment on the clock? And maybe, perhaps, you
didn't know there was a consort coming, either? But there is, and not so
long till then; and we'll see who'll be glad to have a hostage when it
comes to that. And as for number two, and why I made a bargain--well,
you come crawling on your knees to me to make it--on your knees you
came, you was that downhearted--and you'd have starved, too, if I
hadn't--but that's a trifle! you look there--that's why!"
And he cast down upon the floor a paper that I instantly
recognized--none other than the chart on yellow paper, with the three
red crosses, that I had found in the oilcloth at the bottom of the
captain's chest. Why the doctor had given it to him was more than I
could fancy.
But if it were inexplicable to me, the appearance of the chart was
incredible to the surviving mutineers. They leaped upon it like cats
upon a mouse. It went from hand to hand, one tearing it from another;
and by the oaths and the cries and the childish laughter with which they
accompanied their examination, you would have thought, not only they
were fingering the very gold, but were at sea with it, besides, in
safety.
"Yes," said one, "that's Flint, sure enough. J. F., and a score below,
with a close hitch to it, so he done ever."
"Mighty pretty," said George. "But how are we to get away with it, and
us no ship?"
Silver suddenly sprang up, and supporting himself with a hand against
the wall: "Now, I give you warning, George," he cried. "One more word of
your sauce, and I'll call you down and fight you. How? Why, how do I
know? You had ought to tell me that--you and the rest, that lost me my
schooner, with your interference, burn you! But not you, you can't; you
ain't got the invention of a cockroach. But civil you can speak, and
shall, George Merry, you may lay to that."
"That's fair enow," said the old man Morgan.
"Fair! I reckon so," said the sea-cook. "You lost the ship; I found the
treasure. Who's the better man at that? And now I resign, by thunder!
Elect whom you please to be your cap'n now; I'm done with it."
"Silver!" they cried. "Barbecue forever! Barbecue for cap'n!"
"So that's the toon, is it?" cried the cook. "George, I reckon you'll
have to wait another turn, friend, and lucky for you as I'm not a
revengeful man. But that was never my way. And now, shipmates, this
black spot? 'Tain't much good now, is it? Dick's crossed his luck and
spoiled his Bible, and that's about all."
"It'll do to kiss the book on still, won't it?" growled Dick, who was
evidently uneasy at the curse he had brought upon himself.
"A Bible with a bit cut out!" returned Silver, derisively. "Not it. It
don't bind no more'n a ballad-book."
"Don't it, though?" cried Dick, with a sort of joy. "Well, I reckon
that's worth having, too."
"Here, Jim--here's a cur'osity for you," said Silver, and he tossed me
the paper.
It was a round about the size of a crown piece. One side was blank, for
it had been the last leaf; the other contained a verse or two of
Revelation--these words among the rest, which struck sharply home upon
my mind: "Without are dogs and murderers." The printed side had been
blackened with wood ash, which already began to come off and soil my
fingers; on the blank side had been written with the same material the
one word "Deposed." I have that curiosity beside me at this moment; but
not a trace of writing now remains beyond a single scratch, such as a
man might make with his thumb-nail.
That was the end of the night's business. Soon after, with a drink all
round, we lay down to sleep, and the outside of Silver's vengeance was
to put George Merry up for sentinel, and threaten him with death if he
should prove unfaithful.
It was long ere I could close an eye, and heaven knows I had matter
enough for thought in the man whom I had slain that afternoon, in my own
most perilous position, and, above all, in the remarkable game that I
saw Silver now engaged upon--keeping the mutineers together with one
hand, and grasping, with the other, after every means, possible and
impossible, to make his peace and save his miserable life. He himself
slept peacefully, and snored aloud; yet my heart was sore for him,
wicked as he was, to think on the dark perils that environed, and the
shameful gibbet that awaited him.
----------CHAPTER 30---------
ON PAROLE
I was wakened--indeed, we were all wakened, for I could see even the
sentinel shake himself together from where he had fallen against the
doorpost--by a clear, hearty voice hailing us from the margin of the
wood:
"Blockhouse, ahoy!" it cried. "Here's the doctor."
And the doctor it was. Although I was glad to hear the sound, yet my
gladness was not without admixture. I remembered with confusion my
insubordinate and stealthy conduct; and when I saw where it had brought
me--among what companions and surrounded by what dangers--I felt ashamed
to look him in the face.
He must have risen in the dark, for the day had hardly come; and when I
ran to a loophole and looked out, I saw him standing, like Silver once
before, up to the mid-leg in creeping vapor.
"You, doctor! Top o' the morning to you, sir!" cried Silver, broad awake
and beaming with good nature in a moment. "Bright and early, to be sure;
and it's the early bird, as the saying goes, that gets the rations.
George, shake up your timbers, son, and help Doctor Livesey over the
ship's side. All a-doin' well, your patients was--all well and merry."
So he pattered on, standing on the hilltop, with his crutch under his
elbow, and one hand upon the side of the log-house--quite the old John
in voice, manner, and expression.
"We've quite a surprise for you, too, sir," he continued. "We've a
little stranger here--he! he! A noo boarder and lodger, sir, and looking
fit and taut as a fiddle; slep' like a supercargo, he did, right
alongside of John--stem to stem we was, all night."
Doctor Livesey was by this time across the stockade and pretty near the
cook, and I could hear the alteration in his voice as he said:
"Not Jim?"
"The very same Jim as ever was," says Silver.
The doctor stopped outright, although he did not speak, and it was some
seconds before he seemed able to move on.
"Well, well," he said at last, "duty first and pleasure afterwards, as
you might have said yourself, Silver. Let us overhaul these patients of
yours."
A moment afterwards he had entered the blockhouse, and, with one grim
nod to me, proceeded with his work among the sick. He seemed under no
apprehension, though he must have known that his life, among these
treacherous demons, depended on a hair, and he rattled on to his
patients as if he were paying an ordinary professional visit in a quiet
English family. His manner, I suppose, reacted on the men, for they
behaved to him as if nothing had occurred--as if he were still ship's
doctor, and they still faithful hands before the mast.
"You're doing well, my friend," he said to the fellow with the bandaged
head, "and if ever any person had a close shave, it was you; your head
must be as hard as iron. Well, George, how goes it? You're a pretty
color, certainly; why, your liver, man, is upside down. Did you take
that medicine? Did he take that medicine, men?"
"Ay, ay, sir, he took it sure enough," returned Morgan.
"Because, you see, since I am mutineers' doctor, or prison doctor, as I
prefer to call it," says Doctor Livesey, in his pleasantest way, "I make
it a point of honor not to lose a man for King George (God bless him!)
and the gallows."
The rogues looked at each other, but swallowed the home-thrust in
silence.
"Dick don't feel well, sir," said one.
"Don't he?" replied the doctor. "Well, step up here, Dick, and let me
see your tongue. No, I should be surprised if he did; the man's tongue
is fit to frighten the French. Another fever."
"Ah, there," said Morgan, "that comed of sp'iling Bibles."
"That comed--as you call it--of being arrant asses," retorted the
doctor, "and not having sense enough to know honest air from poison, and
the dry land from a vile, pestiferous slough. I think it most
probable--though, of course, it's only an opinion--that you'll all have
the deuce to pay before you get that malaria out of your systems. Camp
in a bog, would you? Silver, I'm surprised at you. You're less of a fool
than many, take you all round; but you don't appear to me to have the
rudiments of a notion of the rules of health.
"Well," he added, after he had dosed them round, and they had taken his
prescriptions, with really laughable humility, more like charity
school-children than blood-guilty mutineers and pirates, "well, that's
done for to-day. And now I should wish to have a talk with that boy,
please."
And he nodded his head in my direction carelessly.
George Merry was at the door, spitting and spluttering over some
bad-tasted medicine; but at the first word of the doctor's proposal he
swung round with a deep flush, and cried, "No!" and swore.
Silver struck the barrel with his open hand.
"Si-lence!" he roared, and looked about him positively like a lion.
"Doctor," he went on, in his usual tones, "I was thinking of that,
knowing as how you had a fancy for the boy. We're all humbly grateful
for your kindness, and, as you see, puts faith in you, and takes the
drugs down like that much grog. And I take it I've found a way as'll
suit all. Hawkins, will you give me your word of honor as a young
gentleman--for a young gentleman you are, although poor born--your word
of honor not to slip your cable?"
I readily gave the pledge required.
"Then, doctor," said Silver, "you just step outside o' that stockade,
and once you're there, I'll bring the boy down on the inside, and I
reckon you can yarn through the spars. Good-day to you, sir, and all our
dooties to the squire and Cap'n Smollett."
The explosion of disapproval, which nothing but Silver's black looks had
restrained, broke out immediately the doctor had left the house. Silver
was roundly accused of playing double--of trying to make a separate
peace for himself--of sacrificing the interests of his accomplices and
victims; and, in one word, of the identical, exact thing that he was
doing. It seemed to me so obvious, in this case, that I could not
imagine how he was to turn their anger. But he was twice the man the
rest were, and his last night's victory had given him a huge
preponderance on their minds. He called them all the fools and dolts
you can imagine, said it was necessary I should talk to the doctor,
fluttered the chart in their faces, asked them if they could afford to
break the treaty the very day they were bound a-treasure-hunting.
"No, by thunder!" he cried, "it's us must break the treaty when the time
comes; and till then I'll gammon that doctor, if I have to ile his boots
with brandy."
And then he bade them get the fire lit, and stalked out upon his crutch,
with his hand on my shoulder, leaving them in a disarray, and silenced
by his volubility rather than convinced.
"Slow, lad, slow," he said. "They might round upon us in a twinkle of an
eye if we was seen to hurry."
Very deliberately, then, did we advance across the sand to where the
doctor awaited us on the other side of the stockade, and as soon as we
were within easy speaking distance, Silver stopped.
"You'll make a note of this here also, doctor," said he, "and the boy'll
tell you how I saved his life, and were deposed for it, too, and you may
lay to that. Doctor, when a man's steering as near to the wind as
me--playing chuck-farthing with the last breath in his body, like--you
wouldn't think it too much, mayhap, to give him one good word! You'll
please bear in mind it's not my life only now--it's that boy's into the
bargain; and you'll speak me fair, doctor, and give me a bit o' hope to
go on, for the sake of mercy."
Silver was a changed man, once he was out there and had his back to his
friends and the blockhouse; his cheeks seemed to have fallen in, his
voice trembled; never was a soul more dead in earnest.
"Why, John, you're not afraid?" asked Doctor Livesey.
"Doctor, I'm no coward; no, not I--not _so_ much!" and he snapped his
fingers. "If I was I wouldn't say it. But I'll own up fairly, I've the
shakes upon me for the gallows. You're a good man and a true; I never
seen a better man! And you'll not forget what I done good, not any more
than you'll forget the bad, I know. And I step aside--see here--and
leave you and Jim alone. And you'll put that down for me, too, for it's
a long stretch, is that!"
So saying, he stepped back a little way till he was out of earshot, and
there sat down upon a tree-stump and began to whistle, spinning round
now and again upon his seat so as to command a sight, sometimes of me
and the doctor, and sometimes of his unruly ruffians as they went to and
fro in the sand, between the fire--which they were busy rekindling--and
the house, from which they brought forth pork and bread to make the
breakfast.
"So, Jim," said the doctor, sadly, "here you are. As you have brewed, so
shall you drink, my boy. Heaven knows I cannot find it in my heart to
blame you; but this much I will say, be it kind or unkind: when Captain
Smollett was well you dared not have gone off, and when he was ill, and
couldn't help it by George, it was downright cowardly!"
I will own that I here began to weep. "Doctor," I said, "you might spare
me. I have blamed myself enough; my life's forfeit anyway, and I should
have been dead now if Silver hadn't stood for me; and, doctor, believe
this, I can die--and I dare say I deserve it--but what I fear is
torture. If they come to torture me--"
"Jim," the doctor interrupted, and his voice was quite changed, "Jim, I
can't have this. Whip over, and we'll run for it."
"Doctor," said I, "I passed my word."
"I know, I know," he cried. "We can't help that, Jim, now. I'll take it
on my shoulders, holus-bolus, blame and shame, my boy; but stay here, I
cannot let you. Jump! One jump and you're out, and we'll run for it like
antelopes."
"No," I replied, "you know right well you wouldn't do the thing
yourself; neither you, nor squire, nor captain, and no more will I.
Silver trusted me; I passed my word, and back I go. But, doctor, you did
not let me finish. If they come to torture me, I might let slip a word
of where the ship is; for I got the ship, part by luck and part by
risking, and she lies in North Inlet, on the southern beach, and just
below high water. At half-tide she must be high and dry."
"The ship!" exclaimed the doctor.
Rapidly I described to him my adventures, and he heard me out in
silence.
"There's a kind of fate in this," he observed, when I had done. "Every
step it's you that save our lives, and do you suppose by any chance that
we are going to let you lose yours? That would be a poor return, my boy.
You found out the plot; you found Ben Gunn--the best deed that ever you
did, or will do, though you live to ninety. Oh, by Jupiter! and talking
of Ben Gunn, why, this is the mischief in person. Silver!" he cried,
"Silver! I'll give you a piece of advice," he continued, as the cook
drew near again; "don't you be in any great hurry after that treasure."
"Why, sir, I do my possible, which that ain't," said Silver. "I can
only, asking your pardon, save my life and the boy's by seeking for that
treasure; and you may lay to that."
"Well, Silver," replied the doctor, "if that is so, I'll go one step
farther; look out for squalls when you find it!"
"Sir," said Silver, "as between man and man, that's too much and too
little. What you're after, why you left the blockhouse, why you've given
me that there chart, I don't know, now, do I? and yet I done your
bidding with my eyes shut and never a word of hope! But no, this here's
too much. If you won't tell me what you mean plain out, just say so, and
I'll leave the helm."
"No," said the doctor, musingly, "I've no right to say more; it's not my
secret, you see, Silver, or, I give you my word, I'd tell it you. But
I'll go as far with you as I dare go, and a step beyond, for I'll have
my wig sorted by the captain, or I'm mistaken! And first, I'll give you
a bit of hope. Silver, if we both get out alive out of this wolf-trap,
I'll do my best to save you, short of perjury."
Silver's face was radiant. "You couldn't say more, I am sure, sir, not
if you was my mother," he cried.
"Well, that's my first concession," added the doctor. "My second is a
piece of advice. Keep the boy close beside you, and when you need help,
halloo. I'm off to seek it for you, and that itself will show you if I
speak at random. Good-by, Jim."
And Doctor Livesey shook hands with me through the stockade, nodded to
Silver, and set off at a brisk pace into the wood.
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 32 based on the provided context. | chapter 31|chapter 32 | The men are exhausted by the time they reach the plateau. So they rest for a while. Talking in soft tones they discuss Flint and his men. Suddenly from the middle of the trees, the famous song of Billy Bones are heard. "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest-Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!" Jim says, he had never seen the six men more terrified. The song stops. Silver tries to recognize the voice. Once again the voice breaks out. This time, instead of the song it says "Darby McGrow". Dick takes out his Bible and starts praying. But Silver is still not disturbed. He says that he is here to get the seven hundred thousand pounds from the Island and that he shall get it. This doesnt charge up this crew. Morgan feels that it is the spirits voice and stops Silver from crossing it. Silver reasons out that spirits voice doesnt echo and that it is human. Nudging his memory, Silver cries out that its Ben Gunn. Soon they are back in their original spirits. Without minding the presence of Ben Gunn, they proceed towards the treasure. Dick is still terrified and Silvers taunt terrifies him more. They reach the first of the tall trees and then the second and the third. Jim says the only thing that kept them going was the thought of the seven hundred thousand pounds. Finally they reach the edge of the thicket. Overjoyed, they shout `huzza. All of a sudden Silver increases his pace. Jim follows him. They stop when they see the most unexpected sight. The treasure has gone. It has already been excavated and the only thing that is left is the nameplate of Flints ship - WALRUS. |
----------CHAPTER 31---------
THE TREASURE-HUNT--FLINT'S POINTER
"Jim," said Silver, when we were alone, "if I saved your life, you saved
mine, and I'll not forget it. I seen the doctor waving you to run for
it--with the tail of my eye, I did--and I seen you say no, as plain as
hearing. Jim, that's one to you. This is the first glint of hope I had
since the attack failed, and I owe it to you. And now, Jim, we're to go
in for this here treasure-hunting, with sealed orders, too, and I don't
like it; and you and me must stick close, back to back like, and we'll
save our necks in spite o' fate and fortune."
Just then a man hailed us from the fire that breakfast was ready, and we
were soon seated here and there about the sand over biscuit and fried
junk. They had lighted a fire fit to roast an ox; and it was now grown
so hot that they could only approach it from the windward, and even
there not without precaution. In the same wasteful spirit, they had
cooked, I suppose, three times more than we could eat; and one of them,
with an empty laugh, threw what was left into the fire, which blazed and
roared again over this unusual fuel. I never in my life saw men so
careless of the morrow; hand to mouth is the only word that can describe
their way of doing; and what with wasted food and sleeping sentries,
though they were bold enough for a brush and be done with it, I could
see their entire unfitness for anything like a prolonged campaign.
Even Silver, eating away, with Captain Flint upon his shoulder, had not
a word of blame for their recklessness. And this the more surprised me,
for I thought he had never showed himself so cunning as he did then.
"Ay, mates," said he, "it's lucky you have Barbecue to think for you
with this here head. I got what I wanted, I did. Sure enough, they have
the ship. Where they have it, I don't know yet; but once we hit the
treasure, we'll have to jump about and find out. And then, mates, us
that has the boats, I reckon, has the upper hand."
Thus he kept running on, with his mouth full of the hot bacon; thus he
restored their hope and confidence, and, I more than suspect, repaired
his own at the same time.
"As for hostage," he continued, "that's his last talk, I guess, with
them he loves so dear. I've got my piece o' news, and thanky to him for
that; but it's over and done. I'll take him in a line when we go
treasure-hunting, for we'll keep him like so much gold, in case of
accidents, you mark, and in the meantime. Once we got the ship and
treasure both, and off to sea like jolly companions, why, then we'll
talk Mr. Hawkins over, we will, and we'll give him his share, to be
sure, for all his kindness."
It was no wonder the men were in a good humor now. For my part, I was
horribly cast down. Should the scheme he had now sketched prove
feasible, Silver, already doubly a traitor, would not hesitate to adopt
it. He had still a foot in either camp, and there was no doubt he would
prefer wealth and freedom with the pirates to a bare escape from
hanging, which was the best he had to hope on our side.
Nay, and even if things so fell out that he was forced to keep his faith
with Doctor Livesey, even then what danger lay before us! What a moment
that would be when the suspicions of his followers turned to certainty,
and he and I should have to fight for dear life--he, a cripple, and I, a
boy--against five strong and active seamen!
Add to this double apprehension the mystery that still hung over the
behavior of my friends; their unexplained desertion of the stockade;
their inexplicable cession of the chart; or, harder still to understand,
the doctor's last warning to Silver, "Look out for squalls when you find
it"; and you will readily believe how little taste I found in my
breakfast, and with how uneasy a heart I set forth behind my captors on
the quest for treasure.
We made a curious figure, had anyone been there to see us; all in soiled
sailor clothes, and all but me armed to the teeth. Silver had two guns
slung about him, one before and one behind--besides the great cutlass at
his waist, and a pistol in each pocket of his square-tailed coat. To
complete his strange appearance, Captain Flint sat perched upon his
shoulder and gabbled odds and ends of purposeless sea-talk. I had a line
about my waist, and followed obediently after the sea-cook, who held the
loose end of the rope, now in his free hand, now between his powerful
teeth. For all the world, I was led like a dancing bear.
The other men were variously burdened; some carrying picks and
shovels--for that had been the very first necessary they brought ashore
from the _Hispaniola_--others laden with pork, bread, and brandy for the
midday meal. All the stores, I observed, came from our stock, and I
could see the truth of Silver's words the night before. Had he not
struck a bargain with the doctor, he and his mutineers, deserted by the
ship, must have been driven to subsist on clear water, and the proceeds
of their hunting. Water would have been little to their taste; a sailor
is not usually a good shot; and, besides all that, when they were so
short of eatables, it was not likely they would be very flush of powder.
Well, thus equipped, we all set out--even the fellow with the broken
head, who should certainly have kept in shadow--and straggled, one after
another, to the beach, where the two gigs awaited us. Even these bore
trace of the drunken folly of the pirates, one in a broken thwart, and
both in their muddied and unbailed condition. Both were to be carried
along with us, for the sake of safety; and so, with our numbers divided
between them, we set forth upon the bosom of the anchorage.
As we pulled over, there was some discussion on the chart. The red cross
was, of course, far too large to be a guide; and the terms of the note
on the back, as you will hear, admitted of some ambiguity. They ran, the
reader may remember, thus:
"Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to the N. of N.N.E.
"Skeleton Island E.S.E. and by E.
"Ten feet."
A tall tree was thus the principal mark. Now, right before us, the
anchorage was bounded by a plateau from two to three hundred feet high,
adjoining on the north the sloping southern shoulder of the Spy-glass,
and rising again toward the south into the rough, cliffy eminence called
the Mizzen-mast Hill. The top of the plateau was dotted thickly with
pine trees of varying height. Every here and there, one of a different
species rose forty or fifty feet clear above its neighbors, and which of
these was the particular "tall tree" of Captain Flint could only be
decided on the spot, and by the readings of the compass.
Yet, although that was the case, every man on board the boats had picked
a favorite of his own ere we were halfway over, Long John alone
shrugging his shoulders and bidding them wait till they were there.
We pulled easily, by Silver's directions, not to weary the hands
prematurely; and, after quite a long passage, landed at the mouth of the
second river--that which runs down a woody cleft of the Spy-glass.
Thence, bending to our left, we began to ascend the slope towards the
plateau.
At the first outset, heavy, miry ground and a matted, marsh vegetation
greatly delayed our progress; but by little and little the hill began to
steepen and become stony under foot, and the wood to change its
character and to grow in a more open order. It was, indeed, a most
pleasant portion of the island that we were now approaching. A
heavy-scented broom and many flowering shrubs had almost taken the place
of grass. Thickets of green nutmeg-trees were dotted here and there with
the red columns and the broad shadow of the pines, and the first mingled
their spice with the aroma of the others. The air, besides, was fresh
and stirring, and this, under the sheer sunbeams, was a wonderful
refreshment to our senses.
The party spread itself abroad, in a fan shape, shouting and leaping to
and fro. About the center, and a good way behind the rest, Silver and I
followed--I tethered by my rope, he plowing, with deep pants, among the
sliding gravel. From time to time, indeed, I had to lend him a hand, or
he must have missed his footing and fallen backward down the hill.
We had thus proceeded for about half a mile, and were approaching the
brow of the plateau, when the man upon the farthest left began to cry
aloud, as if in terror. Shout after shout came from him, and the others
began to run in his direction.
"He can't 'a' found the treasure," said old Morgan, hurrying past us
from the right, "for that's clean a-top."
Indeed, as we found when we also reached the spot, it was something very
different. At the foot of a pretty big pine, and involved in a green
creeper, which had even partly lifted some of the smaller bones, a human
skeleton lay, with a few shreds of clothing, on the ground. I believe a
chill struck for a moment to every heart.
"He was a seaman," said George Merry, who, bolder than the rest, had
gone up close, and was examining the rags of clothing. "Leastways, this
is good sea-cloth."
"Ay, ay," said Silver, "like enough; you wouldn't look to find a bishop
here, I reckon. But what sort of a way is that for bones to lie? 'Tain't
in natur'."
Indeed, on a second glance, it seemed impossible to fancy that the body
was in a natural position. But for some disarray (the work, perhaps, of
the birds that had fed upon him, or of the slow-growing creeper that had
gradually enveloped his remains) the man lay perfectly straight--his
feet pointing in one direction, his hands raised above his head like a
diver's, pointing directly in the opposite.
"I've taken a notion into my old numskull," observed Silver. "Here's the
compass; there's the tip-top p'int of Skeleton Island, stickin' out like
a tooth. Just take a bearing, will you, along the line of them bones."
It was done. The body pointed straight in the direction of the island,
and the compass read duly E.S.E. by E.
"I thought so," cried the cook; "this here is a p'inter. Right up there
is our line for the Pole Star and the jolly dollars. But, by thunder! if
it don't make me cold inside to think of Flint. This is one of _his_
jokes, and no mistake. Him and these six was alone here; he killed 'em,
every man; and this one he hauled here and laid down by compass, shiver
my timbers! They're long bones, and the hair's been yellow. Ay, that
would be Allardyce. You mind Allardyce, Tom Morgan?"
"Ay, ay," returned Morgan, "I mind him; he owed me money, he did, and
took my knife ashore with him."
"Speaking of knives," said another, "why don't we find his'n lying
round? Flint warn't the man to pick a seaman's pocket; and the birds, I
guess, would leave it be."
"By the powers and that's true!" cried Silver.
"There ain't a thing left here," said Merry, still feeling round among
the bones; "not a copper doit nor a baccy box. It don't look nat'ral to
me."
"No, by gum, it don't," agreed Silver; "not nat'ral, nor not nice, says
you. Great guns, messmates, but if Flint was living this would be a hot
spot for you and me! Six they were, and six are we; and bones is what
they are now."
"I saw him dead with these here deadlights," said Morgan. "Billy took me
in. There he laid, with penny-pieces on his eyes."
"Dead--ay, sure enough he's dead and gone below," said the fellow with
the bandage; "but if ever sperrit walked it would be Flint's. Dear
heart, but he died bad, did Flint!"
"Ay, that he did," observed another; "now he raged and now he hollered
for the rum, and now he sang. 'Fifteen Men' were his only song, mates;
and I tell you true, I never rightly liked to hear it since. It was main
hot and the windy was open, and I hear that old song comin' out as clear
as clear--and the death-haul on the man already."
"Come, come," said Silver, "stow this talk. He's dead, and he don't
walk, that I know; leastways he won't walk by day, and you may lay to
that. Care killed a cat. Fetch ahead for the doubloons."
We started, certainly, but in spite of the hot sun and the staring
daylight, the pirates no longer ran separate and shouting through the
wood, but kept side by side and spoke with bated breath. The terror of
the dead buccaneer had fallen on their spirits.
----------CHAPTER 32---------
THE TREASURE-HUNT--THE VOICE AMONG THE TREES
Partly from the damping influence of this alarm, partly to rest Silver
and the sick folk, the whole party sat down as soon as they had gained
the brow of the ascent.
The plateau being somewhat tilted toward the west, this spot on which we
had paused commanded a wide prospect on either hand. Before us, over the
tree-tops, we beheld the Cape of the Woods fringed with surf; behind, we
not only looked down upon the anchorage and Skeleton Island, but
saw--clear across the spit and the eastern lowlands--a great field of
open sea upon the east. Sheer above us rose the Spy-glass, here dotted
with single pines, there black with precipices. There was no sound but
that of the distant breakers mounting from all around, and the chirp of
countless insects in the brush. Not a man, not a sail upon the sea; the
very largeness of the view increased the sense of solitude.
Silver, as he sat, took certain bearings with his compass.
"There are three 'tall trees,'" said he, "about in the right line from
Skeleton Island. 'Spy-glass Shoulder,' I take it, means that lower p'int
there. It's child's play to find the stuff now. I've half a mind to dine
first."
"I don't feel sharp," growled Morgan. "Thinkin' o' Flint--I think it
were--as done me."
"Ah, well, my son, you praise your stars he's dead," said Silver.
"He was an ugly devil," cried a third pirate, with a shudder; "that blue
in the face, too!"
"That was how the rum took him," added Merry. "Blue! well I reckon he
was blue. That's a true word."
Ever since they had found the skeleton and got upon this train of
thought, they had spoken lower and lower, and they had almost got to
whispering by now, so that the sound of their talk hardly interrupted
the silence of the wood. All of a sudden, out of the middle of the trees
in front of us, a thin, high, trembling voice struck up the well-known
air and words:
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"
I never have seen men more dreadfully affected than the pirates. The
color went from their six faces like enchantment; some leaped to their
feet, some clawed hold of others; Morgan groveled on the ground.
"It's Flint, by ----!" cried Merry.
The song had stopped as suddenly as it began--broken off, you would have
said, in the middle of a note, as though someone had laid his hand upon
the singer's mouth. Coming so far through the clear, sunny atmosphere
among the green tree-tops, I thought it had sounded airily and sweetly,
and the effect on my companions was the stranger.
"Come," said Silver, struggling with his ashen lips to get the word out,
"that won't do. Stand by to go about. This is a rum start, and I can't
name the voice, but it's someone skylarking--someone that's flesh and
blood, and you may lay to that."
His courage had come back as he spoke, and some of the color to his face
along with it. Already the others had begun to lend an ear to this
encouragement, and were coming a little to themselves, when the same
voice broke out again--not this time singing, but in a faint, distant
hail, that echoed yet fainter among the clefts of the Spy-glass.
"Darby M'Graw," it wailed--for that is the word that best describes the
sound--"Darby M'Graw! Darby M'Graw!" again and again and again; and then
rising a little higher, and with an oath that I leave out: "Fetch aft
the rum, Darby!"
The buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes starting from
their heads. Long after the voice had died away they still stared in
silence, dreadfully, before them.
"That fixes it!" gasped one. "Let's go."
"They was his last words," moaned Morgan, "his last words above-board."
Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had been well brought
up, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.
Still, Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle in his
head, but he had not yet surrendered.
"Nobody in this here island ever heard of Darby," he muttered; "not one
but us that's here." And then, making a great effort: "Shipmates," he
cried, "I'm here to get that stuff, and I'll not be beat by man nor
devil. I never was feared of Flint in his life, and, by the powers, I'll
face him dead. There's seven hundred thousand pound not a quarter of a
mile from here. When did ever a gentleman o' fortune show his stern to
that much dollars for a boozy old seaman with a blue mug--and him dead,
too?"
But there was no sign of reawakening courage in his followers; rather,
indeed, of growing terror at the irreverence of his words.
"Belay there, John!" said Merry. "Don't you cross a sperrit."
And the rest were all too terrified to reply. They would have run away
severally had they dared, but fear kept them together, and kept them
close by John, as if his daring helped them. He, on his part, had pretty
well fought his weakness down.
"Sperrit? Well, maybe," he said. "But there's one thing not clear to me.
There was an echo. Now, no man ever seen a sperrit with a shadow. Well,
then, what's he doing with an echo to him, I should like to know? That
ain't in natur', surely."
This argument seemed weak enough to me. But you can never tell what will
affect the superstitious, and, to my wonder, George Merry was greatly
relieved.
"Well, that's so," he said. "You've a head upon your shoulders, John,
and no mistake. 'Bout ship, mates! This here crew is on a wrong tack, I
do believe. And come to think on it, it was like Flint's voice, I grant
you, but not just so clear away like it, after all. It was liker
somebody else's voice now--it was liker--"
"By the powers, Ben Gunn!" roared Silver.
"Ay, and so it were," cried Morgan, springing on his knees. "Ben Gunn it
were!"
"It don't make much odds, do it, now?" asked Dick. "Ben Gunn's not here
in the body, any more'n Flint."
But the older hands greeted this remark with scorn.
"Why, nobody minds Ben Gunn," cried Merry; "dead or alive, nobody minds
him!"
It was extraordinary how their spirits had returned, and how the natural
color had revived in their faces. Soon they were chatting together, with
intervals of listening; and not long after, hearing no further sound,
they shouldered the tools and set forth again, Merry walking first with
Silver's compass to keep them on the right line with Skeleton Island. He
had said the truth; dead or alive, nobody minded Ben Gunn.
Dick alone still held his Bible, and looked around him as he went, with
fearful glances; but he found no sympathy, and Silver even joked him on
his precautions.
"I told you," said he, "I told you you had sp'iled your Bible. If it
ain't no good to swear by, what do you suppose a sperrit would give for
it? Not that!" and he snapped his big fingers, halting a moment on his
crutch.
But Dick was not to be comforted; indeed, it was soon plain to me that
the lad was falling sick; hastened by heat, exhaustion, and the shock of
his alarm, the fever, predicted by Doctor Livesey, was evidently growing
swiftly higher.
It was fine open walking here, upon the summit; our way lay a little
downhill, for, as I have said, the plateau tilted toward the west. The
pines, great and small, grew wide apart; and even between the clumps of
nutmeg and azalea, wide open spaces baked in the hot sunshine. Striking,
as we did, pretty near northwest across the island, we drew, on the one
hand, ever nearer under the shoulders of the Spy-glass, and on the
other, looked ever wider over that western bay where I had once tossed
and trembled in the coracle.
The first of the tall trees was reached, and by the bearing, proved the
wrong one. So with the second. The third rose nearly two hundred feet
into the air above a clump of underwood; a giant of a vegetable, with a
red column as big as a cottage, and a wide shadow around in which a
company could have maneuvered. It was conspicuous far to sea, both on
the east and west, and might have been entered as a sailing mark upon
the chart.
But it was not its size that now impressed my companions; it was the
knowledge that seven hundred thousand pounds in gold lay somewhere
buried below its spreading shadow. The thought of the money, as they
drew nearer, swallowed up their previous terrors. Their eyes burned in
their heads; their feet grew speedier and lighter; their whole soul was
bound up in that fortune, that whole lifetime of extravagance and
pleasure, that lay waiting there for each of them.
Silver hobbled, grunting, on his crutch; his nostrils stood out and
quivered; he cursed like a madman when the flies settled on his hot and
shiny countenance; he plucked furiously at the line that held me to him,
and, from time to time, turned his eyes upon me with a deadly look.
Certainly he took no pains to hide his thoughts; and certainly I read
them like print. In the immediate nearness of the gold, all else had
been forgotten; his promise and the doctor's warning were both things of
the past; and I could not doubt that he hoped to seize upon the
treasure, find and board the _Hispaniola_ under cover of night, cut
every honest throat about that island, and sail away as he had at first
intended, laden with crimes and riches.
Shaken as I was with these alarms, it was hard for me to keep up with
the rapid pace of the treasure-hunters. Now and again I stumbled, and it
was then that Silver plucked so roughly at the rope and launched at me
his murderous glances. Dick, who had dropped behind us, and now brought
up the rear, was babbling to himself both prayers and curses, as his
fever kept rising. This also added to my wretchedness, and, to crown
all, I was haunted by the thought of the tragedy that had once been
acted on that plateau, when that ungodly buccaneer with the blue
face--he who had died at Savannah, singing and shouting for drink--had
there, with his own hand, cut down his six accomplices. This grove, that
was now so peaceful, must then have rung with cries, I thought; and even
with the thought I could believe I heard it ringing still.
We were now at the margin of the thicket.
"Huzza, mates, altogether!" shouted Merry, and the foremost broke into a
run.
And suddenly, not ten yards farther, we beheld them stop. A low cry
arose. Silver doubled his pace, digging away with the foot of his crutch
like one possessed, and next moment he and I had come also to a dead
halt.
Before us was a great excavation, not very recent, for the sides had
fallen in and grass had sprouted on the bottom. In this were the shaft
of a pick broken in two and the boards of several packing cases strewn
around. On one of these boards I saw branded with a hot iron, the name
_Walrus_--the name of Flint's ship.
All was clear to probation. The _cache_ had been found and rifled--the
seven hundred thousand pounds were gone!
|
null | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter 34 using the context provided. | null | They start their work early next morning, for it is quite an effort to carry masses of gold bars first to the boat and then to the ship. Work is allocated for all. Gray and Ben go with the boat. Jim is busy packing the coins. Jim find them similar to the ones found in Billy Bones bag. They belong to all countries. This activity goes on for days. They havent heard from the mutineers for almost 3 days. On the third night, they hear some voices singing. It was the mutineers. Silver notes that they were drunk. He advises the Doctor not to approach them, for they arent trustworthy like him. On a meeting held on the Island before boarding the Hispaniola, they decide to leave the three mutineers on the island with some leftovers of food, clothing, medicine and tobacco. They begin their journey. Back from the Treasure Island with the Union Jack fluttering on top of the deck. Soon after they at sea. They see the three men marooned in the island begging and pleading to take them back. The Doctor informs them about the supplies they had left for them at the cave. When they see that their requests are rejected, one of them fires at Silver. He misses him but nevertheless puts everyone else on guard. They sail far from island. They anchor the ship in a port in Spanish America. The sight of Negroes and the Mexican Indians delights them. They go ashore for a while and when they return, Ben Gunn who was alone in the ship informed them that Silver has escaped. He tells them that he helps him do so only to save the lives of the men on board. The crew is pleased to hear that Silvers account is settled for three to four hundred guineas in loot. They reach port in Bristol just as Mr. Blandly was beginning to plan the consort. Only five men have returned from the voyage. They share the treasure among themselves. Captain Smollet retires. Gray settles down in life and becomes a mate on a ship he partly owns. Ben Gunn, after spending his money in nineteen days, lived on in the port. They never ever hear of Long John Silver. The bars of Silver and the arms -- the remaining treasure still lies on Treasure Island. Jim says that the voice of the surf hitting the rocks and the parrot, Captain Flints sharp voice `Pieces of eight, pieces of eight still rings in his ears. |
----------CHAPTER 33---------
THE FALL OF A CHIEFTAIN
There never was such an overturn in this world. Each of these six men
was as though he had been struck. But with Silver the blow passed almost
instantly. Every thought of his soul had been set full-stretch, like a
racer, on that money; well, he was brought up in a single second, dead;
and he kept his head, found his temper, and changed his plan before the
others had had time to realize the disappointment.
"Jim," he whispered, "take that, and stand by for trouble."
And he passed me a double-barreled pistol.
At the same time he began quietly moving northward, and in a few steps
had put the hollow between us two and the other five. Then he looked at
me and nodded, as much as to say: "Here is a narrow corner," as, indeed,
I thought it was. His looks were now quite friendly, and I was so
revolted at these constant changes that I could not forbear whispering:
"So you've changed sides again."
There was no time left for him to answer in. The buccaneers, with oaths
and cries, began to leap, one after another, into the pit, and to dig
with their fingers, throwing the boards aside as they did so. Morgan
found a piece of gold. He held it up with a perfect spout of oaths. It
was a two-guinea piece, and it went from hand to hand among them for a
quarter of a minute.
"Two guineas!" roared Merry, shaking it at Silver. "That's your seven
hundred thousand pounds, is it? You're the man for bargains, ain't you?
You're him that never bungled nothing, you wooden-headed lubber!"
"Dig away, boys," said Silver, with the coolest insolence; "you'll find
some pig-nuts, and I shouldn't wonder."
"Pig-nuts!" repeated Merry, in a scream. "Mates, do you hear that? I
tell you now, that man there knew it all along. Look in the face of him,
and you'll see it wrote there."
"Ah, Merry," remarked Silver, "standing for cap'n again? You're a
pushing lad, to be sure."
But this time every one was entirely in Merry's favor. They began to
scramble out of the excavation, darting furious glances behind them. One
thing I observed, which looked well for us; they all got out upon the
opposite side from Silver.
Well, there we stood, two on one side, five on the other, the pit
between us, and nobody screwed up high enough to offer the first blow.
Silver never moved; he watched them, very upright on his crutch, and
looked as cool as ever I saw him. He was brave, and no mistake.
At last, Merry seemed to think a speech might help matters.
"Mates," says he, "there's two of them alone there; one's the old
cripple that brought us all here and blundered us down to this; the
other's that cub that I mean to have the heart of. Now, mates--"
He was raising his arm and his voice, and plainly meant to lead a
charge. But just then--crack! crack! crack!--three musket-shots flashed
out of the thicket. Merry tumbled headforemost into the excavation; the
man with the bandage spun round like a teetotum, and fell all his length
upon his side, where he lay dead, but still twitching; and the other
three turned and ran for it with all their might.
Before you could wink Long John had fired two barrels of a pistol into
the struggling Merry; and as the man rolled up his eyes at him in the
last agony, "George," said he, "I reckon I settled you."
At the same moment the doctor, Gray, and Ben Gunn joined us, with
smoking muskets, from among the nutmeg-trees.
"Forward!" cried the doctor. "Double quick, my lads. We must head 'em
off the boats."
And we set off at a great pace, sometimes plunging through the bushes to
the chest.
I tell you, but Silver was anxious to keep up with us. The work that man
went through, leaping on his crutch till the muscles of his chest were
fit to burst, was work no sound man ever equaled; and so thinks the
doctor. As it was, he was already thirty yards behind us, and on the
verge of strangling, when we reached the brow of the slope.
"Doctor," he hailed, "see there! no hurry!"
Sure enough there was no hurry. In a more open part of the plateau we
could see the three survivors still running in the same direction as
they had started, right for Mizzen-mast Hill. We were already between
them and the boats, and so we four sat down to breathe, while Long John,
mopping his face, came slowly up with us.
"Thank ye kindly, doctor," says he. "You came in in about the nick, I
guess, for me and Hawkins. And so it's you, Ben Gunn!" he added. "Well,
you're a nice one, to be sure."
"I'm Ben Gunn, I am," replied the maroon, wriggling like an eel in his
embarrassment. "And," he added, after a long pause, "how do, Mr. Silver!
Pretty well, I thank ye, says you."
"Ben, Ben," murmured Silver, "to think as you've done me!"
The doctor sent back Gray for one of the pickaxes deserted, in their
flight, by the mutineers; and then as we proceeded leisurely downhill to
where the boats were lying, related, in a few words, what had taken
place. It was a story that profoundly interested Silver, and Ben Gunn,
the half-idiot maroon, was the hero from beginning to end.
Ben, in his long, lonely wanderings about the island, had found the
skeleton. It was he that had rifled it; he had found the treasure; he
had dug it up (it was the haft of his pickax that lay broken in the
excavation); he had carried it on his back, in many weary journeys, from
the foot of the tall pine to a cave he had on the two-pointed hill at
the northeast angle of the island, and there it had lain stored in
safety since two months before the arrival of the _Hispaniola_.
When the doctor had wormed this secret from him, on the afternoon of the
attack, and when, next morning, he saw the anchorage deserted, he had
gone to Silver, given him the chart, which was now useless; given him
the stores, for Ben Gunn's cave was well supplied with goats' meat
salted by himself; given anything and everything to get a chance of
moving in safety from the stockade to the two-pointed hill, there to be
clear of malaria and keep a guard upon the money.
"As for you, Jim," he said, "it went against my heart, but I did what I
thought best for those who had stood by their duty; and if you were not
one of these, whose fault was it?"
That morning, finding that I was to be involved in the horrid
disappointment he had prepared for the mutineers, he had run all the way
to the cave, and, leaving squire to guard the captain, had taken Gray
and the maroon, and started, making the diagonal across the island, to
be at hand beside the pine. Soon, however, he saw that our party had the
start of him; and Ben Gunn, being fleet of foot, had been dispatched in
front to do his best alone. Then it had occurred to him to work upon the
superstitions of his former shipmates; and he was so far successful that
Gray and the doctor had come up and were already ambushed before the
arrival of the treasure-hunters.
"Ah," said Silver, "it was fortunate for me that I had Hawkins here. You
would have let old John be cut to bits, and never given it a thought,
doctor."
"Not a thought," replied Doctor Livesey, cheerily.
And by this time we had reached the gigs. The doctor, with the pickax,
demolished one of them, and then we all got aboard the other, and set
out to go round by the sea for North Inlet.
This was a run of eight or nine miles. Silver, though he was almost
killed already with fatigue, was set to an oar, like the rest of us, and
we were soon skimming swiftly over a smooth sea. Soon we passed out of
the straits and doubled the southeast corner of the island, round which,
four days ago, we had towed the _Hispaniola_.
As we passed the two-pointed hill we could see the black mouth of Ben
Gunn's cave, and a figure standing by it, leaning on a musket. It was
the squire, and we waved a handkerchief and gave him three cheers, in
which the voice of Silver joined as heartily as any.
Three miles farther, just inside the mouth of North Inlet, what should
we meet but the _Hispaniola_, cruising by herself! The last flood had
lifted her, and had there been much wind, or a strong tide current, as
in the southern anchorage, we should never have found her more, or found
her stranded beyond help. As it was, there was little amiss, beyond the
wreck of the mainsail. Another anchor was got ready, and dropped in a
fathom and a half of water. We all pulled round again to Rum Cove, the
nearest point for Ben Gunn's treasure-house; and then Gray,
single-handed, returned with the gig to the _Hispaniola_, where he was
to pass the night on guard.
A gentle slope ran up from the beach to the entrance of the cave. At the
top, the squire met us. To me he was cordial and kind, saying nothing of
my escapade, either in the way of blame or praise. At Silver's polite
salute he somewhat flushed.
"John Silver," he said, "you're a prodigious villain and impostor--a
monstrous impostor, sir. I am told I am not to prosecute you. Well,
then, I will not. But the dead men, sir, hang about your neck like
millstones."
"Thank you kindly, sir," replied Long John, again saluting.
"I dare you to thank me!" cried the squire. "It is a gross dereliction
of my duty. Stand back!"
And thereupon we all entered the cave. It was a large, airy place, with
a little spring and a pool of clear water, overhung with ferns. The
floor was sand. Before a big fire lay Captain Smollett; and in a far
corner, only duskily flickered over by the blaze, I beheld great heaps
of coin and quadrilaterals built of bars of gold. That was Flint's
treasure that we had come so far to seek, and that had cost already the
lives of seventeen men from the _Hispaniola_. How many it had cost in
the amassing, what blood and sorrow, what good ships scuttled on the
deep, what brave men walking the plank blindfold, what shot of cannon,
what shame and lies and cruelty, perhaps no man alive could tell. Yet
there were still three upon that island--Silver, and old Morgan, and Ben
Gunn--who had each taken his share in these crimes, as each had hoped in
vain to share in the reward.
"Come in, Jim," said the captain. "You're a good boy in your line, Jim;
but I don't think you and me'll go to sea again. You're too much of the
born favorite for me. Is that you, John Silver? What brings you here,
man?"
"Come back to my dooty, sir," returned Silver.
"Ah!" said the captain, and that was all he said.
What a supper I had of it that night, with all my friends around me; and
what a meal it was, with Ben Gunn's salted goat, and some delicacies and
a bottle of old wine from the _Hispaniola_. Never, I am sure, were
people gayer or happier. And there was Silver, sitting back almost out
of the firelight, but eating heartily, prompt to spring forward when
anything was wanted, even joining quietly in our laughter--the same
bland, polite, obsequious seaman of the voyage out.
----------CHAPTER 34---------
AND LAST
The next morning we fell early to work, for the transportation of this
great mass of gold near a mile by land to the beach, and thence three
miles by boat to the _Hispaniola_, was a considerable task for so small
a number of workmen. The three fellows still abroad upon the island did
not greatly trouble us; a single sentry on the shoulder of the hill was
sufficient to insure us against any sudden onslaught, and we thought,
besides, they had had more than enough of fighting.
Therefore the work was pushed on briskly. Gray and Ben Gunn came and
went with the boat, while the rest during their absences piled treasure
on the beach. Two of the bars, slung in a rope's end, made a good load
for a grown man--one that he was glad to walk slowly with. For my part,
as I was not much use at carrying, I was kept busy all day in the cave,
packing the minted money into bread-bags.
It was a strange collection, like Billy Bones's hoard for the diversity
of coinage, but so much larger and so much more varied that I think I
never had more pleasure than in sorting them. English, French, Spanish,
Portuguese, Georges, and Louises, doubloons and double guineas and
moidores and sequins, the pictures of all the kings of Europe for the
last hundred years, strange oriental pieces stamped with what looked
like wisps of string or bits of spider's web, round pieces and square
pieces, and pieces bored through the middle, as if to wear them round
your neck--nearly every variety of money in the world must, I think,
have found a place in that collection; and for number, I am sure they
were like autumn leaves, so that my back ached with stooping and my
fingers with sorting them out.
[Illustration: _Nearly every variety of money in the world must have
found a place in that collection_ (Page 253)]
Day after day this work went on; by every evening a fortune had been
stowed aboard, but there was another fortune waiting for the morrow; and
all this time we heard nothing of the three surviving mutineers.
At last--I think it was on the third night--the doctor and I were
strolling on the shoulder of the hill where it overlooks the lowlands of
the isle, when, from out the thick darkness below, the wind brought us a
noise between shrieking and singing. It was only a snatch that reached
our ears, followed by the former silence.
"Heaven forgive them," said the doctor; "'tis the mutineers!"
"All drunk, sir," struck in the voice of Silver from behind us.
Silver, I should say, was allowed his entire liberty, and, in spite of
daily rebuffs, seemed to regard himself once more as quite a privileged
and friendly dependent. Indeed, it was remarkable how well he bore these
slights, and with what unwearying politeness he kept at trying to
ingratiate himself with all. Yet, I think, none treated him better than
a dog, unless it was Ben Gunn, who was still terribly afraid of his old
quartermaster, or myself, who had really something to thank him for;
although for that matter, I suppose, I had reason to think even worse of
him than anybody else, for I had seen him meditating a fresh treachery
upon the plateau. Accordingly, it was pretty gruffly that the doctor
answered him.
"Drunk or raving," said he.
"Right you were, sir," replied Silver; "and precious little odds which,
to you and me."
"I suppose you would hardly ask me to call you a humane man," returned
the doctor, with a sneer, "and so my feelings may surprise you, Master
Silver. But if I were sure they were raving--as I am morally certain
one, at least, of them is down with fever--I should leave this camp,
and, at whatever risk to my own carcass, take them the assistance of my
skill."
"Ask your pardon, sir, you would be very wrong," quoth Silver. "You
would lose your precious life, and you may lay to that. I'm on your side
now, hand and glove; and I shouldn't wish for to see the party weakened,
let alone yourself, seeing as I know what I owes you. But these men down
there, they couldn't keep their word--no, not supposing they wished
to--and what's more, they couldn't believe as you could."
"No," said the doctor. "You're the man to keep your word, we know that."
Well, that was about the last news we had of the three pirates. Only
once we heard a gunshot a great way off, and supposed them to be
hunting. A council was held and it was decided that we must desert them
on the island--to the huge glee, I must say, of Ben Gunn, and with the
strong approval of Gray. We left a good stock of powder and shot, the
bulk of the salt goat, a few medicines and some other necessaries,
tools, clothing, a spare sail, a fathom or two of rope, and, by the
particular desire of the doctor, a handsome present of tobacco.
That was about our last doing on the island. Before that we had got the
treasure stowed and had shipped enough water and the remainder of the
goat meat, in case of any distress; and at last, one fine morning, we
weighed anchor, which was about all that we could manage, and stood out
of North Inlet, the same colors flying that the captain had flown and
fought under at the palisade.
The three fellows must have been watching us closer than we thought for,
as we soon had proved. For, coming through the narrows we had to lie
very near the southern point, and there we saw all three of them
kneeling together on a spit of sand with their arms raised in
supplication. It went to all our hearts, I think, to leave them in that
wretched state, but we could not risk another mutiny, and to take them
home for the gibbet would have been a cruel sort of kindness. The doctor
hailed them and told them of the stores we had left, and where they were
to find them, but they continued to call us by name and appeal to us for
God's sake to be merciful and not leave them to die in such a place.
At last, seeing the ship still bore on her course, and was now swiftly
drawing out of earshot, one of them--I know not which it was--leaped to
his feet with a hoarse cry, whipped his musket to his shoulder, and sent
a shot whistling over Silver's head and through the mainsail.
After that we kept under cover of the bulwarks, and when next I looked
out they had disappeared from the spit, and the spit itself had almost
melted out of sight in the growing distance. That was, at least, the end
of that; and before noon, to my inexpressible joy, the highest rock of
Treasure Island had sunk into the blue round of sea.
We were so short of men that everyone on board had to bear a hand--only
the captain lying on a mattress in the stern and giving his orders, for
though greatly recovered he was still in want of quiet. We laid her head
for the nearest port in Spanish America, for we could not risk the
voyage home without fresh hands; and as it was, what with baffling winds
and a couple of fresh gales, we were all worn out before we reached it.
It was just at sundown when we cast anchor in a most beautiful
landlocked gulf, and were immediately surrounded by shore boats full of
negroes and Mexican Indians and half-bloods, selling fruits and
vegetables, and offering to dive for bits of money. The sight of so many
good-humored faces (especially the blacks), the taste of the tropical
fruits, and above all, the lights that began to shine in the town, made
a most charming contrast to our dark and bloody sojourn on the island;
and the doctor and the squire, taking me along with them, went ashore to
pass the early part of the night. Here they met the captain of an
English man-of-war, fell in talk with him, went on board his ship, and
in short, had so agreeable a time that day was breaking when we came
alongside the _Hispaniola_.
Ben Gunn was on deck alone, and as soon as we came on board he began,
with wonderful contortions, to make us a confession. Silver was gone.
The maroon had connived at his escape in a shore boat some hours ago,
and he now assured us he had only done so to preserve our lives, which
would certainly have been forfeited if "that man with the one leg had
stayed aboard." But this was not all. The sea-cook had not gone
empty-handed. He had cut through a bulkhead unobserved, and had removed
one of the sacks of coin, worth, perhaps, three or four hundred
guineas, to help him on his further wanderings.
I think we were all pleased to be so cheaply quit of him.
Well, to make a long story short, we got a few hands on board, made a
good cruise home, and the _Hispaniola_ reached Bristol just as Mr.
Blandly was beginning to think of fitting out her consort. Five men only
of those who had sailed returned with her. "Drink and the devil had done
for the rest" with a vengeance, although, to be sure, we were not quite
in so bad a case as that other ship they sang about:
"With one man of the crew alive,
What put to sea with seventy-five."
All of us had an ample share of the treasure, and used it wisely or
foolishly, according to our natures. Captain Smollett is now retired
from the sea. Gray not only saved his money, but, being suddenly smit
with the desire to rise, also studied his profession, and he is now mate
and part owner of a fine full-rigged ship; married besides, and the
father of a family. As for Ben Gunn, he got a thousand pounds, which he
spent or lost in three weeks, or, to be more exact, in nineteen days,
for he was back begging on the twentieth. Then he was given a lodge to
keep, exactly as he had feared upon the island; and he still lives, a
great favorite, though something of a butt with the country boys, and a
notable singer in church on Sundays and saints' days.
Of Silver we have heard no more. That formidable seafaring man with one
leg has at last gone clean out of my life, but I dare say he met his old
negress, and perhaps still lives in comfort with her and Captain Flint.
It is to be hoped so, I suppose, for his chances of comfort in another
world are very small.
The bar silver and the arms still lie, for all that I know, where Flint
buried them; and certainly they shall lie there for me. Oxen and
wain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed island, and
the worst dreams that ever I have are when I hear the surf booming about
its coasts, or start upright in bed, with the sharp voice of Captain
Flint still ringing in my ears: "Pieces of eight! pieces of eight!"
[Illustration]
|
Troilus and Cressida.act | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of act 1, scene 2 using the context provided. | act 1, scene 1|act 1, scene 2 | Scene two begins with a conversation between Cressida and her servant Alexander about Ajax, a newly-arrived half-Greek and half-Trojan champion who is fighting on the Greek side. They jokingly suggest that Ajax is full of bluster and short on brains. Pandarus enters and deftly turns the subject to Troilus. Despite his declaration that he will no longer pursue Troilus' suit, Pandarus is still hard at work, comparing Troilus favorably to Troy's greatest champion, Hector. Cressida couldn't disagree more, saying that she finds Troilus totally unfit for comparison to Hector. The day in the battlefield has concluded, and Cressida and Pandarus watch as the Trojan champions parade back into the city. Pandarus provides a commentary on the warriors, praising Hector and Aeneas and assuring Cressida that Troilus will make a grand appearance. Cressida continues to tease her uncle by insulting Troilus. Upon his exit, however, Cressida reveals in a soliloquy that she desperately loves Troilus in return; she has kept this love to herself because she knows that as a woman she will be valued most while she is being wooed, and that her value will diminish significantly once she is "conquered. Meanwhile, on the other side of Troy's famous walls, the Greek camp is in crisis. The three main strategists of the Greek cause, Agamemnon, Nestor, and Ulysses, each give a speech addressing their difficulties. Agamemnon states that their lack of success is a plot of the gods to find constancy in men; Nestor concurs with Agamemnon. Ulysses' speech takes a different point of view; he states that the reason their effort has been unsuccessful is that there has been mutiny in the ranks. Achilles, the Greeks' greatest warrior, has been stubbornly refusing to partake in the war as a show of his power. Ulysses says that Achilles' temperamental defiance of his superiors has become endemic to the camp as a whole: because he has snubbed his commanders, rank has lost its import amongst the Greeks - a situation which must be remedied if the Greek cause is to prevail. Following Ulysses' speech, which both Agamemnon and Nestor applaud, Aeneas enters to issue a challenge from Hector. This challenge is obviously intended for Achilles alone, though it is ostensibly directed to the Greeks in general. Upon hearing this, Ulysses takes Nestor aside to suggest a solution to the Achilles problem. He says that the Greeks should choose a warrior to answer Hector's challenge with a lottery, but that they should rig the lottery so that Ajax is chosen. They would then have reason to praise the doltish Ajax as the greatest warrior in their camp - a situation that would irk the prideful Achilles so much that he would almost certainly return to battle to prove his superiority |
----------ACT 1, SCENE 1---------
ACT I. SCENE 1.
Troy. Before PRIAM'S palace
Enter TROILUS armed, and PANDARUS
TROILUS. Call here my varlet; I'll unarm again.
Why should I war without the walls of Troy
That find such cruel battle here within?
Each Troyan that is master of his heart,
Let him to field; Troilus, alas, hath none!
PANDARUS. Will this gear ne'er be mended?
TROILUS. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength,
Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant;
But I am weaker than a woman's tear,
Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance,
Less valiant than the virgin in the night,
And skilless as unpractis'd infancy.
PANDARUS. Well, I have told you enough of this; for my part,
I'll not meddle nor make no farther. He that will have a cake
out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding.
TROILUS. Have I not tarried?
PANDARUS. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
TROILUS. Have I not tarried?
PANDARUS. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening.
TROILUS. Still have I tarried.
PANDARUS. Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the word
'hereafter' the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating
of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too,
or you may chance to burn your lips.
TROILUS. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be,
Doth lesser blench at suff'rance than I do.
At Priam's royal table do I sit;
And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts-
So, traitor, then she comes when she is thence.
PANDARUS. Well, she look'd yesternight fairer than ever I saw her
look, or any woman else.
TROILUS. I was about to tell thee: when my heart,
As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain,
Lest Hector or my father should perceive me,
I have, as when the sun doth light a storm,
Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile.
But sorrow that is couch'd in seeming gladness
Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.
PANDARUS. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's-well,
go to- there were no more comparison between the women. But, for
my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it,
praise her, but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as
I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit; but-
TROILUS. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus-
When I do tell thee there my hopes lie drown'd,
Reply not in how many fathoms deep
They lie indrench'd. I tell thee I am mad
In Cressid's love. Thou answer'st 'She is fair'-
Pourest in the open ulcer of my heart-
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice,
Handlest in thy discourse. O, that her hand,
In whose comparison all whites are ink
Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure
The cygnet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense
Hard as the palm of ploughman! This thou tell'st me,
As true thou tell'st me, when I say I love her;
But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me
The knife that made it.
PANDARUS. I speak no more than truth.
TROILUS. Thou dost not speak so much.
PANDARUS. Faith, I'll not meddle in it. Let her be as she is: if
she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the
mends in her own hands.
TROILUS. Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus!
PANDARUS. I have had my labour for my travail, ill thought on of
her and ill thought on of you; gone between and between, but
small thanks for my labour.
TROILUS. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? What, with me?
PANDARUS. Because she's kin to me, therefore she's not so fair as
Helen. An she were not kin to me, she would be as fair a Friday
as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not an she were a
blackamoor; 'tis all one to me.
TROILUS. Say I she is not fair?
PANDARUS. I do not care whether you do or no. She's a fool to stay
behind her father. Let her to the Greeks; and so I'll tell her
the next time I see her. For my part, I'll meddle nor make no
more i' th' matter.
TROILUS. Pandarus!
PANDARUS. Not I.
TROILUS. Sweet Pandarus!
PANDARUS. Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all
as I found it, and there an end.
Exit. Sound alarum
TROILUS. Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, rude sounds!
Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair,
When with your blood you daily paint her thus.
I cannot fight upon this argument;
It is too starv'd a subject for my sword.
But Pandarus-O gods, how do you plague me!
I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar;
And he's as tetchy to be woo'd to woo
As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit.
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love,
What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we?
Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl;
Between our Ilium and where she resides
Let it be call'd the wild and wand'ring flood;
Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.
Alarum. Enter AENEAS
AENEAS. How now, Prince Troilus! Wherefore not afield?
TROILUS. Because not there. This woman's answer sorts,
For womanish it is to be from thence.
What news, Aeneas, from the field to-day?
AENEAS. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.
TROILUS. By whom, Aeneas?
AENEAS. Troilus, by Menelaus.
TROILUS. Let Paris bleed: 'tis but a scar to scorn;
Paris is gor'd with Menelaus' horn.
[Alarum]
AENEAS. Hark what good sport is out of town to-day!
TROILUS. Better at home, if 'would I might' were 'may.'
But to the sport abroad. Are you bound thither?
AENEAS. In all swift haste.
TROILUS. Come, go we then together.
Exeunt
----------ACT 1, SCENE 2---------
ACT I. SCENE 2.
Troy. A street
Enter CRESSIDA and her man ALEXANDER
CRESSIDA. Who were those went by?
ALEXANDER. Queen Hecuba and Helen.
CRESSIDA. And whither go they?
ALEXANDER. Up to the eastern tower,
Whose height commands as subject all the vale,
To see the battle. Hector, whose patience
Is as a virtue fix'd, to-day was mov'd.
He chid Andromache, and struck his armourer;
And, like as there were husbandry in war,
Before the sun rose he was harness'd light,
And to the field goes he; where every flower
Did as a prophet weep what it foresaw
In Hector's wrath.
CRESSIDA. What was his cause of anger?
ALEXANDER. The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks
A lord of Troyan blood, nephew to Hector;
They call him Ajax.
CRESSIDA. Good; and what of him?
ALEXANDER. They say he is a very man per se,
And stands alone.
CRESSIDA. So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, or have no
legs.
ALEXANDER. This man, lady, hath robb'd many beasts of their
particular additions: he is as valiant as a lion, churlish as the
bear, slow as the elephant-a man into whom nature hath so crowded
humours that his valour is crush'd into folly, his folly sauced
with discretion. There is no man hath a virtue that he hath not a
glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he carries some stain of
it; he is melancholy without cause and merry against the hair; he
hath the joints of every thing; but everything so out of joint
that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use, or purblind
Argus, all eyes and no sight.
CRESSIDA. But how should this man, that makes me smile, make Hector
angry?
ALEXANDER. They say he yesterday cop'd Hector in the battle and
struck him down, the disdain and shame whereof hath ever since
kept Hector fasting and waking.
Enter PANDARUS
CRESSIDA. Who comes here?
ALEXANDER. Madam, your uncle Pandarus.
CRESSIDA. Hector's a gallant man.
ALEXANDER. As may be in the world, lady.
PANDARUS. What's that? What's that?
CRESSIDA. Good morrow, uncle Pandarus.
PANDARUS. Good morrow, cousin Cressid. What do you talk of?- Good
morrow, Alexander.-How do you, cousin? When were you at Ilium?
CRESSIDA. This morning, uncle.
PANDARUS. What were you talking of when I came? Was Hector arm'd
and gone ere you came to Ilium? Helen was not up, was she?
CRESSIDA. Hector was gone; but Helen was not up.
PANDARUS. E'en so. Hector was stirring early.
CRESSIDA. That were we talking of, and of his anger.
PANDARUS. Was he angry?
CRESSIDA. So he says here.
PANDARUS. True, he was so; I know the cause too; he'll lay about
him today, I can tell them that. And there's Troilus will not
come far behind him; let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell
them that too.
CRESSIDA. What, is he angry too?
PANDARUS. Who, Troilus? Troilus is the better man of the two.
CRESSIDA. O Jupiter! there's no comparison.
PANDARUS. What, not between Troilus and Hector? Do you know a man
if you see him?
CRESSIDA. Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew him.
PANDARUS. Well, I say Troilus is Troilus.
CRESSIDA. Then you say as I say, for I am sure he is not Hector.
PANDARUS. No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some degrees.
CRESSIDA. 'Tis just to each of them: he is himself.
PANDARUS. Himself! Alas, poor Troilus! I would he were!
CRESSIDA. So he is.
PANDARUS. Condition I had gone barefoot to India.
CRESSIDA. He is not Hector.
PANDARUS. Himself! no, he's not himself. Would 'a were himself!
Well, the gods are above; time must friend or end. Well, Troilus,
well! I would my heart were in her body! No, Hector is not a
better man than Troilus.
CRESSIDA. Excuse me.
PANDARUS. He is elder.
CRESSIDA. Pardon me, pardon me.
PANDARUS. Th' other's not come to't; you shall tell me another tale
when th' other's come to't. Hector shall not have his wit this
year.
CRESSIDA. He shall not need it if he have his own.
PANDARUS. Nor his qualities.
CRESSIDA. No matter.
PANDARUS. Nor his beauty.
CRESSIDA. 'Twould not become him: his own's better.
PANDARUS. YOU have no judgment, niece. Helen herself swore th'
other day that Troilus, for a brown favour, for so 'tis, I must
confess- not brown neither-
CRESSIDA. No, but brown.
PANDARUS. Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown.
CRESSIDA. To say the truth, true and not true.
PANDARUS. She prais'd his complexion above Paris.
CRESSIDA. Why, Paris hath colour enough.
PANDARUS. So he has.
CRESSIDA. Then Troilus should have too much. If she prais'd him
above, his complexion is higher than his; he having colour
enough, and the other higher, is too flaming praise for a good
complexion. I had as lief Helen's golden tongue had commended
Troilus for a copper nose.
PANDARUS. I swear to you I think Helen loves him better than Paris.
CRESSIDA. Then she's a merry Greek indeed.
PANDARUS. Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th' other day
into the compass'd window-and you know he has not past three or
four hairs on his chin-
CRESSIDA. Indeed a tapster's arithmetic may soon bring his
particulars therein to a total.
PANDARUS. Why, he is very young, and yet will he within three pound
lift as much as his brother Hector.
CRESSIDA. Is he so young a man and so old a lifter?
PANDARUS. But to prove to you that Helen loves him: she came and
puts me her white hand to his cloven chin-
CRESSIDA. Juno have mercy! How came it cloven?
PANDARUS. Why, you know, 'tis dimpled. I think his smiling becomes
him better than any man in all Phrygia.
CRESSIDA. O, he smiles valiantly!
PANDARUS. Does he not?
CRESSIDA. O yes, an 'twere a cloud in autumn!
PANDARUS. Why, go to, then! But to prove to you that Helen loves
Troilus-
CRESSIDA. Troilus will stand to the proof, if you'll prove it so.
PANDARUS. Troilus! Why, he esteems her no more than I esteem an
addle egg.
CRESSIDA. If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle
head, you would eat chickens i' th' shell.
PANDARUS. I cannot choose but laugh to think how she tickled his
chin. Indeed, she has a marvell's white hand, I must needs
confess.
CRESSIDA. Without the rack.
PANDARUS. And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on his chin.
CRESSIDA. Alas, poor chin! Many a wart is richer.
PANDARUS. But there was such laughing! Queen Hecuba laugh'd that
her eyes ran o'er.
CRESSIDA. With millstones.
PANDARUS. And Cassandra laugh'd.
CRESSIDA. But there was a more temperate fire under the pot of her
eyes. Did her eyes run o'er too?
PANDARUS. And Hector laugh'd.
CRESSIDA. At what was all this laughing?
PANDARUS. Marry, at the white hair that Helen spied on Troilus'
chin.
CRESSIDA. An't had been a green hair I should have laugh'd too.
PANDARUS. They laugh'd not so much at the hair as at his pretty
answer.
CRESSIDA. What was his answer?
PANDARUS. Quoth she 'Here's but two and fifty hairs on your chin,
and one of them is white.'
CRESSIDA. This is her question.
PANDARUS. That's true; make no question of that. 'Two and fifty
hairs,' quoth he 'and one white. That white hair is my father,
and all the rest are his sons.' 'Jupiter!' quoth she 'which of
these hairs is Paris my husband?' 'The forked one,' quoth he,
'pluck't out and give it him.' But there was such laughing! and
Helen so blush'd, and Paris so chaf'd; and all the rest so
laugh'd that it pass'd.
CRESSIDA. So let it now; for it has been a great while going by.
PANDARUS. Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday; think on't.
CRESSIDA. So I do.
PANDARUS. I'll be sworn 'tis true; he will weep you, and 'twere a
man born in April.
CRESSIDA. And I'll spring up in his tears, an 'twere a nettle
against May. [Sound a retreat]
PANDARUS. Hark! they are coming from the field. Shall we stand up
here and see them as they pass toward Ilium? Good niece, do,
sweet niece Cressida.
CRESSIDA. At your pleasure.
PANDARUS. Here, here, here's an excellent place; here we may see
most bravely. I'll tell you them all by their names as they pass
by; but mark Troilus above the rest.
AENEAS passes
CRESSIDA. Speak not so loud.
PANDARUS. That's Aeneas. Is not that a brave man? He's one of the
flowers of Troy, I can tell you. But mark Troilus; you shall see
anon.
ANTENOR passes
CRESSIDA. Who's that?
PANDARUS. That's Antenor. He has a shrewd wit, I can tell you; and
he's a man good enough; he's one o' th' soundest judgments in
Troy, whosoever, and a proper man of person. When comes Troilus?
I'll show you Troilus anon. If he see me, you shall see him nod
at me.
CRESSIDA. Will he give you the nod?
PANDARUS. You shall see.
CRESSIDA. If he do, the rich shall have more.
HECTOR passes
PANDARUS. That's Hector, that, that, look you, that; there's a
fellow! Go thy way, Hector! There's a brave man, niece. O brave
Hector! Look how he looks. There's a countenance! Is't not a
brave man?
CRESSIDA. O, a brave man!
PANDARUS. Is 'a not? It does a man's heart good. Look you what
hacks are on his helmet! Look you yonder, do you see? Look you
there. There's no jesting; there's laying on; take't off who
will, as they say. There be hacks.
CRESSIDA. Be those with swords?
PANDARUS. Swords! anything, he cares not; an the devil come to him,
it's all one. By God's lid, it does one's heart good. Yonder
comes Paris, yonder comes Paris.
PARIS passes
Look ye yonder, niece; is't not a gallant man too, is't not? Why,
this is brave now. Who said he came hurt home to-day? He's not
hurt. Why, this will do Helen's heart good now, ha! Would I could
see Troilus now! You shall see Troilus anon.
HELENUS passes
CRESSIDA. Who's that?
PANDARUS. That's Helenus. I marvel where Troilus is. That's
Helenus. I think he went not forth to-day. That's Helenus.
CRESSIDA. Can Helenus fight, uncle?
PANDARUS. Helenus! no. Yes, he'll fight indifferent well. I marvel
where Troilus is. Hark! do you not hear the people cry 'Troilus'?
Helenus is a priest.
CRESSIDA. What sneaking fellow comes yonder?
TROILUS passes
PANDARUS. Where? yonder? That's Deiphobus. 'Tis Troilus. There's a
man, niece. Hem! Brave Troilus, the prince of chivalry!
CRESSIDA. Peace, for shame, peace!
PANDARUS. Mark him; note him. O brave Troilus! Look well upon him,
niece; look you how his sword is bloodied, and his helm more
hack'd than Hector's; and how he looks, and how he goes! O
admirable youth! he never saw three and twenty. Go thy way,
Troilus, go thy way. Had I a sister were a grace or a daughter a
goddess, he should take his choice. O admirable man! Paris? Paris
is dirt to him; and, I warrant, Helen, to change, would give an
eye to boot.
CRESSIDA. Here comes more.
Common soldiers pass
PANDARUS. Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran!
porridge after meat! I could live and die in the eyes of Troilus.
Ne'er look, ne'er look; the eagles are gone. Crows and daws,
crows and daws! I had rather be such a man as Troilus than
Agamemnon and all Greece.
CRESSIDA. There is amongst the Greeks Achilles, a better man than
Troilus.
PANDARUS. Achilles? A drayman, a porter, a very camel!
CRESSIDA. Well, well.
PANDARUS. Well, well! Why, have you any discretion? Have you any
eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is not birth, beauty, good
shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth,
liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man?
CRESSIDA. Ay, a minc'd man; and then to be bak'd with no date in
the pie, for then the man's date is out.
PANDARUS. You are such a woman! A man knows not at what ward you
lie.
CRESSIDA. Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon my wit, to defend
my wiles; upon my secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to
defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these; and at all these
wards I lie at, at a thousand watches.
PANDARUS. Say one of your watches.
CRESSIDA. Nay, I'll watch you for that; and that's one of the
chiefest of them too. If I cannot ward what I would not have hit,
I can watch you for telling how I took the blow; unless it swell
past hiding, and then it's past watching
PANDARUS. You are such another!
Enter TROILUS' BOY
BOY. Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you.
PANDARUS. Where?
BOY. At your own house; there he unarms him.
PANDARUS. Good boy, tell him I come. Exit Boy
I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece.
CRESSIDA. Adieu, uncle.
PANDARUS. I will be with you, niece, by and by.
CRESSIDA. To bring, uncle.
PANDARUS. Ay, a token from Troilus.
CRESSIDA. By the same token, you are a bawd.
Exit
PANDARUS
Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice,
He offers in another's enterprise;
But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see
Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be,
Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing:
Things won are done; joy's soul lies in the doing.
That she belov'd knows nought that knows not this:
Men prize the thing ungain'd more than it is.
That she was never yet that ever knew
Love got so sweet as when desire did sue;
Therefore this maxim out of love I teach:
Achievement is command; ungain'd, beseech.
Then though my heart's content firm love doth bear,
Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear.
Exit
----------ACT 1, SCENE 1---------
ACT I. SCENE 1.
Troy. Before PRIAM'S palace
Enter TROILUS armed, and PANDARUS
TROILUS. Call here my varlet; I'll unarm again.
Why should I war without the walls of Troy
That find such cruel battle here within?
Each Troyan that is master of his heart,
Let him to field; Troilus, alas, hath none!
PANDARUS. Will this gear ne'er be mended?
TROILUS. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength,
Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant;
But I am weaker than a woman's tear,
Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance,
Less valiant than the virgin in the night,
And skilless as unpractis'd infancy.
PANDARUS. Well, I have told you enough of this; for my part,
I'll not meddle nor make no farther. He that will have a cake
out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding.
TROILUS. Have I not tarried?
PANDARUS. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
TROILUS. Have I not tarried?
PANDARUS. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening.
TROILUS. Still have I tarried.
PANDARUS. Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the word
'hereafter' the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating
of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too,
or you may chance to burn your lips.
TROILUS. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be,
Doth lesser blench at suff'rance than I do.
At Priam's royal table do I sit;
And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts-
So, traitor, then she comes when she is thence.
PANDARUS. Well, she look'd yesternight fairer than ever I saw her
look, or any woman else.
TROILUS. I was about to tell thee: when my heart,
As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain,
Lest Hector or my father should perceive me,
I have, as when the sun doth light a storm,
Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile.
But sorrow that is couch'd in seeming gladness
Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.
PANDARUS. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's-well,
go to- there were no more comparison between the women. But, for
my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it,
praise her, but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as
I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit; but-
TROILUS. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus-
When I do tell thee there my hopes lie drown'd,
Reply not in how many fathoms deep
They lie indrench'd. I tell thee I am mad
In Cressid's love. Thou answer'st 'She is fair'-
Pourest in the open ulcer of my heart-
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice,
Handlest in thy discourse. O, that her hand,
In whose comparison all whites are ink
Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure
The cygnet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense
Hard as the palm of ploughman! This thou tell'st me,
As true thou tell'st me, when I say I love her;
But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me
The knife that made it.
PANDARUS. I speak no more than truth.
TROILUS. Thou dost not speak so much.
PANDARUS. Faith, I'll not meddle in it. Let her be as she is: if
she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the
mends in her own hands.
TROILUS. Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus!
PANDARUS. I have had my labour for my travail, ill thought on of
her and ill thought on of you; gone between and between, but
small thanks for my labour.
TROILUS. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? What, with me?
PANDARUS. Because she's kin to me, therefore she's not so fair as
Helen. An she were not kin to me, she would be as fair a Friday
as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not an she were a
blackamoor; 'tis all one to me.
TROILUS. Say I she is not fair?
PANDARUS. I do not care whether you do or no. She's a fool to stay
behind her father. Let her to the Greeks; and so I'll tell her
the next time I see her. For my part, I'll meddle nor make no
more i' th' matter.
TROILUS. Pandarus!
PANDARUS. Not I.
TROILUS. Sweet Pandarus!
PANDARUS. Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all
as I found it, and there an end.
Exit. Sound alarum
TROILUS. Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, rude sounds!
Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair,
When with your blood you daily paint her thus.
I cannot fight upon this argument;
It is too starv'd a subject for my sword.
But Pandarus-O gods, how do you plague me!
I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar;
And he's as tetchy to be woo'd to woo
As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit.
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love,
What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we?
Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl;
Between our Ilium and where she resides
Let it be call'd the wild and wand'ring flood;
Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.
Alarum. Enter AENEAS
AENEAS. How now, Prince Troilus! Wherefore not afield?
TROILUS. Because not there. This woman's answer sorts,
For womanish it is to be from thence.
What news, Aeneas, from the field to-day?
AENEAS. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.
TROILUS. By whom, Aeneas?
AENEAS. Troilus, by Menelaus.
TROILUS. Let Paris bleed: 'tis but a scar to scorn;
Paris is gor'd with Menelaus' horn.
[Alarum]
AENEAS. Hark what good sport is out of town to-day!
TROILUS. Better at home, if 'would I might' were 'may.'
But to the sport abroad. Are you bound thither?
AENEAS. In all swift haste.
TROILUS. Come, go we then together.
Exeunt
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for act 1, scene 2 with the given context. | act 1, scene 2|act 2, scene 1 | On a street in Troy, the luscious Cressida hangs out with her servant Alexander, who entertains our girl with some juicy gossip about some key players in the Trojan war. Apparently, on his way to the battlefield today, Hector flipped out and yelled at his wife and then slapped around the guy who helps him arm for battle. In case you didn't know, that's not how noble heroes are supposed to act. Go to "Themes: Principles" and we'll tell you why. It turns out that Hector's all mad because of his nephew, Ajax, who's a commander in the Greek army. Apparently, Ajax and Hector went toe-to-toe in battle and Ajax knocked his uncle on his butt in front of everyone. Next, Alexander rags on Ajax, who is as "valiant as the lion," but, uh, not very bright. Plus, he's emotionally unstable and has some serious mood swings. When Cressida's uncle Pandarus shows up, the two begin to tease each other right away. Pandarus is there to talk up Troilus, but witty Cressida likes to torture her uncle. She keeps insisting that there are tons of other dreamy boys out there that are way better. This goes on for a while, until Pandarus decides to switch tactics and make Cressida jealous. He claims that Helen's been flirting it up with Troilus lately and seems to like him better than she likes Paris. Cressida shoots back, "Then she's a merry Greek indeed." But Pandarus is on a roll. He tells his niece that just the other day Helen went up to Troilus, tickled his "dimpled" chin, and teased him about his scruffy facial hair. Cressida acts like she's totally not jealous. She says she's seen warts that had more hair on them than Troilus's pathetic goatee. But there's more--like a lot of giggling and blushing between Troilus and Helen. So much that Paris got pretty jealous. Now that he's got her all worked up, Pandarus is like, hey, remember that thing I mentioned yesterday? Before Cressida can respond, Aeneas and a bunch of Trojan leaders parade across the stage on their way back from the battlefield. Pandarus points them all out to Cressida and tells her how brave and valiant they are. Cressida rolls her eyes and makes some snarky comments, but that doesn't stop her from checking out all the guys that walk by and judging whether or not they're good boyfriend material. When Troilus crosses the stage, Pandarus lays it on pretty thick: "'Tis Troilus! there's a man niece! Hem! Brave Troilus, the prince of chivalry!" Dude, Pandarus, stop embarrassing your niece already. Pandarus declares that if he had a sister or a daughter, he'd let Troilus take his pick and have whichever one he wanted. Nah, says Cressida. Greek soldier Achilles is a "better man than Troilus." Pandarus is all, "Are you crazy!? Even I could get lost in Troilus's eyes!" Troilus's boy servant shows up and says Troilus wants to talk to Pandarus at his house. As Pandarus leaves, he promises to visit his niece and bring her a "token" from Troilus. Cressida calls her uncle a "bawd" and says goodbye. Brain Snack: Now seems like a good time to tell you that Pandarus's name is associated with the term "pander," which means to act as a go-between in a sexual hook-up. In fact, the name "Pandarus" was pretty much synonymous with the word "pimp" by the time Shakespeare wrote this play. But, you probably already guessed that from the way Pandarus has been acting. Alone on stage, Cressida delivers a soliloquy about how she really does think Troilus is dreamy even though she doesn't show it. Cressida tells us that she's going to play hard to get with Troilus because she's afraid he'll lose interest in her once he's slept with her. Wow, it's good to know that some things never change. We guess. |
----------ACT 1, SCENE 2---------
ACT I. SCENE 2.
Troy. A street
Enter CRESSIDA and her man ALEXANDER
CRESSIDA. Who were those went by?
ALEXANDER. Queen Hecuba and Helen.
CRESSIDA. And whither go they?
ALEXANDER. Up to the eastern tower,
Whose height commands as subject all the vale,
To see the battle. Hector, whose patience
Is as a virtue fix'd, to-day was mov'd.
He chid Andromache, and struck his armourer;
And, like as there were husbandry in war,
Before the sun rose he was harness'd light,
And to the field goes he; where every flower
Did as a prophet weep what it foresaw
In Hector's wrath.
CRESSIDA. What was his cause of anger?
ALEXANDER. The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks
A lord of Troyan blood, nephew to Hector;
They call him Ajax.
CRESSIDA. Good; and what of him?
ALEXANDER. They say he is a very man per se,
And stands alone.
CRESSIDA. So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, or have no
legs.
ALEXANDER. This man, lady, hath robb'd many beasts of their
particular additions: he is as valiant as a lion, churlish as the
bear, slow as the elephant-a man into whom nature hath so crowded
humours that his valour is crush'd into folly, his folly sauced
with discretion. There is no man hath a virtue that he hath not a
glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he carries some stain of
it; he is melancholy without cause and merry against the hair; he
hath the joints of every thing; but everything so out of joint
that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use, or purblind
Argus, all eyes and no sight.
CRESSIDA. But how should this man, that makes me smile, make Hector
angry?
ALEXANDER. They say he yesterday cop'd Hector in the battle and
struck him down, the disdain and shame whereof hath ever since
kept Hector fasting and waking.
Enter PANDARUS
CRESSIDA. Who comes here?
ALEXANDER. Madam, your uncle Pandarus.
CRESSIDA. Hector's a gallant man.
ALEXANDER. As may be in the world, lady.
PANDARUS. What's that? What's that?
CRESSIDA. Good morrow, uncle Pandarus.
PANDARUS. Good morrow, cousin Cressid. What do you talk of?- Good
morrow, Alexander.-How do you, cousin? When were you at Ilium?
CRESSIDA. This morning, uncle.
PANDARUS. What were you talking of when I came? Was Hector arm'd
and gone ere you came to Ilium? Helen was not up, was she?
CRESSIDA. Hector was gone; but Helen was not up.
PANDARUS. E'en so. Hector was stirring early.
CRESSIDA. That were we talking of, and of his anger.
PANDARUS. Was he angry?
CRESSIDA. So he says here.
PANDARUS. True, he was so; I know the cause too; he'll lay about
him today, I can tell them that. And there's Troilus will not
come far behind him; let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell
them that too.
CRESSIDA. What, is he angry too?
PANDARUS. Who, Troilus? Troilus is the better man of the two.
CRESSIDA. O Jupiter! there's no comparison.
PANDARUS. What, not between Troilus and Hector? Do you know a man
if you see him?
CRESSIDA. Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew him.
PANDARUS. Well, I say Troilus is Troilus.
CRESSIDA. Then you say as I say, for I am sure he is not Hector.
PANDARUS. No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some degrees.
CRESSIDA. 'Tis just to each of them: he is himself.
PANDARUS. Himself! Alas, poor Troilus! I would he were!
CRESSIDA. So he is.
PANDARUS. Condition I had gone barefoot to India.
CRESSIDA. He is not Hector.
PANDARUS. Himself! no, he's not himself. Would 'a were himself!
Well, the gods are above; time must friend or end. Well, Troilus,
well! I would my heart were in her body! No, Hector is not a
better man than Troilus.
CRESSIDA. Excuse me.
PANDARUS. He is elder.
CRESSIDA. Pardon me, pardon me.
PANDARUS. Th' other's not come to't; you shall tell me another tale
when th' other's come to't. Hector shall not have his wit this
year.
CRESSIDA. He shall not need it if he have his own.
PANDARUS. Nor his qualities.
CRESSIDA. No matter.
PANDARUS. Nor his beauty.
CRESSIDA. 'Twould not become him: his own's better.
PANDARUS. YOU have no judgment, niece. Helen herself swore th'
other day that Troilus, for a brown favour, for so 'tis, I must
confess- not brown neither-
CRESSIDA. No, but brown.
PANDARUS. Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown.
CRESSIDA. To say the truth, true and not true.
PANDARUS. She prais'd his complexion above Paris.
CRESSIDA. Why, Paris hath colour enough.
PANDARUS. So he has.
CRESSIDA. Then Troilus should have too much. If she prais'd him
above, his complexion is higher than his; he having colour
enough, and the other higher, is too flaming praise for a good
complexion. I had as lief Helen's golden tongue had commended
Troilus for a copper nose.
PANDARUS. I swear to you I think Helen loves him better than Paris.
CRESSIDA. Then she's a merry Greek indeed.
PANDARUS. Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th' other day
into the compass'd window-and you know he has not past three or
four hairs on his chin-
CRESSIDA. Indeed a tapster's arithmetic may soon bring his
particulars therein to a total.
PANDARUS. Why, he is very young, and yet will he within three pound
lift as much as his brother Hector.
CRESSIDA. Is he so young a man and so old a lifter?
PANDARUS. But to prove to you that Helen loves him: she came and
puts me her white hand to his cloven chin-
CRESSIDA. Juno have mercy! How came it cloven?
PANDARUS. Why, you know, 'tis dimpled. I think his smiling becomes
him better than any man in all Phrygia.
CRESSIDA. O, he smiles valiantly!
PANDARUS. Does he not?
CRESSIDA. O yes, an 'twere a cloud in autumn!
PANDARUS. Why, go to, then! But to prove to you that Helen loves
Troilus-
CRESSIDA. Troilus will stand to the proof, if you'll prove it so.
PANDARUS. Troilus! Why, he esteems her no more than I esteem an
addle egg.
CRESSIDA. If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle
head, you would eat chickens i' th' shell.
PANDARUS. I cannot choose but laugh to think how she tickled his
chin. Indeed, she has a marvell's white hand, I must needs
confess.
CRESSIDA. Without the rack.
PANDARUS. And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on his chin.
CRESSIDA. Alas, poor chin! Many a wart is richer.
PANDARUS. But there was such laughing! Queen Hecuba laugh'd that
her eyes ran o'er.
CRESSIDA. With millstones.
PANDARUS. And Cassandra laugh'd.
CRESSIDA. But there was a more temperate fire under the pot of her
eyes. Did her eyes run o'er too?
PANDARUS. And Hector laugh'd.
CRESSIDA. At what was all this laughing?
PANDARUS. Marry, at the white hair that Helen spied on Troilus'
chin.
CRESSIDA. An't had been a green hair I should have laugh'd too.
PANDARUS. They laugh'd not so much at the hair as at his pretty
answer.
CRESSIDA. What was his answer?
PANDARUS. Quoth she 'Here's but two and fifty hairs on your chin,
and one of them is white.'
CRESSIDA. This is her question.
PANDARUS. That's true; make no question of that. 'Two and fifty
hairs,' quoth he 'and one white. That white hair is my father,
and all the rest are his sons.' 'Jupiter!' quoth she 'which of
these hairs is Paris my husband?' 'The forked one,' quoth he,
'pluck't out and give it him.' But there was such laughing! and
Helen so blush'd, and Paris so chaf'd; and all the rest so
laugh'd that it pass'd.
CRESSIDA. So let it now; for it has been a great while going by.
PANDARUS. Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday; think on't.
CRESSIDA. So I do.
PANDARUS. I'll be sworn 'tis true; he will weep you, and 'twere a
man born in April.
CRESSIDA. And I'll spring up in his tears, an 'twere a nettle
against May. [Sound a retreat]
PANDARUS. Hark! they are coming from the field. Shall we stand up
here and see them as they pass toward Ilium? Good niece, do,
sweet niece Cressida.
CRESSIDA. At your pleasure.
PANDARUS. Here, here, here's an excellent place; here we may see
most bravely. I'll tell you them all by their names as they pass
by; but mark Troilus above the rest.
AENEAS passes
CRESSIDA. Speak not so loud.
PANDARUS. That's Aeneas. Is not that a brave man? He's one of the
flowers of Troy, I can tell you. But mark Troilus; you shall see
anon.
ANTENOR passes
CRESSIDA. Who's that?
PANDARUS. That's Antenor. He has a shrewd wit, I can tell you; and
he's a man good enough; he's one o' th' soundest judgments in
Troy, whosoever, and a proper man of person. When comes Troilus?
I'll show you Troilus anon. If he see me, you shall see him nod
at me.
CRESSIDA. Will he give you the nod?
PANDARUS. You shall see.
CRESSIDA. If he do, the rich shall have more.
HECTOR passes
PANDARUS. That's Hector, that, that, look you, that; there's a
fellow! Go thy way, Hector! There's a brave man, niece. O brave
Hector! Look how he looks. There's a countenance! Is't not a
brave man?
CRESSIDA. O, a brave man!
PANDARUS. Is 'a not? It does a man's heart good. Look you what
hacks are on his helmet! Look you yonder, do you see? Look you
there. There's no jesting; there's laying on; take't off who
will, as they say. There be hacks.
CRESSIDA. Be those with swords?
PANDARUS. Swords! anything, he cares not; an the devil come to him,
it's all one. By God's lid, it does one's heart good. Yonder
comes Paris, yonder comes Paris.
PARIS passes
Look ye yonder, niece; is't not a gallant man too, is't not? Why,
this is brave now. Who said he came hurt home to-day? He's not
hurt. Why, this will do Helen's heart good now, ha! Would I could
see Troilus now! You shall see Troilus anon.
HELENUS passes
CRESSIDA. Who's that?
PANDARUS. That's Helenus. I marvel where Troilus is. That's
Helenus. I think he went not forth to-day. That's Helenus.
CRESSIDA. Can Helenus fight, uncle?
PANDARUS. Helenus! no. Yes, he'll fight indifferent well. I marvel
where Troilus is. Hark! do you not hear the people cry 'Troilus'?
Helenus is a priest.
CRESSIDA. What sneaking fellow comes yonder?
TROILUS passes
PANDARUS. Where? yonder? That's Deiphobus. 'Tis Troilus. There's a
man, niece. Hem! Brave Troilus, the prince of chivalry!
CRESSIDA. Peace, for shame, peace!
PANDARUS. Mark him; note him. O brave Troilus! Look well upon him,
niece; look you how his sword is bloodied, and his helm more
hack'd than Hector's; and how he looks, and how he goes! O
admirable youth! he never saw three and twenty. Go thy way,
Troilus, go thy way. Had I a sister were a grace or a daughter a
goddess, he should take his choice. O admirable man! Paris? Paris
is dirt to him; and, I warrant, Helen, to change, would give an
eye to boot.
CRESSIDA. Here comes more.
Common soldiers pass
PANDARUS. Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran!
porridge after meat! I could live and die in the eyes of Troilus.
Ne'er look, ne'er look; the eagles are gone. Crows and daws,
crows and daws! I had rather be such a man as Troilus than
Agamemnon and all Greece.
CRESSIDA. There is amongst the Greeks Achilles, a better man than
Troilus.
PANDARUS. Achilles? A drayman, a porter, a very camel!
CRESSIDA. Well, well.
PANDARUS. Well, well! Why, have you any discretion? Have you any
eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is not birth, beauty, good
shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth,
liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man?
CRESSIDA. Ay, a minc'd man; and then to be bak'd with no date in
the pie, for then the man's date is out.
PANDARUS. You are such a woman! A man knows not at what ward you
lie.
CRESSIDA. Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon my wit, to defend
my wiles; upon my secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to
defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these; and at all these
wards I lie at, at a thousand watches.
PANDARUS. Say one of your watches.
CRESSIDA. Nay, I'll watch you for that; and that's one of the
chiefest of them too. If I cannot ward what I would not have hit,
I can watch you for telling how I took the blow; unless it swell
past hiding, and then it's past watching
PANDARUS. You are such another!
Enter TROILUS' BOY
BOY. Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you.
PANDARUS. Where?
BOY. At your own house; there he unarms him.
PANDARUS. Good boy, tell him I come. Exit Boy
I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece.
CRESSIDA. Adieu, uncle.
PANDARUS. I will be with you, niece, by and by.
CRESSIDA. To bring, uncle.
PANDARUS. Ay, a token from Troilus.
CRESSIDA. By the same token, you are a bawd.
Exit
PANDARUS
Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice,
He offers in another's enterprise;
But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see
Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be,
Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing:
Things won are done; joy's soul lies in the doing.
That she belov'd knows nought that knows not this:
Men prize the thing ungain'd more than it is.
That she was never yet that ever knew
Love got so sweet as when desire did sue;
Therefore this maxim out of love I teach:
Achievement is command; ungain'd, beseech.
Then though my heart's content firm love doth bear,
Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear.
Exit
----------ACT 2, SCENE 1---------
ACT II. SCENE 1.
The Grecian camp
Enter Ajax and THERSITES
AJAX. Thersites!
THERSITES. Agamemnon-how if he had boils full, an over, generally?
AJAX. Thersites!
THERSITES. And those boils did run-say so. Did not the general run
then? Were not that a botchy core?
AJAX. Dog!
THERSITES. Then there would come some matter from him;
I see none now.
AJAX. Thou bitch-wolf's son, canst thou not hear? Feel, then.
[Strikes him.]
THERSITES. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted
lord!
AJAX. Speak, then, thou whinid'st leaven, speak. I will beat thee
into handsomeness.
THERSITES. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness; but I
think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a
prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou? A red murrain
o' thy jade's tricks!
AJAX. Toadstool, learn me the proclamation.
THERSITES. Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus?
AJAX. The proclamation!
THERSITES. Thou art proclaim'd, a fool, I think.
AJAX. Do not, porpentine, do not; my fingers itch.
THERSITES. I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the
scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in
Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as
slow as another.
AJAX. I say, the proclamation.
THERSITES. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles; and
thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at
Proserpina's beauty-ay, that thou bark'st at him.
AJAX. Mistress Thersites!
THERSITES. Thou shouldst strike him.
AJAX. Cobloaf!
THERSITES. He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a
sailor breaks a biscuit.
AJAX. You whoreson cur! [Strikes him]
THERSITES. Do, do.
AJAX. Thou stool for a witch!
THERSITES. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more
brain than I have in mine elbows; an assinico may tutor thee. You
scurvy valiant ass! Thou art here but to thrash Troyans, and thou
art bought and sold among those of any wit like a barbarian
slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel and tell
what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou!
AJAX. You dog!
THERSITES. You scurvy lord!
AJAX. You cur! [Strikes him]
THERSITES. Mars his idiot! Do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do.
Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS
ACHILLES. Why, how now, Ajax! Wherefore do you thus?
How now, Thersites! What's the matter, man?
THERSITES. You see him there, do you?
ACHILLES. Ay; what's the matter?
THERSITES. Nay, look upon him.
ACHILLES. So I do. What's the matter?
THERSITES. Nay, but regard him well.
ACHILLES. Well! why, so I do.
THERSITES. But yet you look not well upon him; for who some ever
you take him to be, he is Ajax.
ACHILLES. I know that, fool.
THERSITES. Ay, but that fool knows not himself.
AJAX. Therefore I beat thee.
THERSITES. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! His
evasions have ears thus long. I have bobb'd his brain more than
he has beat my bones. I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and
his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This
lord, Achilles, Ajax-who wears his wit in his belly and his guts
in his head-I'll tell you what I say of him.
ACHILLES. What?
THERSITES. I say this Ajax- [AJAX offers to strike him]
ACHILLES. Nay, good Ajax.
THERSITES. Has not so much wit-
ACHILLES. Nay, I must hold you.
THERSITES. As will stop the eye of Helen's needle, for whom he
comes to fight.
ACHILLES. Peace, fool.
THERSITES. I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not-
he there; that he; look you there.
AJAX. O thou damned cur! I shall-
ACHILLES. Will you set your wit to a fool's?
THERSITES. No, I warrant you, the fool's will shame it.
PATROCLUS. Good words, Thersites.
ACHILLES. What's the quarrel?
AJAX. I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the
proclamation, and he rails upon me.
THERSITES. I serve thee not.
AJAX. Well, go to, go to.
THERSITES. I serve here voluntary.
ACHILLES. Your last service was suff'rance; 'twas not voluntary. No
man is beaten voluntary. Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as
under an impress.
THERSITES. E'en so; a great deal of your wit too lies in your
sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch
an he knock out either of your brains: 'a were as good crack a
fusty nut with no kernel.
ACHILLES. What, with me too, Thersites?
THERSITES. There's Ulysses and old Nestor-whose wit was mouldy ere
your grandsires had nails on their toes-yoke you like draught
oxen, and make you plough up the wars.
ACHILLES. What, what?
THERSITES. Yes, good sooth. To Achilles, to Ajax, to-
AJAX. I shall cut out your tongue.
THERSITES. 'Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou
afterwards.
PATROCLUS. No more words, Thersites; peace!
THERSITES. I will hold my peace when Achilles' brach bids me, shall
I?
ACHILLES. There's for you, Patroclus.
THERSITES. I will see you hang'd like clotpoles ere I come any more
to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave
the faction of fools.
Exit
PATROCLUS. A good riddance.
ACHILLES. Marry, this, sir, is proclaim'd through all our host,
That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun,
Will with a trumpet 'twixt our tents and Troy,
To-morrow morning, call some knight to arms
That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare
Maintain I know not what; 'tis trash. Farewell.
AJAX. Farewell. Who shall answer him?
ACHILLES. I know not; 'tis put to lott'ry. Otherwise. He knew his
man.
AJAX. O, meaning you! I will go learn more of it.
Exeunt
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for act 3, scene 1 with the given context. | act 2, scene 2|act 2, scene 3|act 3, scene 1 | At Priam's palace, Pandarus chats with a servant while he waits to see Paris. The servant says that Paris is relaxing and listening to some music with "the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty, love's invisible soul." Pandarus is all "whatever, have you seen my niece Cressida? She's way hotter than Helen." Now Paris and Helen enter the room with a bunch of servants. Pandarus falls all over himself flattering her, despite the fact that he just said she wasn't all that. Helen's not buying any of Pandarus's business. She cracks a few sarcastic comments about what a wanna-be smooth talker he is. Finally, Pandarus delivers a message from Troilus, who says he's sorry but he can't make it to dinner that night. Helen and Paris are all "Gee, we wonder where Troilus is going to be tonight. Is he going to be hooking up with Cressida?" Pandarus denies this and tries to change the subject. Helen flirts/bullies Pandarus into entertaining her by singing a mildly dirty love song about Cupid's "shaft" and "dying" love. Paris and Helen torment Pandarus by talking about "hot blood" and "hot deeds" . This totally fake-embarrasses Pandarus, who leaves. Helen is all, "See ya later Pandarus. Say 'hi' to your pretty niece for me!" The A-List couple decide to go greet the warriors returning from the battlefield. Paris turns to Helen and says something flirty like, "Honey, I need you to do me a big favor. Can you use your "enchanting fingers" to undress Hector? The poor guy has a really hard time taking off his armor." Okay, Paris. Whatever turns you on. Helen chuckles seductively and says she'd be "proud to be his servant." |
----------ACT 2, SCENE 2---------
ACT II. SCENE 2.
Troy. PRIAM'S palace
Enter PRIAM, HECTOR, TROILUS, PARIS, and HELENUS
PRIAM. After so many hours, lives, speeches, spent,
Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks:
'Deliver Helen, and all damage else-
As honour, loss of time, travail, expense,
Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consum'd
In hot digestion of this cormorant war-
Shall be struck off.' Hector, what say you to't?
HECTOR. Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I,
As far as toucheth my particular,
Yet, dread Priam,
There is no lady of more softer bowels,
More spongy to suck in the sense of fear,
More ready to cry out 'Who knows what follows?'
Than Hector is. The wound of peace is surety,
Surety secure; but modest doubt is call'd
The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches
To th' bottom of the worst. Let Helen go.
Since the first sword was drawn about this question,
Every tithe soul 'mongst many thousand dismes
Hath been as dear as Helen-I mean, of ours.
If we have lost so many tenths of ours
To guard a thing not ours, nor worth to us,
Had it our name, the value of one ten,
What merit's in that reason which denies
The yielding of her up?
TROILUS. Fie, fie, my brother!
Weigh you the worth and honour of a king,
So great as our dread father's, in a scale
Of common ounces? Will you with counters sum
The past-proportion of his infinite,
And buckle in a waist most fathomless
With spans and inches so diminutive
As fears and reasons? Fie, for godly shame!
HELENUS. No marvel though you bite so sharp at reasons,
You are so empty of them. Should not our father
Bear the great sway of his affairs with reasons,
Because your speech hath none that tells him so?
TROILUS. You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest;
You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your reasons:
You know an enemy intends you harm;
You know a sword employ'd is perilous,
And reason flies the object of all harm.
Who marvels, then, when Helenus beholds
A Grecian and his sword, if he do set
The very wings of reason to his heels
And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove,
Or like a star disorb'd? Nay, if we talk of reason,
Let's shut our gates and sleep. Manhood and honour
Should have hare hearts, would they but fat their thoughts
With this cramm'd reason. Reason and respect
Make livers pale and lustihood deject.
HECTOR. Brother, she is not worth what she doth, cost
The keeping.
TROILUS. What's aught but as 'tis valued?
HECTOR. But value dwells not in particular will:
It holds his estimate and dignity
As well wherein 'tis precious of itself
As in the prizer. 'Tis mad idolatry
To make the service greater than the god-I
And the will dotes that is attributive
To what infectiously itself affects,
Without some image of th' affected merit.
TROILUS. I take to-day a wife, and my election
Is led on in the conduct of my will;
My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears,
Two traded pilots 'twixt the dangerous shores
Of will and judgment: how may I avoid,
Although my will distaste what it elected,
The wife I chose? There can be no evasion
To blench from this and to stand firm by honour.
We turn not back the silks upon the merchant
When we have soil'd them; nor the remainder viands
We do not throw in unrespective sieve,
Because we now are full. It was thought meet
Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks;
Your breath with full consent benied his sails;
The seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce,
And did him service. He touch'd the ports desir'd;
And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive
He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and freshness
Wrinkles Apollo's, and makes stale the morning.
Why keep we her? The Grecians keep our aunt.
Is she worth keeping? Why, she is a pearl
Whose price hath launch'd above a thousand ships,
And turn'd crown'd kings to merchants.
If you'll avouch 'twas wisdom Paris went-
As you must needs, for you all cried 'Go, go'-
If you'll confess he brought home worthy prize-
As you must needs, for you all clapp'd your hands,
And cried 'Inestimable!' -why do you now
The issue of your proper wisdoms rate,
And do a deed that never fortune did-
Beggar the estimation which you priz'd
Richer than sea and land? O theft most base,
That we have stol'n what we do fear to keep!
But thieves unworthy of a thing so stol'n
That in their country did them that disgrace
We fear to warrant in our native place!
CASSANDRA. [Within] Cry, Troyans, cry.
PRIAM. What noise, what shriek is this?
TROILUS. 'Tis our mad sister; I do know her voice.
CASSANDRA. [Within] Cry, Troyans.
HECTOR. It is Cassandra.
Enter CASSANDRA, raving
CASSANDRA. Cry, Troyans, cry. Lend me ten thousand eyes,
And I will fill them with prophetic tears.
HECTOR. Peace, sister, peace.
CASSANDRA. Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld,
Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry,
Add to my clamours. Let us pay betimes
A moiety of that mass of moan to come.
Cry, Troyans, cry. Practise your eyes with tears.
Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand;
Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all.
Cry, Troyans, cry, A Helen and a woe!
Cry, cry. Troy burns, or else let Helen go.
Exit
HECTOR. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains
Of divination in our sister work
Some touches of remorse, or is your blood
So madly hot that no discourse of reason,
Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause,
Can qualify the same?
TROILUS. Why, brother Hector,
We may not think the justness of each act
Such and no other than event doth form it;
Nor once deject the courage of our minds
Because Cassandra's mad. Her brain-sick raptures
Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel
Which hath our several honours all engag'd
To make it gracious. For my private part,
I am no more touch'd than all Priam's sons;
And Jove forbid there should be done amongst us
Such things as might offend the weakest spleen
To fight for and maintain.
PARIS. Else might the world convince of levity
As well my undertakings as your counsels;
But I attest the gods, your full consent
Gave wings to my propension, and cut of
All fears attending on so dire a project.
For what, alas, can these my single arms?
What propugnation is in one man's valour
To stand the push and enmity of those
This quarrel would excite? Yet, I protest,
Were I alone to pass the difficulties,
And had as ample power as I have will,
Paris should ne'er retract what he hath done
Nor faint in the pursuit.
PRIAM. Paris, you speak
Like one besotted on your sweet delights.
You have the honey still, but these the gall;
So to be valiant is no praise at all.
PARIS. Sir, I propose not merely to myself
The pleasures such a beauty brings with it;
But I would have the soil of her fair rape
Wip'd off in honourable keeping her.
What treason were it to the ransack'd queen,
Disgrace to your great worths, and shame to me,
Now to deliver her possession up
On terms of base compulsion! Can it be
That so degenerate a strain as this
Should once set footing in your generous bosoms?
There's not the meanest spirit on our party
Without a heart to dare or sword to draw
When Helen is defended; nor none so noble
Whose life were ill bestow'd or death unfam'd
Where Helen is the subject. Then, I say,
Well may we fight for her whom we know well
The world's large spaces cannot parallel.
HECTOR. Paris and Troilus, you have both said well;
And on the cause and question now in hand
Have gloz'd, but superficially; not much
Unlike young men, whom Aristode thought
Unfit to hear moral philosophy.
The reasons you allege do more conduce
To the hot passion of distemp'red blood
Than to make up a free determination
'Twixt right and wrong; for pleasure and revenge
Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice
Of any true decision. Nature craves
All dues be rend'red to their owners. Now,
What nearer debt in all humanity
Than wife is to the husband? If this law
Of nature be corrupted through affection;
And that great minds, of partial indulgence
To their benumbed wills, resist the same;
There is a law in each well-order'd nation
To curb those raging appetites that are
Most disobedient and refractory.
If Helen, then, be wife to Sparta's king-
As it is known she is-these moral laws
Of nature and of nations speak aloud
To have her back return'd. Thus to persist
In doing wrong extenuates not wrong,
But makes it much more heavy. Hector's opinion
Is this, in way of truth. Yet, ne'er the less,
My spritely brethren, I propend to you
In resolution to keep Helen still;
For 'tis a cause that hath no mean dependence
Upon our joint and several dignities.
TROILUS. Why, there you touch'd the life of our design.
Were it not glory that we more affected
Than the performance of our heaving spleens,
I would not wish a drop of Troyan blood
Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector,
She is a theme of honour and renown,
A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds,
Whose present courage may beat down our foes,
And fame in time to come canonize us;
For I presume brave Hector would not lose
So rich advantage of a promis'd glory
As smiles upon the forehead of this action
For the wide world's revenue.
HECTOR. I am yours,
You valiant offspring of great Priamus.
I have a roisting challenge sent amongst
The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks
Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits.
I was advertis'd their great general slept,
Whilst emulation in the army crept.
This, I presume, will wake him.
Exeunt
----------ACT 2, SCENE 3---------
ACT II. SCENE 3.
The Grecian camp. Before the tent of ACHILLES
Enter THERSITES, solus
THERSITES. How now, Thersites! What, lost in the labyrinth of thy
fury? Shall the elephant Ajax carry it thus? He beats me, and I
rail at him. O worthy satisfaction! Would it were otherwise: that
I could beat him, whilst he rail'd at me! 'Sfoot, I'll learn to
conjure and raise devils, but I'll see some issue of my spiteful
execrations. Then there's Achilles, a rare engineer! If Troy be
not taken till these two undermine it, the walls will stand till
they fall of themselves. O thou great thunder-darter of Olympus,
forget that thou art Jove, the king of gods, and, Mercury, lose
all the serpentine craft of thy caduceus, if ye take not that
little little less-than-little wit from them that they have!
which short-arm'd ignorance itself knows is so abundant scarce,
it will not in circumvention deliver a fly from a spider without
drawing their massy irons and cutting the web. After this, the
vengeance on the whole camp! or, rather, the Neapolitan
bone-ache! for that, methinks, is the curse depending on those
that war for a placket. I have said my prayers; and devil Envy
say 'Amen.' What ho! my Lord Achilles!
Enter PATROCLUS
PATROCLUS. Who's there? Thersites! Good Thersites, come in and
rail.
THERSITES. If I could 'a rememb'red a gilt counterfeit, thou
wouldst not have slipp'd out of my contemplation; but it is no
matter; thyself upon thyself! The common curse of mankind, folly
and ignorance, be thine in great revenue! Heaven bless thee from
a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy
direction till thy death. Then if she that lays thee out says
thou art a fair corse, I'll be sworn and sworn upon't she never
shrouded any but lazars. Amen. Where's Achilles?
PATROCLUS. What, art thou devout? Wast thou in prayer?
THERSITES. Ay, the heavens hear me!
PATROCLUS. Amen.
Enter ACHILLES
ACHILLES. Who's there?
PATROCLUS. Thersites, my lord.
ACHILLES. Where, where? O, where? Art thou come? Why, my cheese, my
digestion, why hast thou not served thyself in to my table so
many meals? Come, what's Agamemnon?
THERSITES. Thy commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus, what's
Achilles?
PATROCLUS. Thy lord, Thersites. Then tell me, I pray thee, what's
Thersites?
THERSITES. Thy knower, Patroclus. Then tell me, Patroclus, what art
thou?
PATROCLUS. Thou must tell that knowest.
ACHILLES. O, tell, tell,
THERSITES. I'll decline the whole question. Agamemnon commands
Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Patroclus' knower; and
Patroclus is a fool.
PATROCLUS. You rascal!
THERSITES. Peace, fool! I have not done.
ACHILLES. He is a privileg'd man. Proceed, Thersites.
THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites is a
fool; and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool.
ACHILLES. Derive this; come.
THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles;
Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon; Thersites is a
fool to serve such a fool; and this Patroclus is a fool positive.
PATROCLUS. Why am I a fool?
THERSITES. Make that demand of the Creator. It suffices me thou
art. Look you, who comes here?
ACHILLES. Come, Patroclus, I'll speak with nobody. Come in with me,
Thersites.
Exit
THERSITES. Here is such patchery, such juggling, and such knavery.
All the argument is a whore and a cuckold-a good quarrel to draw
emulous factions and bleed to death upon. Now the dry serpigo on
the subject, and war and lechery confound all!
Exit
Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, NESTOR, DIOMEDES,
AJAX, and CALCHAS
AGAMEMNON. Where is Achilles?
PATROCLUS. Within his tent; but ill-dispos'd, my lord.
AGAMEMNON. Let it be known to him that we are here.
He shent our messengers; and we lay by
Our appertainings, visiting of him.
Let him be told so; lest, perchance, he think
We dare not move the question of our place
Or know not what we are.
PATROCLUS. I shall say so to him.
Exit
ULYSSES. We saw him at the opening of his tent.
He is not sick.
AJAX. Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart. You may call it
melancholy, if you will favour the man; but, by my head, 'tis
pride. But why, why? Let him show us a cause. A word, my lord.
[Takes AGAMEMNON aside]
NESTOR. What moves Ajax thus to bay at him?
ULYSSES. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.
NESTOR.Who, Thersites?
ULYSSES. He.
NESTOR. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument
ULYSSES. No; you see he is his argument that has his argument-
Achilles.
NESTOR. All the better; their fraction is more our wish than their
faction. But it was a strong composure a fool could disunite!
ULYSSES. The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie.
Re-enter PATROCLUS
Here comes Patroclus.
NESTOR. No Achilles with him.
ULYSSES. The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy; his legs
are legs for necessity, not for flexure.
PATROCLUS. Achilles bids me say he is much sorry
If any thing more than your sport and pleasure
Did move your greatness and this noble state
To call upon him; he hopes it is no other
But for your health and your digestion sake,
An after-dinner's breath.
AGAMEMNON. Hear you, Patroclus.
We are too well acquainted with these answers;
But his evasion, wing'd thus swift with scorn,
Cannot outfly our apprehensions.
Much attribute he hath, and much the reason
Why we ascribe it to him. Yet all his virtues,
Not virtuously on his own part beheld,
Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss;
Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish,
Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him
We come to speak with him; and you shall not sin
If you do say we think him over-proud
And under-honest, in self-assumption greater
Than in the note of judgment; and worthier than himself
Here tend the savage strangeness he puts on,
Disguise the holy strength of their command,
And underwrite in an observing kind
His humorous predominance; yea, watch
His pettish lunes, his ebbs, his flows, as if
The passage and whole carriage of this action
Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and ad
That if he overhold his price so much
We'll none of him, but let him, like an engine
Not portable, lie under this report:
Bring action hither; this cannot go to war.
A stirring dwarf we do allowance give
Before a sleeping giant. Tell him so.
PATROCLUS. I shall, and bring his answer presently.
Exit
AGAMEMNON. In second voice we'll not be satisfied;
We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you.
Exit ULYSSES
AJAX. What is he more than another?
AGAMEMNON. No more than what he thinks he is.
AJAX. Is he so much? Do you not think he thinks himself a better
man than I am?
AGAMEMNON. No question.
AJAX. Will you subscribe his thought and say he is?
AGAMEMNON. No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as wise,
no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether more tractable.
AJAX. Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow? I know not
what pride is.
AGAMEMNON. Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the
fairer. He that is proud eats up himself. Pride is his own glass,
his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself
but in the deed devours the deed in the praise.
Re-enter ULYSSES
AJAX. I do hate a proud man as I do hate the engend'ring of toads.
NESTOR. [Aside] And yet he loves himself: is't not strange?
ULYSSES. Achilles will not to the field to-morrow.
AGAMEMNON. What's his excuse?
ULYSSES. He doth rely on none;
But carries on the stream of his dispose,
Without observance or respect of any,
In will peculiar and in self-admission.
AGAMEMNON. Why will he not, upon our fair request,
Untent his person and share the air with us?
ULYSSES. Things small as nothing, for request's sake only,
He makes important; possess'd he is with greatness,
And speaks not to himself but with a pride
That quarrels at self-breath. Imagin'd worth
Holds in his blood such swol'n and hot discourse
That 'twixt his mental and his active parts
Kingdom'd Achilles in commotion rages,
And batters down himself. What should I say?
He is so plaguy proud that the death tokens of it
Cry 'No recovery.'
AGAMEMNON. Let Ajax go to him.
Dear lord, go you and greet him in his tent.
'Tis said he holds you well; and will be led
At your request a little from himself.
ULYSSES. O Agamemnon, let it not be so!
We'll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes
When they go from Achilles. Shall the proud lord
That bastes his arrogance with his own seam
And never suffers matter of the world
Enter his thoughts, save such as doth revolve
And ruminate himself-shall he be worshipp'd
Of that we hold an idol more than he?
No, this thrice-worthy and right valiant lord
Shall not so stale his palm, nobly acquir'd,
Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit,
As amply titled as Achilles is,
By going to Achilles.
That were to enlard his fat-already pride,
And add more coals to Cancer when he burns
With entertaining great Hyperion.
This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid,
And say in thunder 'Achilles go to him.'
NESTOR. [Aside] O, this is well! He rubs the vein of him.
DIOMEDES. [Aside] And how his silence drinks up this applause!
AJAX. If I go to him, with my armed fist I'll pash him o'er the
face.
AGAMEMNON. O, no, you shall not go.
AJAX. An 'a be proud with me I'll pheeze his pride.
Let me go to him.
ULYSSES. Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel.
AJAX. A paltry, insolent fellow!
NESTOR. [Aside] How he describes himself!
AJAX. Can he not be sociable?
ULYSSES. [Aside] The raven chides blackness.
AJAX. I'll let his humours blood.
AGAMEMNON. [Aside] He will be the physician that should be the
patient.
AJAX. An all men were a my mind-
ULYSSES. [Aside] Wit would be out of fashion.
AJAX. 'A should not bear it so, 'a should eat's words first.
Shall pride carry it?
NESTOR. [Aside] An 'twould, you'd carry half.
ULYSSES. [Aside] 'A would have ten shares.
AJAX. I will knead him, I'll make him supple.
NESTOR. [Aside] He's not yet through warm. Force him with praises;
pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry.
ULYSSES. [To AGAMEMNON] My lord, you feed too much on this dislike.
NESTOR. Our noble general, do not do so.
DIOMEDES. You must prepare to fight without Achilles.
ULYSSES. Why 'tis this naming of him does him harm.
Here is a man-but 'tis before his face;
I will be silent.
NESTOR. Wherefore should you so?
He is not emulous, as Achilles is.
ULYSSES. Know the whole world, he is as valiant.
AJAX. A whoreson dog, that shall palter with us thus!
Would he were a Troyan!
NESTOR. What a vice were it in Ajax now-
ULYSSES. If he were proud.
DIOMEDES. Or covetous of praise.
ULYSSES. Ay, or surly borne.
DIOMEDES. Or strange, or self-affected.
ULYSSES. Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet composure
Praise him that gat thee, she that gave thee suck;
Fam'd be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature
Thrice-fam'd beyond, beyond all erudition;
But he that disciplin'd thine arms to fight-
Let Mars divide eternity in twain
And give him half; and, for thy vigour,
Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield
To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom,
Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, confines
Thy spacious and dilated parts. Here's Nestor,
Instructed by the antiquary times-
He must, he is, he cannot but be wise;
But pardon, father Nestor, were your days
As green as Ajax' and your brain so temper'd,
You should not have the eminence of him,
But be as Ajax.
AJAX. Shall I call you father?
NESTOR. Ay, my good son.
DIOMEDES. Be rul'd by him, Lord Ajax.
ULYSSES. There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles
Keeps thicket. Please it our great general
To call together all his state of war;
Fresh kings are come to Troy. To-morrow
We must with all our main of power stand fast;
And here's a lord-come knights from east to west
And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best.
AGAMEMNON. Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep.
Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.
Exeunt
----------ACT 3, SCENE 1---------
ACT III. SCENE 1.
Troy. PRIAM'S palace
Music sounds within. Enter PANDARUS and a SERVANT
PANDARUS. Friend, you-pray you, a word. Do you not follow the young
Lord Paris?
SERVANT. Ay, sir, when he goes before me.
PANDARUS. You depend upon him, I mean?
SERVANT. Sir, I do depend upon the lord.
PANDARUS. You depend upon a notable gentleman; I must needs praise
him.
SERVANT. The lord be praised!
PANDARUS. You know me, do you not?
SERVANT. Faith, sir, superficially.
PANDARUS. Friend, know me better: I am the Lord Pandarus.
SERVANT. I hope I shall know your honour better.
PANDARUS. I do desire it.
SERVANT. You are in the state of grace.
PANDARUS. Grace! Not so, friend; honour and lordship are my titles.
What music is this?
SERVANT. I do but partly know, sir; it is music in parts.
PANDARUS. Know you the musicians?
SERVANT. Wholly, sir.
PANDARUS. Who play they to?
SERVANT. To the hearers, sir.
PANDARUS. At whose pleasure, friend?
SERVANT. At mine, sir, and theirs that love music.
PANDARUS. Command, I mean, friend.
SERVANT. Who shall I command, sir?
PANDARUS. Friend, we understand not one another: I am too courtly,
and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these men play?
SERVANT. That's to't, indeed, sir. Marry, sir, at the request of
Paris my lord, who is there in person; with him the mortal Venus,
the heart-blood of beauty, love's invisible soul-
PANDARUS. Who, my cousin, Cressida?
SERVANT. No, sir, Helen. Could not you find out that by her
attributes?
PANDARUS. It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the Lady
Cressida. I come to speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus; I
will make a complimental assault upon him, for my business
seethes.
SERVANT. Sodden business! There's a stew'd phrase indeed!
Enter PARIS and HELEN, attended
PANDARUS. Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair company!
Fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly guide them-especially
to you, fair queen! Fair thoughts be your fair pillow.
HELEN. Dear lord, you are full of fair words.
PANDARUS. You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince,
here is good broken music.
PARIS. You have broke it, cousin; and by my life, you shall make it
whole again; you shall piece it out with a piece of your
performance.
HELEN. He is full of harmony.
PANDARUS. Truly, lady, no.
HELEN. O, sir-
PANDARUS. Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude.
PARIS. Well said, my lord. Well, you say so in fits.
PANDARUS. I have business to my lord, dear queen. My lord, will you
vouchsafe me a word?
HELEN. Nay, this shall not hedge us out. We'll hear you sing,
certainly-
PANDARUS. Well sweet queen, you are pleasant with me. But, marry,
thus, my lord: my dear lord and most esteemed friend, your
brother Troilus-
HELEN. My Lord Pandarus, honey-sweet lord-
PANDARUS. Go to, sweet queen, go to-commends himself most
affectionately to you-
HELEN. You shall not bob us out of our melody. If you do, our
melancholy upon your head!
PANDARUS. Sweet queen, sweet queen; that's a sweet queen, i' faith.
HELEN. And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence.
PANDARUS. Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall it not,
in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such words; no, no. -And, my
lord, he desires you that, if the King call for him at supper,
you will make his excuse.
HELEN. My Lord Pandarus!
PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen, my very very sweet queen?
PARIS. What exploit's in hand? Where sups he to-night?
HELEN. Nay, but, my lord-
PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen?-My cousin will fall out with
you.
HELEN. You must not know where he sups.
PARIS. I'll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida.
PANDARUS. No, no, no such matter; you are wide. Come, your disposer
is sick.
PARIS. Well, I'll make's excuse.
PANDARUS. Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Cressida?
No, your poor disposer's sick.
PARIS. I spy.
PANDARUS. You spy! What do you spy?-Come, give me an instrument.
Now, sweet queen.
HELEN. Why, this is kindly done.
PANDARUS. My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet
queen.
HELEN. She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my Lord Paris.
PANDARUS. He! No, she'll none of him; they two are twain.
HELEN. Falling in, after falling out, may make them three.
PANDARUS. Come, come. I'll hear no more of this; I'll sing you a
song now.
HELEN. Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a
fine forehead.
PANDARUS. Ay, you may, you may.
HELEN. Let thy song be love. This love will undo us all. O Cupid,
Cupid, Cupid!
PANDARUS. Love! Ay, that it shall, i' faith.
PARIS. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love.
PANDARUS. In good troth, it begins so.
[Sings]
Love, love, nothing but love, still love, still more!
For, oh, love's bow
Shoots buck and doe;
The shaft confounds
Not that it wounds,
But tickles still the sore.
These lovers cry, O ho, they die!
Yet that which seems the wound to kill
Doth turn O ho! to ha! ha! he!
So dying love lives still.
O ho! a while, but ha! ha! ha!
O ho! groans out for ha! ha! ha!-hey ho!
HELEN. In love, i' faith, to the very tip of the nose.
PARIS. He eats nothing but doves, love; and that breeds hot blood,
and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot
deeds, and hot deeds is love.
PANDARUS. Is this the generation of love: hot blood, hot thoughts,
and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of
vipers? Sweet lord, who's a-field today?
PARIS. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry
of Troy. I would fain have arm'd to-day, but my Nell would not
have it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not?
HELEN. He hangs the lip at something. You know all, Lord Pandarus.
PANDARUS. Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they spend
to-day. You'll remember your brother's excuse?
PARIS. To a hair.
PANDARUS. Farewell, sweet queen.
HELEN. Commend me to your niece.
PANDARUS. I will, sweet queen. Exit. Sound a retreat
PARIS. They're come from the field. Let us to Priam's hall
To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you
To help unarm our Hector. His stubborn buckles,
With these your white enchanting fingers touch'd,
Shall more obey than to the edge of steel
Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more
Than all the island kings-disarm great Hector.
HELEN. 'Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris;
Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty
Gives us more palm in beauty than we have,
Yea, overshines ourself.
PARIS. Sweet, above thought I love thee.
Exeunt
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for act 3, scene 2 with the given context. | act 3, scene 2|act 3, scene 3|act 4, scene 1 | Pandarus arrives up at Calchas' garden, where Troilus has been pacing around waiting for him to show up so Pandarus can escort him to Cressida's bedroom. Troilus gets chatty when he's nervous, so he compares Pandarus to "Charon." You know, the infamous ferryman who gives passengers a lift across the River Styx. Which, yikes! Why is Troilus comparing his trip to Cressida's bedroom to a mythological journey to the underworld? Could this be a wee bit of foreshadowing? Pandarus runs off to get Cressida. While Troilus waits, he tells us he's so excited about finally hooking up with Cressida that he's salivating just thinking about what it's going to be like to finally "taste" her sweet "nectar." But then he gets nervous again and says he's afraid something terrible is going to happen. Yeah, we're getting a bed feeling.Hey! Pandarus finally shows up with Cressida. Cue awkward flirting, complete with blushing, sighing, stammering, and promise making. Plus, it must be hard to get all romantic with your uncle hovering over you cracking dirty jokes--which Pandarus is totally doing. Cressida says she loves Troilus, but she seems hesitant. Troilus promises to be so faithful to her that future love poets will write all about his devotion and use the phrase "as true as Troilus." Not to be outdone, Cressida swears that if she ever cheats on Troilus, she hopes people will say that all promiscuous women are "as false as Cressid." Then Pandarus jumps in and says something like, "Listen kids, if things don't work out between you two, let all the future go-betweens in the world be called "Pandars." Troilus, Cressida, and Pandarus say "Amen." Pandarus has had enough of all this romantic talk, so he sends Troilus and Cressida off to a room with a "bed." |
----------ACT 3, SCENE 2---------
ACT III. SCENE 2.
Troy. PANDARUS' orchard
Enter PANDARUS and TROILUS' BOY, meeting
PANDARUS. How now! Where's thy master? At my cousin Cressida's?
BOY. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him thither.
Enter TROILUS
PANDARUS. O, here he comes. How now, how now!
TROILUS. Sirrah, walk off. Exit Boy
PANDARUS. Have you seen my cousin?
TROILUS. No, Pandarus. I stalk about her door
Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks
Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon,
And give me swift transportance to these fields
Where I may wallow in the lily beds
Propos'd for the deserver! O gentle Pandar,
From Cupid's shoulder pluck his painted wings,
And fly with me to Cressid!
PANDARUS. Walk here i' th' orchard, I'll bring her straight.
Exit
TROILUS. I am giddy; expectation whirls me round.
Th' imaginary relish is so sweet
That it enchants my sense; what will it be
When that the wat'ry palate tastes indeed
Love's thrice-repured nectar? Death, I fear me;
Swooning destruction; or some joy too fine,
Too subtle-potent, tun'd too sharp in sweetness,
For the capacity of my ruder powers.
I fear it much; and I do fear besides
That I shall lose distinction in my joys;
As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps
The enemy flying.
Re-enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. She's making her ready, she'll come straight; you must be
witty now. She does so blush, and fetches her wind so short, as
if she were fray'd with a sprite. I'll fetch her. It is the
prettiest villain; she fetches her breath as short as a new-ta'en
sparrow.
Exit
TROILUS. Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom.
My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse,
And all my powers do their bestowing lose,
Like vassalage at unawares encount'ring
The eye of majesty.
Re-enter PANDARUS With CRESSIDA
PANDARUS. Come, come, what need you blush? Shame's a baby.-Here she
is now; swear the oaths now to her that you have sworn to me.-
What, are you gone again? You must be watch'd ere you be made
tame, must you? Come your ways, come your ways; an you draw
backward, we'll put you i' th' fills.-Why do you not speak to
her?-Come, draw this curtain and let's see your picture.
Alas the day, how loath you are to offend daylight! An 'twere
dark, you'd close sooner. So, so; rub on, and kiss the mistress
How now, a kiss in fee-farm! Build there, carpenter; the air is
sweet. Nay, you shall fight your hearts out ere I part you. The
falcon as the tercel, for all the ducks i' th' river. Go to, go
to.
TROILUS. You have bereft me of all words, lady.
PANDARUS. Words pay no debts, give her deeds; but she'll bereave
you o' th' deeds too, if she call your activity in question.
What, billing again? Here's 'In witness whereof the parties
interchangeably.' Come in, come in; I'll go get a fire.
Exit
CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord?
TROILUS. O Cressid, how often have I wish'd me thus!
CRESSIDA. Wish'd, my lord! The gods grant-O my lord!
TROILUS. What should they grant? What makes this pretty abruption?
What too curious dreg espies my sweet lady in the fountain of our
love?
CRESSIDA. More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes.
TROILUS. Fears make devils of cherubims; they never see truly.
CRESSIDA. Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds safer footing
than blind reason stumbling without fear. To fear the worst oft
cures the worse.
TROILUS. O, let my lady apprehend no fear! In all Cupid's pageant
there is presented no monster.
CRESSIDA. Nor nothing monstrous neither?
TROILUS. Nothing, but our undertakings when we vow to weep seas,
live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers; thinking it harder for our
mistress to devise imposition enough than for us to undergo any
difficulty imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady, that
the will is infinite, and the execution confin'd; that the desire
is boundless, and the act a slave to limit.
CRESSIDA. They say all lovers swear more performance than they are
able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing
more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the
tenth part of one. They that have the voice of lions and the act
of hares, are they not monsters?
TROILUS. Are there such? Such are not we. Praise us as we are
tasted, allow us as we prove; our head shall go bare till merit
crown it. No perfection in reversion shall have a praise in
present. We will not name desert before his birth; and, being
born, his addition shall be humble. Few words to fair faith:
Troilus shall be such to Cressid as what envy can say worst shall
be a mock for his truth; and what truth can speak truest not
truer than Troilus.
CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord?
Re-enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. What, blushing still? Have you not done talking yet?
CRESSIDA. Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedicate to you.
PANDARUS. I thank you for that; if my lord get a boy of you, you'll
give him me. Be true to my lord; if he flinch, chide me for it.
TROILUS. You know now your hostages: your uncle's word and my firm
faith.
PANDARUS. Nay, I'll give my word for her too: our kindred, though
they be long ere they are wooed, they are constant being won;
they are burs, I can tell you; they'll stick where they are
thrown.
CRESSIDA. Boldness comes to me now and brings me heart.
Prince Troilus, I have lov'd you night and day
For many weary months.
TROILUS. Why was my Cressid then so hard to win?
CRESSIDA. Hard to seem won; but I was won, my lord,
With the first glance that ever-pardon me.
If I confess much, you will play the tyrant.
I love you now; but till now not so much
But I might master it. In faith, I lie;
My thoughts were like unbridled children, grown
Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools!
Why have I blabb'd? Who shall be true to us,
When we are so unsecret to ourselves?
But, though I lov'd you well, I woo'd you not;
And yet, good faith, I wish'd myself a man,
Or that we women had men's privilege
Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue,
For in this rapture I shall surely speak
The thing I shall repent. See, see, your silence,
Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws
My very soul of counsel. Stop my mouth.
TROILUS. And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence.
PANDARUS. Pretty, i' faith.
CRESSIDA. My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me;
'Twas not my purpose thus to beg a kiss.
I am asham'd. O heavens! what have I done?
For this time will I take my leave, my lord.
TROILUS. Your leave, sweet Cressid!
PANDARUS. Leave! An you take leave till to-morrow morning-
CRESSIDA. Pray you, content you.
TROILUS. What offends you, lady?
CRESSIDA. Sir, mine own company.
TROILUS. You cannot shun yourself.
CRESSIDA. Let me go and try.
I have a kind of self resides with you;
But an unkind self, that itself will leave
To be another's fool. I would be gone.
Where is my wit? I know not what I speak.
TROILUS. Well know they what they speak that speak so wisely.
CRESSIDA. Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than love;
And fell so roundly to a large confession
To angle for your thoughts; but you are wise-
Or else you love not; for to be wise and love
Exceeds man's might; that dwells with gods above.
TROILUS. O that I thought it could be in a woman-
As, if it can, I will presume in you-
To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love;
To keep her constancy in plight and youth,
Outliving beauty's outward, with a mind
That doth renew swifter than blood decays!
Or that persuasion could but thus convince me
That my integrity and truth to you
Might be affronted with the match and weight
Of such a winnowed purity in love.
How were I then uplifted! but, alas,
I am as true as truth's simplicity,
And simpler than the infancy of truth.
CRESSIDA. In that I'll war with you.
TROILUS. O virtuous fight,
When right with right wars who shall be most right!
True swains in love shall in the world to come
Approve their truth by Troilus, when their rhymes,
Full of protest, of oath, and big compare,
Want similes, truth tir'd with iteration-
As true as steel, as plantage to the moon,
As sun to day, as turtle to her mate,
As iron to adamant, as earth to th' centre-
Yet, after all comparisons of truth,
As truth's authentic author to be cited,
'As true as Troilus' shall crown up the verse
And sanctify the numbers.
CRESSIDA. Prophet may you be!
If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth,
When time is old and hath forgot itself,
When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy,
And blind oblivion swallow'd cities up,
And mighty states characterless are grated
To dusty nothing-yet let memory
From false to false, among false maids in love,
Upbraid my falsehood when th' have said 'As false
As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth,
As fox to lamb, or wolf to heifer's calf,
Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son'-
Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood,
'As false as Cressid.'
PANDARUS. Go to, a bargain made; seal it, seal it; I'll be the
witness. Here I hold your hand; here my cousin's. If ever you
prove false one to another, since I have taken such pains to
bring you together, let all pitiful goers-between be call'd to
the world's end after my name-call them all Pandars; let all
constant men be Troiluses, all false women Cressids, and all
brokers between Pandars. Say 'Amen.'
TROILUS. Amen.
CRESSIDA. Amen.
PANDARUS. Amen. Whereupon I will show you a chamber
and a bed; which bed, because it shall not speak of your
pretty encounters, press it to death. Away!
And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here,
Bed, chamber, pander, to provide this gear!
Exeunt
----------ACT 3, SCENE 3---------
ACT III. SCENE 3.
The Greek camp
Flourish. Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, DIOMEDES, NESTOR, AJAX,
MENELAUS, and CALCHAS
CALCHAS. Now, Princes, for the service I have done,
Th' advantage of the time prompts me aloud
To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind
That, through the sight I bear in things to come,
I have abandon'd Troy, left my possession,
Incurr'd a traitor's name, expos'd myself
From certain and possess'd conveniences
To doubtful fortunes, sequest'ring from me all
That time, acquaintance, custom, and condition,
Made tame and most familiar to my nature;
And here, to do you service, am become
As new into the world, strange, unacquainted-
I do beseech you, as in way of taste,
To give me now a little benefit
Out of those many regist'red in promise,
Which you say live to come in my behalf.
AGAMEMNON. What wouldst thou of us, Troyan? Make demand.
CALCHAS. You have a Troyan prisoner call'd Antenor,
Yesterday took; Troy holds him very dear.
Oft have you-often have you thanks therefore-
Desir'd my Cressid in right great exchange,
Whom Troy hath still denied; but this Antenor,
I know, is such a wrest in their affairs
That their negotiations all must slack
Wanting his manage; and they will almost
Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam,
In change of him. Let him be sent, great Princes,
And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence
Shall quite strike off all service I have done
In most accepted pain.
AGAMEMNON. Let Diomedes bear him,
And bring us Cressid hither. Calchas shall have
What he requests of us. Good Diomed,
Furnish you fairly for this interchange;
Withal, bring word if Hector will to-morrow
Be answer'd in his challenge. Ajax is ready.
DIOMEDES. This shall I undertake; and 'tis a burden
Which I am proud to bear.
Exeunt DIOMEDES and CALCHAS
ACHILLES and PATROCLUS stand in their tent
ULYSSES. Achilles stands i' th' entrance of his tent.
Please it our general pass strangely by him,
As if he were forgot; and, Princes all,
Lay negligent and loose regard upon him.
I will come last. 'Tis like he'll question me
Why such unplausive eyes are bent, why turn'd on him?
If so, I have derision med'cinable
To use between your strangeness and his pride,
Which his own will shall have desire to drink.
It may do good. Pride hath no other glass
To show itself but pride; for supple knees
Feed arrogance and are the proud man's fees.
AGAMEMNON. We'll execute your purpose, and put on
A form of strangeness as we pass along.
So do each lord; and either greet him not,
Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more
Than if not look'd on. I will lead the way.
ACHILLES. What comes the general to speak with me?
You know my mind. I'll fight no more 'gainst Troy.
AGAMEMNON. What says Achilles? Would he aught with us?
NESTOR. Would you, my lord, aught with the general?
ACHILLES. No.
NESTOR. Nothing, my lord.
AGAMEMNON. The better.
Exeunt AGAMEMNON and NESTOR
ACHILLES. Good day, good day.
MENELAUS. How do you? How do you?
Exit
ACHILLES. What, does the cuckold scorn me?
AJAX. How now, Patroclus?
ACHILLES. Good morrow, Ajax.
AJAX. Ha?
ACHILLES. Good morrow.
AJAX. Ay, and good next day too.
Exit
ACHILLES. What mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles?
PATROCLUS. They pass by strangely. They were us'd to bend,
To send their smiles before them to Achilles,
To come as humbly as they us'd to creep
To holy altars.
ACHILLES. What, am I poor of late?
'Tis certain, greatness, once fall'n out with fortune,
Must fall out with men too. What the declin'd is,
He shall as soon read in the eyes of others
As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies,
Show not their mealy wings but to the summer;
And not a man for being simply man
Hath any honour, but honour for those honours
That are without him, as place, riches, and favour,
Prizes of accident, as oft as merit;
Which when they fall, as being slippery standers,
The love that lean'd on them as slippery too,
Doth one pluck down another, and together
Die in the fall. But 'tis not so with me:
Fortune and I are friends; I do enjoy
At ample point all that I did possess
Save these men's looks; who do, methinks, find out
Something not worth in me such rich beholding
As they have often given. Here is Ulysses.
I'll interrupt his reading.
How now, Ulysses!
ULYSSES. Now, great Thetis' son!
ACHILLES. What are you reading?
ULYSSES. A strange fellow here
Writes me that man-how dearly ever parted,
How much in having, or without or in-
Cannot make boast to have that which he hath,
Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection;
As when his virtues shining upon others
Heat them, and they retort that heat again
To the first giver.
ACHILLES. This is not strange, Ulysses.
The beauty that is borne here in the face
The bearer knows not, but commends itself
To others' eyes; nor doth the eye itself-
That most pure spirit of sense-behold itself,
Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed
Salutes each other with each other's form;
For speculation turns not to itself
Till it hath travell'd, and is mirror'd there
Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all.
ULYSSES. I do not strain at the position-
It is familiar-but at the author's drift;
Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves
That no man is the lord of anything,
Though in and of him there be much consisting,
Till he communicate his parts to others;
Nor doth he of himself know them for aught
Till he behold them formed in th' applause
Where th' are extended; who, like an arch, reverb'rate
The voice again; or, like a gate of steel
Fronting the sun, receives and renders back
His figure and his heat. I was much rapt in this;
And apprehended here immediately
Th' unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there!
A very horse that has he knows not what!
Nature, what things there are
Most abject in regard and dear in use!
What things again most dear in the esteem
And poor in worth! Now shall we see to-morrow-
An act that very chance doth throw upon him-
Ajax renown'd. O heavens, what some men do,
While some men leave to do!
How some men creep in skittish Fortune's-hall,
Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes!
How one man eats into another's pride,
While pride is fasting in his wantonness!
To see these Grecian lords!-why, even already
They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder,
As if his foot were on brave Hector's breast,
And great Troy shrinking.
ACHILLES. I do believe it; for they pass'd by me
As misers do by beggars-neither gave to me
Good word nor look. What, are my deeds forgot?
ULYSSES. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes.
Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour'd
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
As done. Perseverance, dear my lord,
Keeps honour bright. To have done is to hang
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail
In monumental mock'ry. Take the instant way;
For honour travels in a strait so narrow -
Where one but goes abreast. Keep then the path,
For emulation hath a thousand sons
That one by one pursue; if you give way,
Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,
Like to an ent'red tide they all rush by
And leave you hindmost;
Or, like a gallant horse fall'n in first rank,
Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,
O'er-run and trampled on. Then what they do in present,
Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours;
For Time is like a fashionable host,
That slightly shakes his parting guest by th' hand;
And with his arms out-stretch'd, as he would fly,
Grasps in the corner. The welcome ever smiles,
And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek
Remuneration for the thing it was;
For beauty, wit,
High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service,
Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all
To envious and calumniating Time.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin-
That all with one consent praise new-born gawds,
Though they are made and moulded of things past,
And give to dust that is a little gilt
More laud than gilt o'er-dusted.
The present eye praises the present object.
Then marvel not, thou great and complete man,
That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax,
Since things in motion sooner catch the eye
Than what stirs not. The cry went once on thee,
And still it might, and yet it may again,
If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive
And case thy reputation in thy tent,
Whose glorious deeds but in these fields of late
Made emulous missions 'mongst the gods themselves,
And drave great Mars to faction.
ACHILLES. Of this my privacy
I have strong reasons.
ULYSSES. But 'gainst your privacy
The reasons are more potent and heroical.
'Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love
With one of Priam's daughters.
ACHILLES. Ha! known!
ULYSSES. Is that a wonder?
The providence that's in a watchful state
Knows almost every grain of Plutus' gold;
Finds bottom in th' uncomprehensive deeps;
Keeps place with thought, and almost, like the gods,
Do thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles.
There is a mystery-with whom relation
Durst never meddle-in the soul of state,
Which hath an operation more divine
Than breath or pen can give expressure to.
All the commerce that you have had with Troy
As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord;
And better would it fit Achilles much
To throw down Hector than Polyxena.
But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home,
When fame shall in our island sound her trump,
And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing
'Great Hector's sister did Achilles win;
But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.'
Farewell, my lord. I as your lover speak.
The fool slides o'er the ice that you should break.
Exit
PATROCLUS. To this effect, Achilles, have I mov'd you.
A woman impudent and mannish grown
Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man
In time of action. I stand condemn'd for this;
They think my little stomach to the war
And your great love to me restrains you thus.
Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid
Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold,
And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane,
Be shook to airy air.
ACHILLES. Shall Ajax fight with Hector?
PATROCLUS. Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by him.
ACHILLES. I see my reputation is at stake;
My fame is shrewdly gor'd.
PATROCLUS. O, then, beware:
Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves;
Omission to do what is necessary
Seals a commission to a blank of danger;
And danger, like an ague, subtly taints
Even then when they sit idly in the sun.
ACHILLES. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus.
I'll send the fool to Ajax, and desire him
T' invite the Troyan lords, after the combat,
To see us here unarm'd. I have a woman's longing,
An appetite that I am sick withal,
To see great Hector in his weeds of peace;
To talk with him, and to behold his visage,
Even to my full of view.
Enter THERSITES
A labour sav'd!
THERSITES. A wonder!
ACHILLES. What?
THERSITES. Ajax goes up and down the field asking for himself.
ACHILLES. How so?
THERSITES. He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector, and is so
prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling that he raves in
saying nothing.
ACHILLES. How can that be?
THERSITES. Why, 'a stalks up and down like a peacock-a stride and a
stand; ruminaies like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her
brain to set down her reckoning, bites his lip with a politic
regard, as who should say 'There were wit in this head, an
'twould out'; and so there is; but it lies as coldly in him as
fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking. The man's
undone for ever; for if Hector break not his neck i' th' combat,
he'll break't himself in vainglory. He knows not me. I said 'Good
morrow, Ajax'; and he replies 'Thanks, Agamemnon.' What think you
of this man that takes me for the general? He's grown a very land
fish, languageless, a monster. A plague of opinion! A man may
wear it on both sides, like leather jerkin.
ACHILLES. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites.
THERSITES. Who, I? Why, he'll answer nobody; he professes not
answering. Speaking is for beggars: he wears his tongue in's
arms. I will put on his presence. Let Patroclus make his demands
to me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax.
ACHILLES. To him, Patroclus. Tell him I humbly desire the valiant
Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarm'd to my
tent; and to procure safe conduct for his person of the
magnanimous and most illustrious six-or-seven-times-honour'd
Captain General of the Grecian army, et cetera, Agamemnon. Do
this.
PATROCLUS. Jove bless great Ajax!
THERSITES. Hum!
PATROCLUS. I come from the worthy Achilles-
THERSITES. Ha!
PATROCLUS. Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his
tent-
THERSITES. Hum!
PATROCLUS. And to procure safe conduct from Agamemnon.
THERSITES. Agamemnon!
PATROCLUS. Ay, my lord.
THERSITES. Ha!
PATROCLUS. What you say to't?
THERSITES. God buy you, with all my heart.
PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir.
THERSITES. If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven of the clock it
will go one way or other. Howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he
has me.
PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir.
THERSITES. Fare ye well, with all my heart.
ACHILLES. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he?
THERSITES. No, but he's out a tune thus. What music will be in him
when Hector has knock'd out his brains I know not; but, I am sure,
none; unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings
on.
ACHILLES. Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight.
THERSITES. Let me carry another to his horse; for that's the more
capable creature.
ACHILLES. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr'd;
And I myself see not the bottom of it.
Exeunt ACHILLES and PATROCLUS
THERSITES. Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I
might water an ass at it. I had rather be a tick in a sheep than
such a valiant ignorance.
Exit
----------ACT 4, SCENE 1---------
ACT IV. SCENE 1.
Troy. A street
Enter, at one side, AENEAS, and servant with a torch; at another,
PARIS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR, DIOMEDES the Grecian, and others, with
torches
PARIS. See, ho! Who is that there?
DEIPHOBUS. It is the Lord Aeneas.
AENEAS. Is the Prince there in person?
Had I so good occasion to lie long
As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business
Should rob my bed-mate of my company.
DIOMEDES. That's my mind too. Good morrow, Lord Aeneas.
PARIS. A valiant Greek, Aeneas -take his hand:
Witness the process of your speech, wherein
You told how Diomed, a whole week by days,
Did haunt you in the field.
AENEAS. Health to you, valiant sir,
During all question of the gentle truce;
But when I meet you arm'd, as black defiance
As heart can think or courage execute.
DIOMEDES. The one and other Diomed embraces.
Our bloods are now in calm; and so long health!
But when contention and occasion meet,
By Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life
With all my force, pursuit, and policy.
AENEAS. And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly
With his face backward. In humane gentleness,
Welcome to Troy! now, by Anchises' life,
Welcome indeed! By Venus' hand I swear
No man alive can love in such a sort
The thing he means to kill, more excellently.
DIOMEDES. We sympathise. Jove let Aeneas live,
If to my sword his fate be not the glory,
A thousand complete courses of the sun!
But in mine emulous honour let him die
With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow!
AENEAS. We know each other well.
DIOMEDES.We do; and long to know each other worse.
PARIS. This is the most despiteful'st gentle greeting
The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of.
What business, lord, so early?
AENEAS. I was sent for to the King; but why, I know not.
PARIS. His purpose meets you: 'twas to bring this Greek
To Calchas' house, and there to render him,
For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid.
Let's have your company; or, if you please,
Haste there before us. I constantly believe-
Or rather call my thought a certain knowledge-
My brother Troilus lodges there to-night.
Rouse him and give him note of our approach,
With the whole quality wherefore; I fear
We shall be much unwelcome.
AENEAS. That I assure you:
Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece
Than Cressid borne from Troy.
PARIS. There is no help;
The bitter disposition of the time
Will have it so. On, lord; we'll follow you.
AENEAS. Good morrow, all. Exit with servant
PARIS. And tell me, noble Diomed-faith, tell me true,
Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship-
Who in your thoughts deserves fair Helen best,
Myself or Menelaus?
DIOMEDES. Both alike:
He merits well to have her that doth seek her,
Not making any scruple of her soilure,
With such a hell of pain and world of charge;
And you as well to keep her that defend her,
Not palating the taste of her dishonour,
With such a costly loss of wealth and friends.
He like a puling cuckold would drink up
The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece;
You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins
Are pleas'd to breed out your inheritors.
Both merits pois'd, each weighs nor less nor more;
But he as he, the heavier for a whore.
PARIS. You are too bitter to your country-woman.
DIOMEDES. She's bitter to her country. Hear me, Paris:
For every false drop in her bawdy veins
A Grecian's life hath sunk; for every scruple
Of her contaminated carrion weight
A Troyan hath been slain; since she could speak,
She hath not given so many good words breath
As for her Greeks and Troyans suff'red death.
PARIS. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do,
Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy;
But we in silence hold this virtue well:
We'll not commend what we intend to sell.
Here lies our way.
Exeunt
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for act 4, scene 4 based on the provided context. | act 4, scene 2|act 4, scene 3|act 4, scene 4|act 4, scene 5 | Inside the house, Pandarus tries to calm down Cressida.Troilus enters and breaks the bad news. He promises to love her forever as he holds her in his arms. Troilus and Cressida exchange love tokens. He gives her a "sleeve" and she gives him a glove. As our lovebirds say goodbye, Troilus keeps asking Cressida to be faithful to him and promises to come see her that night. Cressida worries that he doesn't trust her and Troilus promises that it's not her he's worried about--it's those young Greek guys who are the problem. You know. Oh, and just in case she was wondering, he's totally not going to cheat on her, either. Aeneas and Diomedes say it's time for Cressida to go. Troilus begs Diomedes to "use her well"... or else. Diomedes snickers and promises that they'll take great care of her. As Troilus walks with Cressida and Diomedes to the port, a trumpet announces that Hector and Ajax are about to rumble. Hm, sounds like the plots might be about to converge. Paris and Aeneas run off to watch the two guys throw down. |
----------ACT 4, SCENE 2---------
ACT IV. SCENE 2.
Troy. The court of PANDARUS' house
Enter TROILUS and CRESSIDA
TROILUS. Dear, trouble not yourself; the morn is cold.
CRESSIDA. Then, sweet my lord, I'll call mine uncle down;
He shall unbolt the gates.
TROILUS. Trouble him not;
To bed, to bed! Sleep kill those pretty eyes,
And give as soft attachment to thy senses
As infants' empty of all thought!
CRESSIDA. Good morrow, then.
TROILUS. I prithee now, to bed.
CRESSIDA. Are you aweary of me?
TROILUS. O Cressida! but that the busy day,
Wak'd by the lark, hath rous'd the ribald crows,
And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer,
I would not from thee.
CRESSIDA. Night hath been too brief.
TROILUS. Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays
As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love
With wings more momentary-swift than thought.
You will catch cold, and curse me.
CRESSIDA. Prithee tarry.
You men will never tarry.
O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off,
And then you would have tarried. Hark! there's one up.
PANDARUS. [Within] What's all the doors open here?
TROILUS. It is your uncle.
Enter PANDARUS
CRESSIDA. A pestilence on him! Now will he be mocking.
I shall have such a life!
PANDARUS. How now, how now! How go maidenheads?
Here, you maid! Where's my cousin Cressid?
CRESSIDA. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle.
You bring me to do, and then you flout me too.
PANDARUS. To do what? to do what? Let her say what.
What have I brought you to do?
CRESSIDA. Come, come, beshrew your heart! You'll ne'er be good,
Nor suffer others.
PANDARUS. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! a poor capocchia! hast not
slept to-night? Would he not, a naughty man, let it sleep? A
bugbear take him!
CRESSIDA. Did not I tell you? Would he were knock'd i' th' head!
[One knocks]
Who's that at door? Good uncle, go and see.
My lord, come you again into my chamber.
You smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.
TROILUS. Ha! ha!
CRESSIDA. Come, you are deceiv'd, I think of no such thing.
[Knock]
How earnestly they knock! Pray you come in:
I would not for half Troy have you seen here.
Exeunt TROILUS and
CRESSIDA
PANDARUS. Who's there? What's the matter? Will you beat down the
door? How now? What's the matter?
Enter AENEAS
AENEAS. Good morrow, lord, good morrow.
PANDARUS. Who's there? My lord Aeneas? By my troth,
I knew you not. What news with you so early?
AENEAS. Is not Prince Troilus here?
PANDARUS. Here! What should he do here?
AENEAS. Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him.
It doth import him much to speak with me.
PANDARUS. Is he here, say you? It's more than I know, I'll be
sworn. For my own part, I came in late. What should he do here?
AENEAS. Who!-nay, then. Come, come, you'll do him wrong ere you are
ware; you'll be so true to him to be false to him. Do not you
know of him, but yet go fetch him hither; go.
Re-enter TROILUS
TROILUS. How now! What's the matter?
AENEAS. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you,
My matter is so rash. There is at hand
Paris your brother, and Deiphobus,
The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor
Deliver'd to us; and for him forthwith,
Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour,
We must give up to Diomedes' hand
The Lady Cressida.
TROILUS. Is it so concluded?
AENEAS. By Priam, and the general state of Troy.
They are at hand and ready to effect it.
TROILUS. How my achievements mock me!
I will go meet them; and, my lord Aeneas,
We met by chance; you did not find me here.
AENEAS. Good, good, my lord, the secrets of neighbour Pandar
Have not more gift in taciturnity.
Exeunt TROILUS and AENEAS
PANDARUS. Is't possible? No sooner got but lost? The devil take
Antenor! The young prince will go mad. A plague upon Antenor! I
would they had broke's neck.
Re-enter CRESSIDA
CRESSIDA. How now! What's the matter? Who was here?
PANDARUS. Ah, ah!
CRESSIDA. Why sigh you so profoundly? Where's my lord? Gone? Tell
me, sweet uncle, what's the matter?
PANDARUS. Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above!
CRESSIDA. O the gods! What's the matter?
PANDARUS. Pray thee, get thee in. Would thou hadst ne'er been born!
I knew thou wouldst be his death! O, poor gentleman! A plague
upon Antenor!
CRESSIDA. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I beseech you,
what's the matter?
PANDARUS. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art
chang'd for Antenor; thou must to thy father, and be gone from
Troilus. 'Twill be his death; 'twill be his bane; he cannot bear
it.
CRESSIDA. O you immortal gods! I will not go.
PANDARUS. Thou must.
CRESSIDA. I will not, uncle. I have forgot my father;
I know no touch of consanguinity,
No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me
As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine,
Make Cressid's name the very crown of falsehood,
If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death,
Do to this body what extremes you can,
But the strong base and building of my love
Is as the very centre of the earth,
Drawing all things to it. I'll go in and weep-
PANDARUS. Do, do.
CRESSIDA. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks,
Crack my clear voice with sobs and break my heart,
With sounding 'Troilus.' I will not go from Troy.
Exeunt
----------ACT 4, SCENE 3---------
ACT IV. SCENE 3.
Troy. A street before PANDARUS' house
Enter PARIS, TROILUS, AENEAS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR, and DIOMEDES
PARIS. It is great morning; and the hour prefix'd
For her delivery to this valiant Greek
Comes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus,
Tell you the lady what she is to do
And haste her to the purpose.
TROILUS. Walk into her house.
I'll bring her to the Grecian presently;
And to his hand when I deliver her,
Think it an altar, and thy brother Troilus
A priest, there off'ring to it his own heart.
Exit
PARIS. I know what 'tis to love,
And would, as I shall pity, I could help!
Please you walk in, my lords.
Exeunt
----------ACT 4, SCENE 4---------
ACT IV. SCENE 4.
Troy. PANDARUS' house
Enter PANDARUS and CRESSIDA
PANDARUS. Be moderate, be moderate.
CRESSIDA. Why tell you me of moderation?
The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste,
And violenteth in a sense as strong
As that which causeth it. How can I moderate it?
If I could temporize with my affections
Or brew it to a weak and colder palate,
The like allayment could I give my grief.
My love admits no qualifying dross;
No more my grief, in such a precious loss.
Enter TROILUS
PANDARUS. Here, here, here he comes. Ah, sweet ducks!
CRESSIDA. O Troilus! Troilus! [Embracing him]
PANDARUS. What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me embrace too. 'O
heart,' as the goodly saying is,
O heart, heavy heart,
Why sigh'st thou without breaking?
where he answers again
Because thou canst not ease thy smart
By friendship nor by speaking.
There was never a truer rhyme. Let us cast away nothing, for we
may live to have need of such a verse. We see it, we see it. How
now, lambs!
TROILUS. Cressid, I love thee in so strain'd a purity
That the bless'd gods, as angry with my fancy,
More bright in zeal than the devotion which
Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me.
CRESSIDA. Have the gods envy?
PANDARUS. Ay, ay, ay; 'tis too plain a case.
CRESSIDA. And is it true that I must go from Troy?
TROILUS. A hateful truth.
CRESSIDA. What, and from Troilus too?
TROILUS. From Troy and Troilus.
CRESSIDA. Is't possible?
TROILUS. And suddenly; where injury of chance
Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by
All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips
Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents
Our lock'd embrasures, strangles our dear vows
Even in the birth of our own labouring breath.
We two, that with so many thousand sighs
Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves
With the rude brevity and discharge of one.
Injurious time now with a robber's haste
Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how.
As many farewells as be stars in heaven,
With distinct breath and consign'd kisses to them,
He fumbles up into a loose adieu,
And scants us with a single famish'd kiss,
Distasted with the salt of broken tears.
AENEAS. [Within] My lord, is the lady ready?
TROILUS. Hark! you are call'd. Some say the Genius so
Cries 'Come' to him that instantly must die.
Bid them have patience; she shall come anon.
PANDARUS. Where are my tears? Rain, to lay this wind, or my heart
will be blown up by th' root?
Exit
CRESSIDA. I must then to the Grecians?
TROILUS. No remedy.
CRESSIDA. A woeful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks!
When shall we see again?
TROILUS. Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart-
CRESSIDA. I true! how now! What wicked deem is this?
TROILUS. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly,
For it is parting from us.
I speak not 'Be thou true' as fearing thee,
For I will throw my glove to Death himself
That there's no maculation in thy heart;
But 'Be thou true' say I to fashion in
My sequent protestation: be thou true,
And I will see thee.
CRESSIDA. O, you shall be expos'd, my lord, to dangers
As infinite as imminent! But I'll be true.
TROILUS. And I'll grow friend with danger. Wear this sleeve.
CRESSIDA. And you this glove. When shall I see you?
TROILUS. I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels
To give thee nightly visitation.
But yet be true.
CRESSIDA. O heavens! 'Be true' again!
TROILUS. Hear why I speak it, love.
The Grecian youths are full of quality;
They're loving, well compos'd with gifts of nature,
And flowing o'er with arts and exercise.
How novelties may move, and parts with person,
Alas, a kind of godly jealousy,
Which I beseech you call a virtuous sin,
Makes me afeard.
CRESSIDA. O heavens! you love me not.
TROILUS. Die I a villain, then!
In this I do not call your faith in question
So mainly as my merit. I cannot sing,
Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk,
Nor play at subtle games-fair virtues all,
To which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant;
But I can tell that in each grace of these
There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil
That tempts most cunningly. But be not tempted.
CRESSIDA. Do you think I will?
TROILUS. No.
But something may be done that we will not;
And sometimes we are devils to ourselves,
When we will tempt the frailty of our powers,
Presuming on their changeful potency.
AENEAS. [Within] Nay, good my lord!
TROILUS. Come, kiss; and let us part.
PARIS. [Within] Brother Troilus!
TROILUS. Good brother, come you hither;
And bring Aeneas and the Grecian with you.
CRESSIDA. My lord, will you be true?
TROILUS. Who, I? Alas, it is my vice, my fault!
Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion,
I with great truth catch mere simplicity;
Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns,
With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare.
Enter AENEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, DEIPHOBUS, and DIOMEDES
Fear not my truth: the moral of my wit
Is 'plain and true'; there's all the reach of it.
Welcome, Sir Diomed! Here is the lady
Which for Antenor we deliver you;
At the port, lord, I'll give her to thy hand,
And by the way possess thee what she is.
Entreat her fair; and, by my soul, fair Greek,
If e'er thou stand at mercy of my sword,
Name Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe
As Priam is in Ilion.
DIOMEDES. Fair Lady Cressid,
So please you, save the thanks this prince expects.
The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek,
Pleads your fair usage; and to Diomed
You shall be mistress, and command him wholly.
TROILUS. Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously
To shame the zeal of my petition to the
In praising her. I tell thee, lord of Greece,
She is as far high-soaring o'er thy praises
As thou unworthy to be call'd her servant.
I charge thee use her well, even for my charge;
For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not,
Though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard,
I'll cut thy throat.
DIOMEDES. O, be not mov'd, Prince Troilus.
Let me be privileg'd by my place and message
To be a speaker free: when I am hence
I'll answer to my lust. And know you, lord,
I'll nothing do on charge: to her own worth
She shall be priz'd. But that you say 'Be't so,'
I speak it in my spirit and honour, 'No.'
TROILUS. Come, to the port. I'll tell thee, Diomed,
This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head.
Lady, give me your hand; and, as we walk,
To our own selves bend we our needful talk.
Exeunt TROILUS, CRESSIDA, and DIOMEDES
[Sound trumpet]
PARIS. Hark! Hector's trumpet.
AENEAS. How have we spent this morning!
The Prince must think me tardy and remiss,
That swore to ride before him to the field.
PARIS. 'Tis Troilus' fault. Come, come to field with him.
DEIPHOBUS. Let us make ready straight.
AENEAS. Yea, with a bridegroom's fresh alacrity
Let us address to tend on Hector's heels.
The glory of our Troy doth this day lie
On his fair worth and single chivalry.
Exeunt
----------ACT 4, SCENE 5---------
ACT IV. SCENE 5.
The Grecian camp. Lists set out
Enter AJAX, armed; AGAMEMNON, ACHILLES, PATROCLUS, MENELAUS,
ULYSSES, NESTOR, and others
AGAMEMNON. Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair,
Anticipating time with starting courage.
Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy,
Thou dreadful Ajax, that the appalled air
May pierce the head of the great combatant,
And hale him hither.
AJAX. Thou, trumpet, there's my purse.
Now crack thy lungs and split thy brazen pipe;
Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek
Out-swell the colic of puff Aquilon'd.
Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood:
Thou blowest for Hector. [Trumpet sounds]
ULYSSES. No trumpet answers.
ACHILLES. 'Tis but early days.
Enter DIOMEDES, with CRESSIDA
AGAMEMNON. Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas' daughter?
ULYSSES. 'Tis he, I ken the manner of his gait:
He rises on the toe. That spirit of his
In aspiration lifts him from the earth.
AGAMEMNON. Is this the lady Cressid?
DIOMEDES. Even she.
AGAMEMNON. Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady.
NESTOR. Our general doth salute you with a kiss.
ULYSSES. Yet is the kindness but particular;
'Twere better she were kiss'd in general.
NESTOR. And very courtly counsel: I'll begin.
So much for Nestor.
ACHILLES. I'll take that winter from your lips, fair lady.
Achilles bids you welcome.
MENELAUS. I had good argument for kissing once.
PATROCLUS. But that's no argument for kissing now;
For thus popp'd Paris in his hardiment,
And parted thus you and your argument.
ULYSSES. O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns!
For which we lose our heads to gild his horns.
PATROCLUS. The first was Menelaus' kiss; this, mine-
[Kisses her again]
Patroclus kisses you.
MENELAUS. O, this is trim!
PATROCLUS. Paris and I kiss evermore for him.
MENELAUS. I'll have my kiss, sir. Lady, by your leave.
CRESSIDA. In kissing, do you render or receive?
PATROCLUS. Both take and give.
CRESSIDA. I'll make my match to live,
The kiss you take is better than you give;
Therefore no kiss.
MENELAUS. I'll give you boot; I'll give you three for one.
CRESSIDA. You are an odd man; give even or give none.
MENELAUS. An odd man, lady? Every man is odd.
CRESSIDA. No, Paris is not; for you know 'tis true
That you are odd, and he is even with you.
MENELAUS. You fillip me o' th' head.
CRESSIDA. No, I'll be sworn.
ULYSSES. It were no match, your nail against his horn.
May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you?
CRESSIDA. You may.
ULYSSES. I do desire it.
CRESSIDA. Why, beg then.
ULYSSES. Why then, for Venus' sake give me a kiss
When Helen is a maid again, and his.
CRESSIDA. I am your debtor; claim it when 'tis due.
ULYSSES. Never's my day, and then a kiss of you.
DIOMEDES. Lady, a word. I'll bring you to your father.
Exit with CRESSIDA
NESTOR. A woman of quick sense.
ULYSSES. Fie, fie upon her!
There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip,
Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out
At every joint and motive of her body.
O these encounters so glib of tongue
That give a coasting welcome ere it comes,
And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts
To every ticklish reader! Set them down
For sluttish spoils of opportunity,
And daughters of the game. [Trumpet within]
ALL. The Troyans' trumpet.
Enter HECTOR, armed; AENEAS, TROILUS, PARIS, HELENUS,
and other Trojans, with attendants
AGAMEMNON. Yonder comes the troop.
AENEAS. Hail, all the state of Greece! What shall be done
To him that victory commands? Or do you purpose
A victor shall be known? Will you the knights
Shall to the edge of all extremity
Pursue each other, or shall they be divided
By any voice or order of the field?
Hector bade ask.
AGAMEMNON. Which way would Hector have it?
AENEAS. He cares not; he'll obey conditions.
ACHILLES. 'Tis done like Hector; but securely done,
A little proudly, and great deal misprizing
The knight oppos'd.
AENEAS. If not Achilles, sir,
What is your name?
ACHILLES. If not Achilles, nothing.
AENEAS. Therefore Achilles. But whate'er, know this:
In the extremity of great and little
Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector;
The one almost as infinite as all,
The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well,
And that which looks like pride is courtesy.
This Ajax is half made of Hector's blood;
In love whereof half Hector stays at home;
Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek
This blended knight, half Troyan and half Greek.
ACHILLES. A maiden battle then? O, I perceive you!
Re-enter DIOMEDES
AGAMEMNON. Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight,
Stand by our Ajax. As you and Lord AEneas
Consent upon the order of their fight,
So be it; either to the uttermost,
Or else a breath. The combatants being kin
Half stints their strife before their strokes begin.
[AJAX and HECTOR enter the lists]
ULYSSES. They are oppos'd already.
AGAMEMNON. What Troyan is that same that looks so heavy?
ULYSSES. The youngest son of Priam, a true knight;
Not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word;
Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue;
Not soon provok'd, nor being provok'd soon calm'd;
His heart and hand both open and both free;
For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows,
Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty,
Nor dignifies an impair thought with breath;
Manly as Hector, but more dangerous;
For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes
To tender objects, but he in heat of action
Is more vindicative than jealous love.
They call him Troilus, and on him erect
A second hope as fairly built as Hector.
Thus says Aeneas, one that knows the youth
Even to his inches, and, with private soul,
Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me.
[Alarum. HECTOR and AJAX fight]
AGAMEMNON. They are in action.
NESTOR. Now, Ajax, hold thine own!
TROILUS. Hector, thou sleep'st;
Awake thee.
AGAMEMNON. His blows are well dispos'd. There, Ajax!
[Trumpets cease]
DIOMEDES. You must no more.
AENEAS. Princes, enough, so please you.
AJAX. I am not warm yet; let us fight again.
DIOMEDES. As Hector pleases.
HECTOR. Why, then will I no more.
Thou art, great lord, my father's sister's son,
A cousin-german to great Priam's seed;
The obligation of our blood forbids
A gory emulation 'twixt us twain:
Were thy commixtion Greek and Troyan so
That thou could'st say 'This hand is Grecian all,
And this is Troyan; the sinews of this leg
All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother's blood
Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister
Bounds in my father's'; by Jove multipotent,
Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member
Wherein my sword had not impressure made
Of our rank feud; but the just gods gainsay
That any drop thou borrow'dst from thy mother,
My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword
Be drained! Let me embrace thee, Ajax.
By him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms;
Hector would have them fall upon him thus.
Cousin, all honour to thee!
AJAX. I thank thee, Hector.
Thou art too gentle and too free a man.
I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence
A great addition earned in thy death.
HECTOR. Not Neoptolemus so mirable,
On whose bright crest Fame with her loud'st Oyes
Cries 'This is he' could promise to himself
A thought of added honour torn from Hector.
AENEAS. There is expectance here from both the sides
What further you will do.
HECTOR. We'll answer it:
The issue is embracement. Ajax, farewell.
AJAX. If I might in entreaties find success,
As seld I have the chance, I would desire
My famous cousin to our Grecian tents.
DIOMEDES. 'Tis Agamemnon's wish; and great Achilles
Doth long to see unarm'd the valiant Hector.
HECTOR. Aeneas, call my brother Troilus to me,
And signify this loving interview
To the expecters of our Troyan part;
Desire them home. Give me thy hand, my cousin;
I will go eat with thee, and see your knights.
AGAMEMNON and the rest of the Greeks come forward
AJAX. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here.
HECTOR. The worthiest of them tell me name by name;
But for Achilles, my own searching eyes
Shall find him by his large and portly size.
AGAMEMNON.Worthy all arms! as welcome as to one
That would be rid of such an enemy.
But that's no welcome. Understand more clear,
What's past and what's to come is strew'd with husks
And formless ruin of oblivion;
But in this extant moment, faith and troth,
Strain'd purely from all hollow bias-drawing,
Bids thee with most divine integrity,
From heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome.
HECTOR. I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon.
AGAMEMNON. [To Troilus] My well-fam'd lord of Troy, no less to you.
MENELAUS. Let me confirm my princely brother's greeting.
You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither.
HECTOR. Who must we answer?
AENEAS. The noble Menelaus.
HECTOR. O you, my lord? By Mars his gauntlet, thanks!
Mock not that I affect the untraded oath;
Your quondam wife swears still by Venus' glove.
She's well, but bade me not commend her to you.
MENELAUS. Name her not now, sir; she's a deadly theme.
HECTOR. O, pardon; I offend.
NESTOR. I have, thou gallant Troyan, seen thee oft,
Labouring for destiny, make cruel way
Through ranks of Greekish youth; and I have seen thee,
As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed,
Despising many forfeits and subduements,
When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i' th' air,
Not letting it decline on the declined;
That I have said to some my standers-by
'Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life!'
And I have seen thee pause and take thy breath,
When that a ring of Greeks have hemm'd thee in,
Like an Olympian wrestling. This have I seen;
But this thy countenance, still lock'd in steel,
I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire,
And once fought with him. He was a soldier good,
But, by great Mars, the captain of us all,
Never like thee. O, let an old man embrace thee;
And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents.
AENEAS. 'Tis the old Nestor.
HECTOR. Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle,
That hast so long walk'd hand in hand with time.
Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee.
NESTOR. I would my arms could match thee in contention
As they contend with thee in courtesy.
HECTOR. I would they could.
NESTOR. Ha!
By this white beard, I'd fight with thee to-morrow.
Well, welcome, welcome! I have seen the time.
ULYSSES. I wonder now how yonder city stands,
When we have here her base and pillar by us.
HECTOR. I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well.
Ah, sir, there's many a Greek and Troyan dead,
Since first I saw yourself and Diomed
In Ilion on your Greekish embassy.
ULYSSES. Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue.
My prophecy is but half his journey yet;
For yonder walls, that pertly front your town,
Yond towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds,
Must kiss their own feet.
HECTOR. I must not believe you.
There they stand yet; and modestly I think
The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost
A drop of Grecian blood. The end crowns all;
And that old common arbitrator, Time,
Will one day end it.
ULYSSES. So to him we leave it.
Most gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome.
After the General, I beseech you next
To feast with me and see me at my tent.
ACHILLES. I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou!
Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee;
I have with exact view perus'd thee, Hector,
And quoted joint by joint.
HECTOR. Is this Achilles?
ACHILLES. I am Achilles.
HECTOR. Stand fair, I pray thee; let me look on thee.
ACHILLES. Behold thy fill.
HECTOR. Nay, I have done already.
ACHILLES. Thou art too brief. I will the second time,
As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb.
HECTOR. O, like a book of sport thou'lt read me o'er;
But there's more in me than thou understand'st.
Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye?
ACHILLES. Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his body
Shall I destroy him? Whether there, or there, or there?
That I may give the local wound a name,
And make distinct the very breach whereout
Hector's great spirit flew. Answer me, heavens.
HECTOR. It would discredit the blest gods, proud man,
To answer such a question. Stand again.
Think'st thou to catch my life so pleasantly
As to prenominate in nice conjecture
Where thou wilt hit me dead?
ACHILLES. I tell thee yea.
HECTOR. Wert thou an oracle to tell me so,
I'd not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well;
For I'll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there;
But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm,
I'll kill thee everywhere, yea, o'er and o'er.
You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag.
His insolence draws folly from my lips;
But I'll endeavour deeds to match these words,
Or may I never-
AJAX. Do not chafe thee, cousin;
And you, Achilles, let these threats alone
Till accident or purpose bring you to't.
You may have every day enough of Hector,
If you have stomach. The general state, I fear,
Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him.
HECTOR. I pray you let us see you in the field;
We have had pelting wars since you refus'd
The Grecians' cause.
ACHILLES. Dost thou entreat me, Hector?
To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death;
To-night all friends.
HECTOR. Thy hand upon that match.
AGAMEMNON. First, all you peers of Greece, go to my tent;
There in the full convive we; afterwards,
As Hector's leisure and your bounties shall
Concur together, severally entreat him.
Beat loud the tambourines, let the trumpets blow,
That this great soldier may his welcome know.
Exeunt all but TROILUS and ULYSSES
TROILUS. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you,
In what place of the field doth Calchas keep?
ULYSSES. At Menelaus' tent, most princely Troilus.
There Diomed doth feast with him to-night,
Who neither looks upon the heaven nor earth,
But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view
On the fair Cressid.
TROILUS. Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to you so much,
After we part from Agamemnon's tent,
To bring me thither?
ULYSSES. You shall command me, sir.
As gentle tell me of what honour was
This Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover there
That wails her absence?
TROILUS. O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars
A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord?
She was belov'd, she lov'd; she is, and doth;
But still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth.
Exeunt
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 5, scene 4, utilizing the provided context. | act 5, scene 1|act 5, scene 2|act 5, scene 3|act 5, scene 4|act 5, scene 5|act 5, scene 6|act 5, scene 7 | Cut to the battlefield, where Thersites watches everything go down while offering his nasty commentary on the action. Thersites tells us that Diomedes is running around the battlefield with Troilus's "sleeve" on his helmet. While he's at it, he rags on Nestor, Ulysses, Ajax, and Achilles. Troilus and Hector run across the stage in mid-battle. Then Hector runs on stage and apparently takes a break from fighting Troilus to challenge Thersites to man-to-man combat....if Thersites thinks he's got the stones for it. But, uh, nope. He doesn't, so Hector lets him live and moves on. Thersites runs off to watch Troilus throw down with Diomedes. |
----------ACT 5, SCENE 1---------
ACT V. SCENE 1.
The Grecian camp. Before the tent of ACHILLES
Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS
ACHILLES. I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night,
Which with my scimitar I'll cool to-morrow.
Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.
PATROCLUS. Here comes Thersites.
Enter THERSITES
ACHILLES. How now, thou core of envy!
Thou crusty batch of nature, what's the news?
THERSITES. Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of
idiot worshippers, here's a letter for thee.
ACHILLES. From whence, fragment?
THERSITES. Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.
PATROCLUS. Who keeps the tent now?
THERSITES. The surgeon's box or the patient's wound.
PATROCLUS. Well said, Adversity! and what needs these tricks?
THERSITES. Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy talk; thou
art said to be Achilles' male varlet.
PATROCLUS. Male varlet, you rogue! What's that?
THERSITES. Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases of
the south, the guts-griping ruptures, catarrhs, loads o' gravel
in the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten
livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas,
limekilns i' th' palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-
simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous
discoveries!
PATROCLUS. Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou
to curse thus?
THERSITES. Do I curse thee?
PATROCLUS. Why, no, you ruinous butt; you whoreson
indistinguishable cur, no.
THERSITES. No! Why art thou, then, exasperate, thou idle immaterial
skein of sleid silk, thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye,
thou tassel of a prodigal's purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is
pest'red with such water-flies-diminutives of nature!
PATROCLUS. Out, gall!
THERSITES. Finch egg!
ACHILLES. My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite
From my great purpose in to-morrow's battle.
Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba,
A token from her daughter, my fair love,
Both taxing me and gaging me to keep
An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it.
Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay;
My major vow lies here, this I'll obey.
Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent;
This night in banqueting must all be spent.
Away, Patroclus! Exit with PATROCLUS
THERSITES. With too much blood and too little brain these two may
run mad; but, if with too much brain and to little blood they do,
I'll be a curer of madmen. Here's Agamemnon, an honest fellow
enough, and one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain
as ear-wax; and the goodly transformation of Jupiter there, his
brother, the bull, the primitive statue and oblique memorial of
cuckolds, a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain, hanging at his
brother's leg-to what form but that he is, should wit larded with
malice, and malice forced with wit, turn him to? To an ass, were
nothing: he is both ass and ox. To an ox, were nothing: he is both
ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a toad, a
lizard, an owl, a put-tock, or a herring without a roe, I would
not care; but to be Menelaus, I would conspire against destiny.
Ask me not what I would be, if I were not Thersites; for I care
not to be the louse of a lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hey-day!
sprites and fires!
Enter HECTOR, TROILUS, AJAX, AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES,
NESTOR, MENELAUS, and DIOMEDES, with lights
AGAMEMNON. We go wrong, we go wrong.
AJAX. No, yonder 'tis;
There, where we see the lights.
HECTOR. I trouble you.
AJAX. No, not a whit.
Re-enter ACHILLES
ULYSSES. Here comes himself to guide you.
ACHILLES. Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, Princes all.
AGAMEMNON. So now, fair Prince of Troy, I bid good night;
Ajax commands the guard to tend on you.
HECTOR. Thanks, and good night to the Greeks' general.
MENELAUS. Good night, my lord.
HECTOR. Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus.
THERSITES. Sweet draught! 'Sweet' quoth 'a?
Sweet sink, sweet sewer!
ACHILLES. Good night and welcome, both at once, to those
That go or tarry.
AGAMEMNON. Good night.
Exeunt AGAMEMNON and MENELAUS
ACHILLES. Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed,
Keep Hector company an hour or two.
DIOMEDES. I cannot, lord; I have important business,
The tide whereof is now. Good night, great Hector.
HECTOR. Give me your hand.
ULYSSES. [Aside to TROILUS] Follow his torch; he goes to
Calchas' tent; I'll keep you company.
TROILUS. Sweet sir, you honour me.
HECTOR. And so, good night.
Exit DIOMEDES; ULYSSES and TROILUS following
ACHILLES. Come, come, enter my tent.
Exeunt all but THERSITES
THERSITES. That same Diomed's a false-hearted rogue, a most unjust
knave; I will no more trust him when he leers than I will a
serpent when he hisses. He will spend his mouth and promise, like
Brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell
it: it is prodigious, there will come some change; the sun
borrows of the moon when Diomed keeps his word. I will rather
leave to see Hector than not to dog him. They say he keeps a
Troyan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas' tent. I'll after.
Nothing but lechery! All incontinent varlets!
Exit
----------ACT 5, SCENE 2---------
ACT V. SCENE 2.
The Grecian camp. Before CALCHAS' tent
Enter DIOMEDES
DIOMEDES. What, are you up here, ho? Speak.
CALCHAS. [Within] Who calls?
DIOMEDES. Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where's your daughter?
CALCHAS. [Within] She comes to you.
Enter TROILUS and ULYSSES, at a distance; after them
THERSITES
ULYSSES. Stand where the torch may not discover us.
Enter CRESSIDA
TROILUS. Cressid comes forth to him.
DIOMEDES. How now, my charge!
CRESSIDA. Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word with you.
[Whispers]
TROILUS. Yea, so familiar!
ULYSSES. She will sing any man at first sight.
THERSITES. And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff;
she's noted.
DIOMEDES. Will you remember?
CRESSIDA. Remember? Yes.
DIOMEDES. Nay, but do, then;
And let your mind be coupled with your words.
TROILUS. What shall she remember?
ULYSSES. List!
CRESSIDA. Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly.
THERSITES. Roguery!
DIOMEDES. Nay, then-
CRESSIDA. I'll tell you what-
DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! come, tell a pin; you are a forsworn-
CRESSIDA. In faith, I cannot. What would you have me do?
THERSITES. A juggling trick, to be secretly open.
DIOMEDES. What did you swear you would bestow on me?
CRESSIDA. I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath;
Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek.
DIOMEDES. Good night.
TROILUS. Hold, patience!
ULYSSES. How now, Troyan!
CRESSIDA. Diomed!
DIOMEDES. No, no, good night; I'll be your fool no more.
TROILUS. Thy better must.
CRESSIDA. Hark! a word in your ear.
TROILUS. O plague and madness!
ULYSSES. You are moved, Prince; let us depart, I pray,
Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself
To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous;
The time right deadly; I beseech you, go.
TROILUS. Behold, I pray you.
ULYSSES. Nay, good my lord, go off;
You flow to great distraction; come, my lord.
TROILUS. I prithee stay.
ULYSSES. You have not patience; come.
TROILUS. I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell's torments,
I will not speak a word.
DIOMEDES. And so, good night.
CRESSIDA. Nay, but you part in anger.
TROILUS. Doth that grieve thee? O withered truth!
ULYSSES. How now, my lord?
TROILUS. By Jove, I will be patient.
CRESSIDA. Guardian! Why, Greek!
DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! adieu! you palter.
CRESSIDA. In faith, I do not. Come hither once again.
ULYSSES. You shake, my lord, at something; will you go?
You will break out.
TROILUS. She strokes his cheek.
ULYSSES. Come, come.
TROILUS. Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a word:
There is between my will and all offences
A guard of patience. Stay a little while.
THERSITES. How the devil luxury, with his fat rump and potato
finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry!
DIOMEDES. But will you, then?
CRESSIDA. In faith, I will, lo; never trust me else.
DIOMEDES. Give me some token for the surety of it.
CRESSIDA. I'll fetch you one.
Exit
ULYSSES. You have sworn patience.
TROILUS. Fear me not, my lord;
I will not be myself, nor have cognition
Of what I feel. I am all patience.
Re-enter CRESSIDA
THERSITES. Now the pledge; now, now, now!
CRESSIDA. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.
TROILUS. O beauty! where is thy faith?
ULYSSES. My lord!
TROILUS. I will be patient; outwardly I will.
CRESSIDA. You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.
He lov'd me-O false wench!-Give't me again.
DIOMEDES. Whose was't?
CRESSIDA. It is no matter, now I ha't again.
I will not meet with you to-morrow night.
I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.
THERSITES. Now she sharpens. Well said, whetstone.
DIOMEDES. I shall have it.
CRESSIDA. What, this?
DIOMEDES. Ay, that.
CRESSIDA. O all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge!
Thy master now lies thinking on his bed
Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove,
And gives memorial dainty kisses to it,
As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me;
He that takes that doth take my heart withal.
DIOMEDES. I had your heart before; this follows it.
TROILUS. I did swear patience.
CRESSIDA. You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not;
I'll give you something else.
DIOMEDES. I will have this. Whose was it?
CRESSIDA. It is no matter.
DIOMEDES. Come, tell me whose it was.
CRESSIDA. 'Twas one's that lov'd me better than you will.
But, now you have it, take it.
DIOMEDES. Whose was it?
CRESSIDA. By all Diana's waiting women yond,
And by herself, I will not tell you whose.
DIOMEDES. To-morrow will I wear it on my helm,
And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it.
TROILUS. Wert thou the devil and wor'st it on thy horn,
It should be challeng'd.
CRESSIDA. Well, well, 'tis done, 'tis past; and yet it is not;
I will not keep my word.
DIOMEDES. Why, then farewell;
Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.
CRESSIDA. You shall not go. One cannot speak a word
But it straight starts you.
DIOMEDES. I do not like this fooling.
THERSITES. Nor I, by Pluto; but that that likes not you
Pleases me best.
DIOMEDES. What, shall I come? The hour-
CRESSIDA. Ay, come-O Jove! Do come. I shall be plagu'd.
DIOMEDES. Farewell till then.
CRESSIDA. Good night. I prithee come. Exit DIOMEDES
Troilus, farewell! One eye yet looks on thee;
But with my heart the other eye doth see.
Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,
The error of our eye directs our mind.
What error leads must err; O, then conclude,
Minds sway'd by eyes are full of turpitude.
Exit
THERSITES. A proof of strength she could not publish more,
Unless she said 'My mind is now turn'd whore.'
ULYSSES. All's done, my lord.
TROILUS. It is.
ULYSSES. Why stay we, then?
TROILUS. To make a recordation to my soul
Of every syllable that here was spoke.
But if I tell how these two did coact,
Shall I not lie in publishing a truth?
Sith yet there is a credence in my heart,
An esperance so obstinately strong,
That doth invert th' attest of eyes and ears;
As if those organs had deceptious functions
Created only to calumniate.
Was Cressid here?
ULYSSES. I cannot conjure, Troyan.
TROILUS. She was not, sure.
ULYSSES. Most sure she was.
TROILUS. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.
ULYSSES. Nor mine, my lord. Cressid was here but now.
TROILUS. Let it not be believ'd for womanhood.
Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage
To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme,
For depravation, to square the general sex
By Cressid's rule. Rather think this not Cressid.
ULYSSES. What hath she done, Prince, that can soil our mothers?
TROILUS. Nothing at all, unless that this were she.
THERSITES. Will 'a swagger himself out on's own eyes?
TROILUS. This she? No; this is Diomed's Cressida.
If beauty have a soul, this is not she;
If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies,
If sanctimony be the god's delight,
If there be rule in unity itself,
This was not she. O madness of discourse,
That cause sets up with and against itself!
Bifold authority! where reason can revolt
Without perdition, and loss assume all reason
Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid.
Within my soul there doth conduce a fight
Of this strange nature, that a thing inseparate
Divides more wider than the sky and earth;
And yet the spacious breadth of this division
Admits no orifex for a point as subtle
As Ariachne's broken woof to enter.
Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto's gates:
Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven.
Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself:
The bonds of heaven are slipp'd, dissolv'd, and loos'd;
And with another knot, five-finger-tied,
The fractions of her faith, orts of her love,
The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy relics
Of her o'er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed.
ULYSSES. May worthy Troilus be half-attach'd
With that which here his passion doth express?
TROILUS. Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well
In characters as red as Mars his heart
Inflam'd with Venus. Never did young man fancy
With so eternal and so fix'd a soul.
Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love,
So much by weight hate I her Diomed.
That sleeve is mine that he'll bear on his helm;
Were it a casque compos'd by Vulcan's skill
My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout
Which shipmen do the hurricano call,
Constring'd in mass by the almighty sun,
Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune's ear
In his descent than shall my prompted sword
Falling on Diomed.
THERSITES. He'll tickle it for his concupy.
TROILUS. O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false!
Let all untruths stand by thy stained name,
And they'll seem glorious.
ULYSSES. O, contain yourself;
Your passion draws ears hither.
Enter AENEAS
AENEAS. I have been seeking you this hour, my lord.
Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy;
Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home.
TROILUS. Have with you, Prince. My courteous lord, adieu.
Fairwell, revolted fair!-and, Diomed,
Stand fast and wear a castle on thy head.
ULYSSES. I'll bring you to the gates.
TROILUS. Accept distracted thanks.
Exeunt TROILUS, AENEAS. and ULYSSES
THERSITES. Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like
a raven; I would bode, I would bode. Patroclus will give me
anything for the intelligence of this whore; the parrot will not
do more for an almond than he for a commodious drab. Lechery,
lechery! Still wars and lechery! Nothing else holds fashion. A
burning devil take them!
Exit
----------ACT 5, SCENE 3---------
ACT V. SCENE 3.
Troy. Before PRIAM'S palace
Enter HECTOR and ANDROMACHE
ANDROMACHE. When was my lord so much ungently temper'd
To stop his ears against admonishment?
Unarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day.
HECTOR. You train me to offend you; get you in.
By all the everlasting gods, I'll go.
ANDROMACHE. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day.
HECTOR. No more, I say.
Enter CASSANDRA
CASSANDRA. Where is my brother Hector?
ANDROMACHE. Here, sister, arm'd, and bloody in intent.
Consort with me in loud and dear petition,
Pursue we him on knees; for I have dreamt
Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night
Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter.
CASSANDRA. O, 'tis true!
HECTOR. Ho! bid my trumpet sound.
CASSANDRA. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother!
HECTOR. Be gone, I say. The gods have heard me swear.
CASSANDRA. The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows;
They are polluted off'rings, more abhorr'd
Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
ANDROMACHE. O, be persuaded! Do not count it holy
To hurt by being just. It is as lawful,
For we would give much, to use violent thefts
And rob in the behalf of charity.
CASSANDRA. It is the purpose that makes strong the vow;
But vows to every purpose must not hold.
Unarm, sweet Hector.
HECTOR. Hold you still, I say.
Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate.
Life every man holds dear; but the dear man
Holds honour far more precious dear than life.
Enter TROILUS
How now, young man! Mean'st thou to fight to-day?
ANDROMACHE. Cassandra, call my father to persuade.
Exit CASSANDRA
HECTOR. No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth;
I am to-day i' th' vein of chivalry.
Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong,
And tempt not yet the brushes of the war.
Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy,
I'll stand to-day for thee and me and Troy.
TROILUS. Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you
Which better fits a lion than a man.
HECTOR. What vice is that, good Troilus?
Chide me for it.
TROILUS. When many times the captive Grecian falls,
Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,
You bid them rise and live.
HECTOR. O, 'tis fair play!
TROILUS. Fool's play, by heaven, Hector.
HECTOR. How now! how now!
TROILUS. For th' love of all the gods,
Let's leave the hermit Pity with our mother;
And when we have our armours buckled on,
The venom'd vengeance ride upon our swords,
Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth!
HECTOR. Fie, savage, fie!
TROILUS. Hector, then 'tis wars.
HECTOR. Troilus, I would not have you fight to-day.
TROILUS. Who should withhold me?
Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars
Beck'ning with fiery truncheon my retire;
Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees,
Their eyes o'ergalled with recourse of tears;
Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn,
Oppos'd to hinder me, should stop my way,
But by my ruin.
Re-enter CASSANDRA, with PRIAM
CASSANDRA. Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast;
He is thy crutch; now if thou lose thy stay,
Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee,
Fall all together.
PRIAM. Come, Hector, come, go back.
Thy wife hath dreamt; thy mother hath had visions;
Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself
Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt
To tell thee that this day is ominous.
Therefore, come back.
HECTOR. Aeneas is a-field;
And I do stand engag'd to many Greeks,
Even in the faith of valour, to appear
This morning to them.
PRIAM. Ay, but thou shalt not go.
HECTOR. I must not break my faith.
You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir,
Let me not shame respect; but give me leave
To take that course by your consent and voice
Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam.
CASSANDRA. O Priam, yield not to him!
ANDROMACHE. Do not, dear father.
HECTOR. Andromache, I am offended with you.
Upon the love you bear me, get you in.
Exit ANDROMACHE
TROILUS. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl
Makes all these bodements.
CASSANDRA. O, farewell, dear Hector!
Look how thou diest. Look how thy eye turns pale.
Look how thy wounds do bleed at many vents.
Hark how Troy roars; how Hecuba cries out;
How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth;
Behold distraction, frenzy, and amazement,
Like witless antics, one another meet,
And all cry, Hector! Hector's dead! O Hector!
TROILUS. Away, away!
CASSANDRA. Farewell!-yet, soft! Hector, I take my leave.
Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive.
Exit
HECTOR. You are amaz'd, my liege, at her exclaim.
Go in, and cheer the town; we'll forth, and fight,
Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night.
PRIAM. Farewell. The gods with safety stand about thee!
Exeunt severally PRIAM and HECTOR.
Alarums
TROILUS. They are at it, hark! Proud Diomed, believe,
I come to lose my arm or win my sleeve.
Enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. Do you hear, my lord? Do you hear?
TROILUS. What now?
PANDARUS. Here's a letter come from yond poor girl.
TROILUS. Let me read.
PANDARUS. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick so troubles
me, and the foolish fortune of this girl, and what one thing,
what another, that I shall leave you one o' th's days; and I have
a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that
unless a man were curs'd I cannot tell what to think on't. What
says she there?
TROILUS. Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart;
Th' effect doth operate another way.
[Tearing the letter]
Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together.
My love with words and errors still she feeds,
But edifies another with her deeds. Exeunt severally
----------ACT 5, SCENE 4---------
ACT V. SCENE 4.
The plain between Troy and the Grecian camp
Enter THERSITES. Excursions
THERSITES. Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I'll go look
on. That dissembling abominable varlet, Diomed, has got that same
scurvy doting foolish young knave's sleeve of Troy there in his
helm. I would fain see them meet, that that same young Troyan ass
that loves the whore there might send that Greekish whoremasterly
villain with the sleeve back to the dissembling luxurious drab of
a sleeve-less errand. A th' t'other side, the policy of those
crafty swearing rascals-that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese,
Nestor, and that same dog-fox, Ulysses -is not prov'd worth a
blackberry. They set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax,
against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles; and now is the cur,
Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm to-day;
whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy
grows into an ill opinion.
Enter DIOMEDES, TROILUS following
Soft! here comes sleeve, and t'other.
TROILUS. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx
I would swim after.
DIOMEDES. Thou dost miscall retire.
I do not fly; but advantageous care
Withdrew me from the odds of multitude.
Have at thee.
THERSITES. Hold thy whore, Grecian; now for thy whore,
Troyan-now the sleeve, now the sleeve!
Exeunt TROILUS and DIOMEDES fighting
Enter HECTOR
HECTOR. What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector's match?
Art thou of blood and honour?
THERSITES. No, no-I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very
filthy rogue.
HECTOR. I do believe thee. Live.
Exit
THERSITES. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague
break thy neck for frighting me! What's become of the wenching
rogues? I think they have swallowed one another. I would laugh at
that miracle. Yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I'll seek
them.
Exit
----------ACT 5, SCENE 5---------
ACT V. SCENE 5.
Another part of the plain
Enter DIOMEDES and A SERVANT
DIOMEDES. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus' horse;
Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid.
Fellow, commend my service to her beauty;
Tell her I have chastis'd the amorous Troyan,
And am her knight by proof.
SERVANT. I go, my lord.
Exit
Enter AGAMEMNON
AGAMEMNON. Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamus
Hath beat down enon; bastard Margarelon
Hath Doreus prisoner,
And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,
Upon the pashed corses of the kings
Epistrophus and Cedius. Polixenes is slain;
Amphimacus and Thoas deadly hurt;
Patroclus ta'en, or slain; and Palamedes
Sore hurt and bruis'd. The dreadful Sagittary
Appals our numbers. Haste we, Diomed,
To reinforcement, or we perish all.
Enter NESTOR
NESTOR. Go, bear Patroclus' body to Achilles,
And bid the snail-pac'd Ajax arm for shame.
There is a thousand Hectors in the field;
Now here he fights on Galathe his horse,
And there lacks work; anon he's there afoot,
And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls
Before the belching whale; then is he yonder,
And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge,
Fall down before him like the mower's swath.
Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and takes;
Dexterity so obeying appetite
That what he will he does, and does so much
That proof is call'd impossibility.
Enter ULYSSES
ULYSSES. O, courage, courage, courage, Princes! Great
Achilles Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance.
Patroclus' wounds have rous'd his drowsy blood,
Together with his mangled Myrmidons,
That noseless, handless, hack'd and chipp'd, come to
him, Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend
And foams at mouth, and he is arm'd and at it,
Roaring for Troilus; who hath done to-day
Mad and fantastic execution,
Engaging and redeeming of himself
With such a careless force and forceless care
As if that luck, in very spite of cunning,
Bade him win all.
Enter AJAX
AJAX. Troilus! thou coward Troilus!
Exit
DIOMEDES. Ay, there, there.
NESTOR. So, so, we draw together.
Exit
Enter ACHILLES
ACHILLES. Where is this Hector?
Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face;
Know what it is to meet Achilles angry.
Hector! where's Hector? I will none but Hector.
Exeunt
----------ACT 5, SCENE 6---------
ACT V. SCENE 6.
Another part of the plain
Enter AJAX
AJAX. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head.
Enter DIOMEDES
DIOMEDES. Troilus, I say! Where's Troilus?
AJAX. What wouldst thou?
DIOMEDES. I would correct him.
AJAX. Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office
Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! What, Troilus!
Enter TROILUS
TROILUS. O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor,
And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse.
DIOMEDES. Ha! art thou there?
AJAX. I'll fight with him alone. Stand, Diomed.
DIOMEDES. He is my prize. I will not look upon.
TROILUS. Come, both, you cogging Greeks; have at you
Exeunt fighting
Enter HECTOR
HECTOR. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother!
Enter ACHILLES
ACHILLES. Now do I see thee, ha! Have at thee, Hector!
HECTOR. Pause, if thou wilt.
ACHILLES. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Troyan.
Be happy that my arms are out of use;
My rest and negligence befriends thee now,
But thou anon shalt hear of me again;
Till when, go seek thy fortune.
Exit
HECTOR. Fare thee well.
I would have been much more a fresher man,
Had I expected thee.
Re-enter TROILUS
How now, my brother!
TROILUS. Ajax hath ta'en Aeneas. Shall it be?
No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven,
He shall not carry him; I'll be ta'en too,
Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say:
I reck not though thou end my life to-day.
Exit
Enter one in armour
HECTOR. Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark.
No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well;
I'll frush it and unlock the rivets all
But I'll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide?
Why then, fly on; I'll hunt thee for thy hide.
Exeunt
----------ACT 5, SCENE 7---------
ACT V. SCENE 7.
Another part of the plain
Enter ACHILLES, with Myrmidons
ACHILLES. Come here about me, you my Myrmidons;
Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel;
Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath;
And when I have the bloody Hector found,
Empale him with your weapons round about;
In fellest manner execute your arms.
Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye.
It is decreed Hector the great must die.
Exeunt
Enter MENELAUS and PARIS, fighting; then THERSITES
THERSITES. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull!
now, dog! 'Loo, Paris, 'loo! now my double-horn'd Spartan! 'loo,
Paris, 'loo! The bull has the game. Ware horns, ho!
Exeunt PARIS and MENELAUS
Enter MARGARELON
MARGARELON. Turn, slave, and fight.
THERSITES. What art thou?
MARGARELON. A bastard son of Priam's.
THERSITES. I am a bastard too; I love bastards. I am a bastard
begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in
everything illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and
wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel's most
ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts
judgment. Farewell, bastard.
Exit
MARGARELON. The devil take thee, coward!
Exit
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for act 5, scene 10 based on the provided context. | act 5, scene 8|act 5, scene 9|act 5, scene 10|scene 1|scene 2 | As Troilus tells Aeneas, Hector really is dead. Not only that, but a horse is dragging his body around the "shameful field." Troilus prays to the gods and asks for them to "smile at Troy." He says that when they go back home and tell Hector's family about his death, Priam will cry himself to "stone" and all of Troy will be devastated. Troilus vows to get revenge on Achilles. When Pandarus shows up, Troilus smacks him around and tells him to scram. He calls him a "broker, lackey" and says Pandarus has to live with himself for what he's done. Alone on stage, Pandarus delivers a bitter speech to the audience. He complains about his diseased body, and how poorly he thinks he's been treated. Then he gives a shout-out to all the members of the audience involved in the sex industry. Brain snack: playhouses were in the same neighborhoods as brothels so it's highly likely that Pandarus's speech didn't fall on deaf ears. He tells us that he's dying and says he hopes there aren't any prostitutes in the audience that boo and "hiss" at him or the play. Finally, he says that when he dies , he's going to leave us all his sexually transmitted diseases in his will. The End. Yeah. We know you want more. Head over to "What's Up With the Ending" for the dirt on Pandarus's speech. |
----------ACT 5, SCENE 8---------
ACT V. SCENE 8.
Another part of the plain
Enter HECTOR
HECTOR. Most putrified core so fair without,
Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life.
Now is my day's work done; I'll take good breath:
Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death!
[Disarms]
Enter ACHILLES and his Myrmidons
ACHILLES. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set;
How ugly night comes breathing at his heels;
Even with the vail and dark'ning of the sun,
To close the day up, Hector's life is done.
HECTOR. I am unarm'd; forego this vantage, Greek.
ACHILLES. Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek.
[HECTOR falls]
So, Ilion, fall thou next! Come, Troy, sink down;
Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone.
On, Myrmidons, and cry you an amain
'Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.'
[A retreat sounded]
Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part.
MYRMIDON. The Troyan trumpets sound the like, my lord.
ACHILLES. The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth
And, stickler-like, the armies separates.
My half-supp'd sword, that frankly would have fed,
Pleas'd with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed.
[Sheathes his sword]
Come, tie his body to my horse's tail;
Along the field I will the Troyan trail.
Exeunt
----------ACT 5, SCENE 9---------
ACT V. SCENE 9.
Another part of the plain
Sound retreat. Shout. Enter AGAMEMNON, AJAX, MENELAUS, NESTOR,
DIOMEDES, and the rest, marching
AGAMEMNON. Hark! hark! what shout is this?
NESTOR. Peace, drums!
SOLDIERS. [Within] Achilles! Achilles! Hector's slain. Achilles!
DIOMEDES. The bruit is Hector's slain, and by Achilles.
AJAX. If it be so, yet bragless let it be;
Great Hector was as good a man as he.
AGAMEMNON. March patiently along. Let one be sent
To pray Achilles see us at our tent.
If in his death the gods have us befriended;
Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended.
Exeunt
----------ACT 5, SCENE 10---------
ACT V. SCENE 10.
Another part of the plain
Enter AENEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, and DEIPHOBUS
AENEAS. Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field.
Never go home; here starve we out the night.
Enter TROILUS
TROILUS. Hector is slain.
ALL. Hector! The gods forbid!
TROILUS. He's dead, and at the murderer's horse's tail,
In beastly sort, dragg'd through the shameful field.
Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed.
Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy.
I say at once let your brief plagues be mercy,
And linger not our sure destructions on.
AENEAS. My lord, you do discomfort all the host.
TROILUS. You understand me not that tell me so.
I do not speak of flight, of fear of death,
But dare all imminence that gods and men
Address their dangers in. Hector is gone.
Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?
Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call'd
Go in to Troy, and say there 'Hector's dead.'
There is a word will Priam turn to stone;
Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,
Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word,
Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away;
Hector is dead; there is no more to say.
Stay yet. You vile abominable tents,
Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,
Let Titan rise as early as he dare,
I'll through and through you. And, thou great-siz'd coward,
No space of earth shall sunder our two hates;
I'll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy's thoughts.
Strike a free march to Troy. With comfort go;
Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.
Enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. But hear you, hear you!
TROILUS. Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame
Pursue thy life and live aye with thy name!
Exeunt all but PANDARUS
PANDARUS. A goodly medicine for my aching bones! world! world! thus
is the poor agent despis'd! traitors and bawds, how earnestly are
you set a work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be
so lov'd, and the performance so loathed? What verse for it? What
instance for it? Let me see-
Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing
Till he hath lost his honey and his sting;
And being once subdu'd in armed trail,
Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.
Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted
cloths. As many as be here of pander's hall,
Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar's fall;
Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,
Though not for me, yet for your aching bones.
Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade,
Some two months hence my will shall here be made.
It should be now, but that my fear is this,
Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss.
Till then I'll sweat and seek about for eases,
And at that time bequeath you my diseases.
Exit
THE END
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT I. SCENE 1.
Troy. Before PRIAM'S palace
Enter TROILUS armed, and PANDARUS
TROILUS. Call here my varlet; I'll unarm again.
Why should I war without the walls of Troy
That find such cruel battle here within?
Each Troyan that is master of his heart,
Let him to field; Troilus, alas, hath none!
PANDARUS. Will this gear ne'er be mended?
TROILUS. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength,
Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant;
But I am weaker than a woman's tear,
Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance,
Less valiant than the virgin in the night,
And skilless as unpractis'd infancy.
PANDARUS. Well, I have told you enough of this; for my part,
I'll not meddle nor make no farther. He that will have a cake
out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding.
TROILUS. Have I not tarried?
PANDARUS. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
TROILUS. Have I not tarried?
PANDARUS. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening.
TROILUS. Still have I tarried.
PANDARUS. Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the word
'hereafter' the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating
of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too,
or you may chance to burn your lips.
TROILUS. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be,
Doth lesser blench at suff'rance than I do.
At Priam's royal table do I sit;
And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts-
So, traitor, then she comes when she is thence.
PANDARUS. Well, she look'd yesternight fairer than ever I saw her
look, or any woman else.
TROILUS. I was about to tell thee: when my heart,
As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain,
Lest Hector or my father should perceive me,
I have, as when the sun doth light a storm,
Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile.
But sorrow that is couch'd in seeming gladness
Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.
PANDARUS. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's-well,
go to- there were no more comparison between the women. But, for
my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it,
praise her, but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as
I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit; but-
TROILUS. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus-
When I do tell thee there my hopes lie drown'd,
Reply not in how many fathoms deep
They lie indrench'd. I tell thee I am mad
In Cressid's love. Thou answer'st 'She is fair'-
Pourest in the open ulcer of my heart-
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice,
Handlest in thy discourse. O, that her hand,
In whose comparison all whites are ink
Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure
The cygnet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense
Hard as the palm of ploughman! This thou tell'st me,
As true thou tell'st me, when I say I love her;
But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me
The knife that made it.
PANDARUS. I speak no more than truth.
TROILUS. Thou dost not speak so much.
PANDARUS. Faith, I'll not meddle in it. Let her be as she is: if
she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the
mends in her own hands.
TROILUS. Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus!
PANDARUS. I have had my labour for my travail, ill thought on of
her and ill thought on of you; gone between and between, but
small thanks for my labour.
TROILUS. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? What, with me?
PANDARUS. Because she's kin to me, therefore she's not so fair as
Helen. An she were not kin to me, she would be as fair a Friday
as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not an she were a
blackamoor; 'tis all one to me.
TROILUS. Say I she is not fair?
PANDARUS. I do not care whether you do or no. She's a fool to stay
behind her father. Let her to the Greeks; and so I'll tell her
the next time I see her. For my part, I'll meddle nor make no
more i' th' matter.
TROILUS. Pandarus!
PANDARUS. Not I.
TROILUS. Sweet Pandarus!
PANDARUS. Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all
as I found it, and there an end.
Exit. Sound alarum
TROILUS. Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, rude sounds!
Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair,
When with your blood you daily paint her thus.
I cannot fight upon this argument;
It is too starv'd a subject for my sword.
But Pandarus-O gods, how do you plague me!
I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar;
And he's as tetchy to be woo'd to woo
As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit.
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love,
What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we?
Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl;
Between our Ilium and where she resides
Let it be call'd the wild and wand'ring flood;
Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.
Alarum. Enter AENEAS
AENEAS. How now, Prince Troilus! Wherefore not afield?
TROILUS. Because not there. This woman's answer sorts,
For womanish it is to be from thence.
What news, Aeneas, from the field to-day?
AENEAS. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.
TROILUS. By whom, Aeneas?
AENEAS. Troilus, by Menelaus.
TROILUS. Let Paris bleed: 'tis but a scar to scorn;
Paris is gor'd with Menelaus' horn.
[Alarum]
AENEAS. Hark what good sport is out of town to-day!
TROILUS. Better at home, if 'would I might' were 'may.'
But to the sport abroad. Are you bound thither?
AENEAS. In all swift haste.
TROILUS. Come, go we then together.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 2---------
ACT I. SCENE 2.
Troy. A street
Enter CRESSIDA and her man ALEXANDER
CRESSIDA. Who were those went by?
ALEXANDER. Queen Hecuba and Helen.
CRESSIDA. And whither go they?
ALEXANDER. Up to the eastern tower,
Whose height commands as subject all the vale,
To see the battle. Hector, whose patience
Is as a virtue fix'd, to-day was mov'd.
He chid Andromache, and struck his armourer;
And, like as there were husbandry in war,
Before the sun rose he was harness'd light,
And to the field goes he; where every flower
Did as a prophet weep what it foresaw
In Hector's wrath.
CRESSIDA. What was his cause of anger?
ALEXANDER. The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks
A lord of Troyan blood, nephew to Hector;
They call him Ajax.
CRESSIDA. Good; and what of him?
ALEXANDER. They say he is a very man per se,
And stands alone.
CRESSIDA. So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, or have no
legs.
ALEXANDER. This man, lady, hath robb'd many beasts of their
particular additions: he is as valiant as a lion, churlish as the
bear, slow as the elephant-a man into whom nature hath so crowded
humours that his valour is crush'd into folly, his folly sauced
with discretion. There is no man hath a virtue that he hath not a
glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he carries some stain of
it; he is melancholy without cause and merry against the hair; he
hath the joints of every thing; but everything so out of joint
that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use, or purblind
Argus, all eyes and no sight.
CRESSIDA. But how should this man, that makes me smile, make Hector
angry?
ALEXANDER. They say he yesterday cop'd Hector in the battle and
struck him down, the disdain and shame whereof hath ever since
kept Hector fasting and waking.
Enter PANDARUS
CRESSIDA. Who comes here?
ALEXANDER. Madam, your uncle Pandarus.
CRESSIDA. Hector's a gallant man.
ALEXANDER. As may be in the world, lady.
PANDARUS. What's that? What's that?
CRESSIDA. Good morrow, uncle Pandarus.
PANDARUS. Good morrow, cousin Cressid. What do you talk of?- Good
morrow, Alexander.-How do you, cousin? When were you at Ilium?
CRESSIDA. This morning, uncle.
PANDARUS. What were you talking of when I came? Was Hector arm'd
and gone ere you came to Ilium? Helen was not up, was she?
CRESSIDA. Hector was gone; but Helen was not up.
PANDARUS. E'en so. Hector was stirring early.
CRESSIDA. That were we talking of, and of his anger.
PANDARUS. Was he angry?
CRESSIDA. So he says here.
PANDARUS. True, he was so; I know the cause too; he'll lay about
him today, I can tell them that. And there's Troilus will not
come far behind him; let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell
them that too.
CRESSIDA. What, is he angry too?
PANDARUS. Who, Troilus? Troilus is the better man of the two.
CRESSIDA. O Jupiter! there's no comparison.
PANDARUS. What, not between Troilus and Hector? Do you know a man
if you see him?
CRESSIDA. Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew him.
PANDARUS. Well, I say Troilus is Troilus.
CRESSIDA. Then you say as I say, for I am sure he is not Hector.
PANDARUS. No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some degrees.
CRESSIDA. 'Tis just to each of them: he is himself.
PANDARUS. Himself! Alas, poor Troilus! I would he were!
CRESSIDA. So he is.
PANDARUS. Condition I had gone barefoot to India.
CRESSIDA. He is not Hector.
PANDARUS. Himself! no, he's not himself. Would 'a were himself!
Well, the gods are above; time must friend or end. Well, Troilus,
well! I would my heart were in her body! No, Hector is not a
better man than Troilus.
CRESSIDA. Excuse me.
PANDARUS. He is elder.
CRESSIDA. Pardon me, pardon me.
PANDARUS. Th' other's not come to't; you shall tell me another tale
when th' other's come to't. Hector shall not have his wit this
year.
CRESSIDA. He shall not need it if he have his own.
PANDARUS. Nor his qualities.
CRESSIDA. No matter.
PANDARUS. Nor his beauty.
CRESSIDA. 'Twould not become him: his own's better.
PANDARUS. YOU have no judgment, niece. Helen herself swore th'
other day that Troilus, for a brown favour, for so 'tis, I must
confess- not brown neither-
CRESSIDA. No, but brown.
PANDARUS. Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown.
CRESSIDA. To say the truth, true and not true.
PANDARUS. She prais'd his complexion above Paris.
CRESSIDA. Why, Paris hath colour enough.
PANDARUS. So he has.
CRESSIDA. Then Troilus should have too much. If she prais'd him
above, his complexion is higher than his; he having colour
enough, and the other higher, is too flaming praise for a good
complexion. I had as lief Helen's golden tongue had commended
Troilus for a copper nose.
PANDARUS. I swear to you I think Helen loves him better than Paris.
CRESSIDA. Then she's a merry Greek indeed.
PANDARUS. Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th' other day
into the compass'd window-and you know he has not past three or
four hairs on his chin-
CRESSIDA. Indeed a tapster's arithmetic may soon bring his
particulars therein to a total.
PANDARUS. Why, he is very young, and yet will he within three pound
lift as much as his brother Hector.
CRESSIDA. Is he so young a man and so old a lifter?
PANDARUS. But to prove to you that Helen loves him: she came and
puts me her white hand to his cloven chin-
CRESSIDA. Juno have mercy! How came it cloven?
PANDARUS. Why, you know, 'tis dimpled. I think his smiling becomes
him better than any man in all Phrygia.
CRESSIDA. O, he smiles valiantly!
PANDARUS. Does he not?
CRESSIDA. O yes, an 'twere a cloud in autumn!
PANDARUS. Why, go to, then! But to prove to you that Helen loves
Troilus-
CRESSIDA. Troilus will stand to the proof, if you'll prove it so.
PANDARUS. Troilus! Why, he esteems her no more than I esteem an
addle egg.
CRESSIDA. If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle
head, you would eat chickens i' th' shell.
PANDARUS. I cannot choose but laugh to think how she tickled his
chin. Indeed, she has a marvell's white hand, I must needs
confess.
CRESSIDA. Without the rack.
PANDARUS. And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on his chin.
CRESSIDA. Alas, poor chin! Many a wart is richer.
PANDARUS. But there was such laughing! Queen Hecuba laugh'd that
her eyes ran o'er.
CRESSIDA. With millstones.
PANDARUS. And Cassandra laugh'd.
CRESSIDA. But there was a more temperate fire under the pot of her
eyes. Did her eyes run o'er too?
PANDARUS. And Hector laugh'd.
CRESSIDA. At what was all this laughing?
PANDARUS. Marry, at the white hair that Helen spied on Troilus'
chin.
CRESSIDA. An't had been a green hair I should have laugh'd too.
PANDARUS. They laugh'd not so much at the hair as at his pretty
answer.
CRESSIDA. What was his answer?
PANDARUS. Quoth she 'Here's but two and fifty hairs on your chin,
and one of them is white.'
CRESSIDA. This is her question.
PANDARUS. That's true; make no question of that. 'Two and fifty
hairs,' quoth he 'and one white. That white hair is my father,
and all the rest are his sons.' 'Jupiter!' quoth she 'which of
these hairs is Paris my husband?' 'The forked one,' quoth he,
'pluck't out and give it him.' But there was such laughing! and
Helen so blush'd, and Paris so chaf'd; and all the rest so
laugh'd that it pass'd.
CRESSIDA. So let it now; for it has been a great while going by.
PANDARUS. Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday; think on't.
CRESSIDA. So I do.
PANDARUS. I'll be sworn 'tis true; he will weep you, and 'twere a
man born in April.
CRESSIDA. And I'll spring up in his tears, an 'twere a nettle
against May. [Sound a retreat]
PANDARUS. Hark! they are coming from the field. Shall we stand up
here and see them as they pass toward Ilium? Good niece, do,
sweet niece Cressida.
CRESSIDA. At your pleasure.
PANDARUS. Here, here, here's an excellent place; here we may see
most bravely. I'll tell you them all by their names as they pass
by; but mark Troilus above the rest.
AENEAS passes
CRESSIDA. Speak not so loud.
PANDARUS. That's Aeneas. Is not that a brave man? He's one of the
flowers of Troy, I can tell you. But mark Troilus; you shall see
anon.
ANTENOR passes
CRESSIDA. Who's that?
PANDARUS. That's Antenor. He has a shrewd wit, I can tell you; and
he's a man good enough; he's one o' th' soundest judgments in
Troy, whosoever, and a proper man of person. When comes Troilus?
I'll show you Troilus anon. If he see me, you shall see him nod
at me.
CRESSIDA. Will he give you the nod?
PANDARUS. You shall see.
CRESSIDA. If he do, the rich shall have more.
HECTOR passes
PANDARUS. That's Hector, that, that, look you, that; there's a
fellow! Go thy way, Hector! There's a brave man, niece. O brave
Hector! Look how he looks. There's a countenance! Is't not a
brave man?
CRESSIDA. O, a brave man!
PANDARUS. Is 'a not? It does a man's heart good. Look you what
hacks are on his helmet! Look you yonder, do you see? Look you
there. There's no jesting; there's laying on; take't off who
will, as they say. There be hacks.
CRESSIDA. Be those with swords?
PANDARUS. Swords! anything, he cares not; an the devil come to him,
it's all one. By God's lid, it does one's heart good. Yonder
comes Paris, yonder comes Paris.
PARIS passes
Look ye yonder, niece; is't not a gallant man too, is't not? Why,
this is brave now. Who said he came hurt home to-day? He's not
hurt. Why, this will do Helen's heart good now, ha! Would I could
see Troilus now! You shall see Troilus anon.
HELENUS passes
CRESSIDA. Who's that?
PANDARUS. That's Helenus. I marvel where Troilus is. That's
Helenus. I think he went not forth to-day. That's Helenus.
CRESSIDA. Can Helenus fight, uncle?
PANDARUS. Helenus! no. Yes, he'll fight indifferent well. I marvel
where Troilus is. Hark! do you not hear the people cry 'Troilus'?
Helenus is a priest.
CRESSIDA. What sneaking fellow comes yonder?
TROILUS passes
PANDARUS. Where? yonder? That's Deiphobus. 'Tis Troilus. There's a
man, niece. Hem! Brave Troilus, the prince of chivalry!
CRESSIDA. Peace, for shame, peace!
PANDARUS. Mark him; note him. O brave Troilus! Look well upon him,
niece; look you how his sword is bloodied, and his helm more
hack'd than Hector's; and how he looks, and how he goes! O
admirable youth! he never saw three and twenty. Go thy way,
Troilus, go thy way. Had I a sister were a grace or a daughter a
goddess, he should take his choice. O admirable man! Paris? Paris
is dirt to him; and, I warrant, Helen, to change, would give an
eye to boot.
CRESSIDA. Here comes more.
Common soldiers pass
PANDARUS. Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran!
porridge after meat! I could live and die in the eyes of Troilus.
Ne'er look, ne'er look; the eagles are gone. Crows and daws,
crows and daws! I had rather be such a man as Troilus than
Agamemnon and all Greece.
CRESSIDA. There is amongst the Greeks Achilles, a better man than
Troilus.
PANDARUS. Achilles? A drayman, a porter, a very camel!
CRESSIDA. Well, well.
PANDARUS. Well, well! Why, have you any discretion? Have you any
eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is not birth, beauty, good
shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth,
liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man?
CRESSIDA. Ay, a minc'd man; and then to be bak'd with no date in
the pie, for then the man's date is out.
PANDARUS. You are such a woman! A man knows not at what ward you
lie.
CRESSIDA. Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon my wit, to defend
my wiles; upon my secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to
defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these; and at all these
wards I lie at, at a thousand watches.
PANDARUS. Say one of your watches.
CRESSIDA. Nay, I'll watch you for that; and that's one of the
chiefest of them too. If I cannot ward what I would not have hit,
I can watch you for telling how I took the blow; unless it swell
past hiding, and then it's past watching
PANDARUS. You are such another!
Enter TROILUS' BOY
BOY. Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you.
PANDARUS. Where?
BOY. At your own house; there he unarms him.
PANDARUS. Good boy, tell him I come. Exit Boy
I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece.
CRESSIDA. Adieu, uncle.
PANDARUS. I will be with you, niece, by and by.
CRESSIDA. To bring, uncle.
PANDARUS. Ay, a token from Troilus.
CRESSIDA. By the same token, you are a bawd.
Exit
PANDARUS
Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice,
He offers in another's enterprise;
But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see
Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be,
Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing:
Things won are done; joy's soul lies in the doing.
That she belov'd knows nought that knows not this:
Men prize the thing ungain'd more than it is.
That she was never yet that ever knew
Love got so sweet as when desire did sue;
Therefore this maxim out of love I teach:
Achievement is command; ungain'd, beseech.
Then though my heart's content firm love doth bear,
Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear.
Exit
|
null | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of scene 1 using the context provided. | scene 1|scene 2|scene 3 | Ajax and Thersites enter. Thersites is railing at Agamemnon, wondering how he would be if he had running sores on his body. He puns that if he did, he would have a botchy core - a carbuncular boil or a lumpy heart. The punning Thersites says that if Agamemnon did have running boils then that would mean that he had some matter - which can be interpreted as pus or good sense and reasoned argument - both of which Thersites cant see in Agamemnon. Ajax keeps trying to interrupt, but Thersites goes on until the former is reduced to abuse and finally physical assault. Exasperated at being ignored, Ajax hits Thersites, who then curses him with the plague and calls him a mongrel - a reference to his half-Greek and half-Trojan parentage, and a beef-witted lord. Ajax threatens to continue to beat Thersites unless he speaks the truth instead of indulging in malicious abuse. Thersites replies that he would have attempted to rant Ajax into intelligence but he is so dumb that his horse would probably be more capable of learning something by rote than Ajax himself could learn a prayer without a book. Ajax commands him to tell him about the proclamation. But Thersites rants on. Enraged, he asks Ajax if he thinks he is a creature of such a lack of intelligence that he could be struck. Ajax persists with asking about the proclamation. Thersites says that Ajax has been proclaimed a fool. Next, Ajax calls him a porcupine and tells him not to continue in the same vein as his fingers are itching. Thersites who interrupts him, takes up the itching metaphor and turns it against Ajax. He hopes Ajax itched from head to food and that he himself could scratch him and makes of him the most horrible scab in Greece. Ajax still wants to hear the proclamation. Thersites says that Ajax is as envious of Achilles as the Cerberes, the three-headed dog guardian of Hades who is supposed to fight with and mutilate suitors for the hand of Proserpina, and is hence assumed to be envious of her beauty. Ajax calls him Mistress Thersites - a jeering reference to Thersites scolding. Thersites tells Ajax to strike Achilles. Ajax calls him a cobloaf. Thersites continues that Achilles would then pound Ajax into shivers with his fist as easily as a sailor breaks a biscuit. This is too much for Ajax who beats Thersites again. But there is no stopping Thersites and he continues to rant. Ajax calls him a stool for a witch, a small, low, contemptible object. Thersites is unstoppable. He calls Ajax a sodden-witted lord who has no more brain than he, Thersites has in his own elbows; a little ass might tutor him. He continues that Ajax who was there to thrash the Trojans had been bought and sold like a barbarian slave by those of greater intelligence. He calls him a thing of no bowels or someone with no feelings and tells him that if he continued to beat him, he would take each inch of his person, beginning at his heel, and tell him what exactly he was. Ajax and Thersites continue to abuse each other and Ajax beats him again. Achilles and Patroclus enter. Achilles asks Ajax why he is beating Thersites and then turns to the latter and asks him what the matter is Thersites points to Ajax begins playing the typical clowns routine that makes use of repetition. He asks Achilles to look at Ajax so many times that Achilles himself grows exasperated. He then puns on Ajaxs name. He is Ajax he says. Achilles doesnt get it. She is exasperated and says I know that, fool, and the quick-witted Thersites takes the statement to mean that Achilles knows that fool Ajax. He replies that the fool Ajax didnt know himself. Ajax says thats why he beats him. |
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT II. SCENE 1.
The Grecian camp
Enter Ajax and THERSITES
AJAX. Thersites!
THERSITES. Agamemnon-how if he had boils full, an over, generally?
AJAX. Thersites!
THERSITES. And those boils did run-say so. Did not the general run
then? Were not that a botchy core?
AJAX. Dog!
THERSITES. Then there would come some matter from him;
I see none now.
AJAX. Thou bitch-wolf's son, canst thou not hear? Feel, then.
[Strikes him.]
THERSITES. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted
lord!
AJAX. Speak, then, thou whinid'st leaven, speak. I will beat thee
into handsomeness.
THERSITES. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness; but I
think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a
prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou? A red murrain
o' thy jade's tricks!
AJAX. Toadstool, learn me the proclamation.
THERSITES. Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus?
AJAX. The proclamation!
THERSITES. Thou art proclaim'd, a fool, I think.
AJAX. Do not, porpentine, do not; my fingers itch.
THERSITES. I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the
scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in
Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as
slow as another.
AJAX. I say, the proclamation.
THERSITES. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles; and
thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at
Proserpina's beauty-ay, that thou bark'st at him.
AJAX. Mistress Thersites!
THERSITES. Thou shouldst strike him.
AJAX. Cobloaf!
THERSITES. He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a
sailor breaks a biscuit.
AJAX. You whoreson cur! [Strikes him]
THERSITES. Do, do.
AJAX. Thou stool for a witch!
THERSITES. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more
brain than I have in mine elbows; an assinico may tutor thee. You
scurvy valiant ass! Thou art here but to thrash Troyans, and thou
art bought and sold among those of any wit like a barbarian
slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel and tell
what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou!
AJAX. You dog!
THERSITES. You scurvy lord!
AJAX. You cur! [Strikes him]
THERSITES. Mars his idiot! Do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do.
Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS
ACHILLES. Why, how now, Ajax! Wherefore do you thus?
How now, Thersites! What's the matter, man?
THERSITES. You see him there, do you?
ACHILLES. Ay; what's the matter?
THERSITES. Nay, look upon him.
ACHILLES. So I do. What's the matter?
THERSITES. Nay, but regard him well.
ACHILLES. Well! why, so I do.
THERSITES. But yet you look not well upon him; for who some ever
you take him to be, he is Ajax.
ACHILLES. I know that, fool.
THERSITES. Ay, but that fool knows not himself.
AJAX. Therefore I beat thee.
THERSITES. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! His
evasions have ears thus long. I have bobb'd his brain more than
he has beat my bones. I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and
his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This
lord, Achilles, Ajax-who wears his wit in his belly and his guts
in his head-I'll tell you what I say of him.
ACHILLES. What?
THERSITES. I say this Ajax- [AJAX offers to strike him]
ACHILLES. Nay, good Ajax.
THERSITES. Has not so much wit-
ACHILLES. Nay, I must hold you.
THERSITES. As will stop the eye of Helen's needle, for whom he
comes to fight.
ACHILLES. Peace, fool.
THERSITES. I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not-
he there; that he; look you there.
AJAX. O thou damned cur! I shall-
ACHILLES. Will you set your wit to a fool's?
THERSITES. No, I warrant you, the fool's will shame it.
PATROCLUS. Good words, Thersites.
ACHILLES. What's the quarrel?
AJAX. I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the
proclamation, and he rails upon me.
THERSITES. I serve thee not.
AJAX. Well, go to, go to.
THERSITES. I serve here voluntary.
ACHILLES. Your last service was suff'rance; 'twas not voluntary. No
man is beaten voluntary. Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as
under an impress.
THERSITES. E'en so; a great deal of your wit too lies in your
sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch
an he knock out either of your brains: 'a were as good crack a
fusty nut with no kernel.
ACHILLES. What, with me too, Thersites?
THERSITES. There's Ulysses and old Nestor-whose wit was mouldy ere
your grandsires had nails on their toes-yoke you like draught
oxen, and make you plough up the wars.
ACHILLES. What, what?
THERSITES. Yes, good sooth. To Achilles, to Ajax, to-
AJAX. I shall cut out your tongue.
THERSITES. 'Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou
afterwards.
PATROCLUS. No more words, Thersites; peace!
THERSITES. I will hold my peace when Achilles' brach bids me, shall
I?
ACHILLES. There's for you, Patroclus.
THERSITES. I will see you hang'd like clotpoles ere I come any more
to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave
the faction of fools.
Exit
PATROCLUS. A good riddance.
ACHILLES. Marry, this, sir, is proclaim'd through all our host,
That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun,
Will with a trumpet 'twixt our tents and Troy,
To-morrow morning, call some knight to arms
That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare
Maintain I know not what; 'tis trash. Farewell.
AJAX. Farewell. Who shall answer him?
ACHILLES. I know not; 'tis put to lott'ry. Otherwise. He knew his
man.
AJAX. O, meaning you! I will go learn more of it.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 2---------
ACT II. SCENE 2.
Troy. PRIAM'S palace
Enter PRIAM, HECTOR, TROILUS, PARIS, and HELENUS
PRIAM. After so many hours, lives, speeches, spent,
Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks:
'Deliver Helen, and all damage else-
As honour, loss of time, travail, expense,
Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consum'd
In hot digestion of this cormorant war-
Shall be struck off.' Hector, what say you to't?
HECTOR. Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I,
As far as toucheth my particular,
Yet, dread Priam,
There is no lady of more softer bowels,
More spongy to suck in the sense of fear,
More ready to cry out 'Who knows what follows?'
Than Hector is. The wound of peace is surety,
Surety secure; but modest doubt is call'd
The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches
To th' bottom of the worst. Let Helen go.
Since the first sword was drawn about this question,
Every tithe soul 'mongst many thousand dismes
Hath been as dear as Helen-I mean, of ours.
If we have lost so many tenths of ours
To guard a thing not ours, nor worth to us,
Had it our name, the value of one ten,
What merit's in that reason which denies
The yielding of her up?
TROILUS. Fie, fie, my brother!
Weigh you the worth and honour of a king,
So great as our dread father's, in a scale
Of common ounces? Will you with counters sum
The past-proportion of his infinite,
And buckle in a waist most fathomless
With spans and inches so diminutive
As fears and reasons? Fie, for godly shame!
HELENUS. No marvel though you bite so sharp at reasons,
You are so empty of them. Should not our father
Bear the great sway of his affairs with reasons,
Because your speech hath none that tells him so?
TROILUS. You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest;
You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your reasons:
You know an enemy intends you harm;
You know a sword employ'd is perilous,
And reason flies the object of all harm.
Who marvels, then, when Helenus beholds
A Grecian and his sword, if he do set
The very wings of reason to his heels
And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove,
Or like a star disorb'd? Nay, if we talk of reason,
Let's shut our gates and sleep. Manhood and honour
Should have hare hearts, would they but fat their thoughts
With this cramm'd reason. Reason and respect
Make livers pale and lustihood deject.
HECTOR. Brother, she is not worth what she doth, cost
The keeping.
TROILUS. What's aught but as 'tis valued?
HECTOR. But value dwells not in particular will:
It holds his estimate and dignity
As well wherein 'tis precious of itself
As in the prizer. 'Tis mad idolatry
To make the service greater than the god-I
And the will dotes that is attributive
To what infectiously itself affects,
Without some image of th' affected merit.
TROILUS. I take to-day a wife, and my election
Is led on in the conduct of my will;
My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears,
Two traded pilots 'twixt the dangerous shores
Of will and judgment: how may I avoid,
Although my will distaste what it elected,
The wife I chose? There can be no evasion
To blench from this and to stand firm by honour.
We turn not back the silks upon the merchant
When we have soil'd them; nor the remainder viands
We do not throw in unrespective sieve,
Because we now are full. It was thought meet
Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks;
Your breath with full consent benied his sails;
The seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce,
And did him service. He touch'd the ports desir'd;
And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive
He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and freshness
Wrinkles Apollo's, and makes stale the morning.
Why keep we her? The Grecians keep our aunt.
Is she worth keeping? Why, she is a pearl
Whose price hath launch'd above a thousand ships,
And turn'd crown'd kings to merchants.
If you'll avouch 'twas wisdom Paris went-
As you must needs, for you all cried 'Go, go'-
If you'll confess he brought home worthy prize-
As you must needs, for you all clapp'd your hands,
And cried 'Inestimable!' -why do you now
The issue of your proper wisdoms rate,
And do a deed that never fortune did-
Beggar the estimation which you priz'd
Richer than sea and land? O theft most base,
That we have stol'n what we do fear to keep!
But thieves unworthy of a thing so stol'n
That in their country did them that disgrace
We fear to warrant in our native place!
CASSANDRA. [Within] Cry, Troyans, cry.
PRIAM. What noise, what shriek is this?
TROILUS. 'Tis our mad sister; I do know her voice.
CASSANDRA. [Within] Cry, Troyans.
HECTOR. It is Cassandra.
Enter CASSANDRA, raving
CASSANDRA. Cry, Troyans, cry. Lend me ten thousand eyes,
And I will fill them with prophetic tears.
HECTOR. Peace, sister, peace.
CASSANDRA. Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld,
Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry,
Add to my clamours. Let us pay betimes
A moiety of that mass of moan to come.
Cry, Troyans, cry. Practise your eyes with tears.
Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand;
Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all.
Cry, Troyans, cry, A Helen and a woe!
Cry, cry. Troy burns, or else let Helen go.
Exit
HECTOR. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains
Of divination in our sister work
Some touches of remorse, or is your blood
So madly hot that no discourse of reason,
Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause,
Can qualify the same?
TROILUS. Why, brother Hector,
We may not think the justness of each act
Such and no other than event doth form it;
Nor once deject the courage of our minds
Because Cassandra's mad. Her brain-sick raptures
Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel
Which hath our several honours all engag'd
To make it gracious. For my private part,
I am no more touch'd than all Priam's sons;
And Jove forbid there should be done amongst us
Such things as might offend the weakest spleen
To fight for and maintain.
PARIS. Else might the world convince of levity
As well my undertakings as your counsels;
But I attest the gods, your full consent
Gave wings to my propension, and cut of
All fears attending on so dire a project.
For what, alas, can these my single arms?
What propugnation is in one man's valour
To stand the push and enmity of those
This quarrel would excite? Yet, I protest,
Were I alone to pass the difficulties,
And had as ample power as I have will,
Paris should ne'er retract what he hath done
Nor faint in the pursuit.
PRIAM. Paris, you speak
Like one besotted on your sweet delights.
You have the honey still, but these the gall;
So to be valiant is no praise at all.
PARIS. Sir, I propose not merely to myself
The pleasures such a beauty brings with it;
But I would have the soil of her fair rape
Wip'd off in honourable keeping her.
What treason were it to the ransack'd queen,
Disgrace to your great worths, and shame to me,
Now to deliver her possession up
On terms of base compulsion! Can it be
That so degenerate a strain as this
Should once set footing in your generous bosoms?
There's not the meanest spirit on our party
Without a heart to dare or sword to draw
When Helen is defended; nor none so noble
Whose life were ill bestow'd or death unfam'd
Where Helen is the subject. Then, I say,
Well may we fight for her whom we know well
The world's large spaces cannot parallel.
HECTOR. Paris and Troilus, you have both said well;
And on the cause and question now in hand
Have gloz'd, but superficially; not much
Unlike young men, whom Aristode thought
Unfit to hear moral philosophy.
The reasons you allege do more conduce
To the hot passion of distemp'red blood
Than to make up a free determination
'Twixt right and wrong; for pleasure and revenge
Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice
Of any true decision. Nature craves
All dues be rend'red to their owners. Now,
What nearer debt in all humanity
Than wife is to the husband? If this law
Of nature be corrupted through affection;
And that great minds, of partial indulgence
To their benumbed wills, resist the same;
There is a law in each well-order'd nation
To curb those raging appetites that are
Most disobedient and refractory.
If Helen, then, be wife to Sparta's king-
As it is known she is-these moral laws
Of nature and of nations speak aloud
To have her back return'd. Thus to persist
In doing wrong extenuates not wrong,
But makes it much more heavy. Hector's opinion
Is this, in way of truth. Yet, ne'er the less,
My spritely brethren, I propend to you
In resolution to keep Helen still;
For 'tis a cause that hath no mean dependence
Upon our joint and several dignities.
TROILUS. Why, there you touch'd the life of our design.
Were it not glory that we more affected
Than the performance of our heaving spleens,
I would not wish a drop of Troyan blood
Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector,
She is a theme of honour and renown,
A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds,
Whose present courage may beat down our foes,
And fame in time to come canonize us;
For I presume brave Hector would not lose
So rich advantage of a promis'd glory
As smiles upon the forehead of this action
For the wide world's revenue.
HECTOR. I am yours,
You valiant offspring of great Priamus.
I have a roisting challenge sent amongst
The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks
Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits.
I was advertis'd their great general slept,
Whilst emulation in the army crept.
This, I presume, will wake him.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 3---------
ACT II. SCENE 3.
The Grecian camp. Before the tent of ACHILLES
Enter THERSITES, solus
THERSITES. How now, Thersites! What, lost in the labyrinth of thy
fury? Shall the elephant Ajax carry it thus? He beats me, and I
rail at him. O worthy satisfaction! Would it were otherwise: that
I could beat him, whilst he rail'd at me! 'Sfoot, I'll learn to
conjure and raise devils, but I'll see some issue of my spiteful
execrations. Then there's Achilles, a rare engineer! If Troy be
not taken till these two undermine it, the walls will stand till
they fall of themselves. O thou great thunder-darter of Olympus,
forget that thou art Jove, the king of gods, and, Mercury, lose
all the serpentine craft of thy caduceus, if ye take not that
little little less-than-little wit from them that they have!
which short-arm'd ignorance itself knows is so abundant scarce,
it will not in circumvention deliver a fly from a spider without
drawing their massy irons and cutting the web. After this, the
vengeance on the whole camp! or, rather, the Neapolitan
bone-ache! for that, methinks, is the curse depending on those
that war for a placket. I have said my prayers; and devil Envy
say 'Amen.' What ho! my Lord Achilles!
Enter PATROCLUS
PATROCLUS. Who's there? Thersites! Good Thersites, come in and
rail.
THERSITES. If I could 'a rememb'red a gilt counterfeit, thou
wouldst not have slipp'd out of my contemplation; but it is no
matter; thyself upon thyself! The common curse of mankind, folly
and ignorance, be thine in great revenue! Heaven bless thee from
a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy
direction till thy death. Then if she that lays thee out says
thou art a fair corse, I'll be sworn and sworn upon't she never
shrouded any but lazars. Amen. Where's Achilles?
PATROCLUS. What, art thou devout? Wast thou in prayer?
THERSITES. Ay, the heavens hear me!
PATROCLUS. Amen.
Enter ACHILLES
ACHILLES. Who's there?
PATROCLUS. Thersites, my lord.
ACHILLES. Where, where? O, where? Art thou come? Why, my cheese, my
digestion, why hast thou not served thyself in to my table so
many meals? Come, what's Agamemnon?
THERSITES. Thy commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus, what's
Achilles?
PATROCLUS. Thy lord, Thersites. Then tell me, I pray thee, what's
Thersites?
THERSITES. Thy knower, Patroclus. Then tell me, Patroclus, what art
thou?
PATROCLUS. Thou must tell that knowest.
ACHILLES. O, tell, tell,
THERSITES. I'll decline the whole question. Agamemnon commands
Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Patroclus' knower; and
Patroclus is a fool.
PATROCLUS. You rascal!
THERSITES. Peace, fool! I have not done.
ACHILLES. He is a privileg'd man. Proceed, Thersites.
THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites is a
fool; and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool.
ACHILLES. Derive this; come.
THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles;
Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon; Thersites is a
fool to serve such a fool; and this Patroclus is a fool positive.
PATROCLUS. Why am I a fool?
THERSITES. Make that demand of the Creator. It suffices me thou
art. Look you, who comes here?
ACHILLES. Come, Patroclus, I'll speak with nobody. Come in with me,
Thersites.
Exit
THERSITES. Here is such patchery, such juggling, and such knavery.
All the argument is a whore and a cuckold-a good quarrel to draw
emulous factions and bleed to death upon. Now the dry serpigo on
the subject, and war and lechery confound all!
Exit
Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, NESTOR, DIOMEDES,
AJAX, and CALCHAS
AGAMEMNON. Where is Achilles?
PATROCLUS. Within his tent; but ill-dispos'd, my lord.
AGAMEMNON. Let it be known to him that we are here.
He shent our messengers; and we lay by
Our appertainings, visiting of him.
Let him be told so; lest, perchance, he think
We dare not move the question of our place
Or know not what we are.
PATROCLUS. I shall say so to him.
Exit
ULYSSES. We saw him at the opening of his tent.
He is not sick.
AJAX. Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart. You may call it
melancholy, if you will favour the man; but, by my head, 'tis
pride. But why, why? Let him show us a cause. A word, my lord.
[Takes AGAMEMNON aside]
NESTOR. What moves Ajax thus to bay at him?
ULYSSES. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.
NESTOR.Who, Thersites?
ULYSSES. He.
NESTOR. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument
ULYSSES. No; you see he is his argument that has his argument-
Achilles.
NESTOR. All the better; their fraction is more our wish than their
faction. But it was a strong composure a fool could disunite!
ULYSSES. The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie.
Re-enter PATROCLUS
Here comes Patroclus.
NESTOR. No Achilles with him.
ULYSSES. The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy; his legs
are legs for necessity, not for flexure.
PATROCLUS. Achilles bids me say he is much sorry
If any thing more than your sport and pleasure
Did move your greatness and this noble state
To call upon him; he hopes it is no other
But for your health and your digestion sake,
An after-dinner's breath.
AGAMEMNON. Hear you, Patroclus.
We are too well acquainted with these answers;
But his evasion, wing'd thus swift with scorn,
Cannot outfly our apprehensions.
Much attribute he hath, and much the reason
Why we ascribe it to him. Yet all his virtues,
Not virtuously on his own part beheld,
Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss;
Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish,
Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him
We come to speak with him; and you shall not sin
If you do say we think him over-proud
And under-honest, in self-assumption greater
Than in the note of judgment; and worthier than himself
Here tend the savage strangeness he puts on,
Disguise the holy strength of their command,
And underwrite in an observing kind
His humorous predominance; yea, watch
His pettish lunes, his ebbs, his flows, as if
The passage and whole carriage of this action
Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and ad
That if he overhold his price so much
We'll none of him, but let him, like an engine
Not portable, lie under this report:
Bring action hither; this cannot go to war.
A stirring dwarf we do allowance give
Before a sleeping giant. Tell him so.
PATROCLUS. I shall, and bring his answer presently.
Exit
AGAMEMNON. In second voice we'll not be satisfied;
We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you.
Exit ULYSSES
AJAX. What is he more than another?
AGAMEMNON. No more than what he thinks he is.
AJAX. Is he so much? Do you not think he thinks himself a better
man than I am?
AGAMEMNON. No question.
AJAX. Will you subscribe his thought and say he is?
AGAMEMNON. No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as wise,
no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether more tractable.
AJAX. Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow? I know not
what pride is.
AGAMEMNON. Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the
fairer. He that is proud eats up himself. Pride is his own glass,
his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself
but in the deed devours the deed in the praise.
Re-enter ULYSSES
AJAX. I do hate a proud man as I do hate the engend'ring of toads.
NESTOR. [Aside] And yet he loves himself: is't not strange?
ULYSSES. Achilles will not to the field to-morrow.
AGAMEMNON. What's his excuse?
ULYSSES. He doth rely on none;
But carries on the stream of his dispose,
Without observance or respect of any,
In will peculiar and in self-admission.
AGAMEMNON. Why will he not, upon our fair request,
Untent his person and share the air with us?
ULYSSES. Things small as nothing, for request's sake only,
He makes important; possess'd he is with greatness,
And speaks not to himself but with a pride
That quarrels at self-breath. Imagin'd worth
Holds in his blood such swol'n and hot discourse
That 'twixt his mental and his active parts
Kingdom'd Achilles in commotion rages,
And batters down himself. What should I say?
He is so plaguy proud that the death tokens of it
Cry 'No recovery.'
AGAMEMNON. Let Ajax go to him.
Dear lord, go you and greet him in his tent.
'Tis said he holds you well; and will be led
At your request a little from himself.
ULYSSES. O Agamemnon, let it not be so!
We'll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes
When they go from Achilles. Shall the proud lord
That bastes his arrogance with his own seam
And never suffers matter of the world
Enter his thoughts, save such as doth revolve
And ruminate himself-shall he be worshipp'd
Of that we hold an idol more than he?
No, this thrice-worthy and right valiant lord
Shall not so stale his palm, nobly acquir'd,
Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit,
As amply titled as Achilles is,
By going to Achilles.
That were to enlard his fat-already pride,
And add more coals to Cancer when he burns
With entertaining great Hyperion.
This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid,
And say in thunder 'Achilles go to him.'
NESTOR. [Aside] O, this is well! He rubs the vein of him.
DIOMEDES. [Aside] And how his silence drinks up this applause!
AJAX. If I go to him, with my armed fist I'll pash him o'er the
face.
AGAMEMNON. O, no, you shall not go.
AJAX. An 'a be proud with me I'll pheeze his pride.
Let me go to him.
ULYSSES. Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel.
AJAX. A paltry, insolent fellow!
NESTOR. [Aside] How he describes himself!
AJAX. Can he not be sociable?
ULYSSES. [Aside] The raven chides blackness.
AJAX. I'll let his humours blood.
AGAMEMNON. [Aside] He will be the physician that should be the
patient.
AJAX. An all men were a my mind-
ULYSSES. [Aside] Wit would be out of fashion.
AJAX. 'A should not bear it so, 'a should eat's words first.
Shall pride carry it?
NESTOR. [Aside] An 'twould, you'd carry half.
ULYSSES. [Aside] 'A would have ten shares.
AJAX. I will knead him, I'll make him supple.
NESTOR. [Aside] He's not yet through warm. Force him with praises;
pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry.
ULYSSES. [To AGAMEMNON] My lord, you feed too much on this dislike.
NESTOR. Our noble general, do not do so.
DIOMEDES. You must prepare to fight without Achilles.
ULYSSES. Why 'tis this naming of him does him harm.
Here is a man-but 'tis before his face;
I will be silent.
NESTOR. Wherefore should you so?
He is not emulous, as Achilles is.
ULYSSES. Know the whole world, he is as valiant.
AJAX. A whoreson dog, that shall palter with us thus!
Would he were a Troyan!
NESTOR. What a vice were it in Ajax now-
ULYSSES. If he were proud.
DIOMEDES. Or covetous of praise.
ULYSSES. Ay, or surly borne.
DIOMEDES. Or strange, or self-affected.
ULYSSES. Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet composure
Praise him that gat thee, she that gave thee suck;
Fam'd be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature
Thrice-fam'd beyond, beyond all erudition;
But he that disciplin'd thine arms to fight-
Let Mars divide eternity in twain
And give him half; and, for thy vigour,
Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield
To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom,
Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, confines
Thy spacious and dilated parts. Here's Nestor,
Instructed by the antiquary times-
He must, he is, he cannot but be wise;
But pardon, father Nestor, were your days
As green as Ajax' and your brain so temper'd,
You should not have the eminence of him,
But be as Ajax.
AJAX. Shall I call you father?
NESTOR. Ay, my good son.
DIOMEDES. Be rul'd by him, Lord Ajax.
ULYSSES. There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles
Keeps thicket. Please it our great general
To call together all his state of war;
Fresh kings are come to Troy. To-morrow
We must with all our main of power stand fast;
And here's a lord-come knights from east to west
And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best.
AGAMEMNON. Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep.
Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.
Exeunt
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null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for scene 2 with the given context. | scene 1|scene 2 | Pandarus and Troilus man meet. The man tells Pandarus that Troilus is waiting for him to conduct him to Cressidas. Troilus enters and the servant is dismissed. When asked if he has met Cressida yet, Troilus answers in negative. Pandarus answers without frills - his business-like literalism is in strong contrast to Troilus slightly strained hyperbole. He tells Troilus to Walk here ithorchard and adds that he will bring Cressida at once and exits. Troilus goes on in the same hyperbolic vein. He launches into a monologue on his fear of excessive delight. He says that he is giddy with expectation. The imagined relish of love is so sweet that his sense is enchanted. He wonders what will be the case when the salivating palate tastes Loves nectar. He answers himself that the results will probably be death at the most, sounding destruction, or it could give some joy too fine, of such an extreme pitch that the sense of sweetness would be lost altogether. Pandarus re-enters and tells him that Cressida is readying herself to come to him. He tells him to be alert and that Cressida is blushing and short of breath, as if she was frightened of a ghost. He says that he will bring her and mentions again that she is panting, fetches her breath as short as a new taen sparrow. Pandarus exits again. Troilus says that a similar passion is consuming him. His heart was beating thicker than a feverous pulse, and all his faculties were becoming useless like a vassal who, all of a sudden, encounters the eye of Majesty. Pandarus and Cressida enter, and Pandarus proceeds to bring the couple together. Troilus tells Cressida that she has bereft him of words. Pandarus says Words pay no debts, give her deeds - meaning enough of chatter, get down to the action. Deeds here mean copulation. Pandarus continues that Cressida would deprive Troilus of the deeds too if his activity was in question. Then as the couple start kissing again, Pandarus quotes a common legal formula: In witness whereof the parties interchangeably, managing to play with a sexual implication. Before he exits, he asks them to go inside. Cressida and Troilus speak, and the dialogue until Pandarus enters is riddling and affected. It can be called as a parody of court speech. Troilus tells Cressida that he has often wished to be in the state he is in right then. Cressida says the lords have granted his wish and abruptly interrupts herself. Troilus asks her the matter. Cressida hints at her fears. She hesitates. Troilus tells her not to worry. She asks if lovers who have the voice of lions and the act of hares are not monsters. Troilus says that they are not like those lovers. His lines express a profound regret - not merely that lovers should be less than they claim to be, but that no love can ever find its proper and sufficient mode of utterance. All speech and all action come short. Using images of gestation and childbirth, Troilus says they arent like the lovers who have the voice of lions and the act of hares. Pandarus enters and asks if they havent finished with talking. Cressida tells him that she dedicates whatever lechery she is about to commit, to him.. Pandarus playfully thanks her and says that if she became pregnant with a boy she would have to give it to him. He tells her to be true to Troilus, and that if he flinches, she can scold him for it. Troilus tells Cressida that she has her uncles word and his faith. Pandarus insists that he give his word for Cressida too. He says that though his kindred might take a long time to be wooed, once they are won they are constant. He compares his kindred in this case Cressida to burs or seed vessel of goose grass that will stick to the surface that they are thrown at. Cressida says that she has grown suddenly bold and confesses to Troilus that I have lovd you night and day/ For many weary months. |
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT III. SCENE 1.
Troy. PRIAM'S palace
Music sounds within. Enter PANDARUS and a SERVANT
PANDARUS. Friend, you-pray you, a word. Do you not follow the young
Lord Paris?
SERVANT. Ay, sir, when he goes before me.
PANDARUS. You depend upon him, I mean?
SERVANT. Sir, I do depend upon the lord.
PANDARUS. You depend upon a notable gentleman; I must needs praise
him.
SERVANT. The lord be praised!
PANDARUS. You know me, do you not?
SERVANT. Faith, sir, superficially.
PANDARUS. Friend, know me better: I am the Lord Pandarus.
SERVANT. I hope I shall know your honour better.
PANDARUS. I do desire it.
SERVANT. You are in the state of grace.
PANDARUS. Grace! Not so, friend; honour and lordship are my titles.
What music is this?
SERVANT. I do but partly know, sir; it is music in parts.
PANDARUS. Know you the musicians?
SERVANT. Wholly, sir.
PANDARUS. Who play they to?
SERVANT. To the hearers, sir.
PANDARUS. At whose pleasure, friend?
SERVANT. At mine, sir, and theirs that love music.
PANDARUS. Command, I mean, friend.
SERVANT. Who shall I command, sir?
PANDARUS. Friend, we understand not one another: I am too courtly,
and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these men play?
SERVANT. That's to't, indeed, sir. Marry, sir, at the request of
Paris my lord, who is there in person; with him the mortal Venus,
the heart-blood of beauty, love's invisible soul-
PANDARUS. Who, my cousin, Cressida?
SERVANT. No, sir, Helen. Could not you find out that by her
attributes?
PANDARUS. It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the Lady
Cressida. I come to speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus; I
will make a complimental assault upon him, for my business
seethes.
SERVANT. Sodden business! There's a stew'd phrase indeed!
Enter PARIS and HELEN, attended
PANDARUS. Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair company!
Fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly guide them-especially
to you, fair queen! Fair thoughts be your fair pillow.
HELEN. Dear lord, you are full of fair words.
PANDARUS. You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince,
here is good broken music.
PARIS. You have broke it, cousin; and by my life, you shall make it
whole again; you shall piece it out with a piece of your
performance.
HELEN. He is full of harmony.
PANDARUS. Truly, lady, no.
HELEN. O, sir-
PANDARUS. Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude.
PARIS. Well said, my lord. Well, you say so in fits.
PANDARUS. I have business to my lord, dear queen. My lord, will you
vouchsafe me a word?
HELEN. Nay, this shall not hedge us out. We'll hear you sing,
certainly-
PANDARUS. Well sweet queen, you are pleasant with me. But, marry,
thus, my lord: my dear lord and most esteemed friend, your
brother Troilus-
HELEN. My Lord Pandarus, honey-sweet lord-
PANDARUS. Go to, sweet queen, go to-commends himself most
affectionately to you-
HELEN. You shall not bob us out of our melody. If you do, our
melancholy upon your head!
PANDARUS. Sweet queen, sweet queen; that's a sweet queen, i' faith.
HELEN. And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence.
PANDARUS. Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall it not,
in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such words; no, no. -And, my
lord, he desires you that, if the King call for him at supper,
you will make his excuse.
HELEN. My Lord Pandarus!
PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen, my very very sweet queen?
PARIS. What exploit's in hand? Where sups he to-night?
HELEN. Nay, but, my lord-
PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen?-My cousin will fall out with
you.
HELEN. You must not know where he sups.
PARIS. I'll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida.
PANDARUS. No, no, no such matter; you are wide. Come, your disposer
is sick.
PARIS. Well, I'll make's excuse.
PANDARUS. Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Cressida?
No, your poor disposer's sick.
PARIS. I spy.
PANDARUS. You spy! What do you spy?-Come, give me an instrument.
Now, sweet queen.
HELEN. Why, this is kindly done.
PANDARUS. My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet
queen.
HELEN. She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my Lord Paris.
PANDARUS. He! No, she'll none of him; they two are twain.
HELEN. Falling in, after falling out, may make them three.
PANDARUS. Come, come. I'll hear no more of this; I'll sing you a
song now.
HELEN. Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a
fine forehead.
PANDARUS. Ay, you may, you may.
HELEN. Let thy song be love. This love will undo us all. O Cupid,
Cupid, Cupid!
PANDARUS. Love! Ay, that it shall, i' faith.
PARIS. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love.
PANDARUS. In good troth, it begins so.
[Sings]
Love, love, nothing but love, still love, still more!
For, oh, love's bow
Shoots buck and doe;
The shaft confounds
Not that it wounds,
But tickles still the sore.
These lovers cry, O ho, they die!
Yet that which seems the wound to kill
Doth turn O ho! to ha! ha! he!
So dying love lives still.
O ho! a while, but ha! ha! ha!
O ho! groans out for ha! ha! ha!-hey ho!
HELEN. In love, i' faith, to the very tip of the nose.
PARIS. He eats nothing but doves, love; and that breeds hot blood,
and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot
deeds, and hot deeds is love.
PANDARUS. Is this the generation of love: hot blood, hot thoughts,
and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of
vipers? Sweet lord, who's a-field today?
PARIS. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry
of Troy. I would fain have arm'd to-day, but my Nell would not
have it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not?
HELEN. He hangs the lip at something. You know all, Lord Pandarus.
PANDARUS. Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they spend
to-day. You'll remember your brother's excuse?
PARIS. To a hair.
PANDARUS. Farewell, sweet queen.
HELEN. Commend me to your niece.
PANDARUS. I will, sweet queen. Exit. Sound a retreat
PARIS. They're come from the field. Let us to Priam's hall
To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you
To help unarm our Hector. His stubborn buckles,
With these your white enchanting fingers touch'd,
Shall more obey than to the edge of steel
Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more
Than all the island kings-disarm great Hector.
HELEN. 'Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris;
Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty
Gives us more palm in beauty than we have,
Yea, overshines ourself.
PARIS. Sweet, above thought I love thee.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 2---------
ACT III. SCENE 2.
Troy. PANDARUS' orchard
Enter PANDARUS and TROILUS' BOY, meeting
PANDARUS. How now! Where's thy master? At my cousin Cressida's?
BOY. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him thither.
Enter TROILUS
PANDARUS. O, here he comes. How now, how now!
TROILUS. Sirrah, walk off. Exit Boy
PANDARUS. Have you seen my cousin?
TROILUS. No, Pandarus. I stalk about her door
Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks
Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon,
And give me swift transportance to these fields
Where I may wallow in the lily beds
Propos'd for the deserver! O gentle Pandar,
From Cupid's shoulder pluck his painted wings,
And fly with me to Cressid!
PANDARUS. Walk here i' th' orchard, I'll bring her straight.
Exit
TROILUS. I am giddy; expectation whirls me round.
Th' imaginary relish is so sweet
That it enchants my sense; what will it be
When that the wat'ry palate tastes indeed
Love's thrice-repured nectar? Death, I fear me;
Swooning destruction; or some joy too fine,
Too subtle-potent, tun'd too sharp in sweetness,
For the capacity of my ruder powers.
I fear it much; and I do fear besides
That I shall lose distinction in my joys;
As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps
The enemy flying.
Re-enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. She's making her ready, she'll come straight; you must be
witty now. She does so blush, and fetches her wind so short, as
if she were fray'd with a sprite. I'll fetch her. It is the
prettiest villain; she fetches her breath as short as a new-ta'en
sparrow.
Exit
TROILUS. Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom.
My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse,
And all my powers do their bestowing lose,
Like vassalage at unawares encount'ring
The eye of majesty.
Re-enter PANDARUS With CRESSIDA
PANDARUS. Come, come, what need you blush? Shame's a baby.-Here she
is now; swear the oaths now to her that you have sworn to me.-
What, are you gone again? You must be watch'd ere you be made
tame, must you? Come your ways, come your ways; an you draw
backward, we'll put you i' th' fills.-Why do you not speak to
her?-Come, draw this curtain and let's see your picture.
Alas the day, how loath you are to offend daylight! An 'twere
dark, you'd close sooner. So, so; rub on, and kiss the mistress
How now, a kiss in fee-farm! Build there, carpenter; the air is
sweet. Nay, you shall fight your hearts out ere I part you. The
falcon as the tercel, for all the ducks i' th' river. Go to, go
to.
TROILUS. You have bereft me of all words, lady.
PANDARUS. Words pay no debts, give her deeds; but she'll bereave
you o' th' deeds too, if she call your activity in question.
What, billing again? Here's 'In witness whereof the parties
interchangeably.' Come in, come in; I'll go get a fire.
Exit
CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord?
TROILUS. O Cressid, how often have I wish'd me thus!
CRESSIDA. Wish'd, my lord! The gods grant-O my lord!
TROILUS. What should they grant? What makes this pretty abruption?
What too curious dreg espies my sweet lady in the fountain of our
love?
CRESSIDA. More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes.
TROILUS. Fears make devils of cherubims; they never see truly.
CRESSIDA. Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds safer footing
than blind reason stumbling without fear. To fear the worst oft
cures the worse.
TROILUS. O, let my lady apprehend no fear! In all Cupid's pageant
there is presented no monster.
CRESSIDA. Nor nothing monstrous neither?
TROILUS. Nothing, but our undertakings when we vow to weep seas,
live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers; thinking it harder for our
mistress to devise imposition enough than for us to undergo any
difficulty imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady, that
the will is infinite, and the execution confin'd; that the desire
is boundless, and the act a slave to limit.
CRESSIDA. They say all lovers swear more performance than they are
able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing
more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the
tenth part of one. They that have the voice of lions and the act
of hares, are they not monsters?
TROILUS. Are there such? Such are not we. Praise us as we are
tasted, allow us as we prove; our head shall go bare till merit
crown it. No perfection in reversion shall have a praise in
present. We will not name desert before his birth; and, being
born, his addition shall be humble. Few words to fair faith:
Troilus shall be such to Cressid as what envy can say worst shall
be a mock for his truth; and what truth can speak truest not
truer than Troilus.
CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord?
Re-enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. What, blushing still? Have you not done talking yet?
CRESSIDA. Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedicate to you.
PANDARUS. I thank you for that; if my lord get a boy of you, you'll
give him me. Be true to my lord; if he flinch, chide me for it.
TROILUS. You know now your hostages: your uncle's word and my firm
faith.
PANDARUS. Nay, I'll give my word for her too: our kindred, though
they be long ere they are wooed, they are constant being won;
they are burs, I can tell you; they'll stick where they are
thrown.
CRESSIDA. Boldness comes to me now and brings me heart.
Prince Troilus, I have lov'd you night and day
For many weary months.
TROILUS. Why was my Cressid then so hard to win?
CRESSIDA. Hard to seem won; but I was won, my lord,
With the first glance that ever-pardon me.
If I confess much, you will play the tyrant.
I love you now; but till now not so much
But I might master it. In faith, I lie;
My thoughts were like unbridled children, grown
Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools!
Why have I blabb'd? Who shall be true to us,
When we are so unsecret to ourselves?
But, though I lov'd you well, I woo'd you not;
And yet, good faith, I wish'd myself a man,
Or that we women had men's privilege
Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue,
For in this rapture I shall surely speak
The thing I shall repent. See, see, your silence,
Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws
My very soul of counsel. Stop my mouth.
TROILUS. And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence.
PANDARUS. Pretty, i' faith.
CRESSIDA. My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me;
'Twas not my purpose thus to beg a kiss.
I am asham'd. O heavens! what have I done?
For this time will I take my leave, my lord.
TROILUS. Your leave, sweet Cressid!
PANDARUS. Leave! An you take leave till to-morrow morning-
CRESSIDA. Pray you, content you.
TROILUS. What offends you, lady?
CRESSIDA. Sir, mine own company.
TROILUS. You cannot shun yourself.
CRESSIDA. Let me go and try.
I have a kind of self resides with you;
But an unkind self, that itself will leave
To be another's fool. I would be gone.
Where is my wit? I know not what I speak.
TROILUS. Well know they what they speak that speak so wisely.
CRESSIDA. Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than love;
And fell so roundly to a large confession
To angle for your thoughts; but you are wise-
Or else you love not; for to be wise and love
Exceeds man's might; that dwells with gods above.
TROILUS. O that I thought it could be in a woman-
As, if it can, I will presume in you-
To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love;
To keep her constancy in plight and youth,
Outliving beauty's outward, with a mind
That doth renew swifter than blood decays!
Or that persuasion could but thus convince me
That my integrity and truth to you
Might be affronted with the match and weight
Of such a winnowed purity in love.
How were I then uplifted! but, alas,
I am as true as truth's simplicity,
And simpler than the infancy of truth.
CRESSIDA. In that I'll war with you.
TROILUS. O virtuous fight,
When right with right wars who shall be most right!
True swains in love shall in the world to come
Approve their truth by Troilus, when their rhymes,
Full of protest, of oath, and big compare,
Want similes, truth tir'd with iteration-
As true as steel, as plantage to the moon,
As sun to day, as turtle to her mate,
As iron to adamant, as earth to th' centre-
Yet, after all comparisons of truth,
As truth's authentic author to be cited,
'As true as Troilus' shall crown up the verse
And sanctify the numbers.
CRESSIDA. Prophet may you be!
If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth,
When time is old and hath forgot itself,
When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy,
And blind oblivion swallow'd cities up,
And mighty states characterless are grated
To dusty nothing-yet let memory
From false to false, among false maids in love,
Upbraid my falsehood when th' have said 'As false
As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth,
As fox to lamb, or wolf to heifer's calf,
Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son'-
Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood,
'As false as Cressid.'
PANDARUS. Go to, a bargain made; seal it, seal it; I'll be the
witness. Here I hold your hand; here my cousin's. If ever you
prove false one to another, since I have taken such pains to
bring you together, let all pitiful goers-between be call'd to
the world's end after my name-call them all Pandars; let all
constant men be Troiluses, all false women Cressids, and all
brokers between Pandars. Say 'Amen.'
TROILUS. Amen.
CRESSIDA. Amen.
PANDARUS. Amen. Whereupon I will show you a chamber
and a bed; which bed, because it shall not speak of your
pretty encounters, press it to death. Away!
And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here,
Bed, chamber, pander, to provide this gear!
Exeunt
|
null | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of scene 1 using the context provided. | scene 3|scene 1|scene 2 | Enter on one side Aeneas and a servant with a torch, and Paris, Deiphobus, Antenor, Diomedes and others with torches on the other side. In this scene, Paris sends Aeneas to accompany Diomedes to Calchas house where Cressida would be given to him in exchange for Antenor. He tells him to rush there ahead of the rest of the party to warn Troilus who is spending the night there and tell him about the circumstances. Aeneas says that Troilus would rather that Troy were borne to Greece/Than Cressid borne from Troy. Paris says the whole thing cant be avoided. After Aeneas exit, Paris turns to Diomedes and asks him who deserves Helen - Menelaus or himself, he gets a bitter speech about the worthlessness of the prize for which so many have died. Diomedes contrasts Menelaus and Paris, and both of them come out looking terrible. Diomedes vision is clear and he sees, instead of Paris Nell, a whore who is responsible for the deaths of countless Greeks and Trojans. His anger at the loss of life all for Helen whom he does not deem worth all the trouble, is expressed unflinchingly. The scene ends with Paris saying that though the Greeks like chapmen Dispraise the thing that they desire to buy, but still practice the buyers art, they will not fall into the sellers role and sell Helen. Well not commend, that not intend to sell says Paris before he exits at the end of the scene. |
----------SCENE 3---------
ACT III. SCENE 3.
The Greek camp
Flourish. Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, DIOMEDES, NESTOR, AJAX,
MENELAUS, and CALCHAS
CALCHAS. Now, Princes, for the service I have done,
Th' advantage of the time prompts me aloud
To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind
That, through the sight I bear in things to come,
I have abandon'd Troy, left my possession,
Incurr'd a traitor's name, expos'd myself
From certain and possess'd conveniences
To doubtful fortunes, sequest'ring from me all
That time, acquaintance, custom, and condition,
Made tame and most familiar to my nature;
And here, to do you service, am become
As new into the world, strange, unacquainted-
I do beseech you, as in way of taste,
To give me now a little benefit
Out of those many regist'red in promise,
Which you say live to come in my behalf.
AGAMEMNON. What wouldst thou of us, Troyan? Make demand.
CALCHAS. You have a Troyan prisoner call'd Antenor,
Yesterday took; Troy holds him very dear.
Oft have you-often have you thanks therefore-
Desir'd my Cressid in right great exchange,
Whom Troy hath still denied; but this Antenor,
I know, is such a wrest in their affairs
That their negotiations all must slack
Wanting his manage; and they will almost
Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam,
In change of him. Let him be sent, great Princes,
And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence
Shall quite strike off all service I have done
In most accepted pain.
AGAMEMNON. Let Diomedes bear him,
And bring us Cressid hither. Calchas shall have
What he requests of us. Good Diomed,
Furnish you fairly for this interchange;
Withal, bring word if Hector will to-morrow
Be answer'd in his challenge. Ajax is ready.
DIOMEDES. This shall I undertake; and 'tis a burden
Which I am proud to bear.
Exeunt DIOMEDES and CALCHAS
ACHILLES and PATROCLUS stand in their tent
ULYSSES. Achilles stands i' th' entrance of his tent.
Please it our general pass strangely by him,
As if he were forgot; and, Princes all,
Lay negligent and loose regard upon him.
I will come last. 'Tis like he'll question me
Why such unplausive eyes are bent, why turn'd on him?
If so, I have derision med'cinable
To use between your strangeness and his pride,
Which his own will shall have desire to drink.
It may do good. Pride hath no other glass
To show itself but pride; for supple knees
Feed arrogance and are the proud man's fees.
AGAMEMNON. We'll execute your purpose, and put on
A form of strangeness as we pass along.
So do each lord; and either greet him not,
Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more
Than if not look'd on. I will lead the way.
ACHILLES. What comes the general to speak with me?
You know my mind. I'll fight no more 'gainst Troy.
AGAMEMNON. What says Achilles? Would he aught with us?
NESTOR. Would you, my lord, aught with the general?
ACHILLES. No.
NESTOR. Nothing, my lord.
AGAMEMNON. The better.
Exeunt AGAMEMNON and NESTOR
ACHILLES. Good day, good day.
MENELAUS. How do you? How do you?
Exit
ACHILLES. What, does the cuckold scorn me?
AJAX. How now, Patroclus?
ACHILLES. Good morrow, Ajax.
AJAX. Ha?
ACHILLES. Good morrow.
AJAX. Ay, and good next day too.
Exit
ACHILLES. What mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles?
PATROCLUS. They pass by strangely. They were us'd to bend,
To send their smiles before them to Achilles,
To come as humbly as they us'd to creep
To holy altars.
ACHILLES. What, am I poor of late?
'Tis certain, greatness, once fall'n out with fortune,
Must fall out with men too. What the declin'd is,
He shall as soon read in the eyes of others
As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies,
Show not their mealy wings but to the summer;
And not a man for being simply man
Hath any honour, but honour for those honours
That are without him, as place, riches, and favour,
Prizes of accident, as oft as merit;
Which when they fall, as being slippery standers,
The love that lean'd on them as slippery too,
Doth one pluck down another, and together
Die in the fall. But 'tis not so with me:
Fortune and I are friends; I do enjoy
At ample point all that I did possess
Save these men's looks; who do, methinks, find out
Something not worth in me such rich beholding
As they have often given. Here is Ulysses.
I'll interrupt his reading.
How now, Ulysses!
ULYSSES. Now, great Thetis' son!
ACHILLES. What are you reading?
ULYSSES. A strange fellow here
Writes me that man-how dearly ever parted,
How much in having, or without or in-
Cannot make boast to have that which he hath,
Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection;
As when his virtues shining upon others
Heat them, and they retort that heat again
To the first giver.
ACHILLES. This is not strange, Ulysses.
The beauty that is borne here in the face
The bearer knows not, but commends itself
To others' eyes; nor doth the eye itself-
That most pure spirit of sense-behold itself,
Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed
Salutes each other with each other's form;
For speculation turns not to itself
Till it hath travell'd, and is mirror'd there
Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all.
ULYSSES. I do not strain at the position-
It is familiar-but at the author's drift;
Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves
That no man is the lord of anything,
Though in and of him there be much consisting,
Till he communicate his parts to others;
Nor doth he of himself know them for aught
Till he behold them formed in th' applause
Where th' are extended; who, like an arch, reverb'rate
The voice again; or, like a gate of steel
Fronting the sun, receives and renders back
His figure and his heat. I was much rapt in this;
And apprehended here immediately
Th' unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there!
A very horse that has he knows not what!
Nature, what things there are
Most abject in regard and dear in use!
What things again most dear in the esteem
And poor in worth! Now shall we see to-morrow-
An act that very chance doth throw upon him-
Ajax renown'd. O heavens, what some men do,
While some men leave to do!
How some men creep in skittish Fortune's-hall,
Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes!
How one man eats into another's pride,
While pride is fasting in his wantonness!
To see these Grecian lords!-why, even already
They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder,
As if his foot were on brave Hector's breast,
And great Troy shrinking.
ACHILLES. I do believe it; for they pass'd by me
As misers do by beggars-neither gave to me
Good word nor look. What, are my deeds forgot?
ULYSSES. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes.
Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour'd
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
As done. Perseverance, dear my lord,
Keeps honour bright. To have done is to hang
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail
In monumental mock'ry. Take the instant way;
For honour travels in a strait so narrow -
Where one but goes abreast. Keep then the path,
For emulation hath a thousand sons
That one by one pursue; if you give way,
Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,
Like to an ent'red tide they all rush by
And leave you hindmost;
Or, like a gallant horse fall'n in first rank,
Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,
O'er-run and trampled on. Then what they do in present,
Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours;
For Time is like a fashionable host,
That slightly shakes his parting guest by th' hand;
And with his arms out-stretch'd, as he would fly,
Grasps in the corner. The welcome ever smiles,
And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek
Remuneration for the thing it was;
For beauty, wit,
High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service,
Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all
To envious and calumniating Time.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin-
That all with one consent praise new-born gawds,
Though they are made and moulded of things past,
And give to dust that is a little gilt
More laud than gilt o'er-dusted.
The present eye praises the present object.
Then marvel not, thou great and complete man,
That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax,
Since things in motion sooner catch the eye
Than what stirs not. The cry went once on thee,
And still it might, and yet it may again,
If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive
And case thy reputation in thy tent,
Whose glorious deeds but in these fields of late
Made emulous missions 'mongst the gods themselves,
And drave great Mars to faction.
ACHILLES. Of this my privacy
I have strong reasons.
ULYSSES. But 'gainst your privacy
The reasons are more potent and heroical.
'Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love
With one of Priam's daughters.
ACHILLES. Ha! known!
ULYSSES. Is that a wonder?
The providence that's in a watchful state
Knows almost every grain of Plutus' gold;
Finds bottom in th' uncomprehensive deeps;
Keeps place with thought, and almost, like the gods,
Do thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles.
There is a mystery-with whom relation
Durst never meddle-in the soul of state,
Which hath an operation more divine
Than breath or pen can give expressure to.
All the commerce that you have had with Troy
As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord;
And better would it fit Achilles much
To throw down Hector than Polyxena.
But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home,
When fame shall in our island sound her trump,
And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing
'Great Hector's sister did Achilles win;
But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.'
Farewell, my lord. I as your lover speak.
The fool slides o'er the ice that you should break.
Exit
PATROCLUS. To this effect, Achilles, have I mov'd you.
A woman impudent and mannish grown
Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man
In time of action. I stand condemn'd for this;
They think my little stomach to the war
And your great love to me restrains you thus.
Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid
Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold,
And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane,
Be shook to airy air.
ACHILLES. Shall Ajax fight with Hector?
PATROCLUS. Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by him.
ACHILLES. I see my reputation is at stake;
My fame is shrewdly gor'd.
PATROCLUS. O, then, beware:
Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves;
Omission to do what is necessary
Seals a commission to a blank of danger;
And danger, like an ague, subtly taints
Even then when they sit idly in the sun.
ACHILLES. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus.
I'll send the fool to Ajax, and desire him
T' invite the Troyan lords, after the combat,
To see us here unarm'd. I have a woman's longing,
An appetite that I am sick withal,
To see great Hector in his weeds of peace;
To talk with him, and to behold his visage,
Even to my full of view.
Enter THERSITES
A labour sav'd!
THERSITES. A wonder!
ACHILLES. What?
THERSITES. Ajax goes up and down the field asking for himself.
ACHILLES. How so?
THERSITES. He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector, and is so
prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling that he raves in
saying nothing.
ACHILLES. How can that be?
THERSITES. Why, 'a stalks up and down like a peacock-a stride and a
stand; ruminaies like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her
brain to set down her reckoning, bites his lip with a politic
regard, as who should say 'There were wit in this head, an
'twould out'; and so there is; but it lies as coldly in him as
fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking. The man's
undone for ever; for if Hector break not his neck i' th' combat,
he'll break't himself in vainglory. He knows not me. I said 'Good
morrow, Ajax'; and he replies 'Thanks, Agamemnon.' What think you
of this man that takes me for the general? He's grown a very land
fish, languageless, a monster. A plague of opinion! A man may
wear it on both sides, like leather jerkin.
ACHILLES. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites.
THERSITES. Who, I? Why, he'll answer nobody; he professes not
answering. Speaking is for beggars: he wears his tongue in's
arms. I will put on his presence. Let Patroclus make his demands
to me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax.
ACHILLES. To him, Patroclus. Tell him I humbly desire the valiant
Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarm'd to my
tent; and to procure safe conduct for his person of the
magnanimous and most illustrious six-or-seven-times-honour'd
Captain General of the Grecian army, et cetera, Agamemnon. Do
this.
PATROCLUS. Jove bless great Ajax!
THERSITES. Hum!
PATROCLUS. I come from the worthy Achilles-
THERSITES. Ha!
PATROCLUS. Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his
tent-
THERSITES. Hum!
PATROCLUS. And to procure safe conduct from Agamemnon.
THERSITES. Agamemnon!
PATROCLUS. Ay, my lord.
THERSITES. Ha!
PATROCLUS. What you say to't?
THERSITES. God buy you, with all my heart.
PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir.
THERSITES. If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven of the clock it
will go one way or other. Howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he
has me.
PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir.
THERSITES. Fare ye well, with all my heart.
ACHILLES. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he?
THERSITES. No, but he's out a tune thus. What music will be in him
when Hector has knock'd out his brains I know not; but, I am sure,
none; unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings
on.
ACHILLES. Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight.
THERSITES. Let me carry another to his horse; for that's the more
capable creature.
ACHILLES. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr'd;
And I myself see not the bottom of it.
Exeunt ACHILLES and PATROCLUS
THERSITES. Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I
might water an ass at it. I had rather be a tick in a sheep than
such a valiant ignorance.
Exit
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT IV. SCENE 1.
Troy. A street
Enter, at one side, AENEAS, and servant with a torch; at another,
PARIS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR, DIOMEDES the Grecian, and others, with
torches
PARIS. See, ho! Who is that there?
DEIPHOBUS. It is the Lord Aeneas.
AENEAS. Is the Prince there in person?
Had I so good occasion to lie long
As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business
Should rob my bed-mate of my company.
DIOMEDES. That's my mind too. Good morrow, Lord Aeneas.
PARIS. A valiant Greek, Aeneas -take his hand:
Witness the process of your speech, wherein
You told how Diomed, a whole week by days,
Did haunt you in the field.
AENEAS. Health to you, valiant sir,
During all question of the gentle truce;
But when I meet you arm'd, as black defiance
As heart can think or courage execute.
DIOMEDES. The one and other Diomed embraces.
Our bloods are now in calm; and so long health!
But when contention and occasion meet,
By Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life
With all my force, pursuit, and policy.
AENEAS. And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly
With his face backward. In humane gentleness,
Welcome to Troy! now, by Anchises' life,
Welcome indeed! By Venus' hand I swear
No man alive can love in such a sort
The thing he means to kill, more excellently.
DIOMEDES. We sympathise. Jove let Aeneas live,
If to my sword his fate be not the glory,
A thousand complete courses of the sun!
But in mine emulous honour let him die
With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow!
AENEAS. We know each other well.
DIOMEDES.We do; and long to know each other worse.
PARIS. This is the most despiteful'st gentle greeting
The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of.
What business, lord, so early?
AENEAS. I was sent for to the King; but why, I know not.
PARIS. His purpose meets you: 'twas to bring this Greek
To Calchas' house, and there to render him,
For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid.
Let's have your company; or, if you please,
Haste there before us. I constantly believe-
Or rather call my thought a certain knowledge-
My brother Troilus lodges there to-night.
Rouse him and give him note of our approach,
With the whole quality wherefore; I fear
We shall be much unwelcome.
AENEAS. That I assure you:
Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece
Than Cressid borne from Troy.
PARIS. There is no help;
The bitter disposition of the time
Will have it so. On, lord; we'll follow you.
AENEAS. Good morrow, all. Exit with servant
PARIS. And tell me, noble Diomed-faith, tell me true,
Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship-
Who in your thoughts deserves fair Helen best,
Myself or Menelaus?
DIOMEDES. Both alike:
He merits well to have her that doth seek her,
Not making any scruple of her soilure,
With such a hell of pain and world of charge;
And you as well to keep her that defend her,
Not palating the taste of her dishonour,
With such a costly loss of wealth and friends.
He like a puling cuckold would drink up
The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece;
You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins
Are pleas'd to breed out your inheritors.
Both merits pois'd, each weighs nor less nor more;
But he as he, the heavier for a whore.
PARIS. You are too bitter to your country-woman.
DIOMEDES. She's bitter to her country. Hear me, Paris:
For every false drop in her bawdy veins
A Grecian's life hath sunk; for every scruple
Of her contaminated carrion weight
A Troyan hath been slain; since she could speak,
She hath not given so many good words breath
As for her Greeks and Troyans suff'red death.
PARIS. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do,
Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy;
But we in silence hold this virtue well:
We'll not commend what we intend to sell.
Here lies our way.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 2---------
ACT IV. SCENE 2.
Troy. The court of PANDARUS' house
Enter TROILUS and CRESSIDA
TROILUS. Dear, trouble not yourself; the morn is cold.
CRESSIDA. Then, sweet my lord, I'll call mine uncle down;
He shall unbolt the gates.
TROILUS. Trouble him not;
To bed, to bed! Sleep kill those pretty eyes,
And give as soft attachment to thy senses
As infants' empty of all thought!
CRESSIDA. Good morrow, then.
TROILUS. I prithee now, to bed.
CRESSIDA. Are you aweary of me?
TROILUS. O Cressida! but that the busy day,
Wak'd by the lark, hath rous'd the ribald crows,
And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer,
I would not from thee.
CRESSIDA. Night hath been too brief.
TROILUS. Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays
As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love
With wings more momentary-swift than thought.
You will catch cold, and curse me.
CRESSIDA. Prithee tarry.
You men will never tarry.
O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off,
And then you would have tarried. Hark! there's one up.
PANDARUS. [Within] What's all the doors open here?
TROILUS. It is your uncle.
Enter PANDARUS
CRESSIDA. A pestilence on him! Now will he be mocking.
I shall have such a life!
PANDARUS. How now, how now! How go maidenheads?
Here, you maid! Where's my cousin Cressid?
CRESSIDA. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle.
You bring me to do, and then you flout me too.
PANDARUS. To do what? to do what? Let her say what.
What have I brought you to do?
CRESSIDA. Come, come, beshrew your heart! You'll ne'er be good,
Nor suffer others.
PANDARUS. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! a poor capocchia! hast not
slept to-night? Would he not, a naughty man, let it sleep? A
bugbear take him!
CRESSIDA. Did not I tell you? Would he were knock'd i' th' head!
[One knocks]
Who's that at door? Good uncle, go and see.
My lord, come you again into my chamber.
You smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.
TROILUS. Ha! ha!
CRESSIDA. Come, you are deceiv'd, I think of no such thing.
[Knock]
How earnestly they knock! Pray you come in:
I would not for half Troy have you seen here.
Exeunt TROILUS and
CRESSIDA
PANDARUS. Who's there? What's the matter? Will you beat down the
door? How now? What's the matter?
Enter AENEAS
AENEAS. Good morrow, lord, good morrow.
PANDARUS. Who's there? My lord Aeneas? By my troth,
I knew you not. What news with you so early?
AENEAS. Is not Prince Troilus here?
PANDARUS. Here! What should he do here?
AENEAS. Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him.
It doth import him much to speak with me.
PANDARUS. Is he here, say you? It's more than I know, I'll be
sworn. For my own part, I came in late. What should he do here?
AENEAS. Who!-nay, then. Come, come, you'll do him wrong ere you are
ware; you'll be so true to him to be false to him. Do not you
know of him, but yet go fetch him hither; go.
Re-enter TROILUS
TROILUS. How now! What's the matter?
AENEAS. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you,
My matter is so rash. There is at hand
Paris your brother, and Deiphobus,
The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor
Deliver'd to us; and for him forthwith,
Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour,
We must give up to Diomedes' hand
The Lady Cressida.
TROILUS. Is it so concluded?
AENEAS. By Priam, and the general state of Troy.
They are at hand and ready to effect it.
TROILUS. How my achievements mock me!
I will go meet them; and, my lord Aeneas,
We met by chance; you did not find me here.
AENEAS. Good, good, my lord, the secrets of neighbour Pandar
Have not more gift in taciturnity.
Exeunt TROILUS and AENEAS
PANDARUS. Is't possible? No sooner got but lost? The devil take
Antenor! The young prince will go mad. A plague upon Antenor! I
would they had broke's neck.
Re-enter CRESSIDA
CRESSIDA. How now! What's the matter? Who was here?
PANDARUS. Ah, ah!
CRESSIDA. Why sigh you so profoundly? Where's my lord? Gone? Tell
me, sweet uncle, what's the matter?
PANDARUS. Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above!
CRESSIDA. O the gods! What's the matter?
PANDARUS. Pray thee, get thee in. Would thou hadst ne'er been born!
I knew thou wouldst be his death! O, poor gentleman! A plague
upon Antenor!
CRESSIDA. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I beseech you,
what's the matter?
PANDARUS. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art
chang'd for Antenor; thou must to thy father, and be gone from
Troilus. 'Twill be his death; 'twill be his bane; he cannot bear
it.
CRESSIDA. O you immortal gods! I will not go.
PANDARUS. Thou must.
CRESSIDA. I will not, uncle. I have forgot my father;
I know no touch of consanguinity,
No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me
As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine,
Make Cressid's name the very crown of falsehood,
If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death,
Do to this body what extremes you can,
But the strong base and building of my love
Is as the very centre of the earth,
Drawing all things to it. I'll go in and weep-
PANDARUS. Do, do.
CRESSIDA. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks,
Crack my clear voice with sobs and break my heart,
With sounding 'Troilus.' I will not go from Troy.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 3---------
ACT IV. SCENE 3.
Troy. A street before PANDARUS' house
Enter PARIS, TROILUS, AENEAS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR, and DIOMEDES
PARIS. It is great morning; and the hour prefix'd
For her delivery to this valiant Greek
Comes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus,
Tell you the lady what she is to do
And haste her to the purpose.
TROILUS. Walk into her house.
I'll bring her to the Grecian presently;
And to his hand when I deliver her,
Think it an altar, and thy brother Troilus
A priest, there off'ring to it his own heart.
Exit
PARIS. I know what 'tis to love,
And would, as I shall pity, I could help!
Please you walk in, my lords.
Exeunt
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for scene 1 based on the provided context. | scene 4|scene 5|scene 1 | Enter Achilles and Patroclus. Achilles tells Patroclus that he will get Hector drunk that night which will probably make it easier for him to kill him on the following day. Let us feast him to the height he says. Thersites enters. With something that amounts to affection, Achilles calls Thersites a core of envy and a scabby boil, and asks him whats the news? Thersites returns the insult in his own inimitable way, calling Achilles an idol of idiot-worshippers before he hands him a letter. Again attempting to insult him Achilles asks him From whence, fragment? Thersites calls Achilles a full dish of fool in return and tells him the letter is from Troy. Patroclus asks him who keeps the roll of gauze or medicated material that is used for cleaning a wound. Thersites asks him if he wants the surgeons box or the patients wound. Patroclus asks him why he is being perverse. Thersites insultingly calls Patroclus a boy and asks him to be silent as he did not profit by his talk. He adds that Patroclus is said to be Achilles male varlet. Patroclus asks him what a male varlet is. He then launches into a catalogue of diseases that he hopes will plague the manifestations of such perversions as homosexuality. An indignant Patroclus asks him what means thou to curse thus? Thersites asks if he curses him. Equally ironically Patroclus replies Why, no, you ruinous butt, you whoreson indistinguishable cur, no. No? mocks Thersites, and asks Patroclus why then is he so exasperated. He then continues the litany of ingenious abuse calling Patroclus thou idle immaterial skein of sleave silk, thou green sarse-net flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigals purse: ah, how the poor world is pestered with such water-flies, diminutives of nature! Patroclus calls him a bitter railer and asks him to get out. Thersites returns the abuse with Finch egg! - A finch is a small bird and egg was a contemptuous term.. All this while Achilles has been reading the letter from Troy and at this point, he turns to Patroclus and tells him that the letter accompanied by a love token from Polyxena, is from Queen Hecuba. Both the letter and token bind him to keep a promise - he had sworn to Hecuba that if he won Polyxena, he would make the Greeks raise the siege and retire. Achilles says the Greeks might do as they please as his major vow lies with Polyxena and Hecuba and he would obey it. He then asks Thersites to help put his tent in order and says that this night in banqueting must all be spent. before he exits with Patroclus. |
----------SCENE 4---------
ACT IV. SCENE 4.
Troy. PANDARUS' house
Enter PANDARUS and CRESSIDA
PANDARUS. Be moderate, be moderate.
CRESSIDA. Why tell you me of moderation?
The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste,
And violenteth in a sense as strong
As that which causeth it. How can I moderate it?
If I could temporize with my affections
Or brew it to a weak and colder palate,
The like allayment could I give my grief.
My love admits no qualifying dross;
No more my grief, in such a precious loss.
Enter TROILUS
PANDARUS. Here, here, here he comes. Ah, sweet ducks!
CRESSIDA. O Troilus! Troilus! [Embracing him]
PANDARUS. What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me embrace too. 'O
heart,' as the goodly saying is,
O heart, heavy heart,
Why sigh'st thou without breaking?
where he answers again
Because thou canst not ease thy smart
By friendship nor by speaking.
There was never a truer rhyme. Let us cast away nothing, for we
may live to have need of such a verse. We see it, we see it. How
now, lambs!
TROILUS. Cressid, I love thee in so strain'd a purity
That the bless'd gods, as angry with my fancy,
More bright in zeal than the devotion which
Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me.
CRESSIDA. Have the gods envy?
PANDARUS. Ay, ay, ay; 'tis too plain a case.
CRESSIDA. And is it true that I must go from Troy?
TROILUS. A hateful truth.
CRESSIDA. What, and from Troilus too?
TROILUS. From Troy and Troilus.
CRESSIDA. Is't possible?
TROILUS. And suddenly; where injury of chance
Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by
All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips
Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents
Our lock'd embrasures, strangles our dear vows
Even in the birth of our own labouring breath.
We two, that with so many thousand sighs
Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves
With the rude brevity and discharge of one.
Injurious time now with a robber's haste
Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how.
As many farewells as be stars in heaven,
With distinct breath and consign'd kisses to them,
He fumbles up into a loose adieu,
And scants us with a single famish'd kiss,
Distasted with the salt of broken tears.
AENEAS. [Within] My lord, is the lady ready?
TROILUS. Hark! you are call'd. Some say the Genius so
Cries 'Come' to him that instantly must die.
Bid them have patience; she shall come anon.
PANDARUS. Where are my tears? Rain, to lay this wind, or my heart
will be blown up by th' root?
Exit
CRESSIDA. I must then to the Grecians?
TROILUS. No remedy.
CRESSIDA. A woeful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks!
When shall we see again?
TROILUS. Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart-
CRESSIDA. I true! how now! What wicked deem is this?
TROILUS. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly,
For it is parting from us.
I speak not 'Be thou true' as fearing thee,
For I will throw my glove to Death himself
That there's no maculation in thy heart;
But 'Be thou true' say I to fashion in
My sequent protestation: be thou true,
And I will see thee.
CRESSIDA. O, you shall be expos'd, my lord, to dangers
As infinite as imminent! But I'll be true.
TROILUS. And I'll grow friend with danger. Wear this sleeve.
CRESSIDA. And you this glove. When shall I see you?
TROILUS. I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels
To give thee nightly visitation.
But yet be true.
CRESSIDA. O heavens! 'Be true' again!
TROILUS. Hear why I speak it, love.
The Grecian youths are full of quality;
They're loving, well compos'd with gifts of nature,
And flowing o'er with arts and exercise.
How novelties may move, and parts with person,
Alas, a kind of godly jealousy,
Which I beseech you call a virtuous sin,
Makes me afeard.
CRESSIDA. O heavens! you love me not.
TROILUS. Die I a villain, then!
In this I do not call your faith in question
So mainly as my merit. I cannot sing,
Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk,
Nor play at subtle games-fair virtues all,
To which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant;
But I can tell that in each grace of these
There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil
That tempts most cunningly. But be not tempted.
CRESSIDA. Do you think I will?
TROILUS. No.
But something may be done that we will not;
And sometimes we are devils to ourselves,
When we will tempt the frailty of our powers,
Presuming on their changeful potency.
AENEAS. [Within] Nay, good my lord!
TROILUS. Come, kiss; and let us part.
PARIS. [Within] Brother Troilus!
TROILUS. Good brother, come you hither;
And bring Aeneas and the Grecian with you.
CRESSIDA. My lord, will you be true?
TROILUS. Who, I? Alas, it is my vice, my fault!
Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion,
I with great truth catch mere simplicity;
Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns,
With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare.
Enter AENEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, DEIPHOBUS, and DIOMEDES
Fear not my truth: the moral of my wit
Is 'plain and true'; there's all the reach of it.
Welcome, Sir Diomed! Here is the lady
Which for Antenor we deliver you;
At the port, lord, I'll give her to thy hand,
And by the way possess thee what she is.
Entreat her fair; and, by my soul, fair Greek,
If e'er thou stand at mercy of my sword,
Name Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe
As Priam is in Ilion.
DIOMEDES. Fair Lady Cressid,
So please you, save the thanks this prince expects.
The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek,
Pleads your fair usage; and to Diomed
You shall be mistress, and command him wholly.
TROILUS. Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously
To shame the zeal of my petition to the
In praising her. I tell thee, lord of Greece,
She is as far high-soaring o'er thy praises
As thou unworthy to be call'd her servant.
I charge thee use her well, even for my charge;
For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not,
Though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard,
I'll cut thy throat.
DIOMEDES. O, be not mov'd, Prince Troilus.
Let me be privileg'd by my place and message
To be a speaker free: when I am hence
I'll answer to my lust. And know you, lord,
I'll nothing do on charge: to her own worth
She shall be priz'd. But that you say 'Be't so,'
I speak it in my spirit and honour, 'No.'
TROILUS. Come, to the port. I'll tell thee, Diomed,
This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head.
Lady, give me your hand; and, as we walk,
To our own selves bend we our needful talk.
Exeunt TROILUS, CRESSIDA, and DIOMEDES
[Sound trumpet]
PARIS. Hark! Hector's trumpet.
AENEAS. How have we spent this morning!
The Prince must think me tardy and remiss,
That swore to ride before him to the field.
PARIS. 'Tis Troilus' fault. Come, come to field with him.
DEIPHOBUS. Let us make ready straight.
AENEAS. Yea, with a bridegroom's fresh alacrity
Let us address to tend on Hector's heels.
The glory of our Troy doth this day lie
On his fair worth and single chivalry.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 5---------
ACT IV. SCENE 5.
The Grecian camp. Lists set out
Enter AJAX, armed; AGAMEMNON, ACHILLES, PATROCLUS, MENELAUS,
ULYSSES, NESTOR, and others
AGAMEMNON. Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair,
Anticipating time with starting courage.
Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy,
Thou dreadful Ajax, that the appalled air
May pierce the head of the great combatant,
And hale him hither.
AJAX. Thou, trumpet, there's my purse.
Now crack thy lungs and split thy brazen pipe;
Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek
Out-swell the colic of puff Aquilon'd.
Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood:
Thou blowest for Hector. [Trumpet sounds]
ULYSSES. No trumpet answers.
ACHILLES. 'Tis but early days.
Enter DIOMEDES, with CRESSIDA
AGAMEMNON. Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas' daughter?
ULYSSES. 'Tis he, I ken the manner of his gait:
He rises on the toe. That spirit of his
In aspiration lifts him from the earth.
AGAMEMNON. Is this the lady Cressid?
DIOMEDES. Even she.
AGAMEMNON. Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady.
NESTOR. Our general doth salute you with a kiss.
ULYSSES. Yet is the kindness but particular;
'Twere better she were kiss'd in general.
NESTOR. And very courtly counsel: I'll begin.
So much for Nestor.
ACHILLES. I'll take that winter from your lips, fair lady.
Achilles bids you welcome.
MENELAUS. I had good argument for kissing once.
PATROCLUS. But that's no argument for kissing now;
For thus popp'd Paris in his hardiment,
And parted thus you and your argument.
ULYSSES. O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns!
For which we lose our heads to gild his horns.
PATROCLUS. The first was Menelaus' kiss; this, mine-
[Kisses her again]
Patroclus kisses you.
MENELAUS. O, this is trim!
PATROCLUS. Paris and I kiss evermore for him.
MENELAUS. I'll have my kiss, sir. Lady, by your leave.
CRESSIDA. In kissing, do you render or receive?
PATROCLUS. Both take and give.
CRESSIDA. I'll make my match to live,
The kiss you take is better than you give;
Therefore no kiss.
MENELAUS. I'll give you boot; I'll give you three for one.
CRESSIDA. You are an odd man; give even or give none.
MENELAUS. An odd man, lady? Every man is odd.
CRESSIDA. No, Paris is not; for you know 'tis true
That you are odd, and he is even with you.
MENELAUS. You fillip me o' th' head.
CRESSIDA. No, I'll be sworn.
ULYSSES. It were no match, your nail against his horn.
May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you?
CRESSIDA. You may.
ULYSSES. I do desire it.
CRESSIDA. Why, beg then.
ULYSSES. Why then, for Venus' sake give me a kiss
When Helen is a maid again, and his.
CRESSIDA. I am your debtor; claim it when 'tis due.
ULYSSES. Never's my day, and then a kiss of you.
DIOMEDES. Lady, a word. I'll bring you to your father.
Exit with CRESSIDA
NESTOR. A woman of quick sense.
ULYSSES. Fie, fie upon her!
There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip,
Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out
At every joint and motive of her body.
O these encounters so glib of tongue
That give a coasting welcome ere it comes,
And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts
To every ticklish reader! Set them down
For sluttish spoils of opportunity,
And daughters of the game. [Trumpet within]
ALL. The Troyans' trumpet.
Enter HECTOR, armed; AENEAS, TROILUS, PARIS, HELENUS,
and other Trojans, with attendants
AGAMEMNON. Yonder comes the troop.
AENEAS. Hail, all the state of Greece! What shall be done
To him that victory commands? Or do you purpose
A victor shall be known? Will you the knights
Shall to the edge of all extremity
Pursue each other, or shall they be divided
By any voice or order of the field?
Hector bade ask.
AGAMEMNON. Which way would Hector have it?
AENEAS. He cares not; he'll obey conditions.
ACHILLES. 'Tis done like Hector; but securely done,
A little proudly, and great deal misprizing
The knight oppos'd.
AENEAS. If not Achilles, sir,
What is your name?
ACHILLES. If not Achilles, nothing.
AENEAS. Therefore Achilles. But whate'er, know this:
In the extremity of great and little
Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector;
The one almost as infinite as all,
The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well,
And that which looks like pride is courtesy.
This Ajax is half made of Hector's blood;
In love whereof half Hector stays at home;
Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek
This blended knight, half Troyan and half Greek.
ACHILLES. A maiden battle then? O, I perceive you!
Re-enter DIOMEDES
AGAMEMNON. Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight,
Stand by our Ajax. As you and Lord AEneas
Consent upon the order of their fight,
So be it; either to the uttermost,
Or else a breath. The combatants being kin
Half stints their strife before their strokes begin.
[AJAX and HECTOR enter the lists]
ULYSSES. They are oppos'd already.
AGAMEMNON. What Troyan is that same that looks so heavy?
ULYSSES. The youngest son of Priam, a true knight;
Not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word;
Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue;
Not soon provok'd, nor being provok'd soon calm'd;
His heart and hand both open and both free;
For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows,
Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty,
Nor dignifies an impair thought with breath;
Manly as Hector, but more dangerous;
For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes
To tender objects, but he in heat of action
Is more vindicative than jealous love.
They call him Troilus, and on him erect
A second hope as fairly built as Hector.
Thus says Aeneas, one that knows the youth
Even to his inches, and, with private soul,
Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me.
[Alarum. HECTOR and AJAX fight]
AGAMEMNON. They are in action.
NESTOR. Now, Ajax, hold thine own!
TROILUS. Hector, thou sleep'st;
Awake thee.
AGAMEMNON. His blows are well dispos'd. There, Ajax!
[Trumpets cease]
DIOMEDES. You must no more.
AENEAS. Princes, enough, so please you.
AJAX. I am not warm yet; let us fight again.
DIOMEDES. As Hector pleases.
HECTOR. Why, then will I no more.
Thou art, great lord, my father's sister's son,
A cousin-german to great Priam's seed;
The obligation of our blood forbids
A gory emulation 'twixt us twain:
Were thy commixtion Greek and Troyan so
That thou could'st say 'This hand is Grecian all,
And this is Troyan; the sinews of this leg
All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother's blood
Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister
Bounds in my father's'; by Jove multipotent,
Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member
Wherein my sword had not impressure made
Of our rank feud; but the just gods gainsay
That any drop thou borrow'dst from thy mother,
My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword
Be drained! Let me embrace thee, Ajax.
By him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms;
Hector would have them fall upon him thus.
Cousin, all honour to thee!
AJAX. I thank thee, Hector.
Thou art too gentle and too free a man.
I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence
A great addition earned in thy death.
HECTOR. Not Neoptolemus so mirable,
On whose bright crest Fame with her loud'st Oyes
Cries 'This is he' could promise to himself
A thought of added honour torn from Hector.
AENEAS. There is expectance here from both the sides
What further you will do.
HECTOR. We'll answer it:
The issue is embracement. Ajax, farewell.
AJAX. If I might in entreaties find success,
As seld I have the chance, I would desire
My famous cousin to our Grecian tents.
DIOMEDES. 'Tis Agamemnon's wish; and great Achilles
Doth long to see unarm'd the valiant Hector.
HECTOR. Aeneas, call my brother Troilus to me,
And signify this loving interview
To the expecters of our Troyan part;
Desire them home. Give me thy hand, my cousin;
I will go eat with thee, and see your knights.
AGAMEMNON and the rest of the Greeks come forward
AJAX. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here.
HECTOR. The worthiest of them tell me name by name;
But for Achilles, my own searching eyes
Shall find him by his large and portly size.
AGAMEMNON.Worthy all arms! as welcome as to one
That would be rid of such an enemy.
But that's no welcome. Understand more clear,
What's past and what's to come is strew'd with husks
And formless ruin of oblivion;
But in this extant moment, faith and troth,
Strain'd purely from all hollow bias-drawing,
Bids thee with most divine integrity,
From heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome.
HECTOR. I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon.
AGAMEMNON. [To Troilus] My well-fam'd lord of Troy, no less to you.
MENELAUS. Let me confirm my princely brother's greeting.
You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither.
HECTOR. Who must we answer?
AENEAS. The noble Menelaus.
HECTOR. O you, my lord? By Mars his gauntlet, thanks!
Mock not that I affect the untraded oath;
Your quondam wife swears still by Venus' glove.
She's well, but bade me not commend her to you.
MENELAUS. Name her not now, sir; she's a deadly theme.
HECTOR. O, pardon; I offend.
NESTOR. I have, thou gallant Troyan, seen thee oft,
Labouring for destiny, make cruel way
Through ranks of Greekish youth; and I have seen thee,
As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed,
Despising many forfeits and subduements,
When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i' th' air,
Not letting it decline on the declined;
That I have said to some my standers-by
'Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life!'
And I have seen thee pause and take thy breath,
When that a ring of Greeks have hemm'd thee in,
Like an Olympian wrestling. This have I seen;
But this thy countenance, still lock'd in steel,
I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire,
And once fought with him. He was a soldier good,
But, by great Mars, the captain of us all,
Never like thee. O, let an old man embrace thee;
And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents.
AENEAS. 'Tis the old Nestor.
HECTOR. Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle,
That hast so long walk'd hand in hand with time.
Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee.
NESTOR. I would my arms could match thee in contention
As they contend with thee in courtesy.
HECTOR. I would they could.
NESTOR. Ha!
By this white beard, I'd fight with thee to-morrow.
Well, welcome, welcome! I have seen the time.
ULYSSES. I wonder now how yonder city stands,
When we have here her base and pillar by us.
HECTOR. I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well.
Ah, sir, there's many a Greek and Troyan dead,
Since first I saw yourself and Diomed
In Ilion on your Greekish embassy.
ULYSSES. Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue.
My prophecy is but half his journey yet;
For yonder walls, that pertly front your town,
Yond towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds,
Must kiss their own feet.
HECTOR. I must not believe you.
There they stand yet; and modestly I think
The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost
A drop of Grecian blood. The end crowns all;
And that old common arbitrator, Time,
Will one day end it.
ULYSSES. So to him we leave it.
Most gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome.
After the General, I beseech you next
To feast with me and see me at my tent.
ACHILLES. I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou!
Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee;
I have with exact view perus'd thee, Hector,
And quoted joint by joint.
HECTOR. Is this Achilles?
ACHILLES. I am Achilles.
HECTOR. Stand fair, I pray thee; let me look on thee.
ACHILLES. Behold thy fill.
HECTOR. Nay, I have done already.
ACHILLES. Thou art too brief. I will the second time,
As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb.
HECTOR. O, like a book of sport thou'lt read me o'er;
But there's more in me than thou understand'st.
Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye?
ACHILLES. Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his body
Shall I destroy him? Whether there, or there, or there?
That I may give the local wound a name,
And make distinct the very breach whereout
Hector's great spirit flew. Answer me, heavens.
HECTOR. It would discredit the blest gods, proud man,
To answer such a question. Stand again.
Think'st thou to catch my life so pleasantly
As to prenominate in nice conjecture
Where thou wilt hit me dead?
ACHILLES. I tell thee yea.
HECTOR. Wert thou an oracle to tell me so,
I'd not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well;
For I'll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there;
But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm,
I'll kill thee everywhere, yea, o'er and o'er.
You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag.
His insolence draws folly from my lips;
But I'll endeavour deeds to match these words,
Or may I never-
AJAX. Do not chafe thee, cousin;
And you, Achilles, let these threats alone
Till accident or purpose bring you to't.
You may have every day enough of Hector,
If you have stomach. The general state, I fear,
Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him.
HECTOR. I pray you let us see you in the field;
We have had pelting wars since you refus'd
The Grecians' cause.
ACHILLES. Dost thou entreat me, Hector?
To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death;
To-night all friends.
HECTOR. Thy hand upon that match.
AGAMEMNON. First, all you peers of Greece, go to my tent;
There in the full convive we; afterwards,
As Hector's leisure and your bounties shall
Concur together, severally entreat him.
Beat loud the tambourines, let the trumpets blow,
That this great soldier may his welcome know.
Exeunt all but TROILUS and ULYSSES
TROILUS. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you,
In what place of the field doth Calchas keep?
ULYSSES. At Menelaus' tent, most princely Troilus.
There Diomed doth feast with him to-night,
Who neither looks upon the heaven nor earth,
But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view
On the fair Cressid.
TROILUS. Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to you so much,
After we part from Agamemnon's tent,
To bring me thither?
ULYSSES. You shall command me, sir.
As gentle tell me of what honour was
This Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover there
That wails her absence?
TROILUS. O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars
A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord?
She was belov'd, she lov'd; she is, and doth;
But still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT V. SCENE 1.
The Grecian camp. Before the tent of ACHILLES
Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS
ACHILLES. I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night,
Which with my scimitar I'll cool to-morrow.
Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.
PATROCLUS. Here comes Thersites.
Enter THERSITES
ACHILLES. How now, thou core of envy!
Thou crusty batch of nature, what's the news?
THERSITES. Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of
idiot worshippers, here's a letter for thee.
ACHILLES. From whence, fragment?
THERSITES. Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.
PATROCLUS. Who keeps the tent now?
THERSITES. The surgeon's box or the patient's wound.
PATROCLUS. Well said, Adversity! and what needs these tricks?
THERSITES. Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy talk; thou
art said to be Achilles' male varlet.
PATROCLUS. Male varlet, you rogue! What's that?
THERSITES. Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases of
the south, the guts-griping ruptures, catarrhs, loads o' gravel
in the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten
livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas,
limekilns i' th' palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-
simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous
discoveries!
PATROCLUS. Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou
to curse thus?
THERSITES. Do I curse thee?
PATROCLUS. Why, no, you ruinous butt; you whoreson
indistinguishable cur, no.
THERSITES. No! Why art thou, then, exasperate, thou idle immaterial
skein of sleid silk, thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye,
thou tassel of a prodigal's purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is
pest'red with such water-flies-diminutives of nature!
PATROCLUS. Out, gall!
THERSITES. Finch egg!
ACHILLES. My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite
From my great purpose in to-morrow's battle.
Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba,
A token from her daughter, my fair love,
Both taxing me and gaging me to keep
An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it.
Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay;
My major vow lies here, this I'll obey.
Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent;
This night in banqueting must all be spent.
Away, Patroclus! Exit with PATROCLUS
THERSITES. With too much blood and too little brain these two may
run mad; but, if with too much brain and to little blood they do,
I'll be a curer of madmen. Here's Agamemnon, an honest fellow
enough, and one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain
as ear-wax; and the goodly transformation of Jupiter there, his
brother, the bull, the primitive statue and oblique memorial of
cuckolds, a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain, hanging at his
brother's leg-to what form but that he is, should wit larded with
malice, and malice forced with wit, turn him to? To an ass, were
nothing: he is both ass and ox. To an ox, were nothing: he is both
ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a toad, a
lizard, an owl, a put-tock, or a herring without a roe, I would
not care; but to be Menelaus, I would conspire against destiny.
Ask me not what I would be, if I were not Thersites; for I care
not to be the louse of a lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hey-day!
sprites and fires!
Enter HECTOR, TROILUS, AJAX, AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES,
NESTOR, MENELAUS, and DIOMEDES, with lights
AGAMEMNON. We go wrong, we go wrong.
AJAX. No, yonder 'tis;
There, where we see the lights.
HECTOR. I trouble you.
AJAX. No, not a whit.
Re-enter ACHILLES
ULYSSES. Here comes himself to guide you.
ACHILLES. Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, Princes all.
AGAMEMNON. So now, fair Prince of Troy, I bid good night;
Ajax commands the guard to tend on you.
HECTOR. Thanks, and good night to the Greeks' general.
MENELAUS. Good night, my lord.
HECTOR. Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus.
THERSITES. Sweet draught! 'Sweet' quoth 'a?
Sweet sink, sweet sewer!
ACHILLES. Good night and welcome, both at once, to those
That go or tarry.
AGAMEMNON. Good night.
Exeunt AGAMEMNON and MENELAUS
ACHILLES. Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed,
Keep Hector company an hour or two.
DIOMEDES. I cannot, lord; I have important business,
The tide whereof is now. Good night, great Hector.
HECTOR. Give me your hand.
ULYSSES. [Aside to TROILUS] Follow his torch; he goes to
Calchas' tent; I'll keep you company.
TROILUS. Sweet sir, you honour me.
HECTOR. And so, good night.
Exit DIOMEDES; ULYSSES and TROILUS following
ACHILLES. Come, come, enter my tent.
Exeunt all but THERSITES
THERSITES. That same Diomed's a false-hearted rogue, a most unjust
knave; I will no more trust him when he leers than I will a
serpent when he hisses. He will spend his mouth and promise, like
Brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell
it: it is prodigious, there will come some change; the sun
borrows of the moon when Diomed keeps his word. I will rather
leave to see Hector than not to dog him. They say he keeps a
Troyan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas' tent. I'll after.
Nothing but lechery! All incontinent varlets!
Exit
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for scene 3 based on the provided context. | null | Enter Hector and Andromache. Andromache attempts to persuade Hector not to go into battle that day. Hector refuses to listen to her. Andromache says she has had an ominous dream that she is sure will come true that day. Still Hector refuses to listen to his wife Cassandra enters. Andromache enlists her support to persuade Hector not to go to battle. She tells her of her dream: I have dreamt/Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night/Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter. Cassandra the prophetess says Andromache says the truth, and both of them attempt to persuade Hector to unarm and not go into battle. Hector refuses to listen to them. Mine honor keeps the weather of my fate:/Life every man holds dear, but the dear man/Holds honor far more precious-dear than life. he says. He hails Troilus who has just entered and asks him if he intended to go into battle. Andromache sends Cassandra to call Priam to persuade Hector. Hector tells Troilus to off thy harness and let his sinews grow stronger before he attempted a brush with the War. He tells him to disarm himself and that he, Hector will stand for himself, Troilus and Troy. Troilus replies that Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you, /Which better fits a lion than a man. Hector wonders what vice that is and asks Troilus to chide him for it. Troilus says that many times when Greeks find themselves at the wrong end of Hectors sword, he allowed them to live. Hector says that he is only indulging in fair play. Troilus replies that it is Fools play. He prays that they leave the hermit pity with our mother;/And when we have our armors buckled on/The venomd vengeance ride upon our swords, /Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth! He means that when they are at War they must spur their swords to do piteous and rueful work and stop them from showing compassion. Hector thinks Troilus idea is savage. Troilus says that that is the way of wars. He wishes to fight for himself since he seeks vengeance and not the exercise of mercy. Hector says that he wont let him fight on that day. Troilus says nobody can stop him.- Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars. Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees even if their eyes are sore with crying, Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn/Opposd to hinder me, should stop my way, /But by my ruin. Priam and Cassandra enter. Cassandra tells Priam to catch hold of Hector and hold him fast as He is thy crutch. Now if thou lose thy stay/Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee, /Fall all together. If Hector is allowed to go into battle, Cassandra says, the fall of Troy will inevitably follow. Priam attempts to dissuade Hector - he tells him that Andromache has dreamt, his mother has had visions, Cassandra has foreseen, and he himself like a prophet believed the day was ominous. He implores him, therefore, not to go into battle. |
----------SCENE 2---------
ACT V. SCENE 2.
The Grecian camp. Before CALCHAS' tent
Enter DIOMEDES
DIOMEDES. What, are you up here, ho? Speak.
CALCHAS. [Within] Who calls?
DIOMEDES. Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where's your daughter?
CALCHAS. [Within] She comes to you.
Enter TROILUS and ULYSSES, at a distance; after them
THERSITES
ULYSSES. Stand where the torch may not discover us.
Enter CRESSIDA
TROILUS. Cressid comes forth to him.
DIOMEDES. How now, my charge!
CRESSIDA. Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word with you.
[Whispers]
TROILUS. Yea, so familiar!
ULYSSES. She will sing any man at first sight.
THERSITES. And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff;
she's noted.
DIOMEDES. Will you remember?
CRESSIDA. Remember? Yes.
DIOMEDES. Nay, but do, then;
And let your mind be coupled with your words.
TROILUS. What shall she remember?
ULYSSES. List!
CRESSIDA. Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly.
THERSITES. Roguery!
DIOMEDES. Nay, then-
CRESSIDA. I'll tell you what-
DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! come, tell a pin; you are a forsworn-
CRESSIDA. In faith, I cannot. What would you have me do?
THERSITES. A juggling trick, to be secretly open.
DIOMEDES. What did you swear you would bestow on me?
CRESSIDA. I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath;
Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek.
DIOMEDES. Good night.
TROILUS. Hold, patience!
ULYSSES. How now, Troyan!
CRESSIDA. Diomed!
DIOMEDES. No, no, good night; I'll be your fool no more.
TROILUS. Thy better must.
CRESSIDA. Hark! a word in your ear.
TROILUS. O plague and madness!
ULYSSES. You are moved, Prince; let us depart, I pray,
Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself
To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous;
The time right deadly; I beseech you, go.
TROILUS. Behold, I pray you.
ULYSSES. Nay, good my lord, go off;
You flow to great distraction; come, my lord.
TROILUS. I prithee stay.
ULYSSES. You have not patience; come.
TROILUS. I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell's torments,
I will not speak a word.
DIOMEDES. And so, good night.
CRESSIDA. Nay, but you part in anger.
TROILUS. Doth that grieve thee? O withered truth!
ULYSSES. How now, my lord?
TROILUS. By Jove, I will be patient.
CRESSIDA. Guardian! Why, Greek!
DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! adieu! you palter.
CRESSIDA. In faith, I do not. Come hither once again.
ULYSSES. You shake, my lord, at something; will you go?
You will break out.
TROILUS. She strokes his cheek.
ULYSSES. Come, come.
TROILUS. Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a word:
There is between my will and all offences
A guard of patience. Stay a little while.
THERSITES. How the devil luxury, with his fat rump and potato
finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry!
DIOMEDES. But will you, then?
CRESSIDA. In faith, I will, lo; never trust me else.
DIOMEDES. Give me some token for the surety of it.
CRESSIDA. I'll fetch you one.
Exit
ULYSSES. You have sworn patience.
TROILUS. Fear me not, my lord;
I will not be myself, nor have cognition
Of what I feel. I am all patience.
Re-enter CRESSIDA
THERSITES. Now the pledge; now, now, now!
CRESSIDA. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.
TROILUS. O beauty! where is thy faith?
ULYSSES. My lord!
TROILUS. I will be patient; outwardly I will.
CRESSIDA. You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.
He lov'd me-O false wench!-Give't me again.
DIOMEDES. Whose was't?
CRESSIDA. It is no matter, now I ha't again.
I will not meet with you to-morrow night.
I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.
THERSITES. Now she sharpens. Well said, whetstone.
DIOMEDES. I shall have it.
CRESSIDA. What, this?
DIOMEDES. Ay, that.
CRESSIDA. O all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge!
Thy master now lies thinking on his bed
Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove,
And gives memorial dainty kisses to it,
As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me;
He that takes that doth take my heart withal.
DIOMEDES. I had your heart before; this follows it.
TROILUS. I did swear patience.
CRESSIDA. You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not;
I'll give you something else.
DIOMEDES. I will have this. Whose was it?
CRESSIDA. It is no matter.
DIOMEDES. Come, tell me whose it was.
CRESSIDA. 'Twas one's that lov'd me better than you will.
But, now you have it, take it.
DIOMEDES. Whose was it?
CRESSIDA. By all Diana's waiting women yond,
And by herself, I will not tell you whose.
DIOMEDES. To-morrow will I wear it on my helm,
And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it.
TROILUS. Wert thou the devil and wor'st it on thy horn,
It should be challeng'd.
CRESSIDA. Well, well, 'tis done, 'tis past; and yet it is not;
I will not keep my word.
DIOMEDES. Why, then farewell;
Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.
CRESSIDA. You shall not go. One cannot speak a word
But it straight starts you.
DIOMEDES. I do not like this fooling.
THERSITES. Nor I, by Pluto; but that that likes not you
Pleases me best.
DIOMEDES. What, shall I come? The hour-
CRESSIDA. Ay, come-O Jove! Do come. I shall be plagu'd.
DIOMEDES. Farewell till then.
CRESSIDA. Good night. I prithee come. Exit DIOMEDES
Troilus, farewell! One eye yet looks on thee;
But with my heart the other eye doth see.
Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,
The error of our eye directs our mind.
What error leads must err; O, then conclude,
Minds sway'd by eyes are full of turpitude.
Exit
THERSITES. A proof of strength she could not publish more,
Unless she said 'My mind is now turn'd whore.'
ULYSSES. All's done, my lord.
TROILUS. It is.
ULYSSES. Why stay we, then?
TROILUS. To make a recordation to my soul
Of every syllable that here was spoke.
But if I tell how these two did coact,
Shall I not lie in publishing a truth?
Sith yet there is a credence in my heart,
An esperance so obstinately strong,
That doth invert th' attest of eyes and ears;
As if those organs had deceptious functions
Created only to calumniate.
Was Cressid here?
ULYSSES. I cannot conjure, Troyan.
TROILUS. She was not, sure.
ULYSSES. Most sure she was.
TROILUS. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.
ULYSSES. Nor mine, my lord. Cressid was here but now.
TROILUS. Let it not be believ'd for womanhood.
Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage
To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme,
For depravation, to square the general sex
By Cressid's rule. Rather think this not Cressid.
ULYSSES. What hath she done, Prince, that can soil our mothers?
TROILUS. Nothing at all, unless that this were she.
THERSITES. Will 'a swagger himself out on's own eyes?
TROILUS. This she? No; this is Diomed's Cressida.
If beauty have a soul, this is not she;
If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies,
If sanctimony be the god's delight,
If there be rule in unity itself,
This was not she. O madness of discourse,
That cause sets up with and against itself!
Bifold authority! where reason can revolt
Without perdition, and loss assume all reason
Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid.
Within my soul there doth conduce a fight
Of this strange nature, that a thing inseparate
Divides more wider than the sky and earth;
And yet the spacious breadth of this division
Admits no orifex for a point as subtle
As Ariachne's broken woof to enter.
Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto's gates:
Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven.
Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself:
The bonds of heaven are slipp'd, dissolv'd, and loos'd;
And with another knot, five-finger-tied,
The fractions of her faith, orts of her love,
The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy relics
Of her o'er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed.
ULYSSES. May worthy Troilus be half-attach'd
With that which here his passion doth express?
TROILUS. Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well
In characters as red as Mars his heart
Inflam'd with Venus. Never did young man fancy
With so eternal and so fix'd a soul.
Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love,
So much by weight hate I her Diomed.
That sleeve is mine that he'll bear on his helm;
Were it a casque compos'd by Vulcan's skill
My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout
Which shipmen do the hurricano call,
Constring'd in mass by the almighty sun,
Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune's ear
In his descent than shall my prompted sword
Falling on Diomed.
THERSITES. He'll tickle it for his concupy.
TROILUS. O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false!
Let all untruths stand by thy stained name,
And they'll seem glorious.
ULYSSES. O, contain yourself;
Your passion draws ears hither.
Enter AENEAS
AENEAS. I have been seeking you this hour, my lord.
Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy;
Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home.
TROILUS. Have with you, Prince. My courteous lord, adieu.
Fairwell, revolted fair!-and, Diomed,
Stand fast and wear a castle on thy head.
ULYSSES. I'll bring you to the gates.
TROILUS. Accept distracted thanks.
Exeunt TROILUS, AENEAS. and ULYSSES
THERSITES. Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like
a raven; I would bode, I would bode. Patroclus will give me
anything for the intelligence of this whore; the parrot will not
do more for an almond than he for a commodious drab. Lechery,
lechery! Still wars and lechery! Nothing else holds fashion. A
burning devil take them!
Exit
----------SCENE 3---------
ACT V. SCENE 3.
Troy. Before PRIAM'S palace
Enter HECTOR and ANDROMACHE
ANDROMACHE. When was my lord so much ungently temper'd
To stop his ears against admonishment?
Unarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day.
HECTOR. You train me to offend you; get you in.
By all the everlasting gods, I'll go.
ANDROMACHE. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day.
HECTOR. No more, I say.
Enter CASSANDRA
CASSANDRA. Where is my brother Hector?
ANDROMACHE. Here, sister, arm'd, and bloody in intent.
Consort with me in loud and dear petition,
Pursue we him on knees; for I have dreamt
Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night
Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter.
CASSANDRA. O, 'tis true!
HECTOR. Ho! bid my trumpet sound.
CASSANDRA. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother!
HECTOR. Be gone, I say. The gods have heard me swear.
CASSANDRA. The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows;
They are polluted off'rings, more abhorr'd
Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
ANDROMACHE. O, be persuaded! Do not count it holy
To hurt by being just. It is as lawful,
For we would give much, to use violent thefts
And rob in the behalf of charity.
CASSANDRA. It is the purpose that makes strong the vow;
But vows to every purpose must not hold.
Unarm, sweet Hector.
HECTOR. Hold you still, I say.
Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate.
Life every man holds dear; but the dear man
Holds honour far more precious dear than life.
Enter TROILUS
How now, young man! Mean'st thou to fight to-day?
ANDROMACHE. Cassandra, call my father to persuade.
Exit CASSANDRA
HECTOR. No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth;
I am to-day i' th' vein of chivalry.
Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong,
And tempt not yet the brushes of the war.
Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy,
I'll stand to-day for thee and me and Troy.
TROILUS. Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you
Which better fits a lion than a man.
HECTOR. What vice is that, good Troilus?
Chide me for it.
TROILUS. When many times the captive Grecian falls,
Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,
You bid them rise and live.
HECTOR. O, 'tis fair play!
TROILUS. Fool's play, by heaven, Hector.
HECTOR. How now! how now!
TROILUS. For th' love of all the gods,
Let's leave the hermit Pity with our mother;
And when we have our armours buckled on,
The venom'd vengeance ride upon our swords,
Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth!
HECTOR. Fie, savage, fie!
TROILUS. Hector, then 'tis wars.
HECTOR. Troilus, I would not have you fight to-day.
TROILUS. Who should withhold me?
Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars
Beck'ning with fiery truncheon my retire;
Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees,
Their eyes o'ergalled with recourse of tears;
Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn,
Oppos'd to hinder me, should stop my way,
But by my ruin.
Re-enter CASSANDRA, with PRIAM
CASSANDRA. Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast;
He is thy crutch; now if thou lose thy stay,
Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee,
Fall all together.
PRIAM. Come, Hector, come, go back.
Thy wife hath dreamt; thy mother hath had visions;
Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself
Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt
To tell thee that this day is ominous.
Therefore, come back.
HECTOR. Aeneas is a-field;
And I do stand engag'd to many Greeks,
Even in the faith of valour, to appear
This morning to them.
PRIAM. Ay, but thou shalt not go.
HECTOR. I must not break my faith.
You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir,
Let me not shame respect; but give me leave
To take that course by your consent and voice
Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam.
CASSANDRA. O Priam, yield not to him!
ANDROMACHE. Do not, dear father.
HECTOR. Andromache, I am offended with you.
Upon the love you bear me, get you in.
Exit ANDROMACHE
TROILUS. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl
Makes all these bodements.
CASSANDRA. O, farewell, dear Hector!
Look how thou diest. Look how thy eye turns pale.
Look how thy wounds do bleed at many vents.
Hark how Troy roars; how Hecuba cries out;
How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth;
Behold distraction, frenzy, and amazement,
Like witless antics, one another meet,
And all cry, Hector! Hector's dead! O Hector!
TROILUS. Away, away!
CASSANDRA. Farewell!-yet, soft! Hector, I take my leave.
Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive.
Exit
HECTOR. You are amaz'd, my liege, at her exclaim.
Go in, and cheer the town; we'll forth, and fight,
Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night.
PRIAM. Farewell. The gods with safety stand about thee!
Exeunt severally PRIAM and HECTOR.
Alarums
TROILUS. They are at it, hark! Proud Diomed, believe,
I come to lose my arm or win my sleeve.
Enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. Do you hear, my lord? Do you hear?
TROILUS. What now?
PANDARUS. Here's a letter come from yond poor girl.
TROILUS. Let me read.
PANDARUS. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick so troubles
me, and the foolish fortune of this girl, and what one thing,
what another, that I shall leave you one o' th's days; and I have
a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that
unless a man were curs'd I cannot tell what to think on't. What
says she there?
TROILUS. Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart;
Th' effect doth operate another way.
[Tearing the letter]
Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together.
My love with words and errors still she feeds,
But edifies another with her deeds. Exeunt severally
----------SCENE 4---------
ACT V. SCENE 4.
The plain between Troy and the Grecian camp
Enter THERSITES. Excursions
THERSITES. Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I'll go look
on. That dissembling abominable varlet, Diomed, has got that same
scurvy doting foolish young knave's sleeve of Troy there in his
helm. I would fain see them meet, that that same young Troyan ass
that loves the whore there might send that Greekish whoremasterly
villain with the sleeve back to the dissembling luxurious drab of
a sleeve-less errand. A th' t'other side, the policy of those
crafty swearing rascals-that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese,
Nestor, and that same dog-fox, Ulysses -is not prov'd worth a
blackberry. They set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax,
against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles; and now is the cur,
Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm to-day;
whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy
grows into an ill opinion.
Enter DIOMEDES, TROILUS following
Soft! here comes sleeve, and t'other.
TROILUS. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx
I would swim after.
DIOMEDES. Thou dost miscall retire.
I do not fly; but advantageous care
Withdrew me from the odds of multitude.
Have at thee.
THERSITES. Hold thy whore, Grecian; now for thy whore,
Troyan-now the sleeve, now the sleeve!
Exeunt TROILUS and DIOMEDES fighting
Enter HECTOR
HECTOR. What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector's match?
Art thou of blood and honour?
THERSITES. No, no-I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very
filthy rogue.
HECTOR. I do believe thee. Live.
Exit
THERSITES. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague
break thy neck for frighting me! What's become of the wenching
rogues? I think they have swallowed one another. I would laugh at
that miracle. Yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I'll seek
them.
Exit
----------SCENE 5---------
ACT V. SCENE 5.
Another part of the plain
Enter DIOMEDES and A SERVANT
DIOMEDES. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus' horse;
Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid.
Fellow, commend my service to her beauty;
Tell her I have chastis'd the amorous Troyan,
And am her knight by proof.
SERVANT. I go, my lord.
Exit
Enter AGAMEMNON
AGAMEMNON. Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamus
Hath beat down enon; bastard Margarelon
Hath Doreus prisoner,
And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,
Upon the pashed corses of the kings
Epistrophus and Cedius. Polixenes is slain;
Amphimacus and Thoas deadly hurt;
Patroclus ta'en, or slain; and Palamedes
Sore hurt and bruis'd. The dreadful Sagittary
Appals our numbers. Haste we, Diomed,
To reinforcement, or we perish all.
Enter NESTOR
NESTOR. Go, bear Patroclus' body to Achilles,
And bid the snail-pac'd Ajax arm for shame.
There is a thousand Hectors in the field;
Now here he fights on Galathe his horse,
And there lacks work; anon he's there afoot,
And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls
Before the belching whale; then is he yonder,
And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge,
Fall down before him like the mower's swath.
Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and takes;
Dexterity so obeying appetite
That what he will he does, and does so much
That proof is call'd impossibility.
Enter ULYSSES
ULYSSES. O, courage, courage, courage, Princes! Great
Achilles Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance.
Patroclus' wounds have rous'd his drowsy blood,
Together with his mangled Myrmidons,
That noseless, handless, hack'd and chipp'd, come to
him, Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend
And foams at mouth, and he is arm'd and at it,
Roaring for Troilus; who hath done to-day
Mad and fantastic execution,
Engaging and redeeming of himself
With such a careless force and forceless care
As if that luck, in very spite of cunning,
Bade him win all.
Enter AJAX
AJAX. Troilus! thou coward Troilus!
Exit
DIOMEDES. Ay, there, there.
NESTOR. So, so, we draw together.
Exit
Enter ACHILLES
ACHILLES. Where is this Hector?
Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face;
Know what it is to meet Achilles angry.
Hector! where's Hector? I will none but Hector.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 6---------
ACT V. SCENE 6.
Another part of the plain
Enter AJAX
AJAX. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head.
Enter DIOMEDES
DIOMEDES. Troilus, I say! Where's Troilus?
AJAX. What wouldst thou?
DIOMEDES. I would correct him.
AJAX. Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office
Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! What, Troilus!
Enter TROILUS
TROILUS. O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor,
And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse.
DIOMEDES. Ha! art thou there?
AJAX. I'll fight with him alone. Stand, Diomed.
DIOMEDES. He is my prize. I will not look upon.
TROILUS. Come, both, you cogging Greeks; have at you
Exeunt fighting
Enter HECTOR
HECTOR. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother!
Enter ACHILLES
ACHILLES. Now do I see thee, ha! Have at thee, Hector!
HECTOR. Pause, if thou wilt.
ACHILLES. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Troyan.
Be happy that my arms are out of use;
My rest and negligence befriends thee now,
But thou anon shalt hear of me again;
Till when, go seek thy fortune.
Exit
HECTOR. Fare thee well.
I would have been much more a fresher man,
Had I expected thee.
Re-enter TROILUS
How now, my brother!
TROILUS. Ajax hath ta'en Aeneas. Shall it be?
No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven,
He shall not carry him; I'll be ta'en too,
Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say:
I reck not though thou end my life to-day.
Exit
Enter one in armour
HECTOR. Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark.
No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well;
I'll frush it and unlock the rivets all
But I'll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide?
Why then, fly on; I'll hunt thee for thy hide.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 7---------
ACT V. SCENE 7.
Another part of the plain
Enter ACHILLES, with Myrmidons
ACHILLES. Come here about me, you my Myrmidons;
Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel;
Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath;
And when I have the bloody Hector found,
Empale him with your weapons round about;
In fellest manner execute your arms.
Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye.
It is decreed Hector the great must die.
Exeunt
Enter MENELAUS and PARIS, fighting; then THERSITES
THERSITES. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull!
now, dog! 'Loo, Paris, 'loo! now my double-horn'd Spartan! 'loo,
Paris, 'loo! The bull has the game. Ware horns, ho!
Exeunt PARIS and MENELAUS
Enter MARGARELON
MARGARELON. Turn, slave, and fight.
THERSITES. What art thou?
MARGARELON. A bastard son of Priam's.
THERSITES. I am a bastard too; I love bastards. I am a bastard
begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in
everything illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and
wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel's most
ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts
judgment. Farewell, bastard.
Exit
MARGARELON. The devil take thee, coward!
Exit
----------SCENE 8---------
ACT V. SCENE 8.
Another part of the plain
Enter HECTOR
HECTOR. Most putrified core so fair without,
Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life.
Now is my day's work done; I'll take good breath:
Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death!
[Disarms]
Enter ACHILLES and his Myrmidons
ACHILLES. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set;
How ugly night comes breathing at his heels;
Even with the vail and dark'ning of the sun,
To close the day up, Hector's life is done.
HECTOR. I am unarm'd; forego this vantage, Greek.
ACHILLES. Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek.
[HECTOR falls]
So, Ilion, fall thou next! Come, Troy, sink down;
Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone.
On, Myrmidons, and cry you an amain
'Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.'
[A retreat sounded]
Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part.
MYRMIDON. The Troyan trumpets sound the like, my lord.
ACHILLES. The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth
And, stickler-like, the armies separates.
My half-supp'd sword, that frankly would have fed,
Pleas'd with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed.
[Sheathes his sword]
Come, tie his body to my horse's tail;
Along the field I will the Troyan trail.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 9---------
ACT V. SCENE 9.
Another part of the plain
Sound retreat. Shout. Enter AGAMEMNON, AJAX, MENELAUS, NESTOR,
DIOMEDES, and the rest, marching
AGAMEMNON. Hark! hark! what shout is this?
NESTOR. Peace, drums!
SOLDIERS. [Within] Achilles! Achilles! Hector's slain. Achilles!
DIOMEDES. The bruit is Hector's slain, and by Achilles.
AJAX. If it be so, yet bragless let it be;
Great Hector was as good a man as he.
AGAMEMNON. March patiently along. Let one be sent
To pray Achilles see us at our tent.
If in his death the gods have us befriended;
Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended.
Exeunt
----------SCENE 10---------
ACT V. SCENE 10.
Another part of the plain
Enter AENEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, and DEIPHOBUS
AENEAS. Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field.
Never go home; here starve we out the night.
Enter TROILUS
TROILUS. Hector is slain.
ALL. Hector! The gods forbid!
TROILUS. He's dead, and at the murderer's horse's tail,
In beastly sort, dragg'd through the shameful field.
Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed.
Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy.
I say at once let your brief plagues be mercy,
And linger not our sure destructions on.
AENEAS. My lord, you do discomfort all the host.
TROILUS. You understand me not that tell me so.
I do not speak of flight, of fear of death,
But dare all imminence that gods and men
Address their dangers in. Hector is gone.
Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?
Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call'd
Go in to Troy, and say there 'Hector's dead.'
There is a word will Priam turn to stone;
Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,
Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word,
Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away;
Hector is dead; there is no more to say.
Stay yet. You vile abominable tents,
Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,
Let Titan rise as early as he dare,
I'll through and through you. And, thou great-siz'd coward,
No space of earth shall sunder our two hates;
I'll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy's thoughts.
Strike a free march to Troy. With comfort go;
Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.
Enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. But hear you, hear you!
TROILUS. Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame
Pursue thy life and live aye with thy name!
Exeunt all but PANDARUS
PANDARUS. A goodly medicine for my aching bones! world! world! thus
is the poor agent despis'd! traitors and bawds, how earnestly are
you set a work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be
so lov'd, and the performance so loathed? What verse for it? What
instance for it? Let me see-
Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing
Till he hath lost his honey and his sting;
And being once subdu'd in armed trail,
Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.
Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted
cloths. As many as be here of pander's hall,
Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar's fall;
Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,
Though not for me, yet for your aching bones.
Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade,
Some two months hence my will shall here be made.
It should be now, but that my fear is this,
Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss.
Till then I'll sweat and seek about for eases,
And at that time bequeath you my diseases.
Exit
THE END
|
Twelfth Night.act 1.scene | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of scene 3 using the context provided. | At Olivia's house, Sir Toby Belch, Olivia's uncle, is criticizing his niece for mourning the death of her brother so profusely. He says to her serving girl, Maria, that his niece is melodramatically overreacting, and he thoroughly disapproves. Maria disapproves of several things herself: she disapproves of Sir Toby's arriving at such a late hour, dressing so slovenly, and drinking so much. Only yesterday, Olivia complained of these things, plus the fact that Sir Toby brought someone who he thinks is the perfect suitor to the house, Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Despite Maria's calling Aguecheek a "fool and a prodigal," Sir Toby is proud of the chap -- a fitting suitor for his niece: Aguecheek, he says, receives three thousand ducats a year, plays the violincello, and speaks several languages. Maria is not impressed. To her, the man is reputed to be a gambler, a quarreler, a coward, and a habitual drunkard. When Sir Andrew joins them, there follows a brief exchange of jests, most of them at Sir Andrew's expense. Maria leaves, and the two men discuss Sir Andrew's chances as a prospective suitor of Olivia. Sir Andrew is discouraged and ready to ride home tomorrow, but Sir Toby persuades him to prolong his visit for another month, especially since Sir Andrew delights in masques and revels and, as Sir Toby points out, Sir Andrew is a superb dancer and an acrobat, as well. Laughing and joking, the two men leave the stage. It is obvious that Sir Toby has a secret and mysterious purpose for wanting to persuade Sir Andrew to stay and woo the fair Olivia. |
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I.
_The Sea-coast._
_Enter_ VIOLA, ROBERTO, _and two Sailors, carrying a Trunk_.
_Vio._ What country, friends, is this?
_Rob._ This is Illyria, lady.
_Vio._ And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance, he is not drown'd:--What think you, sailors?
_Rob._ It is perchance, that you yourself were saved.
_Vio._ O my poor brother! and so, perchance may he be.
_Rob._ True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and that poor number saved with you,
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself
(Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)
To a strong mast, that lived upon the sea;
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves,
So long as I could see.
_Vio._ Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
The like of him. Know'st thou this country?
_Rob._ Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born,
Not three hours travel from this very place.
_Vio._ Who governs here?
_Rob._ A noble duke, in nature,
As in his name.
_Vio._ What is his name?
_Rob._ Orsino.
_Vio._ Orsino!--I have heard my father name him:
He was a bachelor then.
_Rob._ And so is now,
Or was so very late: for but a month
Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh
In murmur, (as, you know, what great ones do,
The less will prattle of,) that he did seek
The love of fair Olivia.
_Vio._ What is she?
_Rob._ A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also died: for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjured the company
And sight of men.
_Vio._ Oh, that I served that lady!
And might not be deliver'd to the world,
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is!
_Rob._ That were hard to compass;
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.
_Vio._ There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And, I believe, thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
For such disguise as, haply, shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;
Thou shalt present me as a page unto him,
Of gentle breeding, and my name, Cesario:--
That trunk, the reliques of my sea-drown'd brother,
Will furnish man's apparel to my need:--
It may be worth thy pains: for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music,
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap, to time I will commit;
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.
_Rob._ Be you his page, and I your mute will be;
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see!
_Vio._ I thank thee:--Lead me on. [_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 2---------
SCENE II.
_A Room in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_.
_The Duke discovered, seated, and attended by_ CURIO, _and Gentlemen_.
_Duke._ [_Music._] If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.----
[_Music._] That strain again;--it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing, and giving odours.--
[_Music._] Enough; no more; [_He rises._
'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before.
_Cur._ Will you go hunt, my lord?
_Duke._ What, Curio?
_Cur._ The hart.
_Duke._ Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought, she purged the air of pestilence;
That instant was I turn'd into a hart;
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me.
_Enter_ VALENTINE.
How now? what news from my Olivia?--speak.
_Val._ So please my lord, I might not be admitted;
But from her handmaid do return this answer;
The element itself, till seven years heat,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk,
And water once a day her chamber round
With eye-offending brine: all this, to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh,
And lasting, in her sad remembrance.
_Duke._ O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame,
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her!--
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers;
Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers.
[_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 3---------
SCENE III.
_A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ MARIA _and_ SIR TOBY BELCH.
_Sir To._ What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her
brother thus? I am sure, care's an enemy to life.
_Mar._ By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights;
your niece, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.
_Sir To._ Why, let her except before excepted.
_Mar._ Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of
order.
_Sir To._ Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these
clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they
be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.
_Mar._ That quaffing and drinking will undo you; I heard my lady
talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight, that you have brought in
here, to be her wooer.
_Sir To._ Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?
_Mar._ Ay, he.
_Sir To._ He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
_Mar._ What's that to the purpose?
_Sir To._ Why, he has three thousand ducats a-year.
_Mar._ Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a
very fool, and a prodigal.
_Sir To._ Fye, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo,
and hath all the good gifts of nature.
_Mar._ He hath, indeed, all, most natural; for, besides that he's a
fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a
coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the
prudent, he would quickly have the gift of a grave.
_Sir To._ By this band, they are scoundrels, and substractors, that
say so of him. Who are they?
_Mar._ They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.
_Sir To._ With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her, as
long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria: He's a
coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my niece, till his brains
turn o' the toe like a parish-top--See, here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.
[SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, _without_.
_Sir And._ Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch?
_Sir To._ Sweet Sir Andrew!
_Enter_ SIR ANDREW.
_Sir And._ Bless you, fair shrew.
_Mar._ And you too, sir.
_Sir To._ Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
_Sir And._ What's that?
_Sir To._ My niece's chamber-maid.
_Sir And._ Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
_Mar._ My name is Mary, sir.
_Sir And._ Good Mistress Mary Accost,----
_Sir To._ You mistake, knight; accost, is, front her, board her, woo
her, assail her.
_Sir And._ By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company.
Is that the meaning of accost?
_Mar._ Fare you well, gentlemen.
_Sir To._ An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, 'would thou might'st
never draw sword again.
_Sir And._ An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw
sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?
_Mar._ Sir, I have not you by the hand.
_Sir And._ Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.
_Mar._ [_Takes his hand._] Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you,
bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink.
_Sir And._ Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor?
_Mar._ It's dry, sir.
_Sir And._ Why, I think so; I am not such an ass, but I can keep my
hand dry. But what's your jest?
_Mar._ A dry jest, sir.
_Sir And._ Are you full of them?
_Mar._ Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, [_Lets go
his hand._] now I let go your hand, I am barren. [_Exit_ MARIA.
_Sir To._ O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see
thee so put down?
_Sir And._ Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me
down: Methinks, sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian, or an
ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that
does harm to my wit.
_Sir To._ No question.
_Sir And._ An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home
to-morrow, Sir Toby.
_Sir To._ _Pourquoy_, my dear knight?
_Sir And._ What is _pourquoy_? do, or not do? I would I had bestow'd
that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and
bear-baiting: O, had I but follow'd the arts!
_Sir To._ Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.
_Sir And._ Why, would that have mended my hair?
_Sir To._ Past question; for, thou seest, it will not curl by
nature.
_Sir And._ But it becomes me well enough, does't not?
_Sir To._ Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to
see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off.
_Sir And._ 'Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece will
not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the duke
himself, here hard by, wooes her.
_Sir To._ She'll none o' the duke; she'll not match above her
degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it.
Tut, there's life in't, man.
_Sir And._ I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest
mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.
_Sir To._ Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight?
_Sir And._ As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree
of my betters; and yet I'll not compare with an old man.
_Sir To._ What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
_Sir And._ 'Faith, I can cut a caper.
_Sir To._ And I can cut the mutton to't.
_Sir And._ And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as strong as
any man in Illyria.
_Sir To._ Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts
a curtain before them? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and
come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig. What dost thou
mean? is it a world to hide virtues in?--I did think, by the excellent
constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the star of a galliard.
_Sir And._ Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a
flame-colour'd stock. Shall we set about some revels?
_Sir To._ What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?
_Sir And._ Taurus? that's sides and heart.
_Sir To._ No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee
caper:--Ha! higher:--Ha, ha!--excellent!
[_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 4---------
SCENE IV.
_A Room in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_.
_Enter_ VALENTINE, _and_ VIOLA _in Man's Attire_.
_Val._ If the duke continue these favors towards you, Cesario, you
are like to be much advanced.
_Vio._ You either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call
in question the continuance of his love: Is he inconstant, sir, in his
favours?
_Val._ No, believe me.
_Vio._ I thank you.--Here comes the duke.
_Enter_ DUKE, CURIO, _and Gentlemen_.
_Duke._ Who saw Cesario, ho?
_Vio._ On your attendance, my lord; here.
_Duke._ Stand you awhile aloof.--Cesario,
Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd
To thee the book even of my secret soul:
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;
Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow,
Till thou have audience.
_Vio._ Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
_Duke._ Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.
_Vio._ Say, I do speak with her, my lord. What then?
_Duke._ O, then unfold the passion of my love.
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth,
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.
_Vio._ I think not so, my lord.
_Duke._ Dear lad, believe it;
For they shall yet belie thy happy years,
That say, thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound:
I know, thy constellation is right apt
For this affair:--Go:--prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
To call his fortunes thine.
[_Exeunt_ DUKE, CURIO, VALENTINE, _and Gentlemen_.
_Vio._ I'll do my best,
To woo his lady: yet,--a barful strife!--
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.
[_Exit._
----------SCENE 5---------
SCENE V.
_A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ CLOWN _and_ MARIA.
_Mar._ Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open
my lips, so wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse: my lady
will hang thee for thy absence.
_Clo._ Let her hang me: he, that is well hang'd in this world, needs
to fear no colours.
_Mar._ Make that good.
_Clo._ He shall see none to fear.
_Mar._ A good lenten answer: Yet you will be hang'd, for being so
long absent; or, to be turn'd away; is not that as good as a hanging to
you?
_Clo._ Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning
away, let summer bear it out.
_Mar._ Here comes my lady; make your excuse wisely, you were best.
[_Exit_ MARIA.
_Clo._ Wit, and't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits,
that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure
I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: For what says Quinapalus? Better a
witty fool, than a foolish wit.
_Enter_ OLIVIA, MALVOLIO, _and two Servants_.
Bless thee, lady!
_Oli._ Take the fool away.
_Clo._ Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.
_Oli._ Go to, you're a dry fool: I'll no more of you; besides, you
grow dishonest.
_Clo._ Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend;
for, give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the
dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he
cannot, let the botcher mend him.--The lady bade take away the fool;
therefore, I say again, take her away.
_Oli._ Sir, I bade them take away you.
_Clo._ Misprision in the highest degree!--Lady, _Cucullus non facit
monachum_; that's as much as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good
madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.
_Oli._ Can you do it?
_Clo._ Dexterously, good madonna.
_Oli._ Make your proof.
_Clo._ I must catechize you for it, madonna: Good my mouse of
virtue, answer me.
_Oli._ Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll 'bide your proof.
_Clo._ Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?
_Oli._ Good fool, for my brother's death.
_Clo._ I think, his soul is in hell, madonna.
_Oli._ I know, his soul is in heaven, fool.
_Clo._ The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul
being in heaven.--Take away the fool, gentlemen.
_Oli._ What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?
_Mal._ Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him:
Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.
_Clo._ Heaven send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better
increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn, that I am no fox; but he
will not pass his word for two-pence that you are no fool.
_Oli._ How say you to that, Malvolio?
_Mal._ I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal;
I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more
brain than a stone.--Look you now, he's out of his guard already: unless
you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagg'd.--I protest, I take
these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than
the fools' zanies.
_Oli._ O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a
distemper'd appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free
disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts, that you deem
cannon-bullets: There is no slander in an allow'd fool, though he do
nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do
nothing but reprove.
_Clo._ Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak'st well
of fools!
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Mar._ Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman, much desires
to speak with you.
_Oli._ From the Duke Orsino, is it?
_Mar._ I know not, madam.
_Oli._ Who of my people hold him in delay?
_Mar._ Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
_Oli._ Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: Fye
on him! [_Exit_ MARIA.
Go you, Malvolio:--if it be a suit from the duke, I am sick, or not at
home; what you will, to dismiss it.
[_Exeunt_ MALVOLIO, _and two Servants_.
Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it.
_Clo._ Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should
be a fool.
_Sir To._ [_Without._] Where is she? where is she?
_Clo._ Whose skull Jove cram with brains!--for here he comes, one of
thy kin, has a most weak _pia mater_.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY.
_Oli._ By mine honour, half drunk.--What is he at the gate, uncle?
_Sir To._ A gentleman.
_Oli._ A gentleman? What gentleman?
_Sir To._ 'Tis a gentleman here,--How now, sot?
_Clo._ Good Sir Toby,----
_Oli._ Uncle, uncle, how have you come so early by this lethargy?
_Sir To._ Lechery! I defy lechery.--There's one at the gate.
_Oli._ Ay, marry; what is he?
_Sir To._ Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me
faith, say I. Well, it's all one.--A plague o' these pickle-herrings.
[_Exit_ SIR TOBY.
_Oli._ What's a drunken man like, fool?
_Clo._ Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman; one draught above
heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.
_Oli._ Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my uncle;
for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd: go, look after
him.
_Clo._ He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the
madman. [_Exit_ CLOWN.
_Enter_ MALVOLIO.
_Mal._ Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I
told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and
therefore comes to speak with you: I told him you were asleep; he seems
to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with
you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial.
_Oli._ Tell him, he shall not speak with me.
_Mal._ He has been told so; and, he says, he'll stand at your door
like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak
with you.
_Oli._ What kind of man is he?
_Mal._ Why, of man-kind.
_Oli._ What manner of man?
_Mal._ Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you, or no.
_Oli._ Of what personage, and years, is he?
_Mal._ Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as
a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a coddling when 'tis almost an
apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is
very well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think, his
mother's milk were scarce out of him.
_Oli._ Let him approach: Call in my gentlewoman.
_Mal._ Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [_Exit_ MALVOLIO.
[Illustration]
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Oli._ Give me my veil. [_Exit_ MARIA.
What means his message to me?
I have denied his access o'er and o'er:
Then what means this?
_Enter_ MARIA, _with a Veil_.
Come, throw it o'er my face;
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
_Enter_ VIOLA.
_Vio._ The honourable lady of the house, which is she?
_Oli._ Speak to me, I shall answer for her:--Your will?
_Vio._ Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,--I pray you,
tell me, if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would
be loth to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well
penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it.
_Oli._ Whence came you, sir?
_Vio._ I can say little more than I have studied, and that
question's out of my part.--Good gentle one, give me modest assurance,
if you be the lady of the house.
_Oli._ If I do not usurp myself, I am.
_Vio._ Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what
is yours to bestow, is not yours to reserve.
_Oli._ I heard you were saucy at my gates; and allow'd your
approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad,
be gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with
me, to make one in so skipping a dialogue.--What are you? what would
you?
_Vio._ What I am, and what I would, are to your ears, divinity; to
any other's, profanation.
_Oli._ Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.
[_Exit_ MARIA.
Now, sir, what is your text?
_Vio._ Most sweet lady,----
_Oli._ A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where
lies your text?
_Vio._ In Orsino's bosom.
_Oli._ In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?
_Vio._ To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
_Oli._ O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?
_Vio._ Good madam, let me see your face.
_Oli._ Have you any commission from your lord to negociate with my
face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and
show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one as I, does this
present. [_Unveiling._
_Vio._ 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy.
_Oli._ O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted.
_Vio._ My lord and master loves you; O, such love
Could be but recompensed, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!
_Oli._ How does he love me?
_Vio._ With adorations, with fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
_Oli._ Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him:
He might have took his answer long ago.
_Vio._ If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense,
I would not understand it.
_Oli._ Why, what would you?
_Vio._ Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.
_Oli._ You might do much:--What is your parentage?
_Vio._ Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.
_Oli._ Get you to your lord;
I cannot love him: let him send no more;
Unless, perchance, you come to me again,
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:
I thank you for your pains:--Spend this for me.
_Vio._ I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse;
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love make his heart of flint, that you shall love;
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [_Exit_ VIOLA.
_Oli._ What is your parentage?
_Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman._----I'll be sworn thou art;
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon:--Not too fast:--soft! soft!
Unless the master were the man.--How now?
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks, I feel this youth's perfections,
With an invisible and subtle stealth,
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.--
What ho, Malvolio!--
_Enter_ MALVOLIO.
_Mal._ Here, madam, at your service.
_Oli._ Run after that same peevish messenger,
Orsino's man: he left this ring behind him,
Would I, or not; tell him, I'll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his lord,
Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:
If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,
I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio.
_Mal._ Madam, I will. [_Exit_ MALVOLIO.
_Oli._ I do I know not what; and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force: Ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed, must be; and be this so!
[_Exit._
|
|
Twelfth Night.act 2.scene | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 1, utilizing the provided context. | The second act begins on the seacoast of Illyria. Viola's twin brother, Sebastian, was not drowned after all. He survived the shipwreck and enters on stage talking with Antonio, a sea captain . Sebastian, like his sister Viola, is deeply grieved; he is sure that Viola was lost at sea and perished in the storm. He blames the stars and "the malignancy of fate" for his dark mood and his misfortune. He turns to the sea captain, and, feeling that he can be straightforward with him because of what they have both just experienced, he tells the captain that he wants to be alone. He needs solitude because of his terrible grief; his troubles are many, and he fears that they will spread like an illness and "distemper" the sea captain's mood. He cares too much for the captain to unburden his woes on him. Antonio, however, will not leave Sebastian; his friendship for the young man is strong enough to withstand Sebastian's emotionalism. Sebastian's composure suddenly breaks, and he bewails his lot; if Antonio had not saved him, he would now be dead at the bottom of the sea, alongside his beloved sister. "If the heavens had been pleased," his fate would have been the same as his sister's. He then recalls his sister's beauty, and he remembers her keen mind, a mind that was extraordinary and enviable. At this point, Antonio protests. Sebastian was correct when he spoke earlier of his dark moodiness being able to "distemper" Antonio's temperament. The sea captain says that Sebastian's lamentations are "bad entertainment," a fact that Sebastian quickly realizes and quickly apologizes for. Antonio changes the subject to matters more practical and more immediate. He asks Sebastian if he can be the young man's servant. That single favor would please him immensely. That single favor, however, Sebastian cannot grant him, for as much as he would like to do so, he dare not take Antonio with him. His destination is Duke Orsino's court and Antonio has "many enemies" in Orsino's court. Yet "come what may," Antonio says that he will always treasure his friendship with Sebastian. Thus, he will go with Sebastian. Antonio's devotion to Sebastian is admirable; he recognizes the dangers ahead if he follows Sebastian to Orsino's palace, but after the horrors of the shipwreck, future "danger shall seem sport." |
----------ACT 2---------
ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I.
_A Sea-port._
_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ ANTONIO.
_Ant._ Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not, that I go with
you?
_Seb._ By your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over me; the
malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall
crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone: It were a bad
recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.
_Ant._ Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
_Seb._ O, good Antonio, pardon me your trouble.
_Ant._ Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound.
_Seb._ No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere
extravagancy.--But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty,
that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore
it charges me in manners the rather to express myself.--You must know of
me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Rodorigo; my
father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard of:
He left behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. If the
heavens had been pleased, 'would we had so ended! But you, sir, altered
that; for, some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was
my sister drowned.
_Ant._ Alas, the day!
_Seb._ A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was
yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not overfar believe
that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy
could not but call fair. [_He weeps._]
_Ant._ If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your
servant.
_Seb._ If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him
whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom
is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother,
that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I
am bound to the Duke Orsino's court, farewell.
_Ant._ The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
_Seb._ Fare ye well. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_A Dining-room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
SIR TOBY _and_ SIR ANDREW _discovered, drinking and smoking_.
_Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight, is to be
up betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know'st,----
_Sir And._ Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late,
is to be up late.
_Sir To._ A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfill'd can: To be up
after midnight, and to go to bed then, is early; so that, to go to
bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives
consist of the four elements?
_Sir And._ 'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of
eating and drinking.
_Sir To._ Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and
drink.--Maria, I say!----a stoop of wine!
[_The_ CLOWN _sings without_.
[SIR ANDREW _and_ SIR TOBY _rise_.
_Sir And._ Here comes the fool, i'faith.
_Enter_ CLOWN.
_Clo._ How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we
three?
_Sir To._ Welcome, ass.
_Sir And._ I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg; and
so sweet a voice to sing, as the fool has.--In sooth, thou wast in very
gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the
Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith. I
sent thee sixpence for thy leman: Hadst it?
_Clo._ I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no
whipstock: My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle
ale-houses.
_Sir And._ Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is
done. Now, a song.
_Sir To._ Come on: Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that
will draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that?
_Sir And._ An you love me, let's do 't: I am dog at a catch.
_Clo._ By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
_Sir And._ Begin, fool: it begins,--[_Sings._] _Hold thy peace._
_Clo._ Hold my peace!--I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
_Sir And._ Good, i'faith!--Come, begin:--that, or something
else,--or what you will.
[_They all three sing._
_Christmas comes but once a year,
And therefore we'll be merry._
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Mar._ What a catterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not
called up her steward, Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors,
never trust me.
_Sir To._ My lady's a Cataian; we are politicians. Malvolio's a
Peg-a-Ramsay:--[_Sings._]--_And three merry men be we._
_Sir And._ [_Sings._] _And three merry men be we._
_Sir To._ Am I not consanguineous? Am I not of her blood?
Tilly-valley, lady!--[_Sings._]--_There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady,
lady!_
_Sir And._ [_Sings_] _Lady_,----
_Clo._ Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
_Sir And._ Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do I
too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
[_Sings_.] _Lady_,--
_Sir To._ Let us have another.
[_They all three sing and dance._
_Which is the properest day to drink?
Saturday,--Sunday,--Monday_,--
_Mar._ For the love of heaven, peace.
_Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in a Gown and Cap, with a Light_.
_Mal._ My masters, are you mad? or what are you?
_Sir And._ [_Sings._] _Monday_,--
_Mal._ Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like
tinkers at this time of night?
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _Saturday_,--
_Mal._ Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?
_Sir To._ We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
_Mal._ Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you,
that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to
your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you
are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave
of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be
gone._
_Mar._ Nay, good Sir Toby.
_Clo._ [_Sings._] _His eyes do show his days are almost done._
_Mal._ Is't even so?
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _But I will never die._ [_Falls on the floor._
_Clo._ [_Sings._] _Sir Toby,--O, Sir Toby,--there you lie._
_Mal._ This is much credit to you. [CLOWN _raises_ SIR TOBY.
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _You lie._--Art any more than a steward? Dost
thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes
and ale?
_Clo._ Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too.
_Sir To._ Thou'rt i' the right.--Go, sir, rub your chain with
crums:--A stoop of wine, Maria!
_Mal._ Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing
more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule:
She shall know of it, by this hand.
[_Exit_ MALVOLIO, _followed by the_ CLOWN, _mocking him_.
_Mar._ Go shake your ears.
_Sir And._ 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a hungry,
to challenge him to the field; and then to break promise with him, and
make a fool of him.
_Sir To._ Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll deliver
thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
_Mar._ Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of
the Duke's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For
Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a
nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit
enough to lie straight in my bed: I know, I can do it.
_Sir To._ Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
_Mar._ Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.
_Sir And._ O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.
_Sir To._ What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear
knight?
_Sir And._ I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good
enough.
_Mar._ The devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a
time-pleaser; an affectioned ass; so crammed, as he thinks, with
excellencies, that it is his ground of faith, that all, that look on
him, love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable
cause to work.
_Sir To._ What wilt thou do?
_Mar._ I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love;
wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of
his gait, the expressure of his eye, he shall find himself most
feelingly personated: I can write very like my lady, your niece; on a
forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.
_Sir To._ Excellent! I smell a device.
_Sir And._ I have't in my nose too.
_Sir To._ He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that
they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him?
_Sir And._ O, 'twill be admirable.
_Mar._ Sport royal, I warrant you. I will plant you two, and let
Fabian make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his
construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event.
Farewell. [_Exit_ MARIA.
_Sir To._ Good night, Penthesilea.
_Sir And._ Before me, she's a good wench.
_Sir To._ She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; What o'
that?
_Sir And._ I was adored once too.
_Sir To._ Let's to bed, knight.--Thou hadst need send for more
money.
_Sir And._ If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
_Sir To._ Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end,
call me Cut.
_Sir And._ If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.
_Sir To._ Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to
bed now.
_Sir And._ I'll call you Cut.
_Sir To._ Come, knight,--come, knight.
_Sir And._ I'll call you Cut. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
_A Hall in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_.
_Enter_ DUKE, _and_ VIOLA.
_Duke._ Come hither, boy:--If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it, remember me:
For, such as I am, all true lovers are.--
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?
_Vio._ A little, by your favour.
_Duke._ What kind of woman is't?
_Vio._ Of your complexion.
_Duke._ She is not worth thee then. What years, i' faith?
_Vio._ About your years, my lord.
_Duke._ Too old, by heaven.--Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yon same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that fortune hath bestowed upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems,
That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul.
_Vio._ But, if she cannot love you, sir?
_Duke._ I cannot be so answered.
_Vio._ Sooth, but you must.
Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so: Must she not then be answered?
_Duke._ There is no woman's sides,
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart:--make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.
_Vio._ Ay, but I know,--
_Duke._ What dost thou know?
_Vio._ Too well what love women to men may owe:
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
_Duke._ And what's her history?
_Vio._ A blank, my lord: She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,
Our shows are more than will, for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
_Duke._ But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
_Vio._ I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too.--
Sir, shall I to this lady?
_Duke._ Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,
My love can give no place, bide no denay. [_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I.
_A Sea-port._
_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ ANTONIO.
_Ant._ Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not, that I go with
you?
_Seb._ By your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over me; the
malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall
crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone: It were a bad
recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.
_Ant._ Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
_Seb._ O, good Antonio, pardon me your trouble.
_Ant._ Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound.
_Seb._ No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere
extravagancy.--But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty,
that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore
it charges me in manners the rather to express myself.--You must know of
me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Rodorigo; my
father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard of:
He left behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. If the
heavens had been pleased, 'would we had so ended! But you, sir, altered
that; for, some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was
my sister drowned.
_Ant._ Alas, the day!
_Seb._ A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was
yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not overfar believe
that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy
could not but call fair. [_He weeps._]
_Ant._ If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your
servant.
_Seb._ If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him
whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom
is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother,
that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I
am bound to the Duke Orsino's court, farewell.
_Ant._ The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
_Seb._ Fare ye well. [_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 2---------
SCENE II.
_A Dining-room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
SIR TOBY _and_ SIR ANDREW _discovered, drinking and smoking_.
_Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight, is to be
up betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know'st,----
_Sir And._ Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late,
is to be up late.
_Sir To._ A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfill'd can: To be up
after midnight, and to go to bed then, is early; so that, to go to
bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives
consist of the four elements?
_Sir And._ 'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of
eating and drinking.
_Sir To._ Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and
drink.--Maria, I say!----a stoop of wine!
[_The_ CLOWN _sings without_.
[SIR ANDREW _and_ SIR TOBY _rise_.
_Sir And._ Here comes the fool, i'faith.
_Enter_ CLOWN.
_Clo._ How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we
three?
_Sir To._ Welcome, ass.
_Sir And._ I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg; and
so sweet a voice to sing, as the fool has.--In sooth, thou wast in very
gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the
Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith. I
sent thee sixpence for thy leman: Hadst it?
_Clo._ I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no
whipstock: My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle
ale-houses.
_Sir And._ Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is
done. Now, a song.
_Sir To._ Come on: Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that
will draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that?
_Sir And._ An you love me, let's do 't: I am dog at a catch.
_Clo._ By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
_Sir And._ Begin, fool: it begins,--[_Sings._] _Hold thy peace._
_Clo._ Hold my peace!--I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
_Sir And._ Good, i'faith!--Come, begin:--that, or something
else,--or what you will.
[_They all three sing._
_Christmas comes but once a year,
And therefore we'll be merry._
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Mar._ What a catterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not
called up her steward, Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors,
never trust me.
_Sir To._ My lady's a Cataian; we are politicians. Malvolio's a
Peg-a-Ramsay:--[_Sings._]--_And three merry men be we._
_Sir And._ [_Sings._] _And three merry men be we._
_Sir To._ Am I not consanguineous? Am I not of her blood?
Tilly-valley, lady!--[_Sings._]--_There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady,
lady!_
_Sir And._ [_Sings_] _Lady_,----
_Clo._ Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
_Sir And._ Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do I
too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
[_Sings_.] _Lady_,--
_Sir To._ Let us have another.
[_They all three sing and dance._
_Which is the properest day to drink?
Saturday,--Sunday,--Monday_,--
_Mar._ For the love of heaven, peace.
_Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in a Gown and Cap, with a Light_.
_Mal._ My masters, are you mad? or what are you?
_Sir And._ [_Sings._] _Monday_,--
_Mal._ Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like
tinkers at this time of night?
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _Saturday_,--
_Mal._ Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?
_Sir To._ We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
_Mal._ Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you,
that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to
your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you
are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave
of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be
gone._
_Mar._ Nay, good Sir Toby.
_Clo._ [_Sings._] _His eyes do show his days are almost done._
_Mal._ Is't even so?
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _But I will never die._ [_Falls on the floor._
_Clo._ [_Sings._] _Sir Toby,--O, Sir Toby,--there you lie._
_Mal._ This is much credit to you. [CLOWN _raises_ SIR TOBY.
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _You lie._--Art any more than a steward? Dost
thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes
and ale?
_Clo._ Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too.
_Sir To._ Thou'rt i' the right.--Go, sir, rub your chain with
crums:--A stoop of wine, Maria!
_Mal._ Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing
more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule:
She shall know of it, by this hand.
[_Exit_ MALVOLIO, _followed by the_ CLOWN, _mocking him_.
_Mar._ Go shake your ears.
_Sir And._ 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a hungry,
to challenge him to the field; and then to break promise with him, and
make a fool of him.
_Sir To._ Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll deliver
thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
_Mar._ Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of
the Duke's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For
Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a
nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit
enough to lie straight in my bed: I know, I can do it.
_Sir To._ Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
_Mar._ Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.
_Sir And._ O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.
_Sir To._ What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear
knight?
_Sir And._ I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good
enough.
_Mar._ The devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a
time-pleaser; an affectioned ass; so crammed, as he thinks, with
excellencies, that it is his ground of faith, that all, that look on
him, love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable
cause to work.
_Sir To._ What wilt thou do?
_Mar._ I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love;
wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of
his gait, the expressure of his eye, he shall find himself most
feelingly personated: I can write very like my lady, your niece; on a
forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.
_Sir To._ Excellent! I smell a device.
_Sir And._ I have't in my nose too.
_Sir To._ He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that
they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him?
_Sir And._ O, 'twill be admirable.
_Mar._ Sport royal, I warrant you. I will plant you two, and let
Fabian make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his
construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event.
Farewell. [_Exit_ MARIA.
_Sir To._ Good night, Penthesilea.
_Sir And._ Before me, she's a good wench.
_Sir To._ She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; What o'
that?
_Sir And._ I was adored once too.
_Sir To._ Let's to bed, knight.--Thou hadst need send for more
money.
_Sir And._ If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
_Sir To._ Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end,
call me Cut.
_Sir And._ If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.
_Sir To._ Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to
bed now.
_Sir And._ I'll call you Cut.
_Sir To._ Come, knight,--come, knight.
_Sir And._ I'll call you Cut. [_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 3---------
SCENE III.
_A Hall in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_.
_Enter_ DUKE, _and_ VIOLA.
_Duke._ Come hither, boy:--If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it, remember me:
For, such as I am, all true lovers are.--
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?
_Vio._ A little, by your favour.
_Duke._ What kind of woman is't?
_Vio._ Of your complexion.
_Duke._ She is not worth thee then. What years, i' faith?
_Vio._ About your years, my lord.
_Duke._ Too old, by heaven.--Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yon same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that fortune hath bestowed upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems,
That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul.
_Vio._ But, if she cannot love you, sir?
_Duke._ I cannot be so answered.
_Vio._ Sooth, but you must.
Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so: Must she not then be answered?
_Duke._ There is no woman's sides,
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart:--make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.
_Vio._ Ay, but I know,--
_Duke._ What dost thou know?
_Vio._ Too well what love women to men may owe:
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
_Duke._ And what's her history?
_Vio._ A blank, my lord: She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,
Our shows are more than will, for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
_Duke._ But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
_Vio._ I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too.--
Sir, shall I to this lady?
_Duke._ Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,
My love can give no place, bide no denay. [_Exeunt._
|
|
Twelfth Night.act 3.scene | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of scene 2 using the context provided. | At Olivia's house, Sir Andrew is becoming angry and frustrated. He is making absolutely no progress in winning the affections of Olivia; he is convinced that she bestows more favors on "the count's serving man" than she does on Sir Andrew. He tells Sir Toby and Fabian that he saw Olivia and Cesario in the orchard, and it was plain to him that Olivia is in love with Cesario. Fabian disagrees; he argues that Olivia is only using Cesario as a ploy to disguise her love for Sir Andrew and thereby make Sir Andrew jealous. Fabian thinks that Sir Andrew should have challenged Cesario on the spot and "banged the youth into dumbness." He laments the fact that Sir Andrew has lost his chance to prove his valor before Olivia's eyes. Now Sir Andrew will "hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard" unless he redeems himself by some great and glorious deed. Sir Toby agrees. He proposes that Sir Andrew challenge Cesario to a duel. They themselves will deliver the challenge. Sir Andrew agrees to the plan and goes off to find a pen and some paper, and while he is gone, Sir Toby and Fabian chuckle over the practical joke they have just arranged. They are sure that neither Sir Andrew nor Cesario will actually provoke the other into a real duel. Maria arrives onstage with the news that Malvolio "does obey every point of the letter." He is sporting yellow stockings; he is cross-gartered, and he "does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map . . . of the Indies." |
----------SCENE 4---------
SCENE IV.
_A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ SIR ANDREW, FABIAN, _and_ SIR TOBY.
_Sir And._ No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.
_Sir To._ Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.
_Fab._ You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.
_Sir And._ Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the Count's
serving man, than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw't this moment in the
garden.
_Sir To._ Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.
_Sir And._ As plain as I see you now.
_Fab._ This was a great argument of love in her toward you.
_Sir And._ 'Slight! will you make an ass o' me?
_Fab._ I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment
and reason.
_Sir To._ And they have been grand jury-men, since before Noah was a
sailor.
_Fab._ She did show favour to the youth in your sight, only to
exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your
heart, and brimstone in your liver: you should then have accosted her;
and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have
bang'd the youth into dumbness. This was look'd for at your hand, and
this was baulk'd: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash
off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady's opinion: where
you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem
it by some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy.
_Sir And._ An it be any way, it must be with valour; for policy I
hate.
_Sir To._ Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour.
Challenge me the Count's youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven
places; my niece shall take note of it: and assure thyself, there is no
love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with
woman, than report of valour.
_Fab._ There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
_Sir And._ Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?
_Sir To._ Go write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is
no matter how witty, so it be eloquent, and full of invention: taunt him
with the license of ink: if thou _thou'st_ him some thrice, it shall not
be amiss; and as many _lies_ as will lie in thy sheet of paper; although
the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set 'em down;
go, about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write
with a goose-pen, no matter: About it.
_Sir And._ Where shall I find you?
_Sir To._ We'll call thee at the _cubiculo:_ Go.
[_Exit_ SIR ANDREW.
_Fab._ This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.
_Sir To._ I have been dear to him, lad; some two thousand strong, or
so.
_Fab._ We shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll not deliver
it?
_Sir To._ Never trust me then; and by all means stir on the youth to
an answer. I think, oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For
Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as
will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of the anatomy.
_Fab._ And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great
presage of cruelty.
_Sir To._ Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Mar._ If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into
stitches, follow me: yon gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very
renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing
rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He's in
yellow stockings.
_Sir To._ And cross-gartered?
_Mar._ Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' the
church.--I have dogg'd him, like his murderer: He does obey every point
of the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does smile his face into
more lines, than are in a map: you have not seen such a thing as 'tis.
_Sir To._ Come, bring us, bring us where he is.
[_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT THE THIRD. SCENE I.
OLIVIA'S _Garden_.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, _and_ FABIAN.
_Sir To._ Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
_Fab._ Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be
boiled to death with melancholy.
_Sir To._ Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally
sheep-biter come by some notable shame?
_Fab._ I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out of favour
with my lady, about a bear-baiting here.
_Sir To._ To anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool
him black and blue:--Shall we not, Sir Andrew?
_Sir And._ An we do not, it is pity of our lives.
_Enter_ MARIA, _with a Letter_.
_Sir To._ Here comes the little villain:--How now, my nettle of
India?
_Mar._ Get ye all three behind yon clump: Malvolio's coming down
this walk; he has been yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to his
own shadow, this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for, I
know, this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him.--Close, in the
name of jesting! [_The men hide themselves._]--Lie thou there; [_Throws
down a letter._] for here comes the trout that must be caught with
tickling. [_Exit_ MARIA.
_Enter_ MALVOLIO.
_Mal._ 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me, she did
affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she
fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a
more exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. What should I
think on't?
_Sir To._ Here's an over-weening rogue!
_Fab._ Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets
under his advanced plumes!
_Sir And._ 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:--
_Mal._ To be Count Malvolio;--
_Sir To._ Ah, rogue!
_Sir And._ Pistol him, pistol him.
_Sir To._ Peace, peace!
_Mal._ There is example for't; the lady of the strachy married the
yeoman of the wardrobe.
_Sir And._ Fie on him, Jezebel!
_Fab._ Now he's deeply in; look, how imagination blows him.
_Mal._ Having been three months married to her, sitting in my
state,--
_Sir To._ O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!
_Mal._ Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet
gown;--having come from a day-bed, where I left Olivia sleeping;--
_Sir To._ Fire and brimstone!
_Fab._ O peace, peace!
_Mal._ And then to have the humour of state: and after a demure
travel of regard,--telling them, I know my place, as I would they should
do theirs,--to ask for my kinsman Toby:--
_Sir To._ Bolts and shackles!
_Fab._ O, peace, peace, peace! now, now.
_Mal._ Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him:
I frown the while; and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some
rich jewel. Toby approaches: courtsies there to me:--
_Sir To._ Shall this fellow live?
_Fab._ Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.
_Mal._ I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile
with an austere regard of control--
_Sir To._ And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?
_Mal._ Saying, _Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your
niece, give me this prerogative of speech_:--
_Sir To._ What, what?
_Mal._ _You must amend your drunkenness._
_Sir To._ Out, scab!
_Fab._ Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
_Mal._ _Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish
knight_;--
_Sir And._ That's me, I warrant you.
_Mal._ _One Sir Andrew_:--
_Sir And._ I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me fool.
_Mal._ What employment have we here?
[_Taking up the letter._
_Fab._ Now is the woodcock near the gin.
_Sir To._ O peace! an the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud
to him,--
_Mal._ By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very _C's_,
her _U's_, and her _T's_; and thus makes she her great _P's_. It is, in
contempt of question, her hand.
_Sir And._ Her _C's_, her _U's_, and her _T's_: Why that?
_Mal._ [_Reads._] _To the unknown beloved, this, and my good
wishes_: her very phrases!--By your leave, wax.--Soft!--and the
impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my lady: To
whom should this be? [_Opens the letter._]
_Fab._ This wins him, liver and all.
_Mal._ [_Reads._] _Jove knows, I love:
But who?
Lips do not move,
No man must know.
No man must know._--If this should be thee, Malvolio?
_Sir To._ Marry, hang thee, brock!
_Mal._ [_Reads._] _I may command, where I adore:
But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore_;
M,O,A,I, _doth sway my life_.
_Fab._ A fustian riddle!
_Sir To._ Excellent wench, say I.
_Mal._ M,O,A,I, _doth sway my life_.--Nay, but first, let me
see,--let me see,--let me see.
_Fab._ What a dish of poison has she dressed him!
_Sir To._ And with what wing the stanniel checks at it!
_Mal._ _I may command where I adore._ Why, she may command me; I
serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity.
There is no obstruction in this:--And the end,--What should that
alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something
in me.--Softly!--M,O,A,I.
_Sir To._ O, ay! make up that:--he is now at a cold scent.
_Mal._ _M_,--Malvolio;--_M_,--why, that begins my name.
_Fab._ I thought he would work it out: the cur is excellent at
faults.
_Mal._ _M_,--But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that
suffers under probation: _A_ should follow, but _O_ does.
_Fab._ And _O_ shall end, I hope.
_Sir To._ Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry, _O_.
_Mal._ And then _I_ comes behind.
_Fab._ Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more
detraction at your heels, than fortunes before you.
_Mal._ _M_,_O_,_A_,_I_;--This simulation is not as the former:--and
yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these
letters are in my name. Soft; here follows prose.--[_Reads. If this fall
into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid
of greatness: Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have
greatness thrust upon them. To enure thyself to what thou art like to
be, cast thy humble slough, and appear fresh. Be opposite with a
kinsman, surly with servants. She thus advises thee, that sighs for
thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings; and wished to see
thee ever cross-gartered: I say, remember. Go to; thou art made, if thou
desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow
of servants, and not worthy to touch fortune's fingers. Farewell. She
that would alter services with thee._ _The fortunate-unhappy._
Day-light and champian discovers not more: this is open. I will be
proud, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I
will be point-de-vice, the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let
imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady
loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my
leg being cross-gartered:--I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be
strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the
swiftness of putting on. Jove, and my stars be praised!--Here is yet a
postscript--[_Reads._] _Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou
entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become
thee well: therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I
pr'ythee._ Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do every thing that
thou wilt have me.
[_Exit_ MALVOLIO.
[_They advance from behind the Trees._]
_Omnes._ Ha! ha! ha!
_Fab._ I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of
thousands to be paid from the sophy.
_Sir To._ I could marry this wench for this device.
_Sir And._ So could I too.
_Sir To._ And ask no other dowry with her, but such another jest.
_Sir And._ Nor I neither.
_Fab._ Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Sir To._ Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?
_Sir And._ Or o' mine either?
_Sir To._ Shall I become thy bond-slave?
_Sir And._ Or I either?
_Sir To._ Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the
image of it leaves him, he must run mad.
_Mar._ Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?
_Sir To._ Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.
_Mar._ If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first
approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings,
and 'tis a colour she abhors; and cross-gartered, a fashion she
detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable
to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that
it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt: if you will see it,
follow me. [_Exit_ MARIA.
_Sir To._ To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit.
_Sir And._ I'll make one too.
_Fab._ And I.
_Omnes._ Huzza! huzza! huzza! [_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 2---------
SCENE II.
_A public Square._
_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ ANTONIO.
_Seb._ I would not, by my will, have troubled you;
But, since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.
_Ant._ I could not stay behind you; my desire,
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;
I fear'd besides what might befall your travel,
Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,
Unguided, and unfriended, often prove
Rough and unhospitable: My willing love,
The rather by these arguments of doubt,
Set forth in your pursuit.
_Seb._ My kind Antonio,
I can no other answer make, but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks.--What is to do?
Shall we go see the reliques of this town?
_Ant._ To-morrow, sir; best, first, go see your lodging.
_Seb._ I am not weary, and 'tis long to night;
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials, and the things of fame,
That do renown this city.
_Ant._ 'Would, you'd pardon me;
I do not without danger walk these streets:
Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst Orsino's gallies,
I did some service; of such note indeed,
That were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answered.
_Seb._ Do not then walk too open.
_Ant._ It doth not fit me.--Hold, sir, here's my purse;
In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,
Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet,
Whiles you beguile the time, and feed your knowledge,
With viewing of the town; there shall you have me.
_Seb._ Why I your purse?
_Ant._ Haply, your eye shall light upon some toy
You have desire to purchase; and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, sir.
_Seb._ I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for
an hour.
_Ant._ To the Elephant.
_Seb._ I do remember. [_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 3---------
SCENE III.
OLIVIA'S _Garden_.
_Enter_ CLOWN, _playing on a Tabor, and_ VIOLA.
_Vio._ Save thee, friend, and thy music: Dost thou live by thy
tabor?
_Clo._ No, sir, I live by the church.
_Vio._ Art thou a churchman?
_Clo._ No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live
at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.
_Vio._ Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?
_Clo._ No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep
no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands, as
pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; I am, indeed, not
her fool, but her corrupter of words.
_Vio._ I saw thee late at the Duke Orsino's.
_Clo._ Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, like the sun; it
shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft
with your master, as with my mistress: I think, I saw your wisdom there.
_Vio._ Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee. Hold,
there's expences for thee.
[_Gives him money._
_Clo._ Now, Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!
_Vio._ By my troth, I'll tell thee; I am almost sick for one.--Is
thy lady within?
_Clo._ Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?
_Vio._ Yes, being kept together, and put to use.
_Clo._ I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a
Cressida to this Troilus.
_Vio._ I understand you, sir: [_Gives him more money._] 'tis well
begged.
_Clo._ My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence you
came: who you are, and what you would, are out of my welkin: I might
say, element; but the word is over-worn. [_Exit_ CLOWN.
_Vio._ This fellow's wise enough to play the fool;
And to do that well, craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time;
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice,
As full of labour as a wise man's art.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY, _and_ SIR ANDREW.
_Sir To._ Save you, gentleman.
_Vio._ And you, sir.
_Sir To._ My niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to
her.
_Vio._ I am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she is the list of my
voyage.
_Sir To._ Taste your legs, sir, put them to motion.
_Vio._ My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what
you mean by bidding me taste my legs.
_Sir To._ I mean,--to go, sir, to enter.
_Vio._ I will answer you with gait and entrance: But we are
prevented.
_Enter_ OLIVIA.
Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!
_Sir And._ That youth's a rare courtier!--_Rain odours!_--well.
_Vio._ My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant
and vouchsafed ear.
_Sir And._ _Odours_, _pregnant_, and _vouchsafed_!--I'll get 'em all
three ready.
_Oli._ Leave me to my hearing.
_Sir And._ _Odours--pregnant--vouchsafed._
[_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ SIR ANDREW.
_Oli._ Give me your hand, sir.
_Vio._ My duty, madam, and most humble service.
_Oli._ What is your name?
_Vio._ Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.
_Oli._ My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world,
Since lowly feigning was called compliment:
You are servant to the Duke Orsino, youth.
_Vio._ And he is yours, and his must needs be yours;
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.
_Oli._ For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,
'Would they were blanks, rather than filled with me!
_Vio._ Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts on his behalf:--
_Oli._ O, by your leave, I pray you;
I bade you never speak again of him:
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that,
Than music from the spheres.
_Vio._ Dear lady,----
_Oli._ Give me leave, I beseech you: I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you:
Under your hard construction must I sit,
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours: What might you think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake,
And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown; a cyprus, not a bosom,
Hides my poor heart: So let me hear you speak.
_Vio._ I pity you.
_Oli._ That's a degree to love.
_Vio._ No, not a grise; for 'tis a vulgar proof,
That very oft we pity enemies.
_Oli._ Why, then, methinks, 'tis time to smile again:
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
[_Clock strikes._
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.--
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your wife is like to reap a proper man:
There lies your way, due west.
_Vio._ Then westward-hoe:
Grace, and good disposition 'tend your ladyship!
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?
_Oli._ Stay:
I pr'ythee, tell me, what thou think'st of me.
_Vio._ That you do think, you are not what you are.
_Oli._ If I think so, I think the same of you.
_Vio._ Then think you right; I am not what I am.
_Oli._ I would, you were as I would have you be!
_Vio._ Would it be better, madam, than I am,
I wish it might; for now I am your fool.
_Oli._ O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide.
_Vio._ By innocence, I swear, and by my youth.
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam; never more
Will I my master's tears to you deplore.
_Oli._ Yet come again: for thou, perhaps, may'st move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.
[_Exeunt._
|
|
Twelfth Night.act 4.scene | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of scene 5 using the context provided. | Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian have agreed to meet in Olivia's garden, and as the scene begins, the three men enter, Sir Toby urging Fabian on. But Fabian, as we quickly realize, needs no urging; he is more than anxious to relish every minute of their plan to make a fool of Malvolio. Like Sir Toby and Sir Andrew, Fabian has his own quarrel with the prudish, sharp-tongued Malvolio. It seems that Malvolio reported to Olivia that Fabian was "bear-baiting," a popular Elizabethan sport and one which Fabian enjoys. Sir Toby predicts that very soon Malvolio will be the "bear," for the bait will soon be set. They do not have long to wait, for, as Sir Toby points out, "Here comes the little villain." Before Malvolio comes onstage, however, Maria rushes in and makes sure that they are all well concealed in a "box-tree" . Satisfied, she puts the forged love letter in the garden path, where Malvolio will be sure to find it. "The trout" , she vows, will be caught with "tickling" . When Malvolio enters, he is greedily weighing the possibility that Olivia may be falling in love with him. Maria herself, he says, confirmed such a notion, and he himself has heard Olivia say that if ever she should choose a husband, that man would be someone very much like Malvolio; also, Malvolio believes that Olivia treats him with more respect than she does any of her other suitors. The thought of Malvolio's being "Count Malvolio" overwhelms him. He conjures up visions of himself -- married to Olivia for three months and lovingly letting her sleep in the morning while he, robed in a "velvet gown," rises from the bed and calls his officers to him. He imagines himself reminding his officers to remember their place. Then he would call for his "Cousin Toby," and while he is waiting, he would "frown the while," and toy with his watch or with "some rich jewel." He envisions Sir Toby approaching, curtsying and quaking, as Malvolio reminds him that because "fortune" has given Malvolio "this prerogative of speech," he will austerely command his "kinsman" to "amend drunkenness." He will also inform Sir Toby that he "wastes the treasure of . . . time with a foolish knight" -- a contemptuous slur at Sir Andrew. At this point, Malvolio spies the "love note." He reads it and is absolutely convinced that it was written by Olivia. The script and the phraseology are Olivia's, and the note also has her stamp that she uses for sealing letters. As he reads the poem of love, Malvolio ponders over its mystery. Olivia confesses that only "Jove knows" whom she truly loves; her lips cannot say and "no man must know." The first stanza is unclear, but Malvolio finds hope in the second stanza that it is indeed he whom Olivia loves, for she writes that she "may command where I adore." Surely she refers to him; he is her steward and is at her command. He reads on and finds that the author of the poem says that because she cannot speak the name of her beloved, that "silence, like a Lucrece knife / With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore." Such passion thrills Malvolio, but his emotions are stilled by the poem's puzzling last line: "M, O, A, I, doth sway my life." He reasons that "M" could stand for "Malvolio," but it should logically be followed by "A," and not by "O." And what of the "I" at the end? Yet the letters could feasibly be pieces of an anagram of his name because his name does contain all those letters, albeit in a different sequence. Then enclosed with the poem, Malvolio discovers a prose letter, which he reads aloud. The author of the letter says that if this letter should, by accident, "fall into hand," he should be aware that the woman who loves him is, because of the stars "above" him , but she begs him not to fear her "greatness." She then states words that have been much-quoted ever since: ". . . some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em." Maria, despite being a mere maid, has done a masterful job of composing exquisite, apologetic modesty, coupled with the tenderness of a love that cannot speak its name. The author of the love letter continues: Fate beckons to her beloved; he is urged to cast off his usual garments and, instead, he is "commended" to wear yellow stockings, cross-gartered. And, in addition, he should be more "surly with servants"; his tongue should have a "tang." If he does not do all of these things, he will be thought of as no more than a "steward still" and "not worthy to touch Fortune's fingers." The note is signed with a popular Elizabethan lover's device -- an oxymoron: "The Fortunate Unhappy." The incongruity of combining one mood with its opposite was considered the epitome of epigrammatic wit. Malvolio is exultant after reading the letter. He vows, as he was "commended," to be proud and to baffle Sir Toby. To him, there can be no doubt that Olivia wrote the love letter, and if she desires him to wear "yellow stockings . . . cross-gartered," then yellow stockinged and cross-gartered he shall be. His joy is so rapturous that he almost overlooks a postscript: the author is sure that her beloved, if he finds her letter, will recognize himself as her heart's secret treasure; if so, he is to acknowledge his own affection. He is to smile; she repeats the command three times: he is to smile and smile and smile. In other words, Maria is going to make the usually sober and uppity Malvolio look like a grinning fool. Malvolio exits, and Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian emerge from the hedge, just as Maria enters. They are all in excellent spirits. Sir Toby is prepared to marry Maria for her cleverness; he even offers to lie under her and allow her to put her foot upon his neck in the classical position of the victor and the vanquished. She has succeeded beyond all their expectations. Maria says that they won't have long to wait to see the results of their prank. Malvolio is sure to try to see Olivia as soon as possible, and, Maria says, Olivia detests yellow stockings, and cross-garters are a fashion which Olivia abhors; in addition, Olivia is usually so melancholy about the fact that she cannot choose a husband for herself that Malvolio's endless smiling will drive her into a fury. So off the pranksters go, arm in arm, eagerly anticipating their comic revenge on the officious Malvolio. |
----------SCENE 5---------
SCENE V.
OLIVIA'S _Garden_.
_Enter_ SEBASTIAN.
_Seb._ This is the air; that is the glorious sun;
This pearl she gave me, I do feel't, and see't:
And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio then?
I could not find him at the Elephant;
His counsel now might do me golden service:
For though my soul disputes well with my sense,
That this may be some error, but no madness,
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes,
And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me
To any other trust, but that I am mad,
Or else the lady's mad.--But here she comes.
_Enter_ OLIVIA, _and a_ FRIAR.
_Oli._ Blame not this haste of mine:--If you mean well,
Now go with me, and with this holy man,
Into the chantry by: there, before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith;
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace: He shall conceal it,
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note;
What time we will our celebration keep
According to my birth.--What do you say?
_Seb._ I'll follow this good man, and go with you;
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.
_Oli._ Then lead the way, good father: [_Exit_ FRIAR.
And heavens so shine,
That they may fairly note this act of mine! [_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 4---------
SCENE IV.
_A Gallery in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ MARIA, _with a black Gown and Hood, and_ CLOWN.
_Mar._ Nay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown and hood; make him believe,
thou art Sir Topas the curate; do it quickly: I'll call Sir Toby the
whilst.
[_Exit_ MARIA.
_Clo._ Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't; and I
would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ MARIA.
_Sir To._ Jove bless thee, master parson.
_Clo._ _Bonos dies_, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that
never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc,
_That, that is, is_; so I, being master parson, am master parson: For
what is that, but that? and is, but is?
_Sir To._ To him, Sir Topas.
_Clo._ [_Opens the door of an inner Room_] What, hoa, I say,--Peace
in this prison!
_Sir To._ The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.
_Mal._ [_In the inner Room._] Who calls there?
_Clo._ Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the
lunatic.
_Mal._ Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.
_Clo._ Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest
thou nothing but of ladies?
_Sir To._ Well said, master parson.
_Mal._ Sir Topas, never was man thus wrong'd; good Sir Topas, do not
think I am mad; they have bound me, hand and foot, and laid me here in
hideous darkness.
_Clo._ Say'st thou, that house is dark?
_Mal._ As hell, Sir Topas.
_Clo._ Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness, but
ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled, than the Egyptians in their
fog.
_Mal._ I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance
were as dark as hell; and I say, there was never man thus abused: I am
no more mad than you are; make the trial of it in any constant question.
_Clo._ What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild-fowl?
_Mal._ That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.
_Clo._ What thinkest thou of his opinion?
_Mal._ I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.
_Clo._ Fare thee well: Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt
hold the opinion of Pythagoras, ere I will allow of thy wits; and fear
to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare
thee well.
_Mal._ Sir Topas, Sir Topas,--
_Sir To._ My most exquisite Sir Topas,--
_Clo._ Nay, I am for all waters. [_Takes off the gown and hood, and
gives them to_ MARIA.]
_Mar._ Thou might'st have done this without thy hood and gown; he
sees thee not.
_Sir To._ To him in thine own voice, and bring us word how thou
find'st him: Come by and by to my chamber.
[_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ MARIA.
_Clo._ [_Sings._] _Hey Robin, jolly Robin,
Tell me how thy lady does._
_Mal._ Fool,--fool,--good fool,--
_Clo._ Who calls, ha?
_Mal._ As ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a
candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a gentleman, I will live to be
thankful to thee for't.
_Clo._ Master Malvolio!
_Mal_. Ay, good fool.
_Clo._ Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?
_Mal._ Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused: I am as well
in my wits, fool, as thou art.
_Clo._ But as well! then you are mad, indeed, if you be no better in
your wits than a fool.
_Mal._ Good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will
set down to my lady; it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing
of letter did.
_Clo._ I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad,
indeed? or do you but counterfeit?
_Mal._ Believe me, I am not: I tell thee true.
_Clo._ Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman, till I see his brains. I
will fetch you light, and paper, and ink.
_Mal._ Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree. I pr'ythee, be
gone.
_Clo._ [_Shuts the door of the inner Room, and sings._]
_I am gone, sir,
And anon, sir,
I'll be with you again, &c._ [_Exit._
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE 1.
_A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA.
_Oli._ I have sent after him:--He says, he'll come.
How shall I feast him? what bestow on him?
I speak too loud.----
Where is Malvolio?
_Mar._ He's coming, madam;
But in strange manner. He is sure possessed.
_Oli._ Why, what's the matter? does he rave?
_Mar._ No, madam,
He does nothing but smile: your ladyship
Were best have guard about you, if he come;
For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits.
_Oli._ Go call him hither. [_Exit_ MARIA.
I'm as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.--
_Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in yellow Stockings, cross-garter'd, and_ MARIA.
How now, Malvolio?
_Mal._ Sweet lady, ho, ho. [_Smiles fantastically._
_Oli._ Smilest thou?
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.
_Mal._ Sad, lady? I could be sad: This does make some obstruction in
the blood, this cross-gartering: But what of that? if it please the eye
of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: _Please one, and
please all_.
_Oli._ Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee?
_Mal._ Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.--It did come
to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think, we do know the
sweet Roman hand.
_Oli._ Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
_Mal._ To bed!--Ay, sweet-heart; and I'll come to thee.
_Oli._ Heaven comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy
hand so oft?
_Mar._ How do you, Malvolio?
_Mal._ At your request? Yes; Nightingales answer daws.
_Mar._ Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?
_Mal._ _Be not afraid of greatness_:--'Twas well writ.
_Oli._ What mean'st thou by that, Malvolio?
_Mal._ _Some are born great_,--
_Oli._ Ha?
_Mal._ _Some achieve greatness_,--
_Oli._ What say'st thou?
_Mal._ _ And some have greatness thrust upon them._
_Oli._ Heaven restore thee!
_Mal._ _Remember who commended thy yellow stockings_;--
_Oli._ Thy yellow stockings?
_Mal_ _And wished to see thee cross-garter'd._
_Oli._ Cross-garter'd?
_Mal._ _Go to: thou art made, if thou desirest to be so_;--
_Oli._ Am I made?
_Mal._ _If not, let me see thee a servant still._
_Oli._ Why, this is very Midsummer madness.
_Enter_ FABIAN.
_Fab._ Madam, the young gentleman of the Duke Orsino's is returned;
I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's pleasure.
_Oli._ I'll come to him. Good Maria, let this fellow be look'd
to.--Call my uncle Toby. [_Exit_ FABIAN.
Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not have him
miscarry for the half of my dowry. [_Exeunt_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA.
_Mal._ Oh, ho! do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby
to look to me? She sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to
him; for she incites me to that in the letter. I have limed her.--And,
when she went away now, _Let this fellow be looked to_:--Fellow! not
Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing adheres
together.--Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be
thanked.
_Sir To._ [_Without_] Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If
all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed
him, yet I'll speak to him.
_Enter_ FABIAN, SIR TOBY, _and_ MARIA.
_Fab._ Here he is, here he is:--How is't with you, sir? how is't
with you, man?
_Mal._ Go off, I discard you; let me enjoy my private; go off.
_Mar._ Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell
you?--Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him.
_Mal._ Ah, ha! does she so?
_Sir To._ Go to, go to; we must deal gently with him. How do you,
Malvolio? how is't with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he's
an enemy to mankind.
_Mal._ Do you know what you say?
_Mar._ La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at
heart! Pray, heaven, he be not bewitch'd.
_Fab._ Carry his water to the wise woman.
_Sir To._ Pr'ythee, hold thy peace; do you not see, you move him?
let me alone with him.
_Fab._ No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough,
and will not be roughly used.
_Sir To._ Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, chuck?
_Mal._ Sir?
_Sir To._ Ay, Biddy, come with me.--What, man! 'tis not for gravity
to play at cherry-pit with Satan: Hang him, foul collier!
_Mar._ Get him to say his prayers, Sir Toby.
_Mal._ My prayers, minx?
_Mar._ No, I warrant you, he'll not hear of godliness.
_Mal._ Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am
not of your element; you shall know more hereafter. Begone. Ha! ha!
ha! [_Exit_ MALVOLIO.
_Omnes._ Ha! ha! ha!
_Sir To._ Is't possible?
_Fab._ If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as
an improbable fiction.
_Sir To._ His very genius hath taken the infection of the device,
man.
_Mar._ Nay, pursue him now; lest the device take air, and taint.
_Fab._ Why, we shall make him mad, indeed.
_Mar._ The house will be the quieter.
_Sir To._ Come, we'll have him in a dark room, and bound.--Follow
him, and let him not from thy sight. [_Exit_ MARIA.
But see, but see.
_Fab._ More matter for a May morning.
_Enter_ SIR ANDREW, _with a Letter_.
_Sir And._ Here's the challenge, read it; I warrant, there's vinegar
and pepper in't.
_Fab._ Is't so saucy?
_Sir And._ Ay, is it, I warrant him: do but read.
_Sir To._ Give me.--[_Reads._] _Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art
but a scurvy fellow._
_Fab._ Good and valiant.
_Sir To._ _Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call
thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't._
_Fab._ A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law.
_Sir To._ _Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses
thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat, that is not the matter I
challenge thee for._
_Fab._ Very brief, and exceeding good sense-less.
_Sir To._ _I will way-lay thee going home; where if it be thy chance
to kill me_,--
_Fab._ Good.
_Sir To._ _Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain._
_Fab._ Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: Good.
_Sir To._ _Fare thee well; and heaven have mercy upon one of our
souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look
to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy_, ANDREW
AGUECHEEK.--If this letter move him not, his legs cannot: I'll give't
him.
_Fab._ You may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some
commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.
_Sir To._ Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the
garden, like a bum-bailiff; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and,
as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, that a
terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd off, gives
manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him.
Away.
_Sir And._ Nay, let me alone for swearing. [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW.
_Sir To._ Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behaviour of
the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding;
therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no
terror in the youth, he will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I
will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon Ague-cheek a
notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, (as, I know, his
youth will aptly receive it,) into a most hideous opinion of his rage,
skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both, that they
will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices.
_Fab._ Here he comes with your niece: give them way, till he take
leave, and presently after him.
_Sir To._ I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a
challenge. [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN.
_Enter_ VIOLA _and_ OLIVIA.
_Oli._ I have said too much unto a heart of stone,
And laid mine honour too unchary out:
There's something in me, that reproves my fault;
But such a headstrong potent fault it is,
That it but mocks reproof.
_Vio._ With the same 'haviour that your passion bears,
Go on my master's griefs.
_Oli._ Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture;
Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you:
And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow.
What shall you ask of me, that I'll deny;
That honour, saved, may upon asking give?
_Vio._ Nothing but this, your true love for my master.
_Oli._ How with mine honour may I give him that
Which I have given to you?
_Vio._ I will acquit you.
_Oli._ Well, come again to-morrow: Fare thee well!
[_Exit_ OLIVIA.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN.
_Sir To._ Gentleman, heaven save thee.
_Vio._ And you, sir.
_Sir To._ That defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what nature
the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full
of despight, bloody as the hunter, attends thee: dismount thy tuck, be
yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and
deadly.
_Vio._ You mistake, sir; I am sure, no man hath any quarrel to me;
my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to
any man.
_Sir To._ You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you
hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite
hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man
withal.
_Vio._ I pray you, sir, what is he?
_Sir To._ He is knight, dubb'd with unhack'd rapier, and on carpet
consideration: but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath
he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable,
that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre: hob,
nob, is his word; give 't or take 't.
_Vio._ I will return, and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no
fighter.
_Sir To._ Back you shall not, unless you undertake that with me,
which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on; or strip
your sword stark naked, (for meddle you must, that's certain,) or
forswear to wear iron about you.
_Vio._ This is as uncivil, as strange. I beseech you, do me this
courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is; it
is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.
_Sir To._ I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman
till my return. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY.
_Vio._ 'Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?
_Fab._ I know, the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal
arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.
_Vio._ I beseech you, what manner of man is he?
_Fab._ Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form,
as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed,
sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could
possibly have found in any part of Illyria: Will you walk towards him? I
will make your peace with him, if I can.
_Vio._ I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one, that would
rather go with sir priest, than sir knight: I care not who knows so much
of my mettle.
[_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 2---------
SCENE II.
OLIVIA'S _Garden_.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY, _with_ SIR ANDREW, _in a great fright_.
_Sir To._ Why, man, he's a very devil;--
_Sir And._ Oh!
_Sir To._ I have not seen such a virago. I had a pass with
him,--rapier, scabbard, and all,--and he gives me the stuck-in,----
_Sir And._ Oh!
_Sir To._ With such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable: they
say, he has been fencer to the Sophy.
_Sir And._ Plague on't, I'll not meddle with him.
_Sir To._ Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce
hold him yonder.
_Sir And._ Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so
cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damn'd ere I had challenged him. Let
him let the matter slip, and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet.
_Sir To._ I'll make the motion: Stand here, make a good show
on't.--[_Aside._] Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you.
_Enter_ FABIAN _and_ VIOLA.
I have his horse [_To_ FABIAN.] to take up the quarrel; I have persuaded
him, the youth's a devil.
_Fab._ [_To_ SIR TOBY.] He is as horribly conceited of him; and
pants, as if a bear were at his heels.
_Sir To._ [_To_ VIOLA.] There's no remedy, sir; he will fight with
you for his oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his
quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore
draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests, he will not hurt you.
_Vio._ [_Draws her Sword._] Pray heaven defend me!--[_Aside._] A
little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.
_Fab._ [_To_ VIOLA.] Give ground, if you see him furious.
_Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will,
for his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the duello
avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he
will not hurt you. Come on; to 't.
_Sir And._ [_Draws._] Pray heaven, he keep his oath!
_Vio._ I do assure you, 'tis against my will.
[_They fight._--SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN _urge on_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA.
_Enter_ ANTONIO, _who runs between_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA.
_Ant._ Put up your sword;--If this young gentleman
Have done offence, I take the fault on me;
If you offend him, I for him defy you.
_Sir To._ You, sir? Why, what are you?
_Ant._ [_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more
Than you have heard him brag to you he will.
_Sir To._ [_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I
am for you.
[SIR TOBY _and_ ANTONIO _fight_.]
[SIR ANDREW _hides himself behind the Trees_.--VIOLA _retires a
little_.]
_Fab._ [_Parts them._] O good Sir Toby, hold; here come the
officers.
_Sir To._ [_To_ ANTONIO.] I'll be with you anon. [ANTONIO _shows
great alarm_--SIR TOBY _sheathes his sword_.]--Sir knight,--Sir
Andrew,--
_Sir And._ Here I am.
_Sir To._ What, man!--Come on. [_Brings_ SIR ANDREW _forward_.]
_Vio._ [_Advances._] 'Pray, sir, [_To_ SIR ANDREW.] put up your
sword, if you please.
_Sir And._ Marry, will I, sir;--and, for that I promised you, I'll
be as good as my word: He will bear you easily, and reins well.
_Enter two Officers of Justice._
_1 Off._ This is the man; do thy office.
_2 Off._ Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit
Of Duke Orsino.
_Ant._ You do mistake me, sir.
_1 Off._ No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well.--
Take him away; he knows, I know him well.
_Ant._ I must obey.--This comes with seeking you;
But there's no remedy.
Now my necessity
Makes me to ask you for my purse: It grieves me
Much more, for what I cannot do for you,
Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed;
But be of comfort.
_1 Off._ Come, sir, away.
_Ant._ I must entreat of you some of that money.
_Vio._ What money, sir?
For the fair kindness you have showed me here,
And, part, being prompted by your present trouble,
Out of my lean and low ability
I'll lend you something: my having is not much;
I'll make division of my present with you;
Hold, there is half my coffer.
_Ant._ Will you deny me now?
Is't possible, that my deserts to you
Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery;
Lest that it make me so unsound a man,
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you.
_Vio._ I know of none;
Nor know I you by voice, or any feature.
_Ant._ O heavens themselves!
_1 Off._ Come, sir, I pray you, go.
_Ant._ Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here,
I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death;
And to his image, which, methought, did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion.
But, O, how vile an idol proves this god!--
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.--
In nature there's no blemish, but the mind;
None can be call'd deform'd, but the unkind:
Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil
Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil.
[_Exeunt_ ANTONIO _and Officers_.
_Sir To._ Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian.
[_They retire together._
_Vio._ He named Sebastian; I my brother know
Yet living in my glass; even such, and so,
In favour was my brother; and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament;
For him I imitate: O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!
[_Exit_ VIOLA.
[_They advance._]
_Sir To._ A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a
hare; his dishonesty appears, in leaving his friend here in necessity,
and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.
_Fab._ A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.
_Sir And._ 'Slid, I'll after him again, and beat him.
_Sir To._ Do, cuff him soundly;--but never draw thy sword.
_Sir And._ An I do not!-- [_Exeunt._
----------SCENE 3---------
SCENE III.
_The Street before_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ CLOWN.
_Clo._ Will you make me believe, that I am not sent for you?
_Seb._ Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; Let me be clear of
thee.
_Clo._ Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not
sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is
not Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither:--Nothing, that is so, is
so.
_Seb._ I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else;--Thou know'st not
me.
_Clo._ Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and
now applies it to a fool.--I pr'ythee, tell me what I shall vent to my
lady; Shall I vent to her, that thou art coming?
_Seb._ I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me; There's money for
thee; if you tarry longer, I shall give worse payment.
_Clo._ By my troth, thou hast an open hand:--These wise men, that
give fools money, get themselves a good report after fourteen years'
purchase.
_Enter_ SIR ANDREW.
_Sir And._ Now, sir, have I met you again? There's for you.
[_Striking_ SEBASTIAN.
_Seb._ [_Draws his sword._] Why, there's for thee, and there, and
there:--Are all the people mad?
[_Beating_ SIR ANDREW.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN.
_Sir To._ Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.
_Clo._ This will I tell my lady straight--I would not be in some of
your coats for two-pence.
[_Exit_ CLOWN.
_Sir To._ Come on, sir; hold. [_Holding_ SEBASTIAN.
_Sir And._ Nay, let him alone. I'll go another way to work with him;
I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in
Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for that.
_Seb._ Let go thy hand.
_Sir To._ Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier,
put up your iron: you are well flesh'd; come on.
_Seb._ [_Disengages himself._] I will be free from thee.
--What would'st thou now?
If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword.
_Sir To._ What, what?--[_Draws._]--Nay, then I must have an ounce or
two of this malapert blood from you. [_They fight._
_Enter_ OLIVIA, _and two Servants_.
_Fab._ Hold, good Sir Toby, hold:--my lady here!
[_Exit_ FABIAN.
_Oli._ Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, hold.
_Sir To._ Madam?
_Oli._ Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight!
Be not offended, dear Cesario:----
Rudesby, be gone!--
_Sir To._ Come along, knight. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY.
_Oli._ And you, sir, follow him.
_Sir And._ Oh, oh!--Sir Toby,--
[_Exit_ SIR ANDREW.
_Oli._ I pr'ythee, gentle friend,
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house;
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby
May'st smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go;
Do not deny.
_Seb._ What relish is in this? how runs the stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:--
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
_Oli._ Nay, come, I pr'ythee: 'Would thou'dst be ruled by me!
_Seb._ Madam, I will.
_Oli._ O, say so, and so be! [_Exeunt._
|
|
Twelfth Night.act i.scene | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for act i, scene ii with the given context. | Meanwhile, on the Illyrian sea coast, a young noblewoman named Viola speaks with the captain whose crew has just rescued her from a shipwreck. Although Viola was found and rescued, her brother, Sebastian, seems to have vanished in the storm. The captain tells Viola that Sebastian may still be alive. He says that he saw Sebastian trying to keep afloat by tying himself to a broken mast. But Viola does not know whether or not it is worth holding onto hope. In the meantime, however, she needs to find a way to support herself in this strange land. The ship's captain tells Viola all about Duke Orsino, who rules Illyria. Viola remarks that she has heard of this duke and mentions that he used to be a bachelor. The captain says that Orsino still is a bachelor, but then goes on to tell Viola about the Lady Olivia, whom the duke is courting. Again, we hear the tale of how Lady Olivia's brother died, leading her to cut herself off from the world. Viola expresses a wish that she could become a servant in the house of Olivia and hide herself away from the world as well. The captain responds that it is unlikely that Viola will enter Olivia's service because Olivia refuses to see any visitors, the duke included. Viola decides that, in that case, she will disguise herself as a young man and seek service with Duke Orsino instead. When she promises to pay him well, the captain agrees to help her, and they go off together in order to find a disguise for her |
----------ACT I, SCENE I---------
ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I.
_The Sea-coast._
_Enter_ VIOLA, ROBERTO, _and two Sailors, carrying a Trunk_.
_Vio._ What country, friends, is this?
_Rob._ This is Illyria, lady.
_Vio._ And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance, he is not drown'd:--What think you, sailors?
_Rob._ It is perchance, that you yourself were saved.
_Vio._ O my poor brother! and so, perchance may he be.
_Rob._ True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and that poor number saved with you,
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself
(Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)
To a strong mast, that lived upon the sea;
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves,
So long as I could see.
_Vio._ Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
The like of him. Know'st thou this country?
_Rob._ Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born,
Not three hours travel from this very place.
_Vio._ Who governs here?
_Rob._ A noble duke, in nature,
As in his name.
_Vio._ What is his name?
_Rob._ Orsino.
_Vio._ Orsino!--I have heard my father name him:
He was a bachelor then.
_Rob._ And so is now,
Or was so very late: for but a month
Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh
In murmur, (as, you know, what great ones do,
The less will prattle of,) that he did seek
The love of fair Olivia.
_Vio._ What is she?
_Rob._ A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also died: for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjured the company
And sight of men.
_Vio._ Oh, that I served that lady!
And might not be deliver'd to the world,
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is!
_Rob._ That were hard to compass;
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.
_Vio._ There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And, I believe, thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
For such disguise as, haply, shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;
Thou shalt present me as a page unto him,
Of gentle breeding, and my name, Cesario:--
That trunk, the reliques of my sea-drown'd brother,
Will furnish man's apparel to my need:--
It may be worth thy pains: for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music,
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap, to time I will commit;
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.
_Rob._ Be you his page, and I your mute will be;
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see!
_Vio._ I thank thee:--Lead me on. [_Exeunt._
----------ACT I, SCENE II---------
SCENE II.
_A Room in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_.
_The Duke discovered, seated, and attended by_ CURIO, _and Gentlemen_.
_Duke._ [_Music._] If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.----
[_Music._] That strain again;--it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing, and giving odours.--
[_Music._] Enough; no more; [_He rises._
'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before.
_Cur._ Will you go hunt, my lord?
_Duke._ What, Curio?
_Cur._ The hart.
_Duke._ Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought, she purged the air of pestilence;
That instant was I turn'd into a hart;
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me.
_Enter_ VALENTINE.
How now? what news from my Olivia?--speak.
_Val._ So please my lord, I might not be admitted;
But from her handmaid do return this answer;
The element itself, till seven years heat,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk,
And water once a day her chamber round
With eye-offending brine: all this, to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh,
And lasting, in her sad remembrance.
_Duke._ O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame,
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her!--
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers;
Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers.
[_Exeunt._
----------ACT I, SCENE III---------
SCENE III.
_A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ MARIA _and_ SIR TOBY BELCH.
_Sir To._ What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her
brother thus? I am sure, care's an enemy to life.
_Mar._ By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights;
your niece, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.
_Sir To._ Why, let her except before excepted.
_Mar._ Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of
order.
_Sir To._ Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these
clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they
be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.
_Mar._ That quaffing and drinking will undo you; I heard my lady
talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight, that you have brought in
here, to be her wooer.
_Sir To._ Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?
_Mar._ Ay, he.
_Sir To._ He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
_Mar._ What's that to the purpose?
_Sir To._ Why, he has three thousand ducats a-year.
_Mar._ Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a
very fool, and a prodigal.
_Sir To._ Fye, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo,
and hath all the good gifts of nature.
_Mar._ He hath, indeed, all, most natural; for, besides that he's a
fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a
coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the
prudent, he would quickly have the gift of a grave.
_Sir To._ By this band, they are scoundrels, and substractors, that
say so of him. Who are they?
_Mar._ They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.
_Sir To._ With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her, as
long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria: He's a
coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my niece, till his brains
turn o' the toe like a parish-top--See, here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.
[SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, _without_.
_Sir And._ Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch?
_Sir To._ Sweet Sir Andrew!
_Enter_ SIR ANDREW.
_Sir And._ Bless you, fair shrew.
_Mar._ And you too, sir.
_Sir To._ Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
_Sir And._ What's that?
_Sir To._ My niece's chamber-maid.
_Sir And._ Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
_Mar._ My name is Mary, sir.
_Sir And._ Good Mistress Mary Accost,----
_Sir To._ You mistake, knight; accost, is, front her, board her, woo
her, assail her.
_Sir And._ By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company.
Is that the meaning of accost?
_Mar._ Fare you well, gentlemen.
_Sir To._ An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, 'would thou might'st
never draw sword again.
_Sir And._ An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw
sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?
_Mar._ Sir, I have not you by the hand.
_Sir And._ Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.
_Mar._ [_Takes his hand._] Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you,
bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink.
_Sir And._ Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor?
_Mar._ It's dry, sir.
_Sir And._ Why, I think so; I am not such an ass, but I can keep my
hand dry. But what's your jest?
_Mar._ A dry jest, sir.
_Sir And._ Are you full of them?
_Mar._ Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, [_Lets go
his hand._] now I let go your hand, I am barren. [_Exit_ MARIA.
_Sir To._ O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see
thee so put down?
_Sir And._ Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me
down: Methinks, sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian, or an
ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that
does harm to my wit.
_Sir To._ No question.
_Sir And._ An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home
to-morrow, Sir Toby.
_Sir To._ _Pourquoy_, my dear knight?
_Sir And._ What is _pourquoy_? do, or not do? I would I had bestow'd
that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and
bear-baiting: O, had I but follow'd the arts!
_Sir To._ Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.
_Sir And._ Why, would that have mended my hair?
_Sir To._ Past question; for, thou seest, it will not curl by
nature.
_Sir And._ But it becomes me well enough, does't not?
_Sir To._ Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to
see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off.
_Sir And._ 'Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece will
not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the duke
himself, here hard by, wooes her.
_Sir To._ She'll none o' the duke; she'll not match above her
degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it.
Tut, there's life in't, man.
_Sir And._ I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest
mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.
_Sir To._ Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight?
_Sir And._ As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree
of my betters; and yet I'll not compare with an old man.
_Sir To._ What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
_Sir And._ 'Faith, I can cut a caper.
_Sir To._ And I can cut the mutton to't.
_Sir And._ And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as strong as
any man in Illyria.
_Sir To._ Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts
a curtain before them? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and
come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig. What dost thou
mean? is it a world to hide virtues in?--I did think, by the excellent
constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the star of a galliard.
_Sir And._ Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a
flame-colour'd stock. Shall we set about some revels?
_Sir To._ What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?
_Sir And._ Taurus? that's sides and heart.
_Sir To._ No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee
caper:--Ha! higher:--Ha, ha!--excellent!
[_Exeunt._
----------ACT I, SCENE IV---------
SCENE IV.
_A Room in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_.
_Enter_ VALENTINE, _and_ VIOLA _in Man's Attire_.
_Val._ If the duke continue these favors towards you, Cesario, you
are like to be much advanced.
_Vio._ You either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call
in question the continuance of his love: Is he inconstant, sir, in his
favours?
_Val._ No, believe me.
_Vio._ I thank you.--Here comes the duke.
_Enter_ DUKE, CURIO, _and Gentlemen_.
_Duke._ Who saw Cesario, ho?
_Vio._ On your attendance, my lord; here.
_Duke._ Stand you awhile aloof.--Cesario,
Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd
To thee the book even of my secret soul:
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;
Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow,
Till thou have audience.
_Vio._ Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
_Duke._ Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.
_Vio._ Say, I do speak with her, my lord. What then?
_Duke._ O, then unfold the passion of my love.
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth,
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.
_Vio._ I think not so, my lord.
_Duke._ Dear lad, believe it;
For they shall yet belie thy happy years,
That say, thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound:
I know, thy constellation is right apt
For this affair:--Go:--prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
To call his fortunes thine.
[_Exeunt_ DUKE, CURIO, VALENTINE, _and Gentlemen_.
_Vio._ I'll do my best,
To woo his lady: yet,--a barful strife!--
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.
[_Exit._
----------ACT I, SCENE V---------
SCENE V.
_A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ CLOWN _and_ MARIA.
_Mar._ Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open
my lips, so wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse: my lady
will hang thee for thy absence.
_Clo._ Let her hang me: he, that is well hang'd in this world, needs
to fear no colours.
_Mar._ Make that good.
_Clo._ He shall see none to fear.
_Mar._ A good lenten answer: Yet you will be hang'd, for being so
long absent; or, to be turn'd away; is not that as good as a hanging to
you?
_Clo._ Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning
away, let summer bear it out.
_Mar._ Here comes my lady; make your excuse wisely, you were best.
[_Exit_ MARIA.
_Clo._ Wit, and't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits,
that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure
I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: For what says Quinapalus? Better a
witty fool, than a foolish wit.
_Enter_ OLIVIA, MALVOLIO, _and two Servants_.
Bless thee, lady!
_Oli._ Take the fool away.
_Clo._ Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.
_Oli._ Go to, you're a dry fool: I'll no more of you; besides, you
grow dishonest.
_Clo._ Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend;
for, give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the
dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he
cannot, let the botcher mend him.--The lady bade take away the fool;
therefore, I say again, take her away.
_Oli._ Sir, I bade them take away you.
_Clo._ Misprision in the highest degree!--Lady, _Cucullus non facit
monachum_; that's as much as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good
madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.
_Oli._ Can you do it?
_Clo._ Dexterously, good madonna.
_Oli._ Make your proof.
_Clo._ I must catechize you for it, madonna: Good my mouse of
virtue, answer me.
_Oli._ Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll 'bide your proof.
_Clo._ Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?
_Oli._ Good fool, for my brother's death.
_Clo._ I think, his soul is in hell, madonna.
_Oli._ I know, his soul is in heaven, fool.
_Clo._ The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul
being in heaven.--Take away the fool, gentlemen.
_Oli._ What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?
_Mal._ Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him:
Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.
_Clo._ Heaven send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better
increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn, that I am no fox; but he
will not pass his word for two-pence that you are no fool.
_Oli._ How say you to that, Malvolio?
_Mal._ I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal;
I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more
brain than a stone.--Look you now, he's out of his guard already: unless
you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagg'd.--I protest, I take
these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than
the fools' zanies.
_Oli._ O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a
distemper'd appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free
disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts, that you deem
cannon-bullets: There is no slander in an allow'd fool, though he do
nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do
nothing but reprove.
_Clo._ Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak'st well
of fools!
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Mar._ Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman, much desires
to speak with you.
_Oli._ From the Duke Orsino, is it?
_Mar._ I know not, madam.
_Oli._ Who of my people hold him in delay?
_Mar._ Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
_Oli._ Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: Fye
on him! [_Exit_ MARIA.
Go you, Malvolio:--if it be a suit from the duke, I am sick, or not at
home; what you will, to dismiss it.
[_Exeunt_ MALVOLIO, _and two Servants_.
Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it.
_Clo._ Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should
be a fool.
_Sir To._ [_Without._] Where is she? where is she?
_Clo._ Whose skull Jove cram with brains!--for here he comes, one of
thy kin, has a most weak _pia mater_.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY.
_Oli._ By mine honour, half drunk.--What is he at the gate, uncle?
_Sir To._ A gentleman.
_Oli._ A gentleman? What gentleman?
_Sir To._ 'Tis a gentleman here,--How now, sot?
_Clo._ Good Sir Toby,----
_Oli._ Uncle, uncle, how have you come so early by this lethargy?
_Sir To._ Lechery! I defy lechery.--There's one at the gate.
_Oli._ Ay, marry; what is he?
_Sir To._ Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me
faith, say I. Well, it's all one.--A plague o' these pickle-herrings.
[_Exit_ SIR TOBY.
_Oli._ What's a drunken man like, fool?
_Clo._ Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman; one draught above
heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.
_Oli._ Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my uncle;
for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd: go, look after
him.
_Clo._ He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the
madman. [_Exit_ CLOWN.
_Enter_ MALVOLIO.
_Mal._ Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I
told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and
therefore comes to speak with you: I told him you were asleep; he seems
to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with
you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial.
_Oli._ Tell him, he shall not speak with me.
_Mal._ He has been told so; and, he says, he'll stand at your door
like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak
with you.
_Oli._ What kind of man is he?
_Mal._ Why, of man-kind.
_Oli._ What manner of man?
_Mal._ Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you, or no.
_Oli._ Of what personage, and years, is he?
_Mal._ Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as
a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a coddling when 'tis almost an
apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is
very well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think, his
mother's milk were scarce out of him.
_Oli._ Let him approach: Call in my gentlewoman.
_Mal._ Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [_Exit_ MALVOLIO.
[Illustration]
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Oli._ Give me my veil. [_Exit_ MARIA.
What means his message to me?
I have denied his access o'er and o'er:
Then what means this?
_Enter_ MARIA, _with a Veil_.
Come, throw it o'er my face;
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
_Enter_ VIOLA.
_Vio._ The honourable lady of the house, which is she?
_Oli._ Speak to me, I shall answer for her:--Your will?
_Vio._ Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,--I pray you,
tell me, if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would
be loth to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well
penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it.
_Oli._ Whence came you, sir?
_Vio._ I can say little more than I have studied, and that
question's out of my part.--Good gentle one, give me modest assurance,
if you be the lady of the house.
_Oli._ If I do not usurp myself, I am.
_Vio._ Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what
is yours to bestow, is not yours to reserve.
_Oli._ I heard you were saucy at my gates; and allow'd your
approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad,
be gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with
me, to make one in so skipping a dialogue.--What are you? what would
you?
_Vio._ What I am, and what I would, are to your ears, divinity; to
any other's, profanation.
_Oli._ Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.
[_Exit_ MARIA.
Now, sir, what is your text?
_Vio._ Most sweet lady,----
_Oli._ A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where
lies your text?
_Vio._ In Orsino's bosom.
_Oli._ In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?
_Vio._ To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
_Oli._ O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?
_Vio._ Good madam, let me see your face.
_Oli._ Have you any commission from your lord to negociate with my
face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and
show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one as I, does this
present. [_Unveiling._
_Vio._ 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy.
_Oli._ O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted.
_Vio._ My lord and master loves you; O, such love
Could be but recompensed, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!
_Oli._ How does he love me?
_Vio._ With adorations, with fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
_Oli._ Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him:
He might have took his answer long ago.
_Vio._ If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense,
I would not understand it.
_Oli._ Why, what would you?
_Vio._ Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.
_Oli._ You might do much:--What is your parentage?
_Vio._ Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.
_Oli._ Get you to your lord;
I cannot love him: let him send no more;
Unless, perchance, you come to me again,
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:
I thank you for your pains:--Spend this for me.
_Vio._ I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse;
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love make his heart of flint, that you shall love;
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [_Exit_ VIOLA.
_Oli._ What is your parentage?
_Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman._----I'll be sworn thou art;
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon:--Not too fast:--soft! soft!
Unless the master were the man.--How now?
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks, I feel this youth's perfections,
With an invisible and subtle stealth,
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.--
What ho, Malvolio!--
_Enter_ MALVOLIO.
_Mal._ Here, madam, at your service.
_Oli._ Run after that same peevish messenger,
Orsino's man: he left this ring behind him,
Would I, or not; tell him, I'll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his lord,
Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:
If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,
I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio.
_Mal._ Madam, I will. [_Exit_ MALVOLIO.
_Oli._ I do I know not what; and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force: Ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed, must be; and be this so!
[_Exit._
|
|
Twelfth Night.act ii.scen | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for act ii, scene i based on the provided context. | Somewhere near the coast of Illyria, we meet two men who have not yet appeared in the play. One of them is called Antonio, and he has been hosting the other in his home. This other man is none other than Sebastian, the twin brother of Viola, who she believes has drowned. It seems that Antonio took Sebastian into his home when he washed up after the shipwreck and has been caring for him ever since. At first, Sebastian gave him a false name, but now that he plans to leave Antonio and go wandering, he decides to tell his benefactor his true identity and the tale of his sister, who he assumes drowned in their shipwreck. We learn here that Sebastian and Viola's father is long dead, and so Sebastian assumes that he has no family left. He is still devastated by the loss of his sister and is preparing to go wandering through the world, with little care as to what the future will hold. Antonio urges Sebastian to let him come with him on his journey. It is clear that Antonio has become very fond of Sebastian and does not want to lose him. But Sebastian is afraid that his travels will be dangerous, and he urges Antonio to let him go alone. After Sebastian leaves to go to Orsino's court, Antonio ponders the situation: he wants to follow his friend and help him, but he has many enemies in Orsino's court and is afraid to go there. He cares about Sebastian so much, however, that he decides to face the danger and follow him to Orsino's court anyway |
----------ACT II, SCENE I---------
ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I.
_A Sea-port._
_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ ANTONIO.
_Ant._ Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not, that I go with
you?
_Seb._ By your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over me; the
malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall
crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone: It were a bad
recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.
_Ant._ Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
_Seb._ O, good Antonio, pardon me your trouble.
_Ant._ Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound.
_Seb._ No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere
extravagancy.--But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty,
that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore
it charges me in manners the rather to express myself.--You must know of
me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Rodorigo; my
father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard of:
He left behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. If the
heavens had been pleased, 'would we had so ended! But you, sir, altered
that; for, some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was
my sister drowned.
_Ant._ Alas, the day!
_Seb._ A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was
yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not overfar believe
that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy
could not but call fair. [_He weeps._]
_Ant._ If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your
servant.
_Seb._ If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him
whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom
is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother,
that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I
am bound to the Duke Orsino's court, farewell.
_Ant._ The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
_Seb._ Fare ye well. [_Exeunt._
----------ACT II, SCENE II---------
SCENE II.
_A Dining-room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
SIR TOBY _and_ SIR ANDREW _discovered, drinking and smoking_.
_Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight, is to be
up betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know'st,----
_Sir And._ Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late,
is to be up late.
_Sir To._ A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfill'd can: To be up
after midnight, and to go to bed then, is early; so that, to go to
bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives
consist of the four elements?
_Sir And._ 'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of
eating and drinking.
_Sir To._ Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and
drink.--Maria, I say!----a stoop of wine!
[_The_ CLOWN _sings without_.
[SIR ANDREW _and_ SIR TOBY _rise_.
_Sir And._ Here comes the fool, i'faith.
_Enter_ CLOWN.
_Clo._ How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we
three?
_Sir To._ Welcome, ass.
_Sir And._ I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg; and
so sweet a voice to sing, as the fool has.--In sooth, thou wast in very
gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the
Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith. I
sent thee sixpence for thy leman: Hadst it?
_Clo._ I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no
whipstock: My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle
ale-houses.
_Sir And._ Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is
done. Now, a song.
_Sir To._ Come on: Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that
will draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that?
_Sir And._ An you love me, let's do 't: I am dog at a catch.
_Clo._ By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
_Sir And._ Begin, fool: it begins,--[_Sings._] _Hold thy peace._
_Clo._ Hold my peace!--I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
_Sir And._ Good, i'faith!--Come, begin:--that, or something
else,--or what you will.
[_They all three sing._
_Christmas comes but once a year,
And therefore we'll be merry._
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Mar._ What a catterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not
called up her steward, Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors,
never trust me.
_Sir To._ My lady's a Cataian; we are politicians. Malvolio's a
Peg-a-Ramsay:--[_Sings._]--_And three merry men be we._
_Sir And._ [_Sings._] _And three merry men be we._
_Sir To._ Am I not consanguineous? Am I not of her blood?
Tilly-valley, lady!--[_Sings._]--_There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady,
lady!_
_Sir And._ [_Sings_] _Lady_,----
_Clo._ Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
_Sir And._ Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do I
too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
[_Sings_.] _Lady_,--
_Sir To._ Let us have another.
[_They all three sing and dance._
_Which is the properest day to drink?
Saturday,--Sunday,--Monday_,--
_Mar._ For the love of heaven, peace.
_Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in a Gown and Cap, with a Light_.
_Mal._ My masters, are you mad? or what are you?
_Sir And._ [_Sings._] _Monday_,--
_Mal._ Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like
tinkers at this time of night?
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _Saturday_,--
_Mal._ Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?
_Sir To._ We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
_Mal._ Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you,
that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to
your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you
are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave
of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be
gone._
_Mar._ Nay, good Sir Toby.
_Clo._ [_Sings._] _His eyes do show his days are almost done._
_Mal._ Is't even so?
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _But I will never die._ [_Falls on the floor._
_Clo._ [_Sings._] _Sir Toby,--O, Sir Toby,--there you lie._
_Mal._ This is much credit to you. [CLOWN _raises_ SIR TOBY.
_Sir To._ [_Sings._] _You lie._--Art any more than a steward? Dost
thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes
and ale?
_Clo._ Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too.
_Sir To._ Thou'rt i' the right.--Go, sir, rub your chain with
crums:--A stoop of wine, Maria!
_Mal._ Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing
more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule:
She shall know of it, by this hand.
[_Exit_ MALVOLIO, _followed by the_ CLOWN, _mocking him_.
_Mar._ Go shake your ears.
_Sir And._ 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a hungry,
to challenge him to the field; and then to break promise with him, and
make a fool of him.
_Sir To._ Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll deliver
thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
_Mar._ Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of
the Duke's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For
Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a
nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit
enough to lie straight in my bed: I know, I can do it.
_Sir To._ Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
_Mar._ Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.
_Sir And._ O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.
_Sir To._ What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear
knight?
_Sir And._ I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good
enough.
_Mar._ The devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a
time-pleaser; an affectioned ass; so crammed, as he thinks, with
excellencies, that it is his ground of faith, that all, that look on
him, love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable
cause to work.
_Sir To._ What wilt thou do?
_Mar._ I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love;
wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of
his gait, the expressure of his eye, he shall find himself most
feelingly personated: I can write very like my lady, your niece; on a
forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.
_Sir To._ Excellent! I smell a device.
_Sir And._ I have't in my nose too.
_Sir To._ He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that
they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him?
_Sir And._ O, 'twill be admirable.
_Mar._ Sport royal, I warrant you. I will plant you two, and let
Fabian make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his
construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event.
Farewell. [_Exit_ MARIA.
_Sir To._ Good night, Penthesilea.
_Sir And._ Before me, she's a good wench.
_Sir To._ She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; What o'
that?
_Sir And._ I was adored once too.
_Sir To._ Let's to bed, knight.--Thou hadst need send for more
money.
_Sir And._ If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
_Sir To._ Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end,
call me Cut.
_Sir And._ If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.
_Sir To._ Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to
bed now.
_Sir And._ I'll call you Cut.
_Sir To._ Come, knight,--come, knight.
_Sir And._ I'll call you Cut. [_Exeunt._
----------ACT II, SCENE III---------
SCENE III.
_A Hall in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_.
_Enter_ DUKE, _and_ VIOLA.
_Duke._ Come hither, boy:--If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it, remember me:
For, such as I am, all true lovers are.--
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?
_Vio._ A little, by your favour.
_Duke._ What kind of woman is't?
_Vio._ Of your complexion.
_Duke._ She is not worth thee then. What years, i' faith?
_Vio._ About your years, my lord.
_Duke._ Too old, by heaven.--Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yon same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that fortune hath bestowed upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems,
That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul.
_Vio._ But, if she cannot love you, sir?
_Duke._ I cannot be so answered.
_Vio._ Sooth, but you must.
Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so: Must she not then be answered?
_Duke._ There is no woman's sides,
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart:--make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.
_Vio._ Ay, but I know,--
_Duke._ What dost thou know?
_Vio._ Too well what love women to men may owe:
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
_Duke._ And what's her history?
_Vio._ A blank, my lord: She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,
Our shows are more than will, for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
_Duke._ But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
_Vio._ I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too.--
Sir, shall I to this lady?
_Duke._ Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,
My love can give no place, bide no denay. [_Exeunt._
|
|
Twelfth Night.act iii.sce | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for act iii, scene iii based on the provided context. | Elsewhere, in the streets of Illyria, we find that Sebastian and Antonio have at last arrived at their destination. We learn that Antonio is not safe in Illyria: it seems that Duke Orsino's men are hostile to him, for many years ago Antonio was involved in a sea fight against Orsino in which he did them much damage. But Antonio's love for Sebastian has caused him to defy the danger and come with Sebastian to Illyria. Sebastian is not yet tired, so he and Antonio agree that Antonio find lodging for the two of them at an inn. Sebastian, meanwhile, will roam the streets, taking in the sights of the town. Knowing that Sebastian doesn't have much money, Antonio gives Sebastian his purse so that Sebastian can buy himself something if he spots a trinket he likes. They agree to meet again in an hour at the inn |
----------ACT III, SCENE I---------
ACT THE THIRD. SCENE I.
OLIVIA'S _Garden_.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, _and_ FABIAN.
_Sir To._ Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
_Fab._ Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be
boiled to death with melancholy.
_Sir To._ Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally
sheep-biter come by some notable shame?
_Fab._ I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out of favour
with my lady, about a bear-baiting here.
_Sir To._ To anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool
him black and blue:--Shall we not, Sir Andrew?
_Sir And._ An we do not, it is pity of our lives.
_Enter_ MARIA, _with a Letter_.
_Sir To._ Here comes the little villain:--How now, my nettle of
India?
_Mar._ Get ye all three behind yon clump: Malvolio's coming down
this walk; he has been yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to his
own shadow, this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for, I
know, this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him.--Close, in the
name of jesting! [_The men hide themselves._]--Lie thou there; [_Throws
down a letter._] for here comes the trout that must be caught with
tickling. [_Exit_ MARIA.
_Enter_ MALVOLIO.
_Mal._ 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me, she did
affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she
fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a
more exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. What should I
think on't?
_Sir To._ Here's an over-weening rogue!
_Fab._ Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets
under his advanced plumes!
_Sir And._ 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:--
_Mal._ To be Count Malvolio;--
_Sir To._ Ah, rogue!
_Sir And._ Pistol him, pistol him.
_Sir To._ Peace, peace!
_Mal._ There is example for't; the lady of the strachy married the
yeoman of the wardrobe.
_Sir And._ Fie on him, Jezebel!
_Fab._ Now he's deeply in; look, how imagination blows him.
_Mal._ Having been three months married to her, sitting in my
state,--
_Sir To._ O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!
_Mal._ Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet
gown;--having come from a day-bed, where I left Olivia sleeping;--
_Sir To._ Fire and brimstone!
_Fab._ O peace, peace!
_Mal._ And then to have the humour of state: and after a demure
travel of regard,--telling them, I know my place, as I would they should
do theirs,--to ask for my kinsman Toby:--
_Sir To._ Bolts and shackles!
_Fab._ O, peace, peace, peace! now, now.
_Mal._ Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him:
I frown the while; and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some
rich jewel. Toby approaches: courtsies there to me:--
_Sir To._ Shall this fellow live?
_Fab._ Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.
_Mal._ I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile
with an austere regard of control--
_Sir To._ And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?
_Mal._ Saying, _Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your
niece, give me this prerogative of speech_:--
_Sir To._ What, what?
_Mal._ _You must amend your drunkenness._
_Sir To._ Out, scab!
_Fab._ Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
_Mal._ _Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish
knight_;--
_Sir And._ That's me, I warrant you.
_Mal._ _One Sir Andrew_:--
_Sir And._ I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me fool.
_Mal._ What employment have we here?
[_Taking up the letter._
_Fab._ Now is the woodcock near the gin.
_Sir To._ O peace! an the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud
to him,--
_Mal._ By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very _C's_,
her _U's_, and her _T's_; and thus makes she her great _P's_. It is, in
contempt of question, her hand.
_Sir And._ Her _C's_, her _U's_, and her _T's_: Why that?
_Mal._ [_Reads._] _To the unknown beloved, this, and my good
wishes_: her very phrases!--By your leave, wax.--Soft!--and the
impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my lady: To
whom should this be? [_Opens the letter._]
_Fab._ This wins him, liver and all.
_Mal._ [_Reads._] _Jove knows, I love:
But who?
Lips do not move,
No man must know.
No man must know._--If this should be thee, Malvolio?
_Sir To._ Marry, hang thee, brock!
_Mal._ [_Reads._] _I may command, where I adore:
But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore_;
M,O,A,I, _doth sway my life_.
_Fab._ A fustian riddle!
_Sir To._ Excellent wench, say I.
_Mal._ M,O,A,I, _doth sway my life_.--Nay, but first, let me
see,--let me see,--let me see.
_Fab._ What a dish of poison has she dressed him!
_Sir To._ And with what wing the stanniel checks at it!
_Mal._ _I may command where I adore._ Why, she may command me; I
serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity.
There is no obstruction in this:--And the end,--What should that
alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something
in me.--Softly!--M,O,A,I.
_Sir To._ O, ay! make up that:--he is now at a cold scent.
_Mal._ _M_,--Malvolio;--_M_,--why, that begins my name.
_Fab._ I thought he would work it out: the cur is excellent at
faults.
_Mal._ _M_,--But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that
suffers under probation: _A_ should follow, but _O_ does.
_Fab._ And _O_ shall end, I hope.
_Sir To._ Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry, _O_.
_Mal._ And then _I_ comes behind.
_Fab._ Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more
detraction at your heels, than fortunes before you.
_Mal._ _M_,_O_,_A_,_I_;--This simulation is not as the former:--and
yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these
letters are in my name. Soft; here follows prose.--[_Reads. If this fall
into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid
of greatness: Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have
greatness thrust upon them. To enure thyself to what thou art like to
be, cast thy humble slough, and appear fresh. Be opposite with a
kinsman, surly with servants. She thus advises thee, that sighs for
thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings; and wished to see
thee ever cross-gartered: I say, remember. Go to; thou art made, if thou
desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow
of servants, and not worthy to touch fortune's fingers. Farewell. She
that would alter services with thee._ _The fortunate-unhappy._
Day-light and champian discovers not more: this is open. I will be
proud, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I
will be point-de-vice, the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let
imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady
loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my
leg being cross-gartered:--I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be
strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the
swiftness of putting on. Jove, and my stars be praised!--Here is yet a
postscript--[_Reads._] _Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou
entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become
thee well: therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I
pr'ythee._ Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do every thing that
thou wilt have me.
[_Exit_ MALVOLIO.
[_They advance from behind the Trees._]
_Omnes._ Ha! ha! ha!
_Fab._ I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of
thousands to be paid from the sophy.
_Sir To._ I could marry this wench for this device.
_Sir And._ So could I too.
_Sir To._ And ask no other dowry with her, but such another jest.
_Sir And._ Nor I neither.
_Fab._ Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Sir To._ Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?
_Sir And._ Or o' mine either?
_Sir To._ Shall I become thy bond-slave?
_Sir And._ Or I either?
_Sir To._ Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the
image of it leaves him, he must run mad.
_Mar._ Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?
_Sir To._ Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.
_Mar._ If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first
approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings,
and 'tis a colour she abhors; and cross-gartered, a fashion she
detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable
to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that
it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt: if you will see it,
follow me. [_Exit_ MARIA.
_Sir To._ To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit.
_Sir And._ I'll make one too.
_Fab._ And I.
_Omnes._ Huzza! huzza! huzza! [_Exeunt._
----------ACT III, SCENE II---------
SCENE II.
_A public Square._
_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ ANTONIO.
_Seb._ I would not, by my will, have troubled you;
But, since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.
_Ant._ I could not stay behind you; my desire,
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;
I fear'd besides what might befall your travel,
Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,
Unguided, and unfriended, often prove
Rough and unhospitable: My willing love,
The rather by these arguments of doubt,
Set forth in your pursuit.
_Seb._ My kind Antonio,
I can no other answer make, but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks.--What is to do?
Shall we go see the reliques of this town?
_Ant._ To-morrow, sir; best, first, go see your lodging.
_Seb._ I am not weary, and 'tis long to night;
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials, and the things of fame,
That do renown this city.
_Ant._ 'Would, you'd pardon me;
I do not without danger walk these streets:
Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst Orsino's gallies,
I did some service; of such note indeed,
That were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answered.
_Seb._ Do not then walk too open.
_Ant._ It doth not fit me.--Hold, sir, here's my purse;
In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,
Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet,
Whiles you beguile the time, and feed your knowledge,
With viewing of the town; there shall you have me.
_Seb._ Why I your purse?
_Ant._ Haply, your eye shall light upon some toy
You have desire to purchase; and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, sir.
_Seb._ I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for
an hour.
_Ant._ To the Elephant.
_Seb._ I do remember. [_Exeunt._
----------ACT III, SCENE III---------
SCENE III.
OLIVIA'S _Garden_.
_Enter_ CLOWN, _playing on a Tabor, and_ VIOLA.
_Vio._ Save thee, friend, and thy music: Dost thou live by thy
tabor?
_Clo._ No, sir, I live by the church.
_Vio._ Art thou a churchman?
_Clo._ No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live
at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.
_Vio._ Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?
_Clo._ No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep
no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands, as
pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; I am, indeed, not
her fool, but her corrupter of words.
_Vio._ I saw thee late at the Duke Orsino's.
_Clo._ Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, like the sun; it
shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft
with your master, as with my mistress: I think, I saw your wisdom there.
_Vio._ Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee. Hold,
there's expences for thee.
[_Gives him money._
_Clo._ Now, Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!
_Vio._ By my troth, I'll tell thee; I am almost sick for one.--Is
thy lady within?
_Clo._ Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?
_Vio._ Yes, being kept together, and put to use.
_Clo._ I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a
Cressida to this Troilus.
_Vio._ I understand you, sir: [_Gives him more money._] 'tis well
begged.
_Clo._ My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence you
came: who you are, and what you would, are out of my welkin: I might
say, element; but the word is over-worn. [_Exit_ CLOWN.
_Vio._ This fellow's wise enough to play the fool;
And to do that well, craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time;
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice,
As full of labour as a wise man's art.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY, _and_ SIR ANDREW.
_Sir To._ Save you, gentleman.
_Vio._ And you, sir.
_Sir To._ My niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to
her.
_Vio._ I am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she is the list of my
voyage.
_Sir To._ Taste your legs, sir, put them to motion.
_Vio._ My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what
you mean by bidding me taste my legs.
_Sir To._ I mean,--to go, sir, to enter.
_Vio._ I will answer you with gait and entrance: But we are
prevented.
_Enter_ OLIVIA.
Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!
_Sir And._ That youth's a rare courtier!--_Rain odours!_--well.
_Vio._ My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant
and vouchsafed ear.
_Sir And._ _Odours_, _pregnant_, and _vouchsafed_!--I'll get 'em all
three ready.
_Oli._ Leave me to my hearing.
_Sir And._ _Odours--pregnant--vouchsafed._
[_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ SIR ANDREW.
_Oli._ Give me your hand, sir.
_Vio._ My duty, madam, and most humble service.
_Oli._ What is your name?
_Vio._ Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.
_Oli._ My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world,
Since lowly feigning was called compliment:
You are servant to the Duke Orsino, youth.
_Vio._ And he is yours, and his must needs be yours;
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.
_Oli._ For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,
'Would they were blanks, rather than filled with me!
_Vio._ Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts on his behalf:--
_Oli._ O, by your leave, I pray you;
I bade you never speak again of him:
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that,
Than music from the spheres.
_Vio._ Dear lady,----
_Oli._ Give me leave, I beseech you: I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you:
Under your hard construction must I sit,
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours: What might you think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake,
And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown; a cyprus, not a bosom,
Hides my poor heart: So let me hear you speak.
_Vio._ I pity you.
_Oli._ That's a degree to love.
_Vio._ No, not a grise; for 'tis a vulgar proof,
That very oft we pity enemies.
_Oli._ Why, then, methinks, 'tis time to smile again:
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
[_Clock strikes._
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.--
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your wife is like to reap a proper man:
There lies your way, due west.
_Vio._ Then westward-hoe:
Grace, and good disposition 'tend your ladyship!
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?
_Oli._ Stay:
I pr'ythee, tell me, what thou think'st of me.
_Vio._ That you do think, you are not what you are.
_Oli._ If I think so, I think the same of you.
_Vio._ Then think you right; I am not what I am.
_Oli._ I would, you were as I would have you be!
_Vio._ Would it be better, madam, than I am,
I wish it might; for now I am your fool.
_Oli._ O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide.
_Vio._ By innocence, I swear, and by my youth.
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam; never more
Will I my master's tears to you deplore.
_Oli._ Yet come again: for thou, perhaps, may'st move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.
[_Exeunt._
----------ACT III, SCENE IV---------
SCENE IV.
_A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ SIR ANDREW, FABIAN, _and_ SIR TOBY.
_Sir And._ No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.
_Sir To._ Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.
_Fab._ You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.
_Sir And._ Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the Count's
serving man, than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw't this moment in the
garden.
_Sir To._ Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.
_Sir And._ As plain as I see you now.
_Fab._ This was a great argument of love in her toward you.
_Sir And._ 'Slight! will you make an ass o' me?
_Fab._ I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment
and reason.
_Sir To._ And they have been grand jury-men, since before Noah was a
sailor.
_Fab._ She did show favour to the youth in your sight, only to
exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your
heart, and brimstone in your liver: you should then have accosted her;
and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have
bang'd the youth into dumbness. This was look'd for at your hand, and
this was baulk'd: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash
off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady's opinion: where
you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem
it by some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy.
_Sir And._ An it be any way, it must be with valour; for policy I
hate.
_Sir To._ Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour.
Challenge me the Count's youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven
places; my niece shall take note of it: and assure thyself, there is no
love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with
woman, than report of valour.
_Fab._ There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
_Sir And._ Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?
_Sir To._ Go write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is
no matter how witty, so it be eloquent, and full of invention: taunt him
with the license of ink: if thou _thou'st_ him some thrice, it shall not
be amiss; and as many _lies_ as will lie in thy sheet of paper; although
the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set 'em down;
go, about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write
with a goose-pen, no matter: About it.
_Sir And._ Where shall I find you?
_Sir To._ We'll call thee at the _cubiculo:_ Go.
[_Exit_ SIR ANDREW.
_Fab._ This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.
_Sir To._ I have been dear to him, lad; some two thousand strong, or
so.
_Fab._ We shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll not deliver
it?
_Sir To._ Never trust me then; and by all means stir on the youth to
an answer. I think, oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For
Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as
will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of the anatomy.
_Fab._ And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great
presage of cruelty.
_Sir To._ Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Mar._ If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into
stitches, follow me: yon gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very
renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing
rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He's in
yellow stockings.
_Sir To._ And cross-gartered?
_Mar._ Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' the
church.--I have dogg'd him, like his murderer: He does obey every point
of the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does smile his face into
more lines, than are in a map: you have not seen such a thing as 'tis.
_Sir To._ Come, bring us, bring us where he is.
[_Exeunt._
|
|
Twelfth Night.act iv.scen | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of act iv, scene i using the context provided. | Near Olivia's house, Feste the clown comes across the person who he thinks is Cesario and tries to bring him to Olivia's house. This individual, however, is actually Viola's twin brother, Sebastian. Sebastian, of course, is confused by Feste's claims to know him. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew then find them. Sir Andrew, thinking that Sebastian is the same person he was about to duel a few minutes before, attacks him. But Sebastian, unlike Viola, is a scrappy fighter, and starts to beat Sir Andrew with his dagger, leading the foolish nobleman to cry for mercy. The bewildered Sebastian wonders if he is surrounded by madmen and tries to leave. But Sir Toby grabs him to prevent him from going. The two exchange insults, and Sebastian and Sir Toby draw their swords and prepare to fight. Suddenly, Olivia enters. She sees Sir Toby preparing to fight the person who she thinks is Cesario. Angrily, she orders Sir Toby to put away his sword and sends away all the others. She begs Cesario to come into her house with her. Sebastian is bewildered, but Olivia does not give him time to think, and the still-confused Sebastian agrees to follow her, saying, "If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep |
----------ACT IV, SCENE I---------
ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE 1.
_A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA.
_Oli._ I have sent after him:--He says, he'll come.
How shall I feast him? what bestow on him?
I speak too loud.----
Where is Malvolio?
_Mar._ He's coming, madam;
But in strange manner. He is sure possessed.
_Oli._ Why, what's the matter? does he rave?
_Mar._ No, madam,
He does nothing but smile: your ladyship
Were best have guard about you, if he come;
For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits.
_Oli._ Go call him hither. [_Exit_ MARIA.
I'm as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.--
_Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in yellow Stockings, cross-garter'd, and_ MARIA.
How now, Malvolio?
_Mal._ Sweet lady, ho, ho. [_Smiles fantastically._
_Oli._ Smilest thou?
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.
_Mal._ Sad, lady? I could be sad: This does make some obstruction in
the blood, this cross-gartering: But what of that? if it please the eye
of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: _Please one, and
please all_.
_Oli._ Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee?
_Mal._ Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.--It did come
to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think, we do know the
sweet Roman hand.
_Oli._ Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
_Mal._ To bed!--Ay, sweet-heart; and I'll come to thee.
_Oli._ Heaven comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy
hand so oft?
_Mar._ How do you, Malvolio?
_Mal._ At your request? Yes; Nightingales answer daws.
_Mar._ Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?
_Mal._ _Be not afraid of greatness_:--'Twas well writ.
_Oli._ What mean'st thou by that, Malvolio?
_Mal._ _Some are born great_,--
_Oli._ Ha?
_Mal._ _Some achieve greatness_,--
_Oli._ What say'st thou?
_Mal._ _ And some have greatness thrust upon them._
_Oli._ Heaven restore thee!
_Mal._ _Remember who commended thy yellow stockings_;--
_Oli._ Thy yellow stockings?
_Mal_ _And wished to see thee cross-garter'd._
_Oli._ Cross-garter'd?
_Mal._ _Go to: thou art made, if thou desirest to be so_;--
_Oli._ Am I made?
_Mal._ _If not, let me see thee a servant still._
_Oli._ Why, this is very Midsummer madness.
_Enter_ FABIAN.
_Fab._ Madam, the young gentleman of the Duke Orsino's is returned;
I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's pleasure.
_Oli._ I'll come to him. Good Maria, let this fellow be look'd
to.--Call my uncle Toby. [_Exit_ FABIAN.
Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not have him
miscarry for the half of my dowry. [_Exeunt_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA.
_Mal._ Oh, ho! do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby
to look to me? She sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to
him; for she incites me to that in the letter. I have limed her.--And,
when she went away now, _Let this fellow be looked to_:--Fellow! not
Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing adheres
together.--Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be
thanked.
_Sir To._ [_Without_] Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If
all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed
him, yet I'll speak to him.
_Enter_ FABIAN, SIR TOBY, _and_ MARIA.
_Fab._ Here he is, here he is:--How is't with you, sir? how is't
with you, man?
_Mal._ Go off, I discard you; let me enjoy my private; go off.
_Mar._ Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell
you?--Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him.
_Mal._ Ah, ha! does she so?
_Sir To._ Go to, go to; we must deal gently with him. How do you,
Malvolio? how is't with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he's
an enemy to mankind.
_Mal._ Do you know what you say?
_Mar._ La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at
heart! Pray, heaven, he be not bewitch'd.
_Fab._ Carry his water to the wise woman.
_Sir To._ Pr'ythee, hold thy peace; do you not see, you move him?
let me alone with him.
_Fab._ No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough,
and will not be roughly used.
_Sir To._ Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, chuck?
_Mal._ Sir?
_Sir To._ Ay, Biddy, come with me.--What, man! 'tis not for gravity
to play at cherry-pit with Satan: Hang him, foul collier!
_Mar._ Get him to say his prayers, Sir Toby.
_Mal._ My prayers, minx?
_Mar._ No, I warrant you, he'll not hear of godliness.
_Mal._ Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am
not of your element; you shall know more hereafter. Begone. Ha! ha!
ha! [_Exit_ MALVOLIO.
_Omnes._ Ha! ha! ha!
_Sir To._ Is't possible?
_Fab._ If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as
an improbable fiction.
_Sir To._ His very genius hath taken the infection of the device,
man.
_Mar._ Nay, pursue him now; lest the device take air, and taint.
_Fab._ Why, we shall make him mad, indeed.
_Mar._ The house will be the quieter.
_Sir To._ Come, we'll have him in a dark room, and bound.--Follow
him, and let him not from thy sight. [_Exit_ MARIA.
But see, but see.
_Fab._ More matter for a May morning.
_Enter_ SIR ANDREW, _with a Letter_.
_Sir And._ Here's the challenge, read it; I warrant, there's vinegar
and pepper in't.
_Fab._ Is't so saucy?
_Sir And._ Ay, is it, I warrant him: do but read.
_Sir To._ Give me.--[_Reads._] _Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art
but a scurvy fellow._
_Fab._ Good and valiant.
_Sir To._ _Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call
thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't._
_Fab._ A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law.
_Sir To._ _Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses
thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat, that is not the matter I
challenge thee for._
_Fab._ Very brief, and exceeding good sense-less.
_Sir To._ _I will way-lay thee going home; where if it be thy chance
to kill me_,--
_Fab._ Good.
_Sir To._ _Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain._
_Fab._ Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: Good.
_Sir To._ _Fare thee well; and heaven have mercy upon one of our
souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look
to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy_, ANDREW
AGUECHEEK.--If this letter move him not, his legs cannot: I'll give't
him.
_Fab._ You may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some
commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.
_Sir To._ Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the
garden, like a bum-bailiff; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and,
as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, that a
terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd off, gives
manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him.
Away.
_Sir And._ Nay, let me alone for swearing. [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW.
_Sir To._ Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behaviour of
the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding;
therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no
terror in the youth, he will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I
will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon Ague-cheek a
notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, (as, I know, his
youth will aptly receive it,) into a most hideous opinion of his rage,
skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both, that they
will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices.
_Fab._ Here he comes with your niece: give them way, till he take
leave, and presently after him.
_Sir To._ I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a
challenge. [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN.
_Enter_ VIOLA _and_ OLIVIA.
_Oli._ I have said too much unto a heart of stone,
And laid mine honour too unchary out:
There's something in me, that reproves my fault;
But such a headstrong potent fault it is,
That it but mocks reproof.
_Vio._ With the same 'haviour that your passion bears,
Go on my master's griefs.
_Oli._ Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture;
Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you:
And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow.
What shall you ask of me, that I'll deny;
That honour, saved, may upon asking give?
_Vio._ Nothing but this, your true love for my master.
_Oli._ How with mine honour may I give him that
Which I have given to you?
_Vio._ I will acquit you.
_Oli._ Well, come again to-morrow: Fare thee well!
[_Exit_ OLIVIA.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN.
_Sir To._ Gentleman, heaven save thee.
_Vio._ And you, sir.
_Sir To._ That defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what nature
the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full
of despight, bloody as the hunter, attends thee: dismount thy tuck, be
yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and
deadly.
_Vio._ You mistake, sir; I am sure, no man hath any quarrel to me;
my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to
any man.
_Sir To._ You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you
hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite
hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man
withal.
_Vio._ I pray you, sir, what is he?
_Sir To._ He is knight, dubb'd with unhack'd rapier, and on carpet
consideration: but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath
he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable,
that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre: hob,
nob, is his word; give 't or take 't.
_Vio._ I will return, and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no
fighter.
_Sir To._ Back you shall not, unless you undertake that with me,
which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on; or strip
your sword stark naked, (for meddle you must, that's certain,) or
forswear to wear iron about you.
_Vio._ This is as uncivil, as strange. I beseech you, do me this
courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is; it
is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.
_Sir To._ I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman
till my return. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY.
_Vio._ 'Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?
_Fab._ I know, the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal
arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.
_Vio._ I beseech you, what manner of man is he?
_Fab._ Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form,
as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed,
sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could
possibly have found in any part of Illyria: Will you walk towards him? I
will make your peace with him, if I can.
_Vio._ I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one, that would
rather go with sir priest, than sir knight: I care not who knows so much
of my mettle.
[_Exeunt._
----------ACT IV, SCENE II---------
SCENE II.
OLIVIA'S _Garden_.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY, _with_ SIR ANDREW, _in a great fright_.
_Sir To._ Why, man, he's a very devil;--
_Sir And._ Oh!
_Sir To._ I have not seen such a virago. I had a pass with
him,--rapier, scabbard, and all,--and he gives me the stuck-in,----
_Sir And._ Oh!
_Sir To._ With such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable: they
say, he has been fencer to the Sophy.
_Sir And._ Plague on't, I'll not meddle with him.
_Sir To._ Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce
hold him yonder.
_Sir And._ Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so
cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damn'd ere I had challenged him. Let
him let the matter slip, and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet.
_Sir To._ I'll make the motion: Stand here, make a good show
on't.--[_Aside._] Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you.
_Enter_ FABIAN _and_ VIOLA.
I have his horse [_To_ FABIAN.] to take up the quarrel; I have persuaded
him, the youth's a devil.
_Fab._ [_To_ SIR TOBY.] He is as horribly conceited of him; and
pants, as if a bear were at his heels.
_Sir To._ [_To_ VIOLA.] There's no remedy, sir; he will fight with
you for his oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his
quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore
draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests, he will not hurt you.
_Vio._ [_Draws her Sword._] Pray heaven defend me!--[_Aside._] A
little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.
_Fab._ [_To_ VIOLA.] Give ground, if you see him furious.
_Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will,
for his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the duello
avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he
will not hurt you. Come on; to 't.
_Sir And._ [_Draws._] Pray heaven, he keep his oath!
_Vio._ I do assure you, 'tis against my will.
[_They fight._--SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN _urge on_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA.
_Enter_ ANTONIO, _who runs between_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA.
_Ant._ Put up your sword;--If this young gentleman
Have done offence, I take the fault on me;
If you offend him, I for him defy you.
_Sir To._ You, sir? Why, what are you?
_Ant._ [_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more
Than you have heard him brag to you he will.
_Sir To._ [_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I
am for you.
[SIR TOBY _and_ ANTONIO _fight_.]
[SIR ANDREW _hides himself behind the Trees_.--VIOLA _retires a
little_.]
_Fab._ [_Parts them._] O good Sir Toby, hold; here come the
officers.
_Sir To._ [_To_ ANTONIO.] I'll be with you anon. [ANTONIO _shows
great alarm_--SIR TOBY _sheathes his sword_.]--Sir knight,--Sir
Andrew,--
_Sir And._ Here I am.
_Sir To._ What, man!--Come on. [_Brings_ SIR ANDREW _forward_.]
_Vio._ [_Advances._] 'Pray, sir, [_To_ SIR ANDREW.] put up your
sword, if you please.
_Sir And._ Marry, will I, sir;--and, for that I promised you, I'll
be as good as my word: He will bear you easily, and reins well.
_Enter two Officers of Justice._
_1 Off._ This is the man; do thy office.
_2 Off._ Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit
Of Duke Orsino.
_Ant._ You do mistake me, sir.
_1 Off._ No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well.--
Take him away; he knows, I know him well.
_Ant._ I must obey.--This comes with seeking you;
But there's no remedy.
Now my necessity
Makes me to ask you for my purse: It grieves me
Much more, for what I cannot do for you,
Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed;
But be of comfort.
_1 Off._ Come, sir, away.
_Ant._ I must entreat of you some of that money.
_Vio._ What money, sir?
For the fair kindness you have showed me here,
And, part, being prompted by your present trouble,
Out of my lean and low ability
I'll lend you something: my having is not much;
I'll make division of my present with you;
Hold, there is half my coffer.
_Ant._ Will you deny me now?
Is't possible, that my deserts to you
Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery;
Lest that it make me so unsound a man,
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you.
_Vio._ I know of none;
Nor know I you by voice, or any feature.
_Ant._ O heavens themselves!
_1 Off._ Come, sir, I pray you, go.
_Ant._ Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here,
I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death;
And to his image, which, methought, did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion.
But, O, how vile an idol proves this god!--
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.--
In nature there's no blemish, but the mind;
None can be call'd deform'd, but the unkind:
Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil
Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil.
[_Exeunt_ ANTONIO _and Officers_.
_Sir To._ Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian.
[_They retire together._
_Vio._ He named Sebastian; I my brother know
Yet living in my glass; even such, and so,
In favour was my brother; and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament;
For him I imitate: O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!
[_Exit_ VIOLA.
[_They advance._]
_Sir To._ A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a
hare; his dishonesty appears, in leaving his friend here in necessity,
and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.
_Fab._ A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.
_Sir And._ 'Slid, I'll after him again, and beat him.
_Sir To._ Do, cuff him soundly;--but never draw thy sword.
_Sir And._ An I do not!-- [_Exeunt._
----------ACT IV, SCENE III---------
SCENE III.
_The Street before_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ CLOWN.
_Clo._ Will you make me believe, that I am not sent for you?
_Seb._ Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; Let me be clear of
thee.
_Clo._ Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not
sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is
not Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither:--Nothing, that is so, is
so.
_Seb._ I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else;--Thou know'st not
me.
_Clo._ Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and
now applies it to a fool.--I pr'ythee, tell me what I shall vent to my
lady; Shall I vent to her, that thou art coming?
_Seb._ I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me; There's money for
thee; if you tarry longer, I shall give worse payment.
_Clo._ By my troth, thou hast an open hand:--These wise men, that
give fools money, get themselves a good report after fourteen years'
purchase.
_Enter_ SIR ANDREW.
_Sir And._ Now, sir, have I met you again? There's for you.
[_Striking_ SEBASTIAN.
_Seb._ [_Draws his sword._] Why, there's for thee, and there, and
there:--Are all the people mad?
[_Beating_ SIR ANDREW.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN.
_Sir To._ Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.
_Clo._ This will I tell my lady straight--I would not be in some of
your coats for two-pence.
[_Exit_ CLOWN.
_Sir To._ Come on, sir; hold. [_Holding_ SEBASTIAN.
_Sir And._ Nay, let him alone. I'll go another way to work with him;
I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in
Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for that.
_Seb._ Let go thy hand.
_Sir To._ Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier,
put up your iron: you are well flesh'd; come on.
_Seb._ [_Disengages himself._] I will be free from thee.
--What would'st thou now?
If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword.
_Sir To._ What, what?--[_Draws._]--Nay, then I must have an ounce or
two of this malapert blood from you. [_They fight._
_Enter_ OLIVIA, _and two Servants_.
_Fab._ Hold, good Sir Toby, hold:--my lady here!
[_Exit_ FABIAN.
_Oli._ Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, hold.
_Sir To._ Madam?
_Oli._ Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight!
Be not offended, dear Cesario:----
Rudesby, be gone!--
_Sir To._ Come along, knight. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY.
_Oli._ And you, sir, follow him.
_Sir And._ Oh, oh!--Sir Toby,--
[_Exit_ SIR ANDREW.
_Oli._ I pr'ythee, gentle friend,
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house;
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby
May'st smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go;
Do not deny.
_Seb._ What relish is in this? how runs the stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:--
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
_Oli._ Nay, come, I pr'ythee: 'Would thou'dst be ruled by me!
_Seb._ Madam, I will.
_Oli._ O, say so, and so be! [_Exeunt._
|
|
Twelve Years a Slave.chap | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter xx using the context provided. | The day before Christmas, Bass returns again from Marksville. He gives Solomon a nod to meet him after dark. He does not show up, and Solomon assumes correctly that they should meet the next morning before the rest of the household awakes. Bass tells him he has heard nothing, and Solomon despairs. Bass adds quickly that he has planned to go to Saratoga himself. Shocked, Solomon listens as Bass says that he is tired of the South and slavery; he will go to Saratoga to see the people Solomon mentioned. During the Christmas holidays, Solomon has to play his violin for local planters. One day, he plays for Madam McCoy and her household. He states that McCoy is a delightful, lovely, and benevolent young woman who treats her slaves well and proves that not all slaveholders are monsters. On the morning of January 3rd, Solomon is working in the cold fields with Abram, Patsey, Bob, and Wiley. Epps yells at them for not picking cotton well, but their fingers are numb with the cold. The slaves look up and see two men approaching on horseback. Solomon writes that he will now double back in the narrative to follow the movement of Bass's letter |
----------CHAPTER I---------
INTRODUCTORY--ANCESTRY--THE NORTHUP FAMILY--BIRTH AND
PARENTAGE--MINTUS NORTHUP--MARRIAGE WITH ANNE HAMPTON--GOOD
RESOLUTIONS--CHAMPLAIN CANAL--RAFTING EXCURSION TO
CANADA--FARMING--THE VIOLIN--COOKING--REMOVAL TO SARATOGA--PARKER AND
PERRY--SLAVES AND SLAVERY--THE CHILDREN--THE BEGINNING OF SORROW.
Having been born a freeman, and for more than thirty years enjoyed
the blessings of liberty in a free State--and having at the end of
that time been kidnapped and sold into Slavery, where I remained,
until happily rescued in the month of January, 1853, after a bondage
of twelve years--it has been suggested that an account of my life and
fortunes would not be uninteresting to the public.
Since my return to liberty, I have not failed to perceive the
increasing interest throughout the Northern States, in regard to
the subject of Slavery. Works of fiction, professing to portray
its features in their more pleasing as well as more repugnant
aspects, have been circulated to an extent unprecedented, and, as I
understand, have created a fruitful topic of comment and discussion.
I can speak of Slavery only so far as it came under my own
observation--only so far as I have known and experienced it in my
own person. My object is, to give a candid and truthful statement of
facts: to repeat the story of my life, without exaggeration, leaving
it for others to determine, whether even the pages of fiction present
a picture of more cruel wrong or a severer bondage.
As far back as I have been able to ascertain, my ancestors on the
paternal side were slaves in Rhode Island. They belonged to a family
by the name of Northup, one of whom, removing to the State of
New-York, settled at Hoosic, in Rensselaer county. He brought with him
Mintus Northup, my father. On the death of this gentleman, which must
have occurred some fifty years ago, my father became free, having been
emancipated by a direction in his will.
Henry B. Northup, Esq., of Sandy Hill, a distinguished counselor at
law, and the man to whom, under Providence, I am indebted for my
present liberty, and my return to the society of my wife and children,
is a relative of the family in which my forefathers were thus held to
service, and from which they took the name I bear. To this fact may be
attributed the persevering interest he has taken in my behalf.
Sometime after my father's liberation, he removed to the town of
Minerva, Essex county, N. Y., where I was born, in the month of July,
1808. How long he remained in the latter place I have not the means
of definitely ascertaining. From thence he removed to Granville,
Washington county, near a place known as Slyborough, where, for some
years, he labored on the farm of Clark Northup, also a relative of his
old master; from thence he removed to the Alden farm, at Moss Street,
a short distance north of the village of Sandy Hill; and from thence
to the farm now owned by Russel Pratt, situated on the road leading
from Fort Edward to Argyle, where he continued to reside until his
death, which took place on the 22d day of November, 1829. He left a
widow and two children--myself, and Joseph, an elder brother. The
latter is still living in the county of Oswego, near the city of that
name; my mother died during the period of my captivity.
Though born a slave, and laboring under the disadvantages to which
my unfortunate race is subjected, my father was a man respected for
his industry and integrity, as many now living, who well remember
him, are ready to testify. His whole life was passed in the peaceful
pursuits of agriculture, never seeking employment in those more menial
positions, which seem to be especially allotted to the children of
Africa. Besides giving us an education surpassing that ordinarily
bestowed upon children in our condition, he acquired, by his diligence
and economy, a sufficient property qualification to entitle him to
the right of suffrage. He was accustomed to speak to us of his early
life; and although at all times cherishing the warmest emotions of
kindness, and even of affection towards the family, in whose house
he had been a bondsman, he nevertheless comprehended the system of
Slavery, and dwelt with sorrow on the degradation of his race. He
endeavored to imbue our minds with sentiments of morality, and to
teach us to place our trust and confidence in Him who regards the
humblest as well as the highest of his creatures. How often since
that time has the recollection of his paternal counsels occurred to
me, while lying in a slave hut in the distant and sickly regions of
Louisiana, smarting with the undeserved wounds which an inhuman master
had inflicted, and longing only for the grave which had covered him,
to shield me also from the lash of the oppressor. In the church-yard
at Sandy Hill, an humble stone marks the spot where he reposes, after
having worthily performed the duties appertaining to the lowly sphere
wherein God had appointed him to walk.
Up to this period I had been principally engaged with my father in the
labors of the farm. The leisure hours allowed me were generally either
employed over my books, or playing on the violin--an amusement which
was the ruling passion of my youth. It has also been the source of
consolation since, affording pleasure to the simple beings with whom
my lot was cast, and beguiling my own thoughts, for many hours, from
the painful contemplation of my fate.
On Christmas day, 1829, I was married to Anne Hampton, a colored
girl then living in the vicinity of our residence. The ceremony was
performed at Fort Edward, by Timothy Eddy, Esq., a magistrate of that
town, and still a prominent citizen of the place. She had resided
a long time at Sandy Hill, with Mr. Baird, proprietor of the Eagle
Tavern, and also in the family of Rev. Alexander Proudfit, of Salem.
This gentleman for many years had presided over the Presbyterian
society at the latter place, and was widely distinguished for his
learning and piety. Anne still holds in grateful remembrance the
exceeding kindness and the excellent counsels of that good man. She
is not able to determine the exact line of her descent, but the blood
of three races mingles in her veins. It is difficult to tell whether
the red, white, or black predominates. The union of them all, however,
in her origin, has given her a singular but pleasing expression, such
as is rarely to be seen. Though somewhat resembling, yet she cannot
properly be styled a quadroon, a class to which, I have omitted to
mention, my mother belonged.
I had just now passed the period of my minority, having reached the
age of twenty-one years in the month of July previous. Deprived of
the advice and assistance of my father, with a wife dependent upon
me for support, I resolved to enter upon a life of industry; and
notwithstanding the obstacle of color, and the consciousness of my
lowly state, indulged in pleasant dreams of a good time coming, when
the possession of some humble habitation, with a few surrounding
acres, should reward my labors, and bring me the means of happiness
and comfort.
From the time of my marriage to this day the love I have borne my
wife has been sincere and unabated; and only those who have felt
the glowing tenderness a father cherishes for his offspring, can
appreciate my affection for the beloved children which have since been
born to us. This much I deem appropriate and necessary to say, in
order that those who read these pages, may comprehend the poignancy of
those sufferings I have been doomed to bear.
Immediately upon our marriage we commenced house-keeping, in the old
yellow building then standing at the southern extremity of Fort Edward
village, and which has since been transformed into a modern mansion,
and lately occupied by Captain Lathrop. It is known as the Fort House.
In this building the courts were sometime held after the organization
of the county. It was also occupied by Burgoyne in 1777, being
situated near the old Fort on the left bank of the Hudson.
During the winter I was employed with others repairing the Champlain
Canal, on that section over which William Van Nortwick was
superintendent. David McEachron had the immediate charge of the men in
whose company I labored. By the time the canal opened in the spring,
I was enabled, from the savings of my wages, to purchase a pair of
horses, and other things necessarily required in the business of
navigation.
Having hired several efficient hands to assist me, I entered into
contracts for the transportation of large rafts of timber from Lake
Champlain to Troy. Dyer Beckwith and a Mr. Bartemy, of Whitehall,
accompanied me on several trips. During the season I became perfectly
familiar with the art and mysteries of rafting--a knowledge which
afterwards enabled me to render profitable service to a worthy master,
and to astonish the simple-witted lumbermen on the banks of the Bayou
Boeuf.
In one of my voyages down Lake Champlain, I was induced to make a
visit to Canada. Repairing to Montreal, I visited the cathedral
and other places of interest in that city, from whence I continued
my excursion to Kingston and other towns, obtaining a knowledge of
localities, which was also of service to me afterwards, as will appear
towards the close of this narrative.
Having completed my contracts on the canal satisfactorily to myself
and to my employer, and not wishing to remain idle, now that the
navigation of the canal was again suspended, I entered into another
contract with Medad Gunn, to cut a large quantity of wood. In this
business I was engaged during the winter of 1831-32.
With the return of spring, Anne and myself conceived the project of
taking a farm in the neighborhood. I had been accustomed from earliest
youth to agricultural labors, and it was an occupation congenial to
my tastes. I accordingly entered into arrangements for a part of the
old Alden farm, on which my father formerly resided. With one cow,
one swine, a yoke of fine oxen I had lately purchased of Lewis Brown,
in Hartford, and other personal property and effects, we proceeded to
our new home in Kingsbury. That year I planted twenty-five acres of
corn, sowed large fields of oats, and commenced farming upon as large
a scale as my utmost means would permit. Anne was diligent about the
house affairs, while I toiled laboriously in the field.
On this place we continued to reside until 1834. In the winter season
I had numerous calls to play on the violin. Wherever the young people
assembled to dance, I was almost invariably there. Throughout the
surrounding villages my fiddle was notorious. Anne, also, during her
long residence at the Eagle Tavern, had become somewhat famous as a
cook. During court weeks, and on public occasions, she was employed at
high wages in the kitchen at Sherrill's Coffee House.
We always returned home from the performance of these services with
money in our pockets; so that, with fiddling, cooking, and farming,
we soon found ourselves in the possession of abundance, and, in fact,
leading a happy and prosperous life. Well, indeed, would it have been
for us had we remained on the farm at Kingsbury; but the time came
when the next step was to be taken towards the cruel destiny that
awaited me.
In March, 1834, we removed to Saratoga Springs. We occupied a house
belonging to Daniel O'Brien, on the north side of Washington street.
At that time Isaac Taylor kept a large boarding house, known as
Washington Hall, at the north end of Broadway. He employed me to drive
a hack, in which capacity I worked for him two years. After this
time I was generally employed through the visiting season, as also
was Anne, in the United States Hotel, and other public houses of the
place. In winter seasons I relied upon my violin, though during the
construction of the Troy and Saratoga railroad, I performed many hard
days' labor upon it.
I was in the habit, at Saratoga, of purchasing articles necessary for
my family at the stores of Mr. Cephas Parker and Mr. William Perry,
gentlemen towards whom, for many acts of kindness, I entertained
feelings of strong regard. It was for this reason that, twelve years
afterwards, I caused to be directed to them the letter, which is
hereinafter inserted, and which was the means, in the hands of Mr.
Northup, of my fortunate deliverance.
While living at the United States Hotel, I frequently met with slaves,
who had accompanied their masters from the South. They were always
well dressed and well provided for, leading apparently an easy life,
with but few of its ordinary troubles to perplex them. Many times they
entered into conversation with me on the subject of Slavery. Almost
uniformly I found they cherished a secret desire for liberty. Some of
them expressed the most ardent anxiety to escape, and consulted me
on the best method of effecting it. The fear of punishment, however,
which they knew was certain to attend their re-capture and return, in
all cases proved sufficient to deter them from the experiment. Having
all my life breathed the free air of the North, and conscious that I
possessed the same feelings and affections that find a place in the
white man's breast; conscious, moreover, of an intelligence equal to
that of some men, at least, with a fairer skin, I was too ignorant,
perhaps too independent, to conceive how any one could be content to
live in the abject condition of a slave. I could not comprehend the
justice of that law, or that religion, which upholds or recognizes the
principle of Slavery; and never once, I am proud to say, did I fail to
counsel any one who came to me, to watch his opportunity, and strike
for freedom.
I continued to reside at Saratoga until the spring of 1841. The
flattering anticipations which, seven years before, had seduced us
from the quiet farm-house, on the east side of the Hudson, had not
been realized. Though always in comfortable circumstances, we had
not prospered. The society and associations at that world-renowned
watering place, were not calculated to preserve the simple habits
of industry and economy to which I had been accustomed, but, on
the contrary, to substitute others in their stead, tending to
shiftlessness and extravagance.
At this time we were the parents of three children--Elizabeth,
Margaret, and Alonzo. Elizabeth, the eldest, was in her tenth year;
Margaret was two years younger, and little Alonzo had just passed his
fifth birth-day. They filled our house with gladness. Their young
voices were music in our ears. Many an airy castle did their mother
and myself build for the little innocents. When not at labor I was
always walking with them, clad in their best attire, through the
streets and groves of Saratoga. Their presence was my delight; and
I clasped them to my bosom with as warm and tender love as if their
clouded skins had been as white as snow.
Thus far the history of my life presents nothing whatever
unusual--nothing but the common hopes, and loves, and labors of an
obscure colored man, making his humble progress in the world. But now
I had reached a turning point in my existence--reached the threshold
of unutterable wrong, and sorrow, and despair. Now had I approached
within the shadow of the cloud, into the thick darkness whereof I was
soon to disappear, thenceforward to be hidden from the eyes of all
my kindred, and shut out from the sweet light of liberty, for many a
weary year.
----------CHAPTER XX---------
BASS FAITHFUL TO HIS WORD--HIS ARRIVAL ON CHRISTMAS EVE--THE
DIFFICULTY OF OBTAINING AN INTERVIEW--THE MEETING IN THE
CABIN--NON-ARRIVAL OF THE LETTER--BASS ANNOUNCES HIS INTENTION TO
PROCEED NORTH--CHRISTMAS--CONVERSATION BETWEEN EPPS AND BASS--YOUNG
MISTRESS M'COY, THE BEAUTY OF BAYOU BOEUF--THE "NE PLUS ULTRA"
OF DINNERS--MUSIC AND DANCING--PRESENCE OF THE MISTRESS--HER
EXCEEDING BEAUTY--THE LAST SLAVE DANCE--WILLIAM PIERCE--OVERSLEEP
MYSELF--THE LAST WHIPPING--DESPONDENCY--THE COLD MORNING--EPPS'
THREATS--THE PASSING CARRIAGE--STRANGERS APPROACHING THROUGH THE
COTTON-FIELD--LAST HOUR ON BAYOU BOEUF.
Faithful to his word, the day before Christmas, just at night-fall,
Bass came riding into the yard.
"How are you," said Epps, shaking him by the hand, "glad to see you."
He would not have been _very_ glad had he known the object of his
errand.
"Quite well, quite well," answered Bass. "Had some business out on the
bayou, and concluded to call and see you, and stay over night."
Epps ordered one of the slaves to take charge of his horse, and with
much talk and laughter they passed into the house together; not,
however, until Bass had looked at me significantly, as much as to
say, "Keep dark, we understand each other." It was ten o'clock at
night before the labors of the day were performed, when I entered the
cabin. At that time Uncle Abram and Bob occupied it with me. I laid
down upon my board and feigned I was asleep. When my companions had
fallen into a profound slumber, I moved stealthily out of the door,
and watched, and listened attentively for some sign or sound from
Bass. There I stood until long after midnight, but nothing could be
seen or heard. As I suspected, he dared not leave the house, through
fear of exciting the suspicion of some of the family. I judged,
correctly, he would rise earlier than was his custom, and take the
opportunity of seeing me before Epps was up. Accordingly I aroused
Uncle Abram an hour sooner than usual, and sent him into the house to
build a fire, which, at that season of the year, is a part of Uncle
Abram's duties.
I also gave Bob a violent shake, and asked him if he intended to sleep
till noon, saying master would be up before the mules were fed. He
knew right well the consequence that would follow such an event, and,
jumping to his feet, was at the horse-pasture in a twinkling.
Presently, when both were gone, Bass slipped into the cabin.
"No letter yet, Platt," said he. The announcement fell upon my heart
like lead.
"Oh, _do_ write again, Master Bass," I cried; "I will give you the
names of a great many I know. Surely they are not all dead. Surely
some one will pity me."
"No use," Bass replied, "no use. I have made up my mind to that.
I fear the Marksville post-master will mistrust something, I have
inquired so often at his office. Too uncertain--too dangerous."
"Then it is all over," I exclaimed. "Oh, my God, how can I end my days
here!"
"You're not going to end them here," he said, "unless you die
very soon. I've thought this matter all over, and have come to a
determination. There are more ways than one to manage this business,
and a better and surer way than writing letters. I have a job or two
on hand which can be completed by March or April. By that time I shall
have a considerable sum of money, and then, Platt, I am going to
Saratoga myself."
I could scarcely credit my own senses as the words fell from his lips.
But he assured me, in a manner that left no doubt of the sincerity of
his intention, that if his life was spared until spring, he should
certainly undertake the journey.
"I have lived in this region long enough," he continued; "I may as
well be in one place as another. For a long time I have been thinking
of going back once more to the place where I was born. I'm tired of
Slavery as well as you. If I can succeed in getting you away from
here, it will be a good act that I shall like to think of all my life.
And I _shall_ succeed, Platt; I'm _bound_ to do it. Now let me tell
you what I want. Epps will be up soon, and it won't do to be caught
here. Think of a great many men at Saratoga and Sandy Hill, and in
that neighborhood, who once knew you. I shall make excuse to come here
again in the course of the winter, when I will write down their names.
I will then know who to call on when I go north. Think of all you can.
Cheer up! Don't be discouraged. I'm with you, life or death. Good-bye.
God bless you," and saying this he left the cabin quickly, and entered
the great house.
It was Christmas morning--the happiest day in the whole year for the
slave. That morning he need not hurry to the field, with his gourd
and cotton-bag. Happiness sparkled in the eyes and overspread the
countenances of all. The time of feasting and dancing had come. The
cane and cotton fields were deserted. That day the clean dress was
to be donned--the red ribbon displayed; there were to be re-unions,
and joy and laughter, and hurrying to and fro. It was to be a day of
_liberty_ among the children of Slavery. Wherefore they were happy,
and rejoiced.
After breakfast Epps and Bass sauntered about the yard, conversing
upon the price of cotton, and various other topics.
"Where do your niggers hold Christmas?" Bass inquired.
"Platt is going to Tanners to-day. His fiddle is in great demand.
They want him at Marshall's Monday, and Miss Mary McCoy, on the old
Norwood plantation, writes me a note that she wants him to play for
her niggers Tuesday."
"He is rather a smart boy, ain't he?" said Bass. "Come here, Platt,"
he added, looking at me as I walked up to them, as if he had never
thought before to take any special notice of me.
"Yes," replied Epps, taking hold of my arm and feeling it, "there
isn't a bad joint in him. There ain't a boy on the bayou worth more
than he is--perfectly sound, and no bad tricks. D--n him, he isn't
like other niggers; doesn't look like 'em--don't act like 'em. I was
offered seventeen hundred dollars for him last week."
"And didn't take it?" Bass inquired, with an air of surprise.
"Take it--no; devilish clear of it. Why, he's a reg'lar genius; can
make a plough beam, wagon tongue--anything, as well as you can.
Marshall wanted to put up one of his niggers agin him and raffle for
them, but I told him I would see the devil have him first."
"I don't see anything remarkable about him," Bass observed.
"Why, just feel of him, now," Epps rejoined. "You don't see a boy very
often put together any closer than he is. He's a thin-skin'd cuss, and
won't bear as much whipping as some; but he's got the muscle in him,
and no mistake."
Bass felt of me, turned me round, and made a thorough examination,
Epps all the while dwelling on my good points. But his visitor seemed
to take but little interest finally in the subject, and consequently
it was dropped. Bass soon departed, giving me another sly look of
recognition and significance, as he trotted out of the yard.
When he was gone I obtained a pass, and started for Tanner's--not
Peter Tanner's, of whom mention has previously been made, but a
relative of his. I played during the day and most of the night,
spending the next day, Sunday, in my cabin. Monday I crossed the
bayou to Douglas Marshall's, all Epps' slaves accompanying me, and on
Tuesday went to the old Norwood place, which is the third plantation
above Marshall's, on the same side of the water.
This estate is now owned by Miss Mary McCoy, a lovely girl, some
twenty years of age. She is the beauty and the glory of Bayou Boeuf.
She owns about a hundred working hands, besides a great many house
servants, yard boys, and young children. Her brother-in-law, who
resides on the adjoining estate, is her general agent. She is beloved
by all her slaves, and good reason indeed have they to be thankful
that they have fallen into such gentle hands. Nowhere on the bayou
are there such feasts, such merrymaking, as at young Madam McCoy's.
Thither, more than to any other place, do the old and the young for
miles around love to repair in the time of the Christmas holidays; for
nowhere else can they find such delicious repasts; nowhere else can
they hear a voice speaking to them so pleasantly. No one is so well
beloved--no one fills so large a space in the hearts of a thousand
slaves, as young Madam McCoy, the orphan mistress of the old Norwood
estate.
On my arrival at her place, I found two or three hundred had
assembled. The table was prepared in a long building, which she had
erected expressly for her slaves to dance in. It was covered with
every variety of food the country afforded, and was pronounced by
general acclamation to be the rarest of dinners. Roast turkey, pig,
chicken, duck, and all kinds of meat, baked, boiled, and broiled,
formed a line the whole length of the extended table, while the vacant
spaces were filled with tarts, jellies, and frosted cake, and pastry
of many kinds. The young mistress walked around the table, smiling
and saying a kind word to each one, and seemed to enjoy the scene
exceedingly.
When the dinner was over the tables were removed to make room for the
dancers. I tuned my violin and struck up a lively air; while some
joined in a nimble reel, others patted and sang their simple but
melodious songs, filling the great room with music mingled with the
sound of human voices and the clatter of many feet.
In the evening the mistress returned, and stood in the door a long
time, looking at us. She was magnificently arrayed. Her dark hair and
eyes contrasted strongly with her clear and delicate complexion. Her
form was slender but commanding, and her movement was a combination
of unaffected dignity and grace. As she stood there, clad in her
rich apparel, her face animated with pleasure, I thought I had never
looked upon a human being half so beautiful. I dwell with delight upon
the description of this fair and gentle lady, not only because she
inspired me with emotions of gratitude and admiration, but because I
would have the reader understand that all slave-owners on Bayou Boeuf
are not like Epps, or Tibeats, or Jim Burns. Occasionally can be
found, rarely it may be, indeed, a good man like William Ford, or an
angel of kindness like young Mistress McCoy.
Tuesday concluded the three holidays Epps yearly allowed us. On my
way home, Wednesday morning, while passing the plantation of William
Pierce, that gentleman hailed me, saying he had received a line from
Epps, brought down by William Varnell, permitting him to detain me
for the purpose of playing for his slaves that night. It was the last
time I was destined to witness a slave dance on the shores of Bayou
Boeuf. The party at Pierce's continued their jollification until broad
daylight, when I returned to my master's house, somewhat wearied with
the loss of rest, but rejoicing in the possession of numerous bits
and picayunes, which the whites, who were pleased with my musical
performances, had contributed.
On Saturday morning, for the first time in years, I overslept myself.
I was frightened on coming out of the cabin to find the slaves were
already in the field. They had preceded me some fifteen minutes.
Leaving my dinner and water-gourd, I hurried after them as fast as I
could move. It was not yet sunrise, but Epps was on the piazza as I
left the hut, and cried out to me that it was a pretty time of day
to be getting up. By extra exertion my row was up when he came out
after breakfast. This, however, was no excuse for the offence of
oversleeping. Bidding me strip and lie down, he gave me ten or fifteen
lashes, at the conclusion of which he inquired if I thought, after
that, I could get up sometime in the _morning_. I expressed myself
quite positively that I _could_, and, with back stinging with pain,
went about my work.
The following day, Sunday, my thoughts were upon Bass, and the
probabilities and hopes which hung upon his action and determination.
I considered the uncertainty of life; that if it should be the will
of God that he should die, my prospect of deliverance, and all
expectation of happiness in this world, would be wholly ended and
destroyed. My sore back, perhaps, did not have a tendency to render me
unusually cheerful. I felt down-hearted and unhappy all day long, and
when I laid down upon the hard board at night, my heart was oppressed
with such a load of grief, it seemed that it must break.
Monday morning, the third of January, 1853, we were in the field
betimes. It was a raw, cold morning, such as is unusual in that
region. I was in advance, Uncle Abram next to me, behind him Bob,
Patsey and Wiley, with our cotton-bags about our necks. Epps happened
(a rare thing, indeed,) to come out that morning without his whip.
He swore, in a manner that would shame a pirate, that we were doing
nothing. Bob ventured to say that his fingers were so numb with cold
he couldn't pick fast. Epps cursed himself for not having brought his
rawhide, and declared that when he came out again he would warm us
well; yes, he would make us all hotter than that fiery realm in which
I am sometimes compelled to believe he will himself eventually reside.
With these fervent expressions, he left us. When out of hearing,
we commenced talking to each other, saying how hard it was to be
compelled to keep up our tasks with numb fingers; how unreasonable
master was, and speaking of him generally in no flattering terms. Our
conversation was interrupted by a carriage passing rapidly towards
the house. Looking up, we saw two men approaching us through the
cotton-field.
* * * * *
Having now brought down this narrative to the last hour I was to spend
on Bayou Boeuf--having gotten through my last cotton picking, and
about to bid Master Epps farewell--I must beg the reader to go back
with me to the month of August; to follow Bass' letter on its long
journey to Saratoga; to learn the effect it produced--and that, while
I was repining and despairing in the slave hut of Edwin Epps, through
the friendship of Bass and the goodness of Providence, all things were
working together for my deliverance.
|
|
Two Gentlemen of Verona.a | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for scene 3 with the given context. | scene 1|scene 2|scene 3 | Proteus's father decides to send his son abroad to Milan, where Valentine has gone, to gain experience of the world. When Proteus comes onto the stage, he is obviously in a daydream, clutching a love letter and warbling in such a way as to make his father even more determined to "make a man of him." Proteus lies about the letter, saying it is from Valentine. Antonio will not listen to his son's plea for a short reprieve to prepare for his trip: "For what I will, I will, and there an end." |
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT I. SCENE I.
_Verona. An open place._
_Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS._
_Val._ Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus:
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
Were't not affection chains thy tender days
To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love,
I rather would entreat thy company 5
To see the wonders of the world abroad,
Than, living dully sluggardized at home,
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.
But since thou lovest, love still, and thrive therein,
Even as I would, when I to love begin. 10
_Pro._ Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu!
Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest
Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel:
Wish me partaker in thy happiness,
When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger, 15
If ever danger do environ thee,
Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.
_Val._ And on a love-book pray for my success?
_Pro._ Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee. 20
_Val._ That's on some shallow story of deep love:
How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont.
_Pro._ That's a deep story of a deeper love;
For he was more than over shoes in love.
_Val._ 'Tis true; for you are over boots in love, 25
And yet you never swum the Hellespont.
_Pro._ Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots.
_Val._ No, I will not, for it boots thee not.
_Pro._ What?
_Val._ To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans;
Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth 30
With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights:
If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;
If lost, why then a grievous labour won;
However, but a folly bought with wit,
Or else a wit by folly vanquished. 35
_Pro._ So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.
_Val._ So, by your circumstance, I fear you'll prove.
_Pro._ 'Tis love you cavil at: I am not Love.
_Val._ Love is your master, for he masters you:
And he that is so yoked by a fool, 40
Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.
_Pro._ Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud
The eating canker dwells, so eating love
Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
_Val._ And writers say, as the most forward bud 45
Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,
Even so by love the young and tender wit
Is turn'd to folly; blasting in the bud,
Losing his verdure even in the prime,
And all the fair effects of future hopes. 50
But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee,
That art a votary to fond desire?
Once more adieu! my father at the road
Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd.
_Pro._ And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. 55
_Val._ Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave.
To Milan let me hear from thee by letters
Of thy success in love, and what news else
Betideth here in absence of thy friend;
And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 60
_Pro._ All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!
_Val._ As much to you at home! and so, farewell. [_Exit._
_Pro._ He after honour hunts, I after love:
He leaves his friends to dignify them more;
I leave myself, my friends, and all, for love. 65
Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me,
Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,
War with good counsel, set the world at nought;
Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.
_Enter SPEED._
_Speed._ Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master? 70
_Pro._ But now he parted hence, to embark for Milan.
_Speed._ Twenty to one, then, he is shipp'd already,
And I have play'd the sheep in losing him.
_Pro._ Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray,
An if the shepherd be awhile away. 75
_Speed._ You conclude that my master is a shepherd,
then, and I a sheep?
_Pro._ I do.
_Speed._ Why then, my horns are his horns, whether I
wake or sleep. 80
_Pro._ A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep.
_Speed._ This proves me still a sheep.
_Pro._ True; and thy master a shepherd.
_Speed._ Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance.
_Pro._ It shall go hard but I'll prove it by another. 85
_Speed._ The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep
the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks
not me: therefore I am no sheep.
_Pro._ The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the
shepherd for food follows not the sheep: thou for wages 90
followest thy master; thy master for wages follows not
thee: therefore thou art a sheep.
_Speed._ Such another proof will make me cry 'baa.'
_Pro._ But, dost thou hear? gavest thou my letter to
Julia? 95
_Speed._ Ay, sir: I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her,
a laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost
mutton, nothing for my labour.
_Pro._ Here's too small a pasture for such store of muttons.
_Speed._ If the ground be overcharged, you were best 100
stick her.
_Pro._ Nay: in that you are astray, 'twere best pound you.
_Speed._ Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for
carrying your letter.
_Pro._ You mistake; I mean the pound,--a pinfold. 105
_Speed._ From a pound to a pin? fold it over and over,
'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover.
_Pro._ But what said she?
_Speed._ [_First nodding_] Ay.
_Pro._ Nod--Ay--why, that's noddy. 110
_Speed._ You mistook, sir; I say, she did nod: and you
ask me if she did nod; and I say, 'Ay.'
_Pro._ And that set together is noddy.
_Speed._ Now you have taken the pains to set it together,
take it for your pains. 115
_Pro._ No, no; you shall have it for bearing the letter.
_Speed._ Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you.
_Pro._ Why, sir, how do you bear with me?
_Speed._ Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly; having nothing
but the word 'noddy' for my pains. 120
_Pro._ Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.
_Speed._ And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.
_Pro._ Come, come, open the matter in brief: what said
she?
_Speed._ Open your purse, that the money and the matter 125
may be both at once delivered.
_Pro._ Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she?
_Speed._ Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win her.
_Pro._ Why, couldst thou perceive so much from her?
_Speed._ Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; 130
no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter: and
being so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she'll
prove as hard to you in telling your mind. Give her no
token but stones; for she's as hard as steel.
_Pro._ What said she? nothing? 135
_Speed._ No, not so much as 'Take this for thy pains.'
To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned
me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself:
and so, sir, I'll commend you to my master.
_Pro._ Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck, 140
Which cannot perish having thee aboard,
Being destined to a drier death on shore. [_Exit Speed._
I must go send some better messenger:
I fear my Julia would not deign my lines,
Receiving them from such a worthless post. [_Exit._ 145
Notes: I, 1.
8: _with_] _in_ Capell.
19: _my_] F1. _thy_ F2 F3 F4.
21-28: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.
25: _for_] _but_ Collier MS.
28: _thee_] om. S. Walker conj. See note (II).
30: _fading_] om. Hanmer.
48: _blasting_] _blasted_ Collier MS.
57: _To_] F1. _At_ F2 F3 F4. _To Milan!--let me hear_ Malone conj.
65: _leave_] Pope. _love_ Ff.
69: _Made_] _Make_ Johnson conj.
70: SCENE II. Pope.
70-144: Put in the margin by Pope.
77: _a_] F2 F3 F4. om. F1.
89: _follow_] _follows_ Pope.
102: _astray_] _a stray_ Theobald (Thirlby conj.)
_Nay: ... astray,_] Edd. _Nay, ... astray:_ Ff.
105: _a_] _the_ Delius (Capell conj.).
108, 109: Pro. _But what said she?_ Speed. [First nodding] _Ay._]
Edd.
Pro. _But what said she?_ Sp. _I._ Ff. Pro. _But what said she?_
Speed. _She nodded and said I._ Pope.
Pro. _But what said she? Did she nod?_ [Speed nods] Speed. _I._
Theobald.
Pro. _But what said she?_ [Speed _nods_] _Did she nod?_ Speed.
_I._ Capell.
110: _Nod--Ay--_] _Nod--I,_ Ff.
111, 112: _say ... say_] F1. _said ... said_ F2 F3 F4.
126: _at once_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.
130-134: Printed as verse in Ff.
130: _from her_] _from her better_ Collier MS. to rhyme with
_letter_ in the next line.
132: _brought_] _brought to her_ Collier MS.
133: _your_] F1. _her_ F2 F3 F4. _you her_ Collier MS.
135: _What said she? nothing?_] _What said she, nothing?_ Ff.
_What, said she nothing?_ Pope.
137: _as 'Take ... I thank you_] _as 'I thank you; take ..._
Edd. conj.
_testerned_] F2 F3 F4. _cestern'd_ F1.
138: _henceforth_] F1 F3 F4. _hencefore_ F2.
_letters_] F1. _letter_ F2 F3 F4.
----------SCENE 2---------
SCENE II.
_The same. Garden of JULIA'S house._
_Enter JULIA and LUCETTA._
_Jul._ But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,
Wouldst thou, then, counsel me to fall in love?
_Luc._ Ay, madam; so you stumble not unheedfully.
_Jul._ Of all the fair resort of gentlemen
That every day with parle encounter me, 5
In thy opinion which is worthiest love?
_Luc._ Please you repeat their names, I'll show my mind
According to my shallow simple skill.
_Jul._ What think'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?
_Luc._ As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine; 10
But, were I you, he never should be mine.
_Jul._ What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio?
_Luc._ Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so.
_Jul._ What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus?
_Luc._ Lord, Lord! to see what folly reigns in us! 15
_Jul._ How now! what means this passion at his name?
_Luc._ Pardon, dear madam: 'tis a passing shame
That I, unworthy body as I am,
Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.
_Jul._ Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest? 20
_Luc._ Then thus,--of many good I think him best.
_Jul._ Your reason?
_Luc._ I have no other but a woman's reason;
I think him so, because I think him so.
_Jul._ And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him? 25
_Luc._ Ay, if you thought your love not cast away.
_Jul._ Why, he, of all the rest, hath never moved me.
_Luc._ Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves ye.
_Jul._ His little speaking shows his love but small.
_Luc._ Fire that's closest kept burns most of all. 30
_Jul._ They do not love that do not show their love.
_Luc._ O, they love least that let men know their love.
_Jul._ I would I knew his mind.
_Luc._ Peruse this paper, madam.
_Jul._ 'To Julia.'--Say, from whom? 35
_Luc._ That the contents will show.
_Jul._ Say, say, who gave it thee?
_Luc._ Sir Valentine's page; and sent, I think, from Proteus.
He would have given it you; but I, being in the way,
Did in your name receive it: pardon the fault, I pray. 40
_Jul._ Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!
Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines?
To whisper and conspire against my youth?
Now, trust me, 'tis an office of great worth,
And you an officer fit for the place. 45
There, take the paper: see it be return'd;
Or else return no more into my sight.
_Luc._ To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.
_Jul._ Will ye be gone?
_Luc._ That you may ruminate. [_Exit._
_Jul._ And yet I would I had o'erlook'd the letter: 50
It were a shame to call her back again,
And pray her to a fault for which I chid her.
What a fool is she, that knows I am a maid,
And would not force the letter to my view!
Since maids, in modesty, say 'no' to that 55
Which they would have the profferer construe 'ay.'
Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love,
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse,
And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod!
How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, 60
When willingly I would have had her here!
How angerly I taught my brow to frown,
When inward joy enforced my heart to smile!
My penance is, to call Lucetta back,
And ask remission for my folly past. 65
What, ho! Lucetta!
_Re-enter LUCETTA._
_Luc._ What would your ladyship?
_Jul._ Is't near dinner-time?
_Luc._ I would it were;
That you might kill your stomach on your meat,
And not upon your maid.
_Jul._ What is't that you took up so gingerly? 70
_Luc._ Nothing.
_Jul._ Why didst thou stoop, then?
_Luc._ To take a paper up that I let fall.
_Jul._ And is that paper nothing?
_Luc._ Nothing concerning me. 75
_Jul._ Then let it lie for those that it concerns.
_Luc._ Madam, it will not lie where it concerns,
Unless it have a false interpreter.
_Jul._ Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme.
_Luc._ That I might sing it, madam, to a tune. 80
Give me a note: your ladyship can set.
_Jul._ --As little by such toys as may be possible.
Best sing it to the tune of 'Light o' love.'
_Luc._ It is too heavy for so light a tune.
_Jul._ Heavy! belike it hath some burden, then? 85
_Luc._ Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing it.
_Jul._ And why not you?
_Luc._ I cannot reach so high.
_Jul._ Let's see your song. How now, minion!
_Luc._ Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out:
And yet methinks I do not like this tune. 90
_Jul._ You do not?
_Luc._ No, madam; it is too sharp.
_Jul._ You, minion, are too saucy.
_Luc._ Nay, now you are too flat,
And mar the concord with too harsh a descant:
There wanteth but a mean to fill your song. 95
_Jul._ The mean is drown'd with your unruly bass.
_Luc._ Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.
_Jul._ This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
Here is a coil with protestation! [_Tears the letter._
Go get you gone, and let the papers lie: 100
You would be fingering them, to anger me.
_Luc._ She makes it strange; but she would be best pleased
To be so anger'd with another letter. [_Exit._
_Jul._ Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same!
O hateful hands, to tear such loving words! 105
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey,
And kill the bees, that yield it, with your stings!
I'll kiss each several paper for amends.
Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia!
As in revenge of thy ingratitude, 110
I throw thy name against the bruising stones,
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.
And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.'
Poor wounded name! my bosom, as a bed,
Shall lodge thee, till thy wound be throughly heal'd; 115
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.
But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down.
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away,
Till I have found each letter in the letter,
Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear 120
Unto a ragged, fearful-hanging rock,
And throw it thence into the raging sea!
Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ,
'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,
To the sweet Julia':--that I'll tear away.-- 125
And yet I will not, sith so prettily
He couples it to his complaining names.
Thus will I fold them one upon another:
Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.
_Re-enter LUCETTA._
_Luc._ Madam, 130
Dinner is ready, and your father stays.
_Jul._ Well, let us go.
_Luc._ What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here?
_Jul._ If you respect them, best to take them up.
_Luc._ Nay, I was taken up for laying them down: 135
Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.
_Jul._ I see you have a month's mind to them.
_Luc._ Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see;
I see things too, although you judge I wink.
_Jul._ Come, come; will't please you go? [_Exeunt._ 140
Notes: I, 2.
SCENE II.] SCENE III. Pope.
Garden &c.] Malone. Changes to Julia's chamber. Pope.
1: _now we are_] F1. _now are we_ F2 F3 F4.
5: _parle_] _par'le_ Ff.
15: _reigns_] _feigns_ Anon. conj.
18: _am_] _can_ Collier MS.
19: _censure ... gentlemen_] _censure on a lovely gentleman_
S. Verges conj. _censure on this lovely gentleman_ Edd. conj.
_thus_] _pass_ Hanmer.
_on lovely gentlemen_] _a lovely gentleman_ Pope. _a loving
gentleman_ Collier MS.
20: _of_] _on_ S. Verges conj.
30: _Fire_] Ff. _The fire_ Pope.
_that's_] _that is_ Johnson.
39: _being in the way_] _being by_ Pope.
40: _pardon the fault, I pray_] _pardon me_ Pope.
53: _What a fool_] _What 'foole_ F1 F2 F3. _What fool_ F4.
See note (III).
67: _Is't_] _Is it_ Capell.
_near_] om. Boswell.
81: F1 omits the stop after _set_.
83: _o' Love_] Theobald. _O, Love_ F1 F2. _O Love_ F3 F4.
88: _How now_] _Why, how now_ Hanmer. After this line Hanmer adds
a stage direction [Gives her a box on the ear].
96: _your_] _you_ F1.
99: [Tears the letter.] [Tears it. Pope.
102: _best pleased_] _pleased better_ Collier MS.
103: [Exit] F2.
121: _fearful-hanging_] Delius. _fearful, hanging_ Ff.
130, 131: _Madam, Dinner is_] _Madam, dinner's_ Capell conj.
137: _to_] _unto_ Collier MS.
_them._] _them, minion._ Hanmer.
138: _say what sights you see_] _see what sights you think_
Collier MS.
----------SCENE 3---------
SCENE III.
_The same. ANTONIO'S house._
_Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO._
_Ant._ Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that
Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?
_Pan._ 'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.
_Ant._ Why, what of him?
_Pan._ He wonder'd that your lordship
Would suffer him to spend his youth at home, 5
While other men, of slender reputation,
Put forth their sons to seek preferment out:
Some to the wars, to try their fortune there;
Some to discover islands far away;
Some to the studious universities. 10
For any, or for all these exercises,
He said that Proteus your son was meet;
And did request me to importune you
To let him spend his time no more at home,
Which would be great impeachment to his age, 15
In having known no travel in his youth.
_Ant._ Nor need'st thou much importune me to that
Whereon this month I have been hammering.
I have consider'd well his loss of time,
And how he cannot be a perfect man, 20
Not being tried and tutor'd in the world:
Experience is by industry achieved,
And perfected by the swift course of time.
Then, tell me, whither were I best to send him?
_Pan._ I think your lordship is not ignorant 25
How his companion, youthful Valentine,
Attends the emperor in his royal court.
_Ant._ I know it well.
_Pan._ 'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither:
There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, 30
Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen,
And be in eye of every exercise
Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.
_Ant._ I like thy counsel; well hast thou advised:
And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it 35
The execution of it shall make known.
Even with the speediest expedition
I will dispatch him to the emperor's court.
_Pan._ To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso,
With other gentlemen of good esteem, 40
Are journeying to salute the emperor,
And to commend their service to his will.
_Ant._ Good company; with them shall Proteus go:
And, in good time! now will we break with him.
_Enter PROTEUS._
_Pro._ Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life! 45
Here is her hand, the agent of her heart;
Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn.
O, that our fathers would applaud our loves,
To seal our happiness with their consents!
O heavenly Julia! 50
_Ant._ How now! what letter are you reading there?
_Pro._ May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two
Of commendations sent from Valentine,
Deliver'd by a friend that came from him.
_Ant._ Lend me the letter; let me see what news. 55
_Pro._ There is no news, my lord; but that he writes
How happily he lives, how well beloved,
And daily graced by the emperor;
Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune.
_Ant._ And how stand you affected to his wish? 60
_Pro._ As one relying on your lordship's will,
And not depending on his friendly wish.
_Ant._ My will is something sorted with his wish.
Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed;
For what I will, I will, and there an end. 65
I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time
With Valentinus in the emperor's court:
What maintenance he from his friends receives,
Like exhibition thou shalt have from me.
To-morrow be in readiness to go: 70
Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.
_Pro._ My lord, I cannot be so soon provided:
Please you, deliberate a day or two.
_Ant._ Look, what thou want'st shall be sent after thee:
No more of stay! to-morrow thou must go. 75
Come on, Panthino: you shall be employ'd
To hasten on his expedition. [_Exeunt Ant. and Pan._
_Pro._ Thus have I shunn'd the fire for fear of burning,
And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd.
I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter, 80
Lest he should take exceptions to my love;
And with the vantage of mine own excuse
Hath he excepted most against my love.
O, how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day, 85
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away!
_Re-enter PANTHINO._
_Pan._ Sir Proteus, your father calls for you:
He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go.
_Pro._ Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto, 90
And yet a thousand times it answers 'no.' [_Exeunt._
Notes: I, 3.
SCENE III.] SCENE IV. Pope. Antonio's House.] Theobald.
1: _Panthino_] F1 F2. _Panthion_ F3 F4.
21: _and_] F1. _nor_ F2 F3 F4.
24: _whither_] F2 F3 F4. _whether_ F1.
44: _And, in good time!_] _And in good time:_ F1. _And in good
time,_ F2 F3 F4. _And,--in good time:_--Dyce.
44: Enter Proteus] F2.
45: _sweet life_] _sweet life! sweet Julia_ Capell.
49: _To_] _And_ Collier MS.
65: _there_] F1 F2. _there's_ F3 F4.
67: _Valentinus_] F1. _Valentino_ F2 F3 F4. _Valentine_ Warburton.
77: [Exeunt Ant. and Pan.]. Rowe.
84: _resembleth_] _resembleth well_ Pope. _resembleth right_
Johnson conj.
86: _sun_] _light_ Johnson conj.
88: Re-enter Panthino.] om. F1. Enter. F2.
_father_] _fathers_ F1.
91: [Exeunt.] Exeunt. Finis. Ff.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scenes 2-3, utilizing the provided context. | scene 1|scenes 2-3|scene 4 | Julia gives Proteus a ring to remember her by as he prepares to depart by ship for Milan. Forcing back tears, they say goodbye: Proteus: The tide is now -- nay, not thy tide of tears; That tide will stay me longer than I should. Proteus's servant, Launce, also suffers an emotional separation too -- from his ungrateful dog, Crab. Launce's sentimentality is congenital, it seems: "all the kind of the Launces have this very fault." This makes him all the more upset at his dog's stiff upper lip: My mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear. |
----------SCENE 1---------
ACT II. SCENE I.
_Milan. The DUKE'S Palace._
_Enter VALENTINE and SPEED._
_Speed._ Sir, your glove.
_Val._ Not mine; my gloves are on.
_Speed._ Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one.
_Val._ Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it's mine:
Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine!
Ah, Silvia, Silvia! 5
_Speed._ Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia!
_Val._ How now, sirrah?
_Speed._ She is not within hearing, sir.
_Val._ Why, sir, who bade you call her?
_Speed._ Your worship, sir; or else I mistook. 10
_Val._ Well, you'll still be too forward.
_Speed._ And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.
_Val._ Go to, sir: tell me, do you know Madam Silvia?
_Speed._ She that your worship loves?
_Val._ Why, how know you that I am in love? 15
_Speed._ Marry, by these special marks: first, you have
learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms, like a malecontent;
to relish a love-song, like a robin-redbreast; to
walk alone, like one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a
school-boy that had lost his A B C; to weep, like a young 20
wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that
takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; to speak
puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when
you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk
like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after 25
dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money:
and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when
I look on you, I can hardly think you my master.
_Val._ Are all these things perceived in me?
_Speed._ They are all perceived without ye. 30
_Val._ Without me? they cannot.
_Speed._ Without you? nay, that's certain, for, without
you were so simple, none else would: but you are so without
these follies, that these follies are within you, and shine
through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that 35
sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady.
_Val._ But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia?
_Speed._ She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper?
_Val._ Hast thou observed that? even she, I mean.
_Speed._ Why, sir, I know her not. 40
_Val._ Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and
yet knowest her not?
_Speed._ Is she not hard-favoured, sir?
_Val._ Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured.
_Speed._ Sir, I know that well enough. 45
_Val._ What dost thou know?
_Speed._ That she is not so fair as, of you, well favoured.
_Val._ I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her
favour infinite.
_Speed._ That's because the one is painted, and the other 50
out of all count.
_Val._ How painted? and how out of count?
_Speed._ Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no
man counts of her beauty.
_Val._ How esteemest thou me? I account of her beauty. 55
_Speed._ You never saw her since she was deformed.
_Val._ How long hath she been deformed?
_Speed._ Ever since you loved her.
_Val._ I have loved her ever since I saw her; and still I
see her beautiful. 60
_Speed._ If you love her, you cannot see her.
_Val._ Why?
_Speed._ Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine
eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to
have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered! 65
_Val._ What should I see then?
_Speed._ Your own present folly, and her passing deformity:
for he, being in love, could not see to garter his
hose; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose.
_Val._ Belike, boy, then, you are in love; for last morning 70
you could not see to wipe my shoes.
_Speed._ True, sir; I was in love with my bed: I thank
you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the
bolder to chide you for yours.
_Val._ In conclusion, I stand affected to her. 75
_Speed._ I would you were set, so your affection would
cease.
_Val._ Last night she enjoined me to write some lines
to one she loves.
_Speed._ And have you? 80
_Val._ I have.
_Speed._ Are they not lamely writ?
_Val._ No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace!
here she comes.
_Speed._ [_Aside_] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet! 85
Now will he interpret to her.
_Enter SILVIA._
_Val._ Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows.
_Speed._ [_Aside_] O, give ye good even! here's a million
of manners.
_Sil._ Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand. 90
_Speed._ [_Aside_] He should give her interest, and she
gives it him.
_Val._ As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter
Unto the secret nameless friend of yours;
Which I was much unwilling to proceed in, 95
But for my duty to your ladyship.
_Sil._ I thank you, gentle servant: 'tis very clerkly done.
_Val._ Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off;
For, being ignorant to whom it goes,
I writ at random, very doubtfully. 100
_Sil._ Perchance you think too much of so much pains?
_Val._ No, madam; so it stead you, I will write,
Please you command, a thousand times as much;
And yet--
_Sil._ A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel; 105
And yet I will not name it;--and yet I care not;--
And yet take this again:--and yet I thank you;
Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more.
_Speed._ [_Aside_] And yet you will; and yet another 'yet.'
_Val._ What means your ladyship? do you not like it? 110
_Sil._ Yes, yes: the lines are very quaintly writ;
But since unwillingly, take them again.
Nay, take them.
_Val._ Madam, they are for you.
_Sil._ Ay, ay: you writ them, sir, at my request; 115
But I will none of them; they are for you;
I would have had them writ more movingly.
_Val._ Please you, I'll write your ladyship another.
_Sil._ And when it's writ, for my sake read it over,
And if it please you, so; if not, why, so. 120
_Val._ If it please me, madam, what then?
_Sil._ Why, if it please you, take it for your labour:
And so, good morrow, servant. [_Exit._
_Speed._ O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,
As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple! 125
My master sues to her; and she hath taught her suitor,
He being her pupil, to become her tutor.
O excellent device! was there ever heard a better,
That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter?
_Val._ How now, sir? what are you reasoning with 130
yourself?
_Speed._ Nay. I was rhyming: 'tis you that have the reason.
_Val._ To do what?
_Speed._ To be a spokesman for Madam Silvia. 135
_Val._ To whom?
_Speed._ To yourself: why, she wooes you by a figure.
_Val._ What figure?
_Speed._ By a letter, I should say.
_Val._ Why, she hath not writ to me? 140
_Speed._ What need she, when she hath made you write
to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest?
_Val._ No, believe me.
_Speed._ No believing you, indeed, sir. But did you perceive
her earnest? 145
_Val._ She gave me none, except an angry word.
_Speed._ Why, she hath given you a letter.
_Val._ That's the letter I writ to her friend.
_Speed._ And that letter hath she delivered, and there
an end. 150
_Val._ I would it were no worse.
_Speed._ I'll warrant you, 'tis as well:
For often have you writ to her; and she, in modesty,
Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply;
Or fearing else some messenger, that might her mind discover, 155
Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover.
All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse
you, sir? 'tis dinner-time.
_Val._ I have dined.
_Speed._ Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon 160
Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by
my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like
your mistress; be moved, be moved. [_Exeunt._
Notes: II, 1.
19: _had_] _hath_ Collier MS.
21: _buried_] F1. _lost_ F2 F3 F4.
27: _you are_] _you are so_ Collier MS.
32: _Without you?_] _Without you!_ Dyce.
33: _would_] _would be_ Collier MS.
41: _my_] F1 F2. om. F3 F4.
68, 69: See note (IV).
76: _set,_] _set;_ Malone.
85, 88, 91: [Aside] Capell.
91: Speed.] F1 F4. Sil. F2 F3.
96: _for_] om. F3 F4.
102: _stead_] _steed_ Ff.
106: _name it_] _name 't_ Capell. _and yet_] _yet_ Pope.
109: [Aside] Rowe.
114: _for_] _writ for_ Anon. conj.
124, 125: Printed as prose by Pope.
129: _scribe_] _the scribe_ Pope.
137: _wooes_] _woes_ Ff. (IV. ii. 138. _woe_ F1. _wooe_ F2 F3 F4.)
149: _there_] F1. _there's_ F2 F3 F4.
----------SCENES 2-3---------
SCENE II.
_Verona. JULIA'S house._
_Enter PROTEUS and JULIA._
_Pro._ Have patience, gentle Julia.
_Jul._ I must, where is no remedy.
_Pro._ When possibly I can, I will return.
_Jul._ If you turn not, you will return the sooner.
Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake. 5
[_Giving a ring._
_Pro._ Why, then, we'll make exchange; here, take you this.
_Jul._ And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.
_Pro._ Here is my hand for my true constancy;
And when that hour o'erslips me in the day
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, 10
The next ensuing hour some foul mischance
Torment me for my love's forgetfulness!
My father stays my coming; answer not;
The tide is now:--nay, not thy tide of tears;
That tide will stay me longer than I should. 15
Julia, farewell! [_Exit Julia._
What, gone without a word?
Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak;
For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.
_Enter PANTHINO._
_Pan._ Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for.
_Pro._ Go; I come, I come. 20
Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. [_Exeunt._
Notes: II, 2.
5: [Giving a ring] Rowe.
16: [Exit Julia] Rowe.
20: _I come, I come_] _I come_ Pope.
SCENE III.
_The same. A street._
_Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog._
_Launce._ Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping;
all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I have
received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am
going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial's court. I think Crab
my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives: my mother 5
weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid
howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a
great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one
tear: he is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no more
pity in him than a dog: a Jew would have wept to have 10
seen our parting; why, my grandam, having no eyes, look
you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I'll shew you
the manner of it. This shoe is my father: no, this left shoe
is my father: no, no, this left shoe is my mother: nay, that
cannot be so neither: yes, it is so, it is so, it hath the worser 15
sole. This shoe, with the hole in it, is my mother, and this
my father; a vengeance on't! there 'tis: now, sir, this staff is
my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily, and as
small as a wand: this hat is Nan, our maid: I am the dog:
no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog,--Oh! the dog is 20
me, and I am myself; ay, so, so. Now come I to my
father; Father, your blessing: now should not the shoe
speak a word for weeping: now should I kiss my father;
well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother: O, that
she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her; 25
why, there 'tis; here's my mother's breath up and down.
Now come I to my sister; mark the moan she makes. Now
the dog all this while sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word;
but see how I lay the dust with my tears.
_Enter PANTHINO._
_Pan._ Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped, 30
and thou art to post after with oars. What's the matter?
why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! you'll lose the
tide, if you tarry any longer.
_Launce._ It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is
the unkindest tied that ever any man tied. 35
_Pan._ What's the unkindest tide?
_Launce._ Why, he that's tied here, Crab, my dog.
_Pan._ Tut, man, I mean thou'lt lose the flood: and, in
losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage,
lose thy master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, 40
and, in losing thy service,--Why dost thou stop my mouth?
_Launce._ For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.
_Pan._ Where should I lose my tongue?
_Launce._ In thy tale.
_Pan._ In thy tail! 45
_Launce._ Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master,
and the service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river were
dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were
down, I could drive the boat with my sighs.
_Pan._ Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee. 50
_Launce._ Sir, call me what thou darest.
_Pan._ Wilt thou go?
_Launce._ Well, I will go. [_Exeunt._
Notes: II, 3.
9: _pebble_] _pibble_ Ff.
20: _I am the dog_] _I am me_ Hanmer.
_Oh, the dog is me_] _Ay, the dog is the dog_ Hanmer.
25: _she_] _the shoe_ Hanmer.
_a wood woman_] Theobald. _a would woman_ Ff. _an ould woman_ Pope.
_a wild woman_ Collier MS.
Malone (Blackstone conj.) punctuates (_O that she could speak now!_)
35: _tied ... tied_] _Tide ... tide_ F1. _Tide ... tyde_ F2 F3 F4.
45: _thy tail!_] _my tail?_ Hanmer.
[Kicking him. Anon. conj.
46: _tide_] _Tide_ F1 F4. _Tyde_ F2 F3. _flood_ Pope. _tied_
Collier.
47: _and the tied_] Singer. _and the tide_ Ff. om. Capell.
_The tide!_ Steevens. _indeed!_ S. Verges conj.
----------SCENE 4---------
SCENE IV.
_Milan. The DUKE'S palace._
_Enter SILVIA, VALENTINE, THURIO, and SPEED._
_Sil._ Servant!
_Val._ Mistress?
_Speed._ Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.
_Val._ Ay, boy, it's for love.
_Speed._ Not of you. 5
_Val._ Of my mistress, then.
_Speed._ 'Twere good you knocked him. [_Exit._
_Sil._ Servant, you are sad.
_Val._ Indeed, madam, I seem so.
_Thu._ Seem you that you are not? 10
_Val._ Haply I do.
_Thu._ So do counterfeits.
_Val._ So do you.
_Thu._ What seem I that I am not?
_Val._ Wise. 15
_Thu._ What instance of the contrary?
_Val._ Your folly.
_Thu._ And how quote you my folly?
_Val._ I quote it in your jerkin.
_Thu._ My jerkin is a doublet. 20
_Val._ Well, then, I'll double your folly.
_Thu._ How?
_Sil._ What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change colour?
_Val._ Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon.
_Thu._ That hath more mind to feed on your blood than 25
live in your air.
_Val._ You have said, sir.
_Thu._ Ay, sir, and done too, for this time.
_Val._ I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin.
_Sil._ A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly 30
shot off.
_Val._ 'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver.
_Sil._ Who is that, servant?
_Val._ Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir
Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks, and 35
spends what he borrows kindly in your company.
_Thu._ Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall
make your wit bankrupt.
_Val._ I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of
words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers, 40
for it appears, by their bare liveries, that they live by
your bare words.
_Sil._ No more, gentlemen, no more:--here comes my father.
_Enter DUKE._
_Duke._ Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset. 45
Sir Valentine, your father's in good health:
What say you to a letter from your friends
Of much good news?
_Val._ My lord, I will be thankful
To any happy messenger from thence.
_Duke._ Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman? 50
_Val._ Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman
To be of worth, and worthy estimation,
And not without desert so well reputed.
_Duke._ Hath he not a son?
_Val._ Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves 55
The honour and regard of such a father.
_Duke._ You know him well?
_Val._ I know him as myself; for from our infancy
We have conversed and spent our hours together:
And though myself have been an idle truant, 60
Omitting the sweet benefit of time
To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,
Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that's his name,
Made use and fair advantage of his days;
His years but young, but his experience old; 65
His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe;
And, in a word, for far behind his worth
Comes all the praises that I now bestow,
He is complete in feature and in mind
With all good grace to grace a gentleman. 70
_Duke._ Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good,
He is as worthy for an empress' love
As meet to be an emperor's counsellor.
Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me,
With commendation from great potentates; 75
And here he means to spend his time awhile:
I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you.
_Val._ Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he.
_Duke._ Welcome him, then, according to his worth.
Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio, 80
For Valentine, I need not cite him to it:
I will send him hither to you presently. [_Exit._
_Val._ This is the gentleman I told your ladyship
Had come along with me, but that his mistress
Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks. 85
_Sil._ Belike that now she hath enfranchised them,
Upon some other pawn for fealty.
_Val._ Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still.
_Sil._ Nay, then, he should be blind; and, being blind,
How could he see his way to seek out you? 90
_Val._ Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes.
_Thu._ They say that Love hath not an eye at all.
_Val._ To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself:
Upon a homely object Love can wink.
_Sil._ Have done, have done; here comes the gentleman. 95
_Enter PROTEUS. [Exit THURIO._
_Val._ Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you,
Confirm his welcome with some special favour.
_Sil._ His worth is warrant for his welcome hither,
If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from.
_Val._ Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain him 100
To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.
_Sil._ Too low a mistress for so high a servant.
_Pro._ Not so, sweet lady: but too mean a servant
To have a look of such a worthy mistress.
_Val._ Leave off discourse of disability: 105
Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.
_Pro._ My duty will I boast of; nothing else.
_Sil._ And duty never yet did want his meed:
Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.
_Pro._ I'll die on him that says so but yourself. 110
_Sil._ That you are welcome?
_Pro._ That you are worthless.
_Re-enter THURIO._
_Thu._ Madam, my lord your father would speak with you.
_Sil._ I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio,
Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome:
I'll leave you to confer of home affairs; 115
When you have done, we look to hear from you.
_Pro._ We'll both attend upon your ladyship.
[_Exeunt Silvia and Thurio._
_Val._ Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came?
_Pro._ Your friends are well, and have them much commended.
_Val._ And how do yours?
_Pro._ I left them all in health. 120
_Val._ How does your lady? and how thrives your love?
_Pro._ My tales of love were wont to weary you;
I know you joy not in a love-discourse.
_Val._ Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now:
I have done penance for contemning Love, 125
Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,
With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs;
For, in revenge of my contempt of love,
Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes, 130
And made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow.
O gentle Proteus, Love's a mighty lord,
And hath so humbled me; as I confess
There is no woe to his correction,
Nor to his service no such joy on earth. 135
Now no discourse, except it be of love;
Now can I break my fast, dine, sup and sleep,
Upon the very naked name of love.
_Pro._ Enough; I read your fortune in your eye.
Was this the idol that you worship so? 140
_Val._ Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint?
_Pro._ No; but she is an earthly paragon.
_Val._ Call her divine.
_Pro._ I will not flatter her.
_Val._ O, flatter me; for love delights in praises.
_Pro._ When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills; 145
And I must minister the like to you.
_Val._ Then speak the truth by her; if not divine,
Yet let her be a principality,
Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.
_Pro._ Except my mistress.
_Val._ Sweet, except not any; 150
Except thou wilt except against my love.
_Pro._ Have I not reason to prefer mine own?
_Val._ And I will help thee to prefer her too:
She shall be dignified with this high honour,--
To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth 155
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss,
And, of so great a favour growing proud,
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower,
And make rough winter everlastingly.
_Pro._ Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this? 160
_Val._ Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing
To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing;
She is alone.
_Pro._ Then let her alone.
_Val._ Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own;
And I as rich in having such a jewel 165
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.
Forgive me, that I do not dream on thee,
Because thou see'st me dote upon my love.
My foolish rival, that her father likes 170
Only for his possessions are so huge,
Is gone with her along; and I must after,
For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy.
_Pro._ But she loves you?
_Val._ Ay, and we are betroth'd: nay, more, our marriage-hour, 175
With all the cunning manner of our flight,
Determined of; how I must climb her window;
The ladder made of cords; and all the means
Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness.
Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, 180
In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.
_Pro._ Go on before; I shall inquire you forth:
I must unto the road, to disembark
Some necessaries that I needs must use;
And then I'll presently attend you. 185
_Val._ Will you make haste?
_Pro._ I will. [_Exit Valentine._
Even as one heat another heat expels,
Or as one nail by strength drives out another,
So the remembrance of my former love 190
Is by a newer object quite forgotten.
Is it mine, or Valentine's praise,
Her true perfection, or my false transgression,
That makes me reasonless to reason thus?
She is fair; and so is Julia, that I love.-- 195
That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd;
Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire,
Bears no impression of the thing it was.
Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,
And that I love him not as I was wont. 200
O, but I love his lady too too much!
And that's the reason I love him so little.
How shall I dote on her with more advice,
That thus without advice begin to love her!
'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld, 205
And that hath dazzled my reason's light;
But when I look on her perfections,
There is no reason but I shall be blind.
If I can check my erring love, I will;
If not, to compass her I'll use my skill. [_Exit._ 210
Notes: II, 4.
2: [They converse apart] Capell.
7: [Exit] Edd. See note (V).
21: _I'll_] _Ile_ Ff. _'twill_ Collier MS.
45: SCENE V. Pope.
Enter DUKE.] Enter DUKE attended. Capell.
49: _happy_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.
50: _ye_] F1. _you_ F2 F3 F4.
52: _worth_] _wealth_ Collier MS. and S. Walker conj.
58: _Know_] Hanmer. _Knew_ Ff.
68: _comes_] Ff. _come_ Rowe.
77: _unwelcome_] F1. _welcome_ F2 F3 F4.
81: _cite_] _'cite_ Malone.
82: _I will_] _I'll_ Pope.
[Exit] Rowe.
95: SCENE VI. Pope. Enter PROTEUS.] Enter. F2.
Exit THURIO.] Collier. See note (V).
97: _his_] F1. _this_ F2 F3 F4.
104: _a worthy_] _a worthy a_ F1.
111: _welcome_] _welcome, sir_ Capell.
_That you are worthless_] _No, that you are worthless_ Johnson.
Re-enter THURIO.] om. Ff. Enter THURIO. Collier. Enter a Servant.
Theobald.
112: Thu.] Ff. Serv. Theobald.
113: [Exit servant. Theobald.
114: _Go_] _Go you_ Capell.
_new servant_] _my new servant_ Pope.
117: [Exeunt S. and T.] Rowe.
118: SCENE VII. Pope.
126: _Whose_] _Those_ Johnson conj.
133: _as I confess_] _as, I confess,_ Warburton.
135: _no such_] _any_ Hanmer.
144: _praises_] F1. _praise_ F2 F3 F4.
158: _summer-swelling_] _summer-smelling_ Steevens conj.
(withdrawn).
160: _braggardism_] Steevens. _bragadism_ Ff.
162: _makes_] _make_ F1.
_worthies_] _worth as_ Grant White.
163: _Then_] _Why, then_ Hanmer.
167: _rocks_] F1. _rocke_ F2. _rock_ F3 F4.
175: _Ay, and we are_] _Ay, And we're_ Edd. conj.
_nay, more_] _Nay, more, my Protheus_ Capell.
_marriage-hour_] _marriage_ Pope.
185: _you_] _upon you_ Hanmer. _on you_ Capell.
187: [Exit Val.] [Exit. F1. om. F2 F3 F4. [Exeunt Valentine and
Speed. Dyce. See note (V).
192: _Is it ... praise,_] _It is mine, or Valentine's praise?_ F1.
_Is it mine then, or Valentineans praise?_ F2 F3 F4. _Is it mine
then or Valentino's praise,_ Rowe, Pope. _Is it mine eye or
Valentine's praise,_ Theobald (Warburton). _Is it mine eyne, or
Valentino's praise,_ Hanmer. _Is it mine own, or Valentino's
praise,_ Capell. _Is it her mien, or Valentinus' praise,_
Malone (Blakeway conj.). See note (VI).
206: _dazzled_] _dazel'd_ F1. _dazel'd so_ F2 F3 F4.
210: [Exit.] F2. [Exeunt. F1.
|
null | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of scene 2 using the context provided. | scenes 5-6|scene 7|scene 2 | Thurio has had a very difficult time of wooing Silvia since Valentine's banishment, so the Duke solicits Proteus's aid. Duke: What might we do to make the girl forget The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio? Proteus: The best way is to slander Valentine With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent, Three things that women highly hold in hate. Proteus himself will be the chief slanderer, since Silvia is most likely to believe what Valentine's dear friend says. Proteus furthermore advises Sir Thurio to whet her desire "by wailful sonnets" and a "sweet consort" . |
----------SCENES 5-6---------
SCENE V.
_The same. A street._
_Enter SPEED and LAUNCE severally._
_Speed._ Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Padua!
_Launce._ Forswear not thyself, sweet youth; for I am not
welcome. I reckon this always--that a man is never undone
till he be hanged; nor never welcome to a place till
some certain shot be paid, and the hostess say 'Welcome!' 5
_Speed._ Come on, you madcap, I'll to the alehouse with
you presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt
have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy
master part with Madam Julia?
_Launce._ Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted 10
very fairly in jest.
_Speed._ But shall she marry him?
_Launce._ No.
_Speed._ How, then? shall he marry her?
_Launce._ No, neither. 15
_Speed._ What, are they broken?
_Launce._ No, they are both as whole as a fish.
_Speed._ Why, then, how stands the matter with them?
_Launce._ Marry, thus; when it stands well with him, it
stands well with her. 20
_Speed._ What an ass art thou! I understand thee not.
_Launce._ What a block art thou, that thou canst not!
My staff understands me.
_Speed._ What thou sayest?
_Launce._ Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I'll but 25
lean, and my staff understands me.
_Speed._ It stands under thee, indeed.
_Launce._ Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one.
_Speed._ But tell me true, will't be a match?
_Launce._ Ask my dog: if he say ay, it will; if he say, 30
no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.
_Speed._ The conclusion is, then, that it will.
_Launce._ Thou shalt never get such a secret from me
but by a parable.
_Speed._ 'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how 35
sayest thou, that my master is become a notable lover?
_Launce._ I never knew him otherwise.
_Speed._ Than how?
_Launce._ A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be.
_Speed._ Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me. 40
_Launce._ Why fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy master.
_Speed._ I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover.
_Launce._ Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn
himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse;
if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name 45
of a Christian.
_Speed._ Why?
_Launce._ Because thou hast not so much charity in thee
as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go?
_Speed._ At thy service. [_Exeunt._ 50
Notes: II, 5.
SCENE V.] SCENA QUINTA F1. SCENA QUARTA F2 F3 F4. SCENE VIII. Pope.
1: _Padua_] Ff. _Milan_ Pope. See note (VII).
4: _be_] _is_ Rowe.
21-28: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.
36: _that_] F2 F3 F4. _that that_ F1.
44: _in love. If thou wilt, go_] Knight. _in love. If thou wilt go_
Ff. _in love, if thou wilt go_ Collier (Malone conj.).
_alehouse_] F1. _alehouse, so_ F2 F3 F4.
49: _ale_] _ale-house_ Rowe.
SCENE VI.
_The same. The DUKE'S palace._
_Enter PROTEUS._
_Pro._ To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn;
To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn;
To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn;
And even that power, which gave me first my oath,
Provokes me to this threefold perjury; 5
Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear.
O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn'd,
Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it!
At first I did adore a twinkling star,
But now I worship a celestial sun. 10
Unheedful vows may needfully be broken;
And he wants wit that wants resolved will
To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better.
Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad,
Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd 15
With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.
I cannot leave to love, and yet I do;
But there I leave to love where I should love.
Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose:
If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; 20
If I lose them, thus find I by their loss
For Valentine, myself, for Julia, Silvia.
I to myself am dearer than a friend,
For love is still most precious in itself;
And Silvia--witness Heaven, that made her fair!-- 25
Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope.
I will forget that Julia is alive,
Remembering that my love to her is dead;
And Valentine I'll hold an enemy,
Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. 30
I cannot now prove constant to myself,
Without some treachery used to Valentine.
This night he meaneth with a corded ladder
To climb celestial Silvia's chamber-window;
Myself in counsel, his competitor. 35
Now presently I'll give her father notice
Of their disguising and pretended flight;
Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine;
For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter;
But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross 40
By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding.
Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift! [_Exit._
Notes: II, 6.
SCENE VI.] SCENE IX. Pope.
Enter PROTEUS.] Enter PROTHEUS solus. Ff.
1, 2: _forsworn; ... forsworn;_] Theobald. _forsworn? ... forsworn?_
Ff.
7: _sweet-suggesting_] _sweet suggestion,_ Pope.
_if thou hast_] _if I have_ Warburton.
16: _soul-confirming_] _soul-confirmed_ Pope.
21: _thus_] _this_ Theobald.
_by_] F1. _but_ F2 F3 F4.
24: _most_] _more_ Steevens.
_in_] _to_ Collier MS.
35: _counsel_] _counsaile_ F1 F2. _councel_ F3. _council_ F4.
37: _pretended_] _intended_ Johnson conj.
43: _this_] F1. _his_ F2 F3 F4.
----------SCENE 7---------
SCENE VII.
_Verona. JULIA'S house._
_Enter JULIA and LUCETTA._
_Jul._ Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me;
And, even in kind love, I do conjure thee,
Who art the table wherein all my thoughts
Are visibly character'd and engraved,
To lesson me; and tell me some good mean, 5
How, with my honour, I may undertake
A journey to my loving Proteus.
_Luc._ Alas, the way is wearisome and long!
_Jul._ A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; 10
Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly,
And when the flight is made to one so dear,
Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.
_Luc._ Better forbear till Proteus make return.
_Jul._ O, know'st thou not, his looks are my soul's food? 15
Pity the dearth that I have pined in,
By longing for that food so long a time.
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 20
_Luc._ I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,
But qualify the fire's extreme rage,
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
_Jul._ The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns.
The current that with gentle murmur glides, 25
Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;
But when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with the enamell'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage; 30
And so by many winding nooks he strays,
With willing sport, to the wild ocean.
Then let me go, and hinder not my course:
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,
And make a pastime of each weary step, 35
Till the last step have brought me to my love;
And there I'll rest, as after much turmoil
A blessed soul doth in Elysium.
_Luc._ But in what habit will you go along?
_Jul._ Not like a woman; for I would prevent 40
The loose encounters of lascivious men:
Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds
As may beseem some well-reputed page.
_Luc._ Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair.
_Jul._ No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings 45
With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots.
To be fantastic may become a youth
Of greater time than I shall show to be.
_Luc._ What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches?
_Jul._ That fits as well as, 'Tell me, good my lord, 50
What compass will you wear your farthingale?'
Why even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta.
_Luc._ You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.
_Jul._ Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-favour'd.
_Luc._ A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin, 55
Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.
_Jul._ Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have
What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly.
But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me
For undertaking so unstaid a journey? 60
I fear me, it will make me scandalized.
_Luc._ If you think so, then stay at home, and go not.
_Jul._ Nay, that I will not.
_Luc._ Then never dream on infamy, but go.
If Proteus like your journey when you come, 65
No matter who's displeased when you are gone:
I fear me, he will scarce be pleased withal.
_Jul._ That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:
A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,
And instances of infinite of love, 70
Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.
_Luc._ All these are servants to deceitful men.
_Jul._ Base men, that use them to so base effect!
But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth:
His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles; 75
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate;
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart;
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.
_Luc._ Pray heaven he prove so, when you come to him!
_Jul._ Now, as thou lovest me, do him not that wrong, 80
To bear a hard opinion of his truth:
Only deserve my love by loving him;
And presently go with me to my chamber,
To take a note of what I stand in need of,
To furnish me upon my longing journey. 85
All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,
My goods, my lands, my reputation;
Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.
Come, answer not, but to it presently!
I am impatient of my tarriance. [_Exeunt._ 90
Notes: II, 7.
SCENE VII.] SCENE X. Pope.
13: _perfection_] F1 F2 F4. _perfections_ F3.
18: _inly_] F1 F2. _inchly_ F3 F4.
22: _extreme_] _extremest_ Pope.
32: _wild_] _wide_ Collier MS.
47: _fantastic_] _fantantastique_ F2.
52: _likest_] Pope. _likes_ Ff.
67: _withal_] _with all_ F1 F4. _withall_ F2 F3.
70: _of infinite_] F1. _as infinite_ F2 F3 F4. _of the infinite_
Malone.
85: _longing_] _loving_ Collier MS.
89: _to it_] _do it_ Warburton.
----------SCENE 2---------
SCENE II.
_The same. The DUKE'S palace._
_Enter DUKE and THURIO._
_Duke._ Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you,
Now Valentine is banish'd from her sight.
_Thu._ Since his exile she hath despised me most.
Forsworn my company, and rail'd at me,
That I am desperate of obtaining her. 5
_Duke._ This weak impress of love is as a figure
Trenched in ice, which with an hour's heat
Dissolves to water, and doth lose his form.
A little time will melt her frozen thoughts,
And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. 10
_Enter PROTEUS._
How now, Sir Proteus! Is your countryman,
According to our proclamation, gone?
_Pro._ Gone, my good lord.
_Duke._ My daughter takes his going grievously.
_Pro._ A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. 15
_Duke._ So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so.
Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee--
For thou hast shown some sign of good desert--
Makes me the better to confer with thee.
_Pro._ Longer than I prove loyal to your Grace 20
Let me not live to look upon your Grace.
_Duke._ Thou know'st how willingly I would effect
The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter.
_Pro._ I do, my lord.
_Duke._ And also, I think, thou art not ignorant 25
How she opposes her against my will.
_Pro._ She did, my lord, when Valentine was here.
_Duke._ Ay, and perversely she persevers so.
What might we do to make the girl forget
The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio? 30
_Pro._ The best way is to slander Valentine
With falsehood, cowardice and poor descent,
Three things that women highly hold in hate.
_Duke._ Ay, but she'll think that it is spoke in hate.
_Pro._ Ay, if his enemy deliver it: 35
Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken
By one whom she esteemeth as his friend.
_Duke._ Then you must undertake to slander him.
_Pro._ And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do:
'Tis an ill office for a gentleman, 40
Especially against his very friend.
_Duke._ Where your good word cannot advantage him,
Your slander never can endamage him;
Therefore the office is indifferent,
Being entreated to it by your friend. 45
_Pro._ You have prevail'd, my lord: if I can do it
By ought that I can speak in his dispraise,
She shall not long continue love to him.
But say this weed her love from Valentine,
It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio. 50
_Thu._ Therefore, as you unwind her love from him,
Lest it should ravel and be good to none,
You must provide to bottom it on me;
Which must be done by praising me as much
As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. 55
_Duke._ And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind,
Because we know, on Valentine's report,
You are already Love's firm votary,
And cannot soon revolt and change your mind.
Upon this warrant shall you have access 60
Where you with Silvia may confer at large;
For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy,
And, for your friend's sake, will be glad of you;
Where you may temper her by your persuasion
To hate young Valentine and love my friend. 65
_Pro._ As much as I can do, I will effect:
But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough;
You must lay lime to tangle her desires
By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes
Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows. 70
_Duke._ Ay,
Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.
_Pro._ Say that upon the altar of her beauty
You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart:
Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears 75
Moist it again; and frame some feeling line
That may discover such integrity:
For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews;
Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones,
Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans 80
Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands.
After your dire-lamenting elegies,
Visit by night your lady's chamber-window
With some sweet concert; to their instruments
Tune a deploring dump: the night's dead silence 85
Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance.
This, or else nothing, will inherit her.
_Duke._ This discipline shows thou hast been in love.
_Thu._ And thy advice this night I'll put in practice.
Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, 90
Let us into the city presently
To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music.
I have a sonnet that will serve the turn
To give the onset to thy good advice.
_Duke._ About it, gentlemen! 95
_Pro._ We'll wait upon your Grace till after supper,
And afterward determine our proceedings.
_Duke._ Even now about it! I will pardon you. [_Exeunt._
Notes: III, 2.
SCENE II.] SCENE V. Pope.
14: _grievously._] _grievously?_ F1. (in some copies only, according
to Malone). _heavily?_ F2 F3. _heavily._ F4.
18: _some_] _sure_ Collier MS.
19: _better_] _bolder_ Capell conj.
20: _loyal_] F1 F3 F4. _royall_ F2.
21: _your_] F1 F3 F4. _you_ F2.
_Grace_] _face_ Anon. conj.
25: _I think_] F1. _I doe think_ F2 F3 F4.
28: _persevers_] F1 F2. _perseveres_ F3 F4.
37: _esteemeth_] F1. _esteemes_ F2. _esteems_ F3 F4.
49: _weed_] Ff. _wean_ Rowe.
55: _worth_] _word_ Capell conj.
64: _Where_] _When_ Collier MS.
71, 72: _Ay, Much_] Capell. _I, much_ Ff. _Much_ Pope.
76: _line_] _lines_ S. Verges conj.
77: _such_] _strict_ Collier MS. _love's_ S. Verges conj. Malone
suggests that a line has been lost to this purport: _'As her
obdurate heart may penetrate.'_
81: _to_] F1. _and_ F2 F3 F4.
84: _concert_] Hanmer. _consort_ Ff.
86: _sweet-complaining_] Capell. _sweet complaining_ Ff.
94: _advice_] F2 F3 F4. _advise_ F1.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scenes 1-2, utilizing the provided context. | scenes 1-2|scenes 3-4 | Valentine and Speed are accosted by an honorable band of thieves who are so impressed by the travelers' noble demeanor that they not only spare their lives, but offer Valentine the generalship of their gang. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar, This fellow were a king for our wild faction! The same outlaw who utters these words explains that his own crime amounted to no more than "practicing to steal away a lady." They claim to be gentlemen, and they urge Valentine to "make virtue of necessity"; otherwise, they'll kill him. He accepts. In Milan, Proteus and Sir Thurio approach Silvia's dwelling at night. Proteus uses the excuse of giving aid to Thurio as a means to approach Silvia, who consistently spurns him: Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. Disguised as a boy and fresh from Verona, Julia comes upon the scene of Proteus singing a love song outside of Silvia's window. Thurio departs after the song, and Julia watches as her lover declares his feelings for another woman. He even goes so far as to say that she, Julia, is dead. |
----------SCENES 1-2---------
ACT IV. SCENE I.
_The frontiers of Mantua. A forest._
_Enter certain _Outlaws_._
_First Out._ Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger.
_Sec. Out._ If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em.
_Enter VALENTINE and SPEED._
_Third Out._ Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye:
If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you.
_Speed._ Sir, we are undone; these are the villains 5
That all the travellers do fear so much.
_Val._ My friends,--
_First Out._ That's not so, sir: we are your enemies.
_Sec. Out._ Peace! we'll hear him.
_Third Out._ Ay, by my beard, will we, for he's a proper man. 10
_Val._ Then know that I have little wealth to lose:
A man I am cross'd with adversity;
My riches are these poor habiliments,
Of which if you should here disfurnish me,
You take the sum and substance that I have. 15
_Sec. Out._ Whither travel you?
_Val._ To Verona.
_First Out._ Whence came you?
_Val._ From Milan.
_Third Out._ Have you long sojourned there? 20
_Val._ Some sixteen months, and longer might have stay'd,
If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.
_First Out._ What, were you banish'd thence?
_Val._ I was.
_Sec. Out._ For what offence? 25
_Val._ For that which now torments me to rehearse:
I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent;
But yet I slew him manfully in fight,
Without false vantage or base treachery.
_First Out._ Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so. 30
But were you banish'd for so small a fault?
_Val._ I was, and held me glad of such a doom.
_Sec. Out._ Have you the tongues?
_Val._ My youthful travel therein made me happy,
Or else I often had been miserable. 35
_Third Out._ By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar,
This fellow were a king for our wild faction!
_First Out._ We'll have him. Sirs, a word.
_Speed._ Master, be one of them; it's an honourable kind
of thievery. 40
_Val._ Peace, villain!
_Sec. Out._ Tell us this: have you any thing to take to?
_Val._ Nothing but my fortune.
_Third Out._ Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen,
Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth 45
Thrust from the company of awful men:
Myself was from Verona banished
For practising to steal away a lady,
An heir, and near allied unto the duke.
_Sec. Out._ And I from Mantua, for a gentleman, 50
Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart.
_First Out._ And I for such like petty crimes as these.
But to the purpose,--for we cite our faults,
That they may hold excused our lawless lives;
And partly, seeing you are beautified 55
With goodly shape, and by your own report
A linguist, and a man of such perfection
As we do in our quality much want,--
_Sec. Out._ Indeed, because you are a banish'd man,
Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you: 60
Are you content to be our general?
To make a virtue of necessity,
And live, as we do, in this wilderness?
_Third Out._ What say'st thou? wilt thou be of our consort?
Say ay, and be the captain of us all: 65
We'll do thee homage and be ruled by thee,
Love thee as our commander and our king.
_First Out._ But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest.
_Sec. Out._ Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer'd.
_Val._ I take your offer, and will live with you, 70
Provided that you do no outrages
On silly women or poor passengers.
_Third Out._ No, we detest such vile base practices.
Come, go with us, we'll bring thee to our crews,
And show thee all the treasure we have got; 75
Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. [_Exeunt._
Notes: IV, 1.
SCENE I. The frontiers ... forest.] Capell. A forest. Rowe.
A forest leading towards Mantua. Warburton.
2: _shrink_] _shrinkd_ F2.
4: _sit_] F1 F2. _sir_ F3 F4.
5: _Sir_] _O sir_ Capell.
6: _do_] om. Pope, who prints lines 5 and 6 as prose.
9: _Peace!_] _Peace, peace!_ Capell.
11: _little wealth_] F1. _little_ F2 F3 F4. _little left_ Hanmer.
18: _Whence_] _And whence_ Capell, who reads 16-20 as two lines
ending _came you? ... there?_
35: _ I often had been_] F2. _I often had been often_ F1. _often had
been_ (om. _I_) F3 F4. _I had been often_ Collier.
39, 40: _it's ... thievery_] Printed as a verse in Ff. _It is a kind
of honourable thievery_ Steevens.
42: _thing_] F1. _things_ F2 F3 F4.
46: _awful_] _lawful_ Heath conj.
49: _An heir, and near allied_] Theobald. _And heire and Neece,
allide_ F1 F2. _An heir, and Neice allide_ F3. _An Heir, and
Neece alli'd_ F4.
51: _Who_] _Whom_ Pope.
60: _Therefore_] F1 F2. _There_ F3 F4.
63: _this_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.
74: _crews_] F4. _crewes_ F1 F2 F3. _cave_ Collier MS. _caves_
Singer. _crew_ Delius conj. _cruives_ Bullock conj.
76: _all_] _shall_ Pope.
SCENE II.
_Milan. Outside the DUKE'S palace, under SILVIA'S chamber._
_Enter PROTEUS._
_Pro._ Already have I been false to Valentine,
And now I must be as unjust to Thurio.
Under the colour of commending him,
I have access my own love to prefer:
But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, 5
To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
When I protest true loyalty to her,
She twits me with my falsehood to my friend;
When to her beauty I commend my vows,
She bids me think how I have been forsworn 10
In breaking faith with Julia whom I loved:
And notwithstanding all her sudden quips,
The least whereof would quell a lover's hope,
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love,
The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. 15
But here comes Thurio: now must we to her window,
And give some evening music to her ear.
_Enter THURIO and _Musicians_._
_Thu._ How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept before us?
_Pro._ Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love
Will creep in service where it cannot go. 20
_Tim._ Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here.
_Pro._ Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence.
_Thu._ Who? Silvia?
_Pro._ Ay, Silvia; for your sake.
_Thu._ I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen,
Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile. 25
_Enter, at a distance, HOST, and JULIA in boy's clothes._
_Host._ Now, my young guest, methinks you're allycholly:
I pray you, why is it?
_Jul._ Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry.
_Host._ Come, we'll have you merry: I'll bring you
where you shall hear music, and see the gentleman that 30
you asked for.
_Jul._ But shall I hear him speak?
_Host._ Ay, that you shall.
_Jul._ That will be music. [_Music plays._
_Host._ Hark, hark! 35
_Jul._ Is he among these?
_Host._ Ay: but, peace! let's hear 'em.
SONG.
Who is Silvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she; 40
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admired be.
Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair, 45
To help him of his blindness,
And, being help'd, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing 50
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.
_Host._ How now! are you sadder than you were before?
How do you, man? the music likes you not.
_Jul._ You mistake; the musician likes me not. 55
_Host._ Why, my pretty youth?
_Jul._ He plays false, father.
_Host._ How? out of tune on the strings?
_Jul._ Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very
heart-strings. 60
_Host._ You have a quick ear.
_Jul._ Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow
heart.
_Host._ I perceive you delight not in music.
_Jul._ Not a whit, when it jars so. 65
_Host._ Hark, what fine change is in the music!
_Jul._ Ay, that change is the spite.
_Host._ You would have them always play but one thing?
_Jul._ I would always have one play but one thing.
But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on 70
Often resort unto this gentlewoman?
_Host._ I tell you what Launce, his man, told me,--he
loved her out of all nick.
_Jul._ Where is Launce?
_Host._ Gone to seek his dog; which to-morrow, by his 75
master's command, he must carry for a present to his lady.
_Jul._ Peace! stand aside: the company parts.
_Pro._ Sir Thurio, fear not you: I will so plead,
That you shall say my cunning drift excels.
_Thu._ Where meet we?
_Pro._ At Saint Gregory's well.
_Thu._ Farewell. 80
[_Exeunt Thu. and Musicians._
_Enter SILVIA above._
_Pro._ Madam, good even to your ladyship.
_Sil._ I thank you for your music, gentlemen.
Who is that that spake?
_Pro._ One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth,
You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. 85
_Sil._ Sir Proteus, as I take it.
_Pro._ Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.
_Sil._ What's your will?
_Pro._ That I may compass yours.
_Sil._ You have your wish; my will is even this:
That presently you hie you home to bed. 90
Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man!
Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,
To be seduced by thy flattery,
That hast deceived so many with thy vows?
Return, return, and make thy love amends. 95
For me,--by this pale queen of night I swear,
I am so far from granting thy request,
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit;
And by and by intend to chide myself
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. 100
_Pro._ I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady;
But she is dead.
_Jul._ [_Aside_] 'Twere false, if I should speak it;
For I am sure she is not buried.
_Sil._ Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend
Survives; to whom, thyself art witness, 105
I am betroth'd: and art thou not ashamed
To wrong him with thy importunacy?
_Pro._ I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.
_Sil._ And so suppose am I; for in his grave
Assure thyself my love is buried. 110
_Pro._ Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.
_Sil._ Go to thy lady's grave, and call hers thence;
Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine.
_Jul._ [_Aside_] He heard not that.
_Pro._ Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, 115
Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love,
The picture that is hanging in your chamber;
To that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep:
For since the substance of your perfect self
Is else devoted, I am but a shadow; 120
And to your shadow will I make true love.
_Jul._ [_Aside_] If 'twere a substance, you would,
sure, deceive it,
And make it but a shadow, as I am.
_Sil._ I am very loath to be your idol, sir;
But since your falsehood shall become you well 125
To worship shadows and adore false shapes,
Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it:
And so, good rest.
_Pro._ As wretches have o'ernight
That wait for execution in the morn.
[_Exeunt Pro. and Sil. severally._
_Jul._ Host, will you go? 130
_Host._ By my halidom, I was fast asleep.
_Jul._ Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus?
_Host._ Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 'tis
almost day.
_Jul._ Not so; but it hath been the longest night 135
That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest. [_Exeunt._
Notes: IV, 2.
SCENE II. Outside ... palace ...] An open place, ... Warburton.
Court of the palace. Capell.
1: _have I_] _I've_ Pope.
15: _and_] om. F3 F4.
18: Musicians.] Rowe. Musitian. Ff. at the beginning of the scene.
23: _Who_] F1. Whom F2 F3 F4.
25: _tune_] F1. _turne_ F2. _turn_ F3 F4.
26: at a distance] Capell.
_allycholly_] _melancholy_ Pope.
27: _I pray you, why is it_] F1. _I pray you what is it_ F2 F3.
_I pray what is it?_ F4.
34: [Music plays] Capell.
40: _is she_] _as free_ Collier MS.
50: _excels_] _exceeds_ S. Walker conj.
53: SCENE III. Pope.
53, 54: _are you ... before?_] _you are ... before_ Heath conj.
68: _You would_] _you would, then,_ Malone. _you would not_
Collier MS.
70, 71: Printed as prose by Capell.
72-74: Printed as verse in Ff. _I tell ... He lov'd ..._
78: _fear not you_] F1. _fear not_ F2 F3 F4.
80: [Exeunt Thu. and Musicians.] Rowe.
81: SCENE IV. Pope.
Enter SILVIA above] Rowe. om. Ff.
85: _You would_] Ff. _You'd_ Pope.
88: _What's_] _What is_ Pope.
89: _even_] F1. _ever_ F2 F3 F4.
102: [Aside] Pope.
105: _thyself_] _even thyself_ Hanmer.
109: _his_] F2 F3 F4. _her_ F1.
112: _hers_] F1 F2. _her_ F3 F4.
114: [Aside] Pope.
115: _if_] _if that_ Warburton.
115, 116: _obdurate, Vouchsafe_] _Obdurate, O, vouchsafe_ Hanmer.
116: _for my love_] om. Hanmer.
122: [Aside] Pope.
125: _since your falsehood shall_] _since you're false, it shall_
Johnson conj.
129: [Exeunt ... severally] om. F1. [Exeunt. F2.
136: _heaviest_] _heavy one_ Pope.
----------SCENES 3-4---------
SCENE III.
_The same._
_Enter EGLAMOUR._
_Egl._ This is the hour that Madam Silvia
Entreated me to call and know her mind:
There's some great matter she'ld employ me in.
Madam, madam!
_Enter SILVIA above._
_Sil._ Who calls?
_Egl._ Your servant and your friend;
One that attends your ladyship's command. 5
_Sil._ Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow.
_Egl._ As many, worthy lady, to yourself:
According to your ladyship's impose,
I am thus early come to know what service
It is your pleasure to command me in. 10
_Sil._ O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman,--
Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not,--
Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish'd:
Thou art not ignorant what dear good will
I bear unto the banish'd Valentine; 15
Nor how my father would enforce me marry
Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors.
Thyself hast loved; and I have heard thee say
No grief did ever come so near thy heart
As when thy lady and thy true love died, 20
Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity.
Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine,
To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode;
And, for the ways are dangerous to pass,
I do desire thy worthy company, 25
Upon whose faith and honour I repose.
Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour,
But think upon my grief, a lady's grief,
And on the justice of my flying hence,
To keep me from a most unholy match, 30
Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.
I do desire thee, even from a heart
As full of sorrows as the sea of sands,
To bear me company, and go with me:
If not, to hide what I have said to thee, 35
That I may venture to depart alone.
_Egl._ Madam, I pity much your grievances;
Which since I know they virtuously are placed,
I give consent to go along with you;
Recking as little what betideth me 40
As much I wish all good befortune you.
When will you go?
_Sil._ This evening coming.
_Egl._ Where shall I meet you?
_Sil._ At Friar Patrick's cell,
Where I intend holy confession.
_Egl._ I will not fail your ladyship. Good morrow, 45
gentle lady.
_Sil._ Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour.
[_Exeunt severally._
Notes: IV, 3.
SCENE III.] SCENE V. Pope. Dyce makes no new scene here. See note
(VIII).
4: _Madam, madam!_] _Madam!_ Hanmer.
13: _Valiant, wise_] _Valiant and wise_ Pope. _Wise, valiant_
Anon. conj. A monosyllable lost before _valiant._ S. Walker conj.
17: _abhors_] Hanmer. _abhor'd_ F1 F2 F3. _abhorr'd_ F4.
19: _ever_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.
_near_] _near unto_ Pope.
31: _rewards_] Ff. _reward_ Pope.
37, 38: _grievances; Which_] _grievances, And the most true
affections that you bear; Which_ Collier MS.
40: _Recking_] Pope. _Wreaking_ F1.
42: _evening coming_] _coming evening_ Anon. conj.
SCENE IV.
_The same._
_Enter LAUNCE, with his Dog._
_Launce._ When a man's servant shall play the cur with
him, look you, it goes hard: one that I brought up of a
puppy; one that I saved from drowning, when three or
four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it! I have
taught him, even as one would say precisely, 'thus I 5
would teach a dog.' I was sent to deliver him as a present
to Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no sooner
into the dining-chamber, but he steps me to her trencher,
and steals her capon's leg: O, 'tis a foul thing when a cur
cannot keep himself in all companies! I would have, as 10
one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed,
to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not
had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he
did, I think verily he had been hanged for't: sure as I
live, he had suffered for't: you shall judge. He thrusts 15
me himself into the company of three or four gentleman-like
dogs, under the duke's table: he had not been there--bless
the mark!--a pissing while, but all the chamber
smelt him. 'Out with the dog!' says one: 'What cur is
that?' says another: 'Whip him out,' says the third: 'Hang 20
him up,' says the duke. I, having been acquainted with
the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the
fellow that whips the dogs: 'Friend,' quoth I, 'you mean
to whip the dog?' 'Ay, marry, do I,' quoth he. 'You
do him the more wrong,' quoth I; ''twas I did the thing 25
you wot of.' He makes me no more ado, but whips me
out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for
his servant? Nay, I'll be sworn, I have sat in the stocks
for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed;
I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed, 30
otherwise he had suffered for't. Thou thinkest not of this
now. Nay, I remember the trick you served me when I
took my leave of Madam Silvia: did not I bid thee still
mark me, and do as I do? when didst thou see me heave
up my leg, and make water against a gentlewoman's farthingale? 35
didst thou ever see me do such a trick?
_Enter PROTEUS and JULIA._
_Pro._ Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well,
And will employ thee in some service presently.
_Jul._ In what you please: I'll do what I can.
_Pro._ I hope thou wilt. [_To Launce_] How now, you
whoreson peasant! 40
Where have you been these two days loitering?
_Launce._ Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog
you bade me.
_Pro._ And what says she to my little jewel?
_Launce._ Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells 45
you currish thanks is good enough for such a present.
_Pro._ But she received my dog?
_Launce._ No, indeed, did she not: here have I brought
him back again.
_Pro._ What, didst thou offer her this from me? 50
_Launce._ Ay, sir; the other squirrel was stolen from me
by the hangman boys in the market-place: and then I
offered her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours,
and therefore the gift the greater.
_Pro._ Go get thee hence, and find my dog again, 55
Or ne'er return again into my sight.
Away, I say! stay'st thou to vex me here?
[_Exit Launce._
A slave, that still an end turns me to shame!
Sebastian, I have entertained thee,
Partly that I have need of such a youth, 60
That can with some discretion do my business,
For 'tis no trusting to yond foolish lout;
But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour,
Which, if my augury deceive me not,
Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth: 65
Therefore know thou, for this I entertain thee.
Go presently, and take this ring with thee,
Deliver it to Madam Silvia:
She loved me well deliver'd it to me.
_Jul._ It seems you loved not her, to leave her token. 70
She is dead, belike?
_Pro._ Not so; I think she lives.
_Jul._ Alas!
_Pro._ Why dost thou cry, 'alas'?
_Jul._ I cannot choose
But pity her.
_Pro._ Wherefore shouldst thou pity her?
_Jul._ Because methinks that she loved you as well 75
As you do love your lady Silvia:
She dreams on him that has forgot her love;
You dote on her that cares not for your love.
'Tis pity love should be so contrary;
And thinking on it makes me cry, 'alas!' 80
_Pro._ Well, give her that ring, and therewithal
This letter. That's her chamber. Tell my lady
I claim the promise for her heavenly picture.
Your message done, hie home unto my chamber,
Where thou shalt find me, sad and solitary. [_Exit._ 85
_Jul._ How many women would do such a message?
Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertained
A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs.
Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him
That with his very heart despiseth me? 90
Because he loves her, he despiseth me;
Because I love him, I must pity him.
This ring I gave him when he parted from me,
To bind him to remember my good will;
And now am I, unhappy messenger, 95
To plead for that which I would not obtain,
To carry that which I would have refused,
To praise his faith which I would have dispraised.
I am my master's true-confirmed love;
But cannot be true servant to my master, 100
Unless I prove false traitor to myself.
Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly,
As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed.
_Enter SILVIA, attended._
Gentlewoman, good day! I pray you, be my mean
To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia. 105
_Sil._ What would you with her, if that I be she?
_Jul._ If you be she, I do entreat your patience
To hear me speak the message I am sent on.
_Sil._ From whom?
_Jul._ From my master, Sir Proteus, madam. 110
_Sil._ O, he sends you for a picture.
_Jul._ Ay, madam.
_Sil._ Ursula, bring my picture there.
Go give your master this: tell him, from me,
One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget, 115
Would better fit his chamber than this shadow.
_Jul._ Madam, please you peruse this letter.--
Pardon me, madam; I have unadvised
Deliver'd you a paper that I should not:
This is the letter to your ladyship. 120
_Sil._ I pray thee, let me look on that again.
_Jul._ It may not be; good madam, pardon me.
_Sil._ There, hold!
I will not look upon your master's lines:
I know they are stuff'd with protestations, 125
And full of new-found oaths; which he will break
As easily as I do tear his paper.
_Jul._ Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring.
_Sil._ The more shame for him that he sends it me;
For I have heard him say a thousand times 130
His Julia gave it him at his departure.
Though his false finger have profaned the ring,
Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong.
_Jul._ She thanks you.
_Sil._ What say'st thou? 135
_Jul._ I thank you, madam, that you tender her.
Poor gentlewoman! my master wrongs her much.
_Sil._ Dost thou know her?
_Jul._ Almost as well as I do know myself:
To think upon her woes I do protest 140
That I have wept a hundred several times.
_Sil._ Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her.
_Jul._ I think she doth; and that's her cause of sorrow.
_Sil._ Is she not passing fair?
_Jul._ She hath been fairer, madam, than she is: 145
When she did think my master loved her well,
She, in my judgement, was as fair as you;
But since she did neglect her looking-glass,
And threw her sun-expelling mask away,
The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks, 150
And pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face,
That now she is become as black as I.
_Sil._ How tall was she?
_Jul._ About my stature: for, at Pentecost,
When all our pageants of delight were play'd, 155
Our youth got me to play the woman's part,
And I was trimm'd in Madam Julia's gown;
Which served me as fit, by all men's judgements,
As if the garment had been made for me:
Therefore I know she is about my height. 160
And at that time I made her weep agood,
For I did play a lamentable part:
Madam, 'twas Ariadne passioning
For Theseus' perjury and unjust flight;
Which I so lively acted with my tears, 165
That my poor mistress, moved therewithal,
Wept bitterly; and, would I might be dead,
If I in thought felt not her very sorrow!
_Sil._ She is beholding to thee, gentle youth.
Alas, poor lady, desolate and left! 170
I weep myself to think upon thy words.
Here, youth, there is my purse: I give thee this
For thy sweet mistress' sake, because thou lovest her.
Farewell. [_Exit Silvia, with attendants._
_Jul._ And she shall thank you for't, if e'er you know her. 175
A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful!
I hope my master's suit will be but cold,
Since she respects my mistress' love so much.
Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
Here is her picture: let me see; I think, 180
If I had such a tire, this face of mine
Were full as lovely as is this of hers:
And yet the painter flatter'd her a little,
Unless I flatter with myself too much.
Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow: 185
If that be all the difference in his love,
I'll get me such a colour'd periwig.
Her eyes are grey as glass; and so are mine:
Ay, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high.
What should it be that he respects in her, 190
But I can make respective in myself,
If this fond Love were not a blinded god?
Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up,
For 'tis thy rival. O thou senseless form,
Thou shalt be worshipp'd, kiss'd, loved, and adored! 193
And, were there sense in his idolatry,
My substance should be statue in thy stead.
I'll use thee kindly for thy mistress' sake,
That used me so; or else, by Jove I vow,
I should have scratch'd out your unseeing eyes, 200
To make my master out of love with thee! [_Exit._
Notes: IV, 4.
SCENE IV.] SCENE VI. Pope. Dyce makes no new scene here. See note
(VIII).
The same.] The same. Silvia's Anti-chamber. Capell.
6: _I was sent_] _I went_ Theobald.
11: _to be a dog indeed_] _to be a dog, to be a dog indeed_
Johnson conj.
20: _the third_] _a third_ Hanmer.
23: _you mean_] _do you mean_ Collier MS.
26: _makes me no more_] _makes no more_ Rowe.
28: _his servant_] _their servant_ Pope.
33: _Silvia_] _Julia_ Warburton.
39: _I'll do_] _Ile do_ F1. _Ile do sir_ F2 F3 F4. _I will do_
Malone.
45: _was_] _is_ Capell conj.
48: _did she_] F1 F2. _she did_ F3 F4.
50: _this_] _this cur_ Collier MS.
51: _the other squirrel_] _the other, Squirrel_ Hanmer.
51-54: Printed as four verses ending _me ... marketplace ... dog ...
greater_ Ff. Pope made the change.
52: _hangman boys_] Singer. _Hangmans boyes_ F1. _hangmans boy_
F2 F3 F4. _a hangman boy_ Collier MS.
57: [Exit Launce] om. F1. [Exit. F2 after line 58.
58: _still an end_] _ev'ry day_ Pope.
66: _know thou_] F2 F3 F4. _know thee_ F1.
_entertain thee_] F1 F3 F4. _entertaine hee_ F2.
70: _to leave_] F2 F3 F4. _not leave_ F1. _nor love_ Johnson conj.
74: _Wherefore_] _Why_ Hanmer.
75: _that_] _if_ Hanmer.
81: _give her_] _give to her_ Collier MS.
_and therewithal_] _and give therewithal_ Theobald. _and give her
therewithal_ Capell.
85: [Exit] F2.
95: _am I_] F1 F2. _I am_ F3 F4.
103: Enter SILVIA attended] Malone. Enter SILVIA. Rowe.
104: _Gentlewoman_] Ff. _Lady_ Pope.
110: _From my master,_] _My master; from_ Capell.
111: Capell adds _does he not?_
115: _forget_] F1 F2. _forgot_ F3 F4.
117: _please you peruse_] _may 't please you to peruse_ Pope.
_wilt please you to peruse_ Capell. _so please you to peruse_
Collier MS.
127: _easily_] F1. _easie_ F2 F3 F4.
138: _Dost thou_] _Dost_ Capell conj.
151: _pinch'd_] _pitch'd_ Warburton. _pincte_ Becket conj. _pinc'd_
Id. conj.
158: _judgements_] _judgment_ Capell.
161: _agood_] F2 F3 F4. _a good_ F1. _a-good_ Theobald.
168: _felt_] _feel_ Seward conj.
169: _beholding_] _beholden_ Pope.
172: _my purse_] F1. _a purse_ F2 F3 F4.
174: _Farewell_] om. Pope.
[Exit ... attendants] Dyce, after 175. [Exit. F2. om. F1. [Exit S.
Singer, after 175.
178: _my mistress'_] _his mistress'_ Hanmer.
185: _auburn_] Rowe. _Aburne_ Ff.
188: _grey as glass_] F1. _grey as grass_ F2 F3 F4. _green as grass_
Collier MS.
189: _mine's as high_] _mine is high_ Pope.
197: _statue_] _sainted_ Hanmer. _statued_ Warburton. _statua_
Reed conj.
200: _your_] _thy_ Hanmer.
201: [Exit.] F2. [Exeunt. F1.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scenes 1-3, utilizing the provided context. | null | Eglamour and Silvia flee to the forest, where she is captured by the outlaws. As they take her away to their captain , she exclaims: 'O Valentine, this I endure for thee." Meantime, a session in which Proteus advises Thurio on his progress with Silvia is interrupted by the Duke, who tells them of Eglamour and Silvia's flight. They exist separately. Proteus: And I will follow more for Silvia's love Julia: Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her. And I will follow, more to cross that love Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. |
----------SCENES 1-3---------
ACT V. SCENE I.
_Milan. An abbey._
_Enter EGLAMOUR._
_Egl._ The sun begins to gild the western sky;
And now it is about the very hour
That Silvia, at Friar Patrick's cell, should meet me.
She will not fail, for lovers break not hours,
Unless it be to come before their time; 5
So much they spur their expedition.
See where she comes.
_Enter SILVIA._
Lady, a happy evening!
_Sil._ Amen, amen! Go on, good Eglamour,
Out at the postern by the abbey-wall:
I fear I am attended by some spies. 10
_Egl._ Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off;
If we recover that, we are sure enough. [_Exeunt._
Notes: V, 1.
SCENE I. An abbey.] Capell. Near the Friar's cell. Theobald.
3: _That_] om. Pope.
_Friar_] om. Steevens (1793).
12: _we are_] _we're_ Pope.
SCENE II.
_The same. The DUKE'S palace._
_Enter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA._
_Thu._ Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit?
_Pro._ O, sir, I find her milder than she was;
And yet she takes exceptions at your person.
_Thu._ What, that my leg is too long?
_Pro._ No; that it is too little. 5
_Thu._ I'll wear a boot, to make it somewhat rounder.
_Jul._ [_Aside_] But love will not be spurr'd to what it loathes.
_Thu._ What says she to my face?
_Pro._ She says it is a fair one.
_Thu._ Nay then, the wanton lies; my face is black. 10
_Pro._ But pearls are fair; and the old saying is,
Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes.
_Jul._ [_Aside_] 'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies' eyes;
For I had rather wink than look on them.
_Thu._ How likes she my discourse? 15
_Pro._ Ill, when you talk of war.
_Thu._ But well, when I discourse of love and peace?
_Jul._ [_Aside_] But better, indeed, when you hold your peace.
_Thu._ What says she to my valour?
_Pro._ O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. 20
_Jul._ [_Aside_] She needs not, when she knows it cowardice.
_Thu._ What says she to my birth?
_Pro._ That you are well derived.
_Jul._ [_Aside_] True; from a gentleman to a fool.
_Thu._ Considers she my possessions? 25
_Pro._ O, ay; and pities them.
_Thu._ Wherefore?
_Jul._ [_Aside_] That such an ass should owe them.
_Pro._ That they are out by lease.
_Jul._ Here comes the duke. 30
_Enter DUKE._
_Duke._ How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio!
Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late?
_Thu._ Not I.
_Pro._ Nor I.
_Duke._ Saw you my daughter?
_Pro._ Neither.
_Duke._ Why then,
She's fled unto that peasant Valentine; 35
And Eglamour is in her company.
'Tis true; for Friar Laurence met them both,
As he in penance wander'd through the forest;
Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she,
But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it; 40
Besides, she did intend confession
At Patrick's cell this even; and there she was not;
These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence.
Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse,
But mount you presently, and meet with me 45
Upon the rising of the mountain-foot
That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled:
Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. [_Exit._
_Thu._ Why, this it is to be a peevish girl,
That flies her fortune when it follows her. 50
I'll after, more to be revenged on Eglamour
Than for the love of reckless Silvia. [_Exit._
_Pro._ And I will follow, more for Silvia's love
Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her. [_Exit._
_Jul._ And I will follow, more to cross that love 55
Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. [_Exit._
Notes: V, 2.
SCENE II. The Duke's palace.] Theobald.
7: Jul. [Aside] _But love ..._] Collier (Boswell conj.). Pro.
_But love ..._ Ff.
13: Jul. [Aside] _'Tis true ..._] Rowe. Thu. _'Tis true ..._ Ff.
18, 21, 24, 28: [Aside] Capell.
18: _hold_] _do hold_ Capell.
25: _possessions_] _large possessions_ Collier MS.
28: _owe_] Ff. _own_ Pope.
32: _saw Sir_] F4. _saw_ F1. _say saw Sir_ F2 F3.
34, 35: _Why then, She's_] _Why then, she's_ Capell.
35: _that_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.
40: _it_] _her_ Collier MS.
47: _toward_] _towards_ Pope.
48: [Exit.] Rowe.
50: _when_] F1. _where_ F2 F3 F4.
51: _on_] _of_ Pope.
52: [Exit.] Capell.
54: [Exit.] Capell.
56: [Exit.] Capell. [Exeunt. Ff.
SCENE III.
_The frontiers of Mantua. The forest._
_Enter _Outlaws_ with SILVIA._
_First Out._ Come, come,
Be patient; we must bring you to our captain.
_Sil._ A thousand more mischances than this one
Have learn'd me how to brook this patiently.
_Sec. Out._ Come, bring her away. 5
_First Out._ Where is the gentleman that was with her?
_Third Out._ Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us,
But Moses and Valerius follow him.
Go thou with her to the west end of the wood;
There is our captain: we'll follow him that's fled; 10
The thicket is beset; he cannot 'scape.
_First Out._ Come, I must bring you to our captain's cave:
Fear not; he bears an honourable mind,
And will not use a woman lawlessly.
_Sil._ O Valentine, this I endure for thee! [_Exeunt_. 15
Notes: V, 3.
SCENE III. The ... Mantua] Capell.
The forest.] Pope.
8: _Moses_] Capell. _Moyses_ Ff.
10: _we'll_] om. Pope.
11: [Exeunt. Capell.
----------SCENE 4---------
SCENE IV.
_Another part of the forest._
_Enter VALENTINE._
_Val._ How use doth breed a habit in a man!
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns:
Here can I sit alone, unseen of any,
And to the nightingale's complaining notes 5
Tune my distresses and record my woes.
O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,
Leave not the mansion so long tenantless,
Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall,
And leave no memory of what it was! 10
Repair me with thy presence, Silvia;
Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain!
What halloing and what stir is this to-day?
These are my mates, that make their wills their law,
Have some unhappy passenger in chase. 15
They love me well; yet I have much to do
To keep them from uncivil outrages.
Withdraw thee, Valentine: who's this comes here?
_Enter PROTEUS, SILVIA, and JULIA._
_Pro._ Madam, this service I have done for you,
Though you respect not aught your servant doth, 20
To hazard life, and rescue you from him
That would have forced your honour and your love;
Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look;
A smaller boon than this I cannot beg,
And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. 25
_Val._ [_Aside_] How like a dream is this I see and hear!
Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile.
_Sil._ O miserable, unhappy that I am!
_Pro._ Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came;
But by my coming I have made you happy. 30
_Sil._ By thy approach thou makest me most unhappy.
_Jul._ [_Aside_] And me, when he approacheth to your presence.
_Sil._ Had I been seized by a hungry lion,
I would have been a breakfast to the beast,
Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. 35
O, Heaven be judge how I love Valentine,
Whose life's as tender to me as my soul!
And full as much, for more there cannot be,
I do detest false perjured Proteus.
Therefore be gone; solicit me no more. 40
_Pro._ What dangerous action, stood it next to death,
Would I not undergo for one calm look!
O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approved,
When women cannot love where they're beloved!
_Sil._ When Proteus cannot love where he's beloved. 45
Read over Julia's heart, thy first, best love,
For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith
Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths
Descended into perjury, to love me.
Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou'dst two, 50
And that's far worse than none; better have none
Than plural faith which is too much by one:
Thou counterfeit to thy true friend!
_Pro._ In love
Who respects friend?
_Sil._ All men but Proteus.
_Pro._ Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words 55
Can no way change you to a milder form,
I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end,
And love you 'gainst the nature of love,--force ye.
_Sil._ O heaven!
_Pro._ I'll force thee yield to my desire.
_Val._ Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, 60
Thou friend of an ill fashion!
_Pro._ Valentine!
_Val._ Thou common friend, that's without faith or love,
For such is a friend now; treacherous man!
Thou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye
Could have persuaded me: now I dare not say 65
I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me.
Who should be trusted now, when one's right hand
Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus,
I am sorry I must never trust thee more,
But count the world a stranger for thy sake. 70
The private wound is deepest: O time most accurst,
'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!
_Pro._ My shame and guilt confounds me.
Forgive me, Valentine: if hearty sorrow
Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 75
I tender 't here; I do as truly suffer
As e'er I did commit.
_Val._ Then I am paid;
And once again I do receive thee honest.
Who by repentance is not satisfied
Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased. 80
By penitence the Eternal's wrath's appeased:
And, that my love may appear plain and free,
All that was mine in Silvia I give thee.
_Jul._ O me unhappy! [_Swoons._
_Pro._ Look to the boy. 85
_Val._ Why, boy! why, wag! how now! what's the matter?
Look up; speak.
_Jul._ O good sir, my master charged me to deliver
a ring to Madam Silvia, which, out of my neglect, was never
done. 90
_Pro._ Where is that ring, boy?
_Jul._ Here 'tis; this is it.
_Pro._ How! let me see:
Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia.
_Jul._ O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook:
This is the ring you sent to Silvia. 95
_Pro._ But how camest thou by this ring? At my depart
I gave this unto Julia.
_Jul._ And Julia herself did give it me;
And Julia herself hath brought it hither.
_Pro._ How! Julia! 100
_Jul._ Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths,
And entertain'd 'em deeply in her heart.
How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!
O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush!
Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me 105
Such an immodest raiment, if shame live
In a disguise of love:
It is the lesser blot, modesty finds,
Women to change their shapes than men their minds.
_Pro._ Than men their minds! 'tis true. O heaven, were man 110
But constant, he were perfect! That one error
Fills him with faults; makes him run through all the sins:
Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.
What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy
More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye? 115
_Val._ Come, come, a hand from either:
Let me be blest to make this happy close;
'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.
_Pro._ Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for ever.
_Jul._ And I mine. 120
_Enter _Outlaws_, with DUKE and THURIO._
_Outlaws._ A prize, a prize, a prize!
_Val._ Forbear, forbear, I say! it is my lord the duke.
Your Grace is welcome to a man disgraced,
Banished Valentine.
_Duke._ Sir Valentine!
_Thu._ Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia's mine. 125
_Val._ Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death;
Come not within the measure of my wrath;
Do not name Silvia thine; if once again,
Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands:
Take but possession of her with a touch: 130
I dare thee but to breathe upon my love.
_Thu._ Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I:
I hold him but a fool that will endanger
His body for a girl that loves him not:
I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. 135
_Duke._ The more degenerate and base art thou,
To make such means for her as thou hast done,
And leave her on such slight conditions.
Now, by the honour of my ancestry,
I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 140
And think thee worthy of an empress' love:
Know, then, I here forget all former griefs,
Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again,
Plead a new state in thy unrival'd merit,
To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine, 145
Thou art a gentleman, and well derived;
Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her.
_Val._ I thank your grace; the gift hath made me happy.
I now beseech you, for your daughter's sake,
To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. 150
_Duke._ I grant it, for thine own, whate'er it be.
_Val._ These banish'd men that I have kept withal
Are men endued with worthy qualities:
Forgive them what they have committed here,
And let them be recall'd from their exile: 155
They are reformed, civil, full of good,
And fit for great employment, worthy lord.
_Duke._ Thou hast prevail'd; I pardon them and thee:
Dispose of them as thou know'st their deserts.
Come, let us go: we will include all jars 160
With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity.
_Val._ And, as we walk along, I dare be bold
With our discourse to make your Grace to smile.
What think you of this page, my lord?
_Duke._ I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes. 165
_Val._ I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy.
_Duke._ What mean you by that saying?
_Val._ Please you, I'll tell you as we pass along,
That you will wonder what hath fortuned.
Come, Proteus; 'tis your penance but to hear 170
The story of your loves discovered:
That done, our day of marriage shall be yours;
One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. [_Exeunt._
Notes: V, 4.
SCENE IV. Another ... forest.] Capell. The outlaw's cave in the
forest. Theobald.
2: _This shadowy desert,_] _These shadowy, desert,_ Collier MS.
8: _so_] _too_ Collier MS.
14: _are my_] _my rude_ Collier MS.
18: [Steps aside. Johnson.
19: _I have_] F1 F2 F3. _have I_ F4. _having_ Collier MS.
25: _I am_] _I'm_ Pope.
26, 32: [Aside] Theobald.
26: _is this I see and hear!_] Theobald. _is this? I see and hear:_
Ff.
43: _and still approved_] _for ever prov'd_ Pope.
49: _to love me_] F1. _to deceive me_ F2 F3 F4.
57: _woo_] _wooe_ F1. _move_ F2 F3 F4.
58: _ye_] Ff. _you_ Warburton.
63: _treacherous man_] F1. _Thou treacherous man_ F2. _Though
treacherous man_ F3. _Tho treacherous man_ F4.
65: _now_] om. Pope.
67: _trusted now, when one's_] F2 F3 F4. _trusted, when one's_ F1.
_trusted, when one's own_ Johnson. _trusted now, when the_ Pope.
69: _I am_] _I'm_ Pope.
71: _O time most accurst_] _O time accurst_ Hanmer. _O time most
curst_ Johnson. _O spite accurst_ S. Verges conj.
72: _all foes that a friend_] _all my foes a friend_ Collier MS.
73: _confounds_] _confound_ Rowe.
_My ... confounds me_] _My shame and desperate guilt at once
confound me_ Collier MS.
82, 83: Blackstone proposes to transfer these lines to the end of
Thurio's speech, line 135.
84: [Swoons.] Pope.
86-90: Printed by Capell as four verses ending _matter ... me ...
Silvia ... done._
86: _what's_] _what is_ Capell.
88: _to deliver_] _Deliver_ Steevens conj.
92: _see_] _see it_ Steevens conj. suggesting that lines 92-97
should end at _ring ... sir ... sent ... this?_ (om. _ring_)
_... Julia._
93: _Why, this is_] _This is_ Pope. _Why, 'tis_ S. Verges conj.
96: _But_] om. Pope.
102: _'em_] _them_ Capell.
103: _root_] _root on't_ Hanmer.
112: _all the sins_] _all th' sins_ Ff. _all sins_ Pope.
118: _be long_] _long be_ Pope.
120: _And I mine_] _And I have mine_ Steevens (Ritson conj.).
[embracing. Capell.
121: SCENE V. Pope.
122: _Forbear, forbear, I say!_] _Forbear, I say!_ Capell.
_Forbear, forbear!_ Pope.
124: _Banished_] _The banish'd_ Pope.
129: _Verona shall not hold_] _Milan shall not behold_ Theobald.
_And Milan shall not hold_ Hanmer. _Milano shall not hold_
Collier MS. See note (VII).
143: _again,_] _again._ Steevens (Tyrwhitt conj.).
144: _unrival'd_] F1. _arrival'd_ F2 F3 F4.
160: _include_] _conclude_ Hanmer.
161: _rare_] F1. _all_ F2 F3 F4.
164: _page_] _stripling page_ Collier MS.
167: _saying?_] _saying, Valentine?_ Collier MS.
171: _loves discovered_] _love discovered_ Pope. _love's discoverer_
Collier MS.
172: _That done, our ... yours_] _Our day of marriage shall be
yours no less_ Collier MS.
|
Under the Greenwood Tree. | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter ii, utilizing the provided context. | chapter i|chapter ii | The Dewy's house, a low-roofed cottage, has three chimneys and a thatched roof. The walls of the house are covered with creeping plants, and the door appears to be worn out from the coming and going of many people. A little away from the cottage is a building from which comes the sound of woodcutting. The sound of horses can also be heard. The men's church choir enters the house, wiping their boots clean on the doorstep. As they enter, they spy Dick's father, Reuben Dewy. Known to the townsfolk as the Tranter, Reuben, a stout, red-faced man of about forty, is busily engaged in opening a barrel of cider. He does not bother to look up when they enter, but he welcomes the men and tells them that the cider is made from the finest apples. The main room to the left of the cottage is decorated with a Christmas tree. The Tranter's wife and four of his children are gathered there; Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley are all between the ages of four and sixteen; Dick, the oldest, is twenty years old. Mrs. Dewy invites the choir to sit round the fire. She warmly asks Thomas Leaf to sit beside her and inquires about Mr. Penny's daughter, who is expecting her fifth baby. As Reuben is about to open the barrel, he remembers the deceased Sam Lawson, who had given him the cider. When the cider shoots out in a stream, he sends his daughter to get mugs and tells Michael to put his thumb over the hole while he retrieves a cork. The choir sits drinking around the table. Reuben wonders if his father, known as Grandfather William, is cutting wood or playing the violin. He goes to find him and ask him to join the party. |
----------CHAPTER I---------
To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well
as its feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan
no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with
itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its
flat boughs rise and fall. And winter, which modifies the note of such
trees as shed their leaves, does not destroy its individuality.
On a cold and starry Christmas-eve within living memory a man was passing
up a lane towards Mellstock Cross in the darkness of a plantation that
whispered thus distinctively to his intelligence. All the evidences of
his nature were those afforded by the spirit of his footsteps, which
succeeded each other lightly and quickly, and by the liveliness of his
voice as he sang in a rural cadence:
"With the rose and the lily
And the daffodowndilly,
The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go."
The lonely lane he was following connected one of the hamlets of
Mellstock parish with Upper Mellstock and Lewgate, and to his eyes,
casually glancing upward, the silver and black-stemmed birches with their
characteristic tufts, the pale grey boughs of beech, the dark-creviced
elm, all appeared now as black and flat outlines upon the sky, wherein
the white stars twinkled so vehemently that their flickering seemed like
the flapping of wings. Within the woody pass, at a level anything lower
than the horizon, all was dark as the grave. The copse-wood forming the
sides of the bower interlaced its branches so densely, even at this
season of the year, that the draught from the north-east flew along the
channel with scarcely an interruption from lateral breezes.
After passing the plantation and reaching Mellstock Cross the white
surface of the lane revealed itself between the dark hedgerows like a
ribbon jagged at the edges; the irregularity being caused by temporary
accumulations of leaves extending from the ditch on either side.
The song (many times interrupted by flitting thoughts which took the
place of several bars, and resumed at a point it would have reached had
its continuity been unbroken) now received a more palpable check, in the
shape of "Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" from the crossing lane to Lower Mellstock, on
the right of the singer who had just emerged from the trees.
"Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" he answered, stopping and looking round, though with no
idea of seeing anything more than imagination pictured.
"Is that thee, young Dick Dewy?" came from the darkness.
"Ay, sure, Michael Mail."
"Then why not stop for fellow-craters--going to thy own father's house
too, as we be, and knowen us so well?"
Dick Dewy faced about and continued his tune in an under-whistle,
implying that the business of his mouth could not be checked at a
moment's notice by the placid emotion of friendship.
Having come more into the open he could now be seen rising against the
sky, his profile appearing on the light background like the portrait of a
gentleman in black cardboard. It assumed the form of a low-crowned hat,
an ordinary-shaped nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary neck, and ordinary
shoulders. What he consisted of further down was invisible from lack of
sky low enough to picture him on.
Shuffling, halting, irregular footsteps of various kinds were now heard
coming up the hill, and presently there emerged from the shade severally
five men of different ages and gaits, all of them working villagers of
the parish of Mellstock. They, too, had lost their rotundity with the
daylight, and advanced against the sky in flat outlines, which suggested
some processional design on Greek or Etruscan pottery. They represented
the chief portion of Mellstock parish choir.
The first was a bowed and bent man, who carried a fiddle under his arm,
and walked as if engaged in studying some subject connected with the
surface of the road. He was Michael Mail, the man who had hallooed to
Dick.
The next was Mr. Robert Penny, boot- and shoemaker; a little man, who,
though rather round-shouldered, walked as if that fact had not come to
his own knowledge, moving on with his back very hollow and his face fixed
on the north-east quarter of the heavens before him, so that his lower
waist-coat-buttons came first, and then the remainder of his figure. His
features were invisible; yet when he occasionally looked round, two faint
moons of light gleamed for an instant from the precincts of his eyes,
denoting that he wore spectacles of a circular form.
The third was Elias Spinks, who walked perpendicularly and dramatically.
The fourth outline was Joseph Bowman's, who had now no distinctive
appearance beyond that of a human being. Finally came a weak lath-like
form, trotting and stumbling along with one shoulder forward and his head
inclined to the left, his arms dangling nervelessly in the wind as if
they were empty sleeves. This was Thomas Leaf.
"Where be the boys?" said Dick to this somewhat indifferently-matched
assembly.
The eldest of the group, Michael Mail, cleared his throat from a great
depth.
"We told them to keep back at home for a time, thinken they wouldn't be
wanted yet awhile; and we could choose the tuens, and so on."
"Father and grandfather William have expected ye a little sooner. I have
just been for a run round by Ewelease Stile and Hollow Hill to warm my
feet."
"To be sure father did! To be sure 'a did expect us--to taste the little
barrel beyond compare that he's going to tap."
"'Od rabbit it all! Never heard a word of it!" said Mr. Penny, gleams of
delight appearing upon his spectacle-glasses, Dick meanwhile singing
parenthetically--
"The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go."
"Neighbours, there's time enough to drink a sight of drink now afore
bedtime?" said Mail.
"True, true--time enough to get as drunk as lords!" replied Bowman
cheerfully.
This opinion being taken as convincing they all advanced between the
varying hedges and the trees dotting them here and there, kicking their
toes occasionally among the crumpled leaves. Soon appeared glimmering
indications of the few cottages forming the small hamlet of Upper
Mellstock for which they were bound, whilst the faint sound of church-
bells ringing a Christmas peal could be heard floating over upon the
breeze from the direction of Longpuddle and Weatherbury parishes on the
other side of the hills. A little wicket admitted them to the garden,
and they proceeded up the path to Dick's house.
----------CHAPTER II---------
It was a long low cottage with a hipped roof of thatch, having dormer
windows breaking up into the eaves, a chimney standing in the middle of
the ridge and another at each end. The window-shutters were not yet
closed, and the fire- and candle-light within radiated forth upon the
thick bushes of box and laurestinus growing in clumps outside, and upon
the bare boughs of several codlin-trees hanging about in various
distorted shapes, the result of early training as espaliers combined with
careless climbing into their boughs in later years. The walls of the
dwelling were for the most part covered with creepers, though these were
rather beaten back from the doorway--a feature which was worn and
scratched by much passing in and out, giving it by day the appearance of
an old keyhole. Light streamed through the cracks and joints of
outbuildings a little way from the cottage, a sight which nourished a
fancy that the purpose of the erection must be rather to veil bright
attractions than to shelter unsightly necessaries. The noise of a beetle
and wedges and the splintering of wood was periodically heard from this
direction; and at some little distance further a steady regular munching
and the occasional scurr of a rope betokened a stable, and horses feeding
within it.
The choir stamped severally on the door-stone to shake from their boots
any fragment of earth or leaf adhering thereto, then entered the house
and looked around to survey the condition of things. Through the open
doorway of a small inner room on the right hand, of a character between
pantry and cellar, was Dick Dewy's father Reuben, by vocation a
"tranter," or irregular carrier. He was a stout florid man about forty
years of age, who surveyed people up and down when first making their
acquaintance, and generally smiled at the horizon or other distant object
during conversations with friends, walking about with a steady sway, and
turning out his toes very considerably. Being now occupied in bending
over a hogshead, that stood in the pantry ready horsed for the process of
broaching, he did not take the trouble to turn or raise his eyes at the
entry of his visitors, well knowing by their footsteps that they were the
expected old comrades.
The main room, on the left, was decked with bunches of holly and other
evergreens, and from the middle of the beam bisecting the ceiling hung
the mistletoe, of a size out of all proportion to the room, and extending
so low that it became necessary for a full-grown person to walk round it
in passing, or run the risk of entangling his hair. This apartment
contained Mrs. Dewy the tranter's wife, and the four remaining children,
Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley, graduating uniformly though at wide
stages from the age of sixteen to that of four years--the eldest of the
series being separated from Dick the firstborn by a nearly equal
interval.
Some circumstance had apparently caused much grief to Charley just
previous to the entry of the choir, and he had absently taken down a
small looking-glass, holding it before his face to learn how the human
countenance appeared when engaged in crying, which survey led him to
pause at the various points in each wail that were more than ordinarily
striking, for a thorough appreciation of the general effect. Bessy was
leaning against a chair, and glancing under the plaits about the waist of
the plaid frock she wore, to notice the original unfaded pattern of the
material as there preserved, her face bearing an expression of regret
that the brightness had passed away from the visible portions. Mrs. Dewy
sat in a brown settle by the side of the glowing wood fire--so glowing
that with a heedful compression of the lips she would now and then rise
and put her hand upon the hams and flitches of bacon lining the chimney,
to reassure herself that they were not being broiled instead of smoked--a
misfortune that had been known to happen now and then at Christmas-time.
"Hullo, my sonnies, here you be, then!" said Reuben Dewy at length,
standing up and blowing forth a vehement gust of breath. "How the blood
do puff up in anybody's head, to be sure, a-stooping like that! I was
just going out to gate to hark for ye." He then carefully began to wind
a strip of brown paper round a brass tap he held in his hand. "This in
the cask here is a drop o' the right sort" (tapping the cask); "'tis a
real drop o' cordial from the best picked apples--Sansoms, Stubbards,
Five-corners, and such-like--you d'mind the sort, Michael?" (Michael
nodded.) "And there's a sprinkling of they that grow down by the orchard-
rails--streaked ones--rail apples we d'call 'em, as 'tis by the rails
they grow, and not knowing the right name. The water-cider from 'em is
as good as most people's best cider is."
"Ay, and of the same make too," said Bowman. "'It rained when we wrung
it out, and the water got into it,' folk will say. But 'tis on'y an
excuse. Watered cider is too common among us."
"Yes, yes; too common it is!" said Spinks with an inward sigh, whilst his
eyes seemed to be looking at the case in an abstract form rather than at
the scene before him. "Such poor liquor do make a man's throat feel very
melancholy--and is a disgrace to the name of stimmilent."
"Come in, come in, and draw up to the fire; never mind your shoes," said
Mrs. Dewy, seeing that all except Dick had paused to wipe them upon the
door-mat. "I am glad that you've stepped up-along at last; and, Susan,
you run down to Grammer Kaytes's and see if you can borrow some larger
candles than these fourteens. Tommy Leaf, don't ye be afeard! Come and
sit here in the settle."
This was addressed to the young man before mentioned, consisting chiefly
of a human skeleton and a smock-frock, who was very awkward in his
movements, apparently on account of having grown so very fast that before
he had had time to get used to his height he was higher.
"Hee--hee--ay!" replied Leaf, letting his mouth continue to smile for
some time after his mind had done smiling, so that his teeth remained in
view as the most conspicuous members of his body.
"Here, Mr. Penny," resumed Mrs. Dewy, "you sit in this chair. And how's
your daughter, Mrs. Brownjohn?"
"Well, I suppose I must say pretty fair." He adjusted his spectacles a
quarter of an inch to the right. "But she'll be worse before she's
better, 'a b'lieve."
"Indeed--poor soul! And how many will that make in all, four or five?"
"Five; they've buried three. Yes, five; and she not much more than a
maid yet. She do know the multiplication table onmistakable well.
However, 'twas to be, and none can gainsay it."
Mrs. Dewy resigned Mr. Penny. "Wonder where your grandfather James is?"
she inquired of one of the children. "He said he'd drop in to-night."
"Out in fuel-house with grandfather William," said Jimmy.
"Now let's see what we can do," was heard spoken about this time by the
tranter in a private voice to the barrel, beside which he had again
established himself, and was stooping to cut away the cork.
"Reuben, don't make such a mess o' tapping that barrel as is mostly made
in this house," Mrs. Dewy cried from the fireplace. "I'd tap a hundred
without wasting more than you do in one. Such a squizzling and squirting
job as 'tis in your hands! There, he always was such a clumsy man
indoors."
"Ay, ay; I know you'd tap a hundred beautiful, Ann--I know you would; two
hundred, perhaps. But I can't promise. This is a' old cask, and the
wood's rotted away about the tap-hole. The husbird of a feller Sam
Lawson--that ever I should call'n such, now he's dead and gone, poor
heart!--took me in completely upon the feat of buying this cask. 'Reub,'
says he--'a always used to call me plain Reub, poor old heart!--'Reub,'
he said, says he, 'that there cask, Reub, is as good as new; yes, good as
new. 'Tis a wine-hogshead; the best port-wine in the commonwealth have
been in that there cask; and you shall have en for ten shillens,
Reub,'--'a said, says he--'he's worth twenty, ay, five-and-twenty, if
he's worth one; and an iron hoop or two put round en among the wood ones
will make en worth thirty shillens of any man's money, if--'"
"I think I should have used the eyes that Providence gave me to use afore
I paid any ten shillens for a jimcrack wine-barrel; a saint is sinner
enough not to be cheated. But 'tis like all your family was, so easy to
be deceived."
"That's as true as gospel of this member," said Reuben.
Mrs. Dewy began a smile at the answer, then altering her lips and
refolding them so that it was not a smile, commenced smoothing little
Bessy's hair; the tranter having meanwhile suddenly become oblivious to
conversation, occupying himself in a deliberate cutting and arrangement
of some more brown paper for the broaching operation.
"Ah, who can believe sellers!" said old Michael Mail in a
carefully-cautious voice, by way of tiding-over this critical point of
affairs.
"No one at all," said Joseph Bowman, in the tone of a man fully agreeing
with everybody.
"Ay," said Mail, in the tone of a man who did not agree with everybody as
a rule, though he did now; "I knowed a' auctioneering feller once--a very
friendly feller 'a was too. And so one hot day as I was walking down the
front street o' Casterbridge, jist below the King's Arms, I passed a'
open winder and see him inside, stuck upon his perch, a-selling off. I
jist nodded to en in a friendly way as I passed, and went my way, and
thought no more about it. Well, next day, as I was oilen my boots by
fuel-house door, if a letter didn't come wi' a bill charging me with a
feather-bed, bolster, and pillers, that I had bid for at Mr. Taylor's
sale. The slim-faced martel had knocked 'em down to me because I nodded
to en in my friendly way; and I had to pay for 'em too. Now, I hold that
that was coming it very close, Reuben?"
"'Twas close, there's no denying," said the general voice.
"Too close, 'twas," said Reuben, in the rear of the rest. "And as to Sam
Lawson--poor heart! now he's dead and gone too!--I'll warrant, that if so
be I've spent one hour in making hoops for that barrel, I've spent fifty,
first and last. That's one of my hoops"--touching it with his
elbow--"that's one of mine, and that, and that, and all these."
"Ah, Sam was a man," said Mr. Penny, contemplatively.
"Sam was!" said Bowman.
"Especially for a drap o' drink," said the tranter.
"Good, but not religious-good," suggested Mr. Penny.
The tranter nodded. Having at last made the tap and hole quite ready,
"Now then, Suze, bring a mug," he said. "Here's luck to us, my sonnies!"
The tap went in, and the cider immediately squirted out in a horizontal
shower over Reuben's hands, knees, and leggings, and into the eyes and
neck of Charley, who, having temporarily put off his grief under pressure
of more interesting proceedings, was squatting down and blinking near his
father.
"There 'tis again!" said Mrs. Dewy.
"Devil take the hole, the cask, and Sam Lawson too, that good cider
should be wasted like this!" exclaimed the tranter. "Your thumb! Lend
me your thumb, Michael! Ram it in here, Michael! I must get a bigger
tap, my sonnies."
"Idd it cold inthide te hole?" inquired Charley of Michael, as he
continued in a stooping posture with his thumb in the cork-hole.
"What wonderful odds and ends that chiel has in his head to be sure!"
Mrs. Dewy admiringly exclaimed from the distance. "I lay a wager that he
thinks more about how 'tis inside that barrel than in all the other parts
of the world put together."
All persons present put on a speaking countenance of admiration for the
cleverness alluded to, in the midst of which Reuben returned. The
operation was then satisfactorily performed; when Michael arose and
stretched his head to the extremest fraction of height that his body
would allow of, to re-straighten his back and shoulders--thrusting out
his arms and twisting his features to a mass of wrinkles to emphasize the
relief aquired. A quart or two of the beverage was then brought to
table, at which all the new arrivals reseated themselves with wide-spread
knees, their eyes meditatively seeking out any speck or knot in the board
upon which the gaze might precipitate itself.
"Whatever is father a-biding out in fuel-house so long for?" said the
tranter. "Never such a man as father for two things--cleaving up old
dead apple-tree wood and playing the bass-viol. 'A'd pass his life
between the two, that 'a would." He stepped to the door and opened it.
"Father!"
"Ay!" rang thinly from round the corner.
"Here's the barrel tapped, and we all a-waiting!"
A series of dull thuds, that had been heard without for some time past,
now ceased; and after the light of a lantern had passed the window and
made wheeling rays upon the ceiling inside the eldest of the Dewy family
appeared.
|
What Maisie Knew.chapter | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 1 based on the provided context. | chapter 1|chapter 2|chapter 3|chapter 4 | Henry James includes a short chapter titled "What Maisie Knew. In this chapter, James gives the background of the situation that will play out over the course of the novel. A newly divorced couple, Beale and Ida Farange, are squabbling in court regarding the finances and care of their young daughter, Maisie. It is decided by the court that Maisie will be "divided in two" , which is to say that each of her parents "would take her, in rotation, for six months at a time". This is a surprising and disturbing verdict, as neither of Maisie's parents seem fit to raise a child, and many who had been following the drawn-out legal proceedings assumed Maisie would be put in the care of someone else entirely. It is foreshadowed that Maisie's movement back and forth, especially the disparagement of her father by her mother and vice versa, will be detrimental for her development. James also introduces Beale and Ida Farange and the society they are part of. The author writes that, "This was a society in which for the most part people were occupied only with chatter" ; as a result people were actually pleased to be outraged and take sides during and after the Farange's legal dispute. Physically, both Faranges are tall and attractive, though Ida has strangely long arms which contribute to her extraordinary skill in billiards. Beale was once a foreign diplomat, but at the time of the story has "only twenty-five hundred". It is implied that Ida spent his money during their marriage, and she too has almost no money to her name. The author accounts for Maisie's care by explaining that "The child was provided for, thanks to a crafty godmother" , a matter which is not explicitly mentioned again in the book |
----------CHAPTER 1---------
The child was provided for, but the new arrangement was inevitably
confounding to a young intelligence intensely aware that something had
happened which must matter a good deal and looking anxiously out for
the effects of so great a cause. It was to be the fate of this patient
little girl to see much more than she at first understood, but also even
at first to understand much more than any little girl, however patient,
had perhaps ever understood before. Only a drummer-boy in a ballad or
a story could have been so in the thick of the fight. She was taken
into the confidence of passions on which she fixed just the stare she
might have had for images bounding across the wall in the slide of a
magic-lantern. Her little world was phantasmagoric--strange shadows
dancing on a sheet. It was as if the whole performance had been given
for her--a mite of a half-scared infant in a great dim theatre. She was
in short introduced to life with a liberality in which the selfishness
of others found its account, and there was nothing to avert the
sacrifice but the modesty of her youth.
Her first term was with her father, who spared her only in not letting
her have the wild letters addressed to her by her mother: he confined
himself to holding them up at her and shaking them, while he showed his
teeth, and then amusing her by the way he chucked them, across the room,
bang into the fire. Even at that moment, however, she had a scared
anticipation of fatigue, a guilty sense of not rising to the occasion,
feeling the charm of the violence with which the stiff unopened
envelopes, whose big monograms--Ida bristled with monograms--she would
have liked to see, were made to whizz, like dangerous missiles, through
the air. The greatest effect of the great cause was her own greater
importance, chiefly revealed to her in the larger freedom with which
she was handled, pulled hither and thither and kissed, and the
proportionately greater niceness she was obliged to show. Her features
had somehow become prominent; they were so perpetually nipped by the
gentlemen who came to see her father and the smoke of whose cigarettes
went into her face. Some of these gentlemen made her strike matches and
light their cigarettes; others, holding her on knees violently jolted,
pinched the calves of her legs till she shrieked--her shriek was much
admired--and reproached them with being toothpicks. The word stuck in
her mind and contributed to her feeling from this time that she was
deficient in something that would meet the general desire. She found
out what it was: it was a congenital tendency to the production of a
substance to which Moddle, her nurse, gave a short ugly name, a name
painfully associated at dinner with the part of the joint that she
didn't like. She had left behind her the time when she had no desires
to meet, none at least save Moddle's, who, in Kensington Gardens, was
always on the bench when she came back to see if she had been playing
too far. Moddle's desire was merely that she shouldn't do that, and she
met it so easily that the only spots in that long brightness were the
moments of her wondering what would become of her if, on her rushing
back, there should be no Moddle on the bench. They still went to the
Gardens, but there was a difference even there; she was impelled
perpetually to look at the legs of other children and ask her nurse if
THEY were toothpicks. Moddle was terribly truthful; she always said: "Oh
my dear, you'll not find such another pair as your own." It seemed to
have to do with something else that Moddle often said: "You feel the
strain--that's where it is; and you'll feel it still worse, you know."
Thus from the first Maisie not only felt it, but knew she felt it. A
part of it was the consequence of her father's telling her he felt it
too, and telling Moddle, in her presence, that she must make a point of
driving that home. She was familiar, at the age of six, with the fact
that everything had been changed on her account, everything ordered to
enable him to give himself up to her. She was to remember always the
words in which Moddle impressed upon her that he did so give himself:
"Your papa wishes you never to forget, you know, that he has been
dreadfully put about." If the skin on Moddle's face had to Maisie the
air of being unduly, almost painfully, stretched, it never presented
that appearance so much as when she uttered, as she often had occasion
to utter, such words. The child wondered if they didn't make it hurt
more than usual; but it was only after some time that she was able to
attach to the picture of her father's sufferings, and more particularly
to her nurse's manner about them, the meaning for which these things
had waited. By the time she had grown sharper, as the gentlemen who had
criticised her calves used to say, she found in her mind a collection of
images and echoes to which meanings were attachable--images and echoes
kept for her in the childish dusk, the dim closet, the high drawers,
like games she wasn't yet big enough to play. The great strain meanwhile
was that of carrying by the right end the things her father said about
her mother--things mostly indeed that Moddle, on a glimpse of them, as
if they had been complicated toys or difficult books, took out of her
hands and put away in the closet. A wonderful assortment of objects of
this kind she was to discover there later, all tumbled up too with the
things, shuffled into the same receptacle, that her mother had said
about her father.
She had the knowledge that on a certain occasion which every day brought
nearer her mother would be at the door to take her away, and this would
have darkened all the days if the ingenious Moddle hadn't written on a
paper in very big easy words ever so many pleasures that she would enjoy
at the other house. These promises ranged from "a mother's fond love"
to "a nice poached egg to your tea," and took by the way the prospect
of sitting up ever so late to see the lady in question dressed, in
silks and velvets and diamonds and pearls, to go out: so that it was a
real support to Maisie, at the supreme hour, to feel how, by Moddle's
direction, the paper was thrust away in her pocket and there clenched in
her fist. The supreme hour was to furnish her with a vivid reminiscence,
that of a strange outbreak in the drawing-room on the part of Moddle,
who, in reply to something her father had just said, cried aloud: "You
ought to be perfectly ashamed of yourself--you ought to blush, sir, for
the way you go on!" The carriage, with her mother in it, was at the
door; a gentleman who was there, who was always there, laughed out very
loud; her father, who had her in his arms, said to Moddle: "My dear
woman, I'll settle you presently!"--after which he repeated, showing
his teeth more than ever at Maisie while he hugged her, the words for
which her nurse had taken him up. Maisie was not at the moment so fully
conscious of them as of the wonder of Moddle's sudden disrespect and
crimson face; but she was able to produce them in the course of five
minutes when, in the carriage, her mother, all kisses, ribbons, eyes,
arms, strange sounds and sweet smells, said to her: "And did your
beastly papa, my precious angel, send any message to your own loving
mamma?" Then it was that she found the words spoken by her beastly papa
to be, after all, in her little bewildered ears, from which, at her
mother's appeal, they passed, in her clear shrill voice, straight to
her little innocent lips. "He said I was to tell you, from him," she
faithfully reported, "that you're a nasty horrid pig!"
----------CHAPTER 2---------
In that lively sense of the immediate which is the very air of a child's
mind the past, on each occasion, became for her as indistinct as
the future: she surrendered herself to the actual with a good faith
that might have been touching to either parent. Crudely as they had
calculated they were at first justified by the event: she was the little
feathered shuttlecock they could fiercely keep flying between them. The
evil they had the gift of thinking or pretending to think of each other
they poured into her little gravely-gazing soul as into a boundless
receptacle, and each of them had doubtless the best conscience in the
world as to the duty of teaching her the stern truth that should be her
safeguard against the other. She was at the age for which all stories
are true and all conceptions are stories. The actual was the absolute,
the present alone was vivid. The objurgation for instance launched
in the carriage by her mother after she had at her father's bidding
punctually performed was a missive that dropped into her memory with the
dry rattle of a letter falling into a pillar-box. Like the letter it
was, as part of the contents of a well-stuffed post-bag, delivered in
due course at the right address. In the presence of these overflowings,
after they had continued for a couple of years, the associates of either
party sometimes felt that something should be done for what they called
"the real good, don't you know?" of the child. The only thing done,
however, in general, took place when it was sighingly remarked that she
fortunately wasn't all the year round where she happened to be at the
awkward moment, and that, furthermore, either from extreme cunning or
from extreme stupidity, she appeared not to take things in.
The theory of her stupidity, eventually embraced by her parents,
corresponded with a great date in her small still life: the complete
vision, private but final, of the strange office she filled. It was
literally a moral revolution and accomplished in the depths of her
nature. The stiff dolls on the dusky shelves began to move their arms
and legs; old forms and phrases began to have a sense that frightened
her. She had a new feeling, the feeling of danger; on which a new remedy
rose to meet it, the idea of an inner self or, in other words, of
concealment. She puzzled out with imperfect signs, but with a prodigious
spirit, that she had been a centre of hatred and a messenger of insult,
and that everything was bad because she had been employed to make it so.
Her parted lips locked themselves with the determination to be employed
no longer. She would forget everything, she would repeat nothing, and
when, as a tribute to the successful application of her system, she
began to be called a little idiot, she tasted a pleasure new and keen.
When therefore, as she grew older, her parents in turn announced before
her that she had grown shockingly dull, it was not from any real
contraction of her little stream of life. She spoiled their fun, but she
practically added to her own. She saw more and more; she saw too much.
It was Miss Overmore, her first governess, who on a momentous occasion
had sown the seeds of secrecy; sown them not by anything she said, but
by a mere roll of those fine eyes which Maisie already admired. Moddle
had become at this time, after alternations of residence of which the
child had no clear record, an image faintly embalmed in the remembrance
of hungry disappearances from the nursery and distressful lapses in the
alphabet, sad embarrassments, in particular, when invited to recognise
something her nurse described as "the important letter haitch." Miss
Overmore, however hungry, never disappeared: this marked her somehow as
of higher rank, and the character was confirmed by a prettiness that
Maisie supposed to be extraordinary. Mrs. Farange had described her as
almost too pretty, and some one had asked what that mattered so long as
Beale wasn't there. "Beale or no Beale," Maisie had heard her mother
reply, "I take her because she's a lady and yet awfully poor. Rather
nice people, but there are seven sisters at home. What do people mean?"
Maisie didn't know what people meant, but she knew very soon all the
names of all the sisters; she could say them off better than she could
say the multiplication-table. She privately wondered moreover, though
she never asked, about the awful poverty, of which her companion also
never spoke. Food at any rate came up by mysterious laws; Miss Overmore
never, like Moddle, had on an apron, and when she ate she held her fork
with her little finger curled out. The child, who watched her at many
moments, watched her particularly at that one. "I think you're lovely,"
she often said to her; even mamma, who was lovely too, had not such a
pretty way with the fork. Maisie associated this showier presence with
her now being "big," knowing of course that nursery-governesses were
only for little girls who were not, as she said, "really" little. She
vaguely knew, further, somehow, that the future was still bigger than
she, and that a part of what made it so was the number of governesses
lurking in it and ready to dart out. Everything that had happened
when she was really little was dormant, everything but the positive
certitude, bequeathed from afar by Moddle, that the natural way for a
child to have her parents was separate and successive, like her mutton
and her pudding or her bath and her nap.
"DOES he know he lies?"--that was what she had vivaciously asked Miss
Overmore on the occasion which was so suddenly to lead to a change in
her life.
"Does he know--" Miss Overmore stared; she had a stocking pulled over
her hand and was pricking at it with a needle which she poised in the
act. Her task was homely, but her movement, like all her movements,
graceful.
"Why papa."
"That he 'lies'?"
"That's what mamma says I'm to tell him--'that he lies and he knows he
lies.'" Miss Overmore turned very red, though she laughed out till her
head fell back; then she pricked again at her muffled hand so hard
that Maisie wondered how she could bear it. "AM I to tell him?" the
child went on. It was then that her companion addressed her in the
unmistakeable language of a pair of eyes of deep dark grey. "I can't say
No," they replied as distinctly as possible; "I can't say No, because
I'm afraid of your mamma, don't you see? Yet how can I say Yes after
your papa has been so kind to me, talking to me so long the other day,
smiling and flashing his beautiful teeth at me the time we met him in
the Park, the time when, rejoicing at the sight of us, he left the
gentlemen he was with and turned and walked with us, stayed with us for
half an hour?" Somehow in the light of Miss Overmore's lovely eyes that
incident came back to Maisie with a charm it hadn't had at the time, and
this in spite of the fact that after it was over her governess had never
but once alluded to it. On their way home, when papa had quitted them,
she had expressed the hope that the child wouldn't mention it to mamma.
Maisie liked her so, and had so the charmed sense of being liked by her,
that she accepted this remark as settling the matter and wonderingly
conformed to it. The wonder now lived again, lived in the recollection
of what papa had said to Miss Overmore: "I've only to look at you to see
you're a person I can appeal to for help to save my daughter." Maisie's
ignorance of what she was to be saved from didn't diminish the pleasure
of the thought that Miss Overmore was saving her. It seemed to make them
cling together as in some wild game of "going round."
----------CHAPTER 3---------
She was therefore all the more startled when her mother said to her in
connexion with something to be done before her next migration: "You
understand of course that she's not going with you."
Maisie turned quite faint. "Oh I thought she was."
"It doesn't in the least matter, you know, what you think," Mrs. Farange
loudly replied; "and you had better indeed for the future, miss, learn
to keep your thoughts to yourself." This was exactly what Maisie had
already learned, and the accomplishment was just the source of her
mother's irritation. It was of a horrid little critical system, a
tendency, in her silence, to judge her elders, that this lady suspected
her, liking as she did, for her own part, a child to be simple and
confiding. She liked also to hear the report of the whacks she
administered to Mr. Farange's character, to his pretensions to peace
of mind: the satisfaction of dealing them diminished when nothing came
back. The day was at hand, and she saw it, when she should feel more
delight in hurling Maisie at him than in snatching her away; so much so
that her conscience winced under the acuteness of a candid friend who
had remarked that the real end of all their tugging would be that each
parent would try to make the little girl a burden to the other--a sort
of game in which a fond mother clearly wouldn't show to advantage. The
prospect of not showing to advantage, a distinction in which she held
she had never failed, begot in Ida Farange an ill humour of which
several persons felt the effect. She determined that Beale at any rate
should feel it; she reflected afresh that in the study of how to be
odious to him she must never give way. Nothing could incommode him more
than not to get the good, for the child, of a nice female appendage who
had clearly taken a fancy to her. One of the things Ida said to the
appendage was that Beale's was a house in which no decent woman could
consent to be seen. It was Miss Overmore herself who explained to
Maisie that she had had a hope of being allowed to accompany her to her
father's, and that this hope had been dashed by the way her mother took
it. "She says that if I ever do such a thing as enter his service I must
never expect to show my face in this house again. So I've promised not
to attempt to go with you. If I wait patiently till you come back here
we shall certainly be together once more."
Waiting patiently, and above all waiting till she should come back
there, seemed to Maisie a long way round--it reminded her of all the
things she had been told, first and last, that she should have if she'd
be good and that in spite of her goodness she had never had at all.
"Then who'll take care of me at papa's?"
"Heaven only knows, my own precious!" Miss Overmore replied, tenderly
embracing her. There was indeed no doubt that she was dear to this
beautiful friend. What could have proved it better than the fact that
before a week was out, in spite of their distressing separation and her
mother's prohibition and Miss Overmore's scruples and Miss Overmore's
promise, the beautiful friend had turned up at her father's? The little
lady already engaged there to come by the hour, a fat dark little lady
with a foreign name and dirty fingers, who wore, throughout, a bonnet
that had at first given her a deceptive air, too soon dispelled, of
not staying long, besides asking her pupil questions that had nothing
to do with lessons, questions that Beale Farange himself, when two or
three were repeated to him, admitted to be awfully low--this strange
apparition faded before the bright creature who had braved everything
for Maisie's sake. The bright creature told her little charge frankly
what had happened--that she had really been unable to hold out. She had
broken her vow to Mrs. Farange; she had struggled for three days and
then had come straight to Maisie's papa and told him the simple truth.
She adored his daughter; she couldn't give her up; she'd make for her
any sacrifice. On this basis it had been arranged that she should stay;
her courage had been rewarded; she left Maisie in no doubt as to the
amount of courage she had required. Some of the things she said made
a particular impression on the child--her declaration for instance
that when her pupil should get older she'd understand better just how
"dreadfully bold" a young lady, to do exactly what she had done, had
to be.
"Fortunately your papa appreciates it; he appreciates it IMMENSELY"--
that was one of the things Miss Overmore also said, with a striking
insistence on the adverb. Maisie herself was no less impressed with
what this martyr had gone through, especially after hearing of the
terrible letter that had come from Mrs. Farange. Mamma had been so
angry that, in Miss Overmore's own words, she had loaded her with
insult--proof enough indeed that they must never look forward to being
together again under mamma's roof. Mamma's roof, however, had its turn,
this time, for the child, of appearing but remotely contingent, so that,
to reassure her, there was scarce a need of her companion's secret,
solemnly confided--the probability there would be no going back to mamma
at all. It was Miss Overmore's private conviction, and a part of the
same communication, that if Mr. Farange's daughter would only show a
really marked preference she would be backed up by "public opinion" in
holding on to him. Poor Maisie could scarcely grasp that incentive, but
she could surrender herself to the day. She had conceived her first
passion, and the object of it was her governess. It hadn't been put to
her, and she couldn't, or at any rate she didn't, put it to herself,
that she liked Miss Overmore better than she liked papa; but it would
have sustained her under such an imputation to feel herself able
to reply that papa too liked Miss Overmore exactly as much. He had
particularly told her so. Besides she could easily see it.
----------CHAPTER 4---------
All this led her on, but it brought on her fate as well, the day when
her mother would be at the door in the carriage in which Maisie now rode
on no occasions but these. There was no question at present of Miss
Overmore's going back with her: it was universally recognised that her
quarrel with Mrs. Farange was much too acute. The child felt it from
the first; there was no hugging nor exclaiming as that lady drove her
away--there was only a frightening silence, unenlivened even by the
invidious enquiries of former years, which culminated, according to its
stern nature, in a still more frightening old woman, a figure awaiting
her on the very doorstep. "You're to be under this lady's care," said
her mother. "Take her, Mrs. Wix," she added, addressing the figure
impatiently and giving the child a push from which Maisie gathered that
she wished to set Mrs. Wix an example of energy. Mrs. Wix took her and,
Maisie felt the next day, would never let her go. She had struck her at
first, just after Miss Overmore, as terrible; but something in her voice
at the end of an hour touched the little girl in a spot that had never
even yet been reached. Maisie knew later what it was, though doubtless
she couldn't have made a statement of it: these were things that a few
days' talk with Mrs. Wix quite lighted up. The principal one was a
matter Mrs. Wix herself always immediately mentioned: she had had a
little girl quite of her own, and the little girl had been killed on
the spot. She had had absolutely nothing else in all the world, and her
affliction had broken her heart. It was comfortably established between
them that Mrs. Wix's heart was broken. What Maisie felt was that she had
been, with passion and anguish, a mother, and that this was something
Miss Overmore was not, something (strangely, confusingly) that mamma was
even less.
So it was that in the course of an extraordinarily short time she
found herself as deeply absorbed in the image of the little dead
Clara Matilda, who, on a crossing in the Harrow Road, had been knocked
down and crushed by the cruellest of hansoms, as she had ever found
herself in the family group made vivid by one of seven. "She's your
little dead sister," Mrs. Wix ended by saying, and Maisie, all in
a tremor of curiosity and compassion, addressed from that moment a
particular piety to the small accepted acquisition. Somehow she wasn't
a real sister, but that only made her the more romantic. It contributed
to this view of her that she was never to be spoken of in that character
to any one else--least of all to Mrs. Farange, who wouldn't care for
her nor recognise the relationship: it was to be just an unutterable and
inexhaustible little secret with Mrs. Wix. Maisie knew everything about
her that could be known, everything she had said or done in her little
mutilated life, exactly how lovely she was, exactly how her hair was
curled and her frocks were trimmed. Her hair came down far below her
waist--it was of the most wonderful golden brightness, just as Mrs.
Wix's own had been a long time before. Mrs. Wix's own was indeed very
remarkable still, and Maisie had felt at first that she should never get
on with it. It played a large part in the sad and strange appearance,
the appearance as of a kind of greasy greyness, which Mrs. Wix had
presented on the child's arrival. It had originally been yellow, but
time had turned that elegance to ashes, to a turbid sallow unvenerable
white. Still excessively abundant, it was dressed in a manner of which
the poor lady appeared not yet to have recognised the supersession, with
a glossy braid, like a large diadem, on the top of the head, and behind,
at the nape of the neck, a dingy rosette like a large button. She wore
glasses which, in humble reference to a divergent obliquity of vision,
she called her straighteners, and a little ugly snuff-coloured dress
trimmed with satin bands in the form of scallops and glazed with
antiquity. The straighteners, she explained to Maisie, were put on for
the sake of others, whom, as she believed, they helped to recognise the
bearing, otherwise doubtful, of her regard; the rest of the melancholy
garb could only have been put on for herself. With the added suggestion
of her goggles it reminded her pupil of the polished shell or corslet
of a horrid beetle. At first she had looked cross and almost cruel; but
this impression passed away with the child's increased perception of
her being in the eyes of the world a figure mainly to laugh at. She
was as droll as a charade or an animal toward the end of the "natural
history"--a person whom people, to make talk lively, described to each
other and imitated. Every one knew the straighteners; every one knew the
diadem and the button, the scallops and satin bands; every one, though
Maisie had never betrayed her, knew even Clara Matilda.
It was on account of these things that mamma got her for such low pay,
really for nothing: so much, one day when Mrs. Wix had accompanied her
into the drawing-room and left her, the child heard one of the ladies
she found there--a lady with eyebrows arched like skipping-ropes and
thick black stitching, like ruled lines for musical notes on beautiful
white gloves--announce to another. She knew governesses were poor; Miss
Overmore was unmentionably and Mrs. Wix ever so publicly so. Neither
this, however, nor the old brown frock nor the diadem nor the button,
made a difference for Maisie in the charm put forth through everything,
the charm of Mrs. Wix's conveying that somehow, in her ugliness and her
poverty, she was peculiarly and soothingly safe; safer than any one
in the world, than papa, than mamma, than the lady with the arched
eyebrows; safer even, though so much less beautiful, than Miss Overmore,
on whose loveliness, as she supposed it, the little girl was faintly
conscious that one couldn't rest with quite the same tucked-in and
kissed-for-good-night feeling. Mrs. Wix was as safe as Clara Matilda,
who was in heaven and yet, embarrassingly, also in Kensal Green, where
they had been together to see her little huddled grave. It was from
something in Mrs. Wix's tone, which in spite of caricature remained
indescribable and inimitable, that Maisie, before her term with her
mother was over, drew this sense of a support, like a breast-high
banister in a place of "drops," that would never give way. If she knew
her instructress was poor and queer she also knew she was not nearly so
"qualified" as Miss Overmore, who could say lots of dates straight off
(letting you hold the book yourself), state the position of Malabar, play
six pieces without notes and, in a sketch, put in beautifully the trees
and houses and difficult parts. Maisie herself could play more pieces
than Mrs. Wix, who was moreover visibly ashamed of her houses and trees
and could only, with the help of a smutty forefinger, of doubtful
legitimacy in the field of art, do the smoke coming out of the chimneys.
They dealt, the governess and her pupil, in "subjects," but there were
many the governess put off from week to week and that they never got to
at all: she only used to say "We'll take that in its proper order." Her
order was a circle as vast as the untravelled globe. She had not the
spirit of adventure--the child could perfectly see how many subjects she
was afraid of. She took refuge on the firm ground of fiction, through
which indeed there curled the blue river of truth. She knew swarms of
stories, mostly those of the novels she had read; relating them with
a memory that never faltered and a wealth of detail that was Maisie's
delight. They were all about love and beauty and countesses and
wickedness. Her conversation was practically an endless narrative,
a great garden of romance, with sudden vistas into her own life and
gushing fountains of homeliness. These were the parts where they most
lingered; she made the child take with her again every step of her long,
lame course and think it beyond magic or monsters. Her pupil acquired a
vivid vision of every one who had ever, in her phrase, knocked against
her--some of them oh so hard!--every one literally but Mr. Wix, her
husband, as to whom nothing was mentioned save that he had been dead for
ages. He had been rather remarkably absent from his wife's career, and
Maisie was never taken to see his grave.
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 5 based on the provided context. | chapter 5|chapter 6 | Compared to being separated from Miss Overmore, Maisie is even more devastated to be separated from Mrs. Wix when it is time to return to her father's house. To underscore the pain of the separation, the author uses a vivid extended metaphor comparing Maisie's extraction from Mrs. Wix's care to a recent dentist visit in which Maisie had a tooth pulled. Beale comes to get Maisie in a fancy carriage, and Maisie is returned to Miss Overmore's care at her father's house. Maisie is aware that Miss Overmore had been staying at Beale's house all the time she was away, so she asks Miss Overmore, "Did papa like you just the same while I was gone. Beale laughs loudly at this and responds, "When you're away what have I left to do but just to love her. hinting at a budding relationship between the two. Miss Overmore responds that it is "horrid" for him to say this , which confuses Maisie, and she is further confused when Miss Overmore tries to explain that "a lady couldn't stay with a gentleman that way without some awfully proper reason". By the end of the conversation, Maisie feels embarrassed and bewildered at the vague answers as to where Miss Overmore had been staying; she does not like the feeling of being left in the dark. Maisie lets her frustration ebb as she gets to spend more time with Miss Overmore. Maisie is given a doll named Lisette that she treats very much like she is treated by her parents and governesses. For example, the author writes, "There were. days when, after prolonged absence, Lisette, watching her take off her things, tried hard to discover where she had been. Well, she discovered a little, but never discovered all". This parallels the way Maisie feels left out of her mother's affairs and Miss Overmore's stay with her father |
----------CHAPTER 5---------
The second parting from Miss Overmore had been bad enough, but this
first parting from Mrs. Wix was much worse. The child had lately been to
the dentist's and had a term of comparison for the screwed-up intensity
of the scene. It was dreadfully silent, as it had been when her tooth
was taken out; Mrs. Wix had on that occasion grabbed her hand and they
had clung to each other with the frenzy of their determination not to
scream. Maisie, at the dentist's, had been heroically still, but just
when she felt most anguish had become aware of an audible shriek on the
part of her companion, a spasm of stifled sympathy. This was reproduced
by the only sound that broke their supreme embrace when, a month later,
the "arrangement," as her periodical uprootings were called, played the
part of the horrible forceps. Embedded in Mrs. Wix's nature as her tooth
had been socketed in her gum, the operation of extracting her would
really have been a case for chloroform. It was a hug that fortunately
left nothing to say, for the poor woman's want of words at such an
hour seemed to fall in with her want of everything. Maisie's alternate
parent, in the outermost vestibule--he liked the impertinence of
crossing as much as that of his late wife's threshold--stood over them
with his open watch and his still more open grin, while from the only
corner of an eye on which something of Mrs. Wix's didn't impinge the
child saw at the door a brougham in which Miss Overmore also waited.
She remembered the difference when, six months before, she had been
torn from the breast of that more spirited protectress. Miss Overmore,
then also in the vestibule, but of course in the other one, had been
thoroughly audible and voluble; her protest had rung out bravely and she
had declared that something--her pupil didn't know exactly what--was
a regular wicked shame. That had at the time dimly recalled to Maisie
the far-away moment of Moddle's great outbreak: there seemed always to
be "shames" connected in one way or another with her migrations. At
present, while Mrs. Wix's arms tightened and the smell of her hair was
strong, she further remembered how, in pacifying Miss Overmore, papa had
made use of the words "you dear old duck!"--an expression which, by its
oddity, had stuck fast in her young mind, having moreover a place well
prepared for it there by what she knew of the governess whom she now
always mentally characterised as the pretty one. She wondered whether
this affection would be as great as before: that would at all events be
the case with the prettiness Maisie could see in the face which showed
brightly at the window of the brougham.
The brougham was a token of harmony, of the fine conditions papa would
this time offer: he had usually come for her in a hansom, with a
four-wheeler behind for the boxes. The four-wheeler with the boxes on it
was actually there, but mamma was the only lady with whom she had ever
been in a conveyance of the kind always of old spoken of by Moddle as a
private carriage. Papa's carriage was, now that he had one, still more
private, somehow, than mamma's; and when at last she found herself quite
on top, as she felt, of its inmates and gloriously rolling away, she
put to Miss Overmore, after another immense and talkative squeeze, a
question of which the motive was a desire for information as to the
continuity of a certain sentiment. "Did papa like you just the same
while I was gone?" she enquired--full of the sense of how markedly his
favour had been established in her presence. She had bethought herself
that this favour might, like her presence and as if depending on it, be
only intermittent and for the season. Papa, on whose knee she sat, burst
into one of those loud laughs of his that, however prepared she was,
seemed always, like some trick in a frightening game, to leap forth and
make her jump. Before Miss Overmore could speak he replied: "Why, you
little donkey, when you're away what have I left to do but just to love
her?" Miss Overmore hereupon immediately took her from him, and they had
a merry little scrimmage over her of which Maisie caught the surprised
perception in the white stare of an old lady who passed in a victoria.
Then her beautiful friend remarked to her very gravely: "I shall make
him understand that if he ever again says anything as horrid as that
to you I shall carry you straight off and we'll go and live somewhere
together and be good quiet little girls." The child couldn't quite make
out why her father's speech had been horrid, since it only expressed
that appreciation which their companion herself had of old described as
"immense." To enter more into the truth of the matter she appealed to
him again directly, asked if in all those months Miss Overmore hadn't
been with him just as she had been before and just as she would be now.
"Of course she has, old girl--where else could the poor dear be?" cried
Beale Farange, to the still greater scandal of their companion, who
protested that unless he straightway "took back" his nasty wicked fib
it would be, this time, not only him she would leave, but his child too
and his house and his tiresome trouble--all the impossible things he
had succeeded in putting on her. Beale, under this frolic menace, took
nothing back at all; he was indeed apparently on the point of repeating
his extravagance, but Miss Overmore instructed her little charge that
she was not to listen to his bad jokes: she was to understand that a
lady couldn't stay with a gentleman that way without some awfully proper
reason.
Maisie looked from one of her companions to the other; this was the
freshest gayest start she had yet enjoyed, but she had a shy fear of not
exactly believing them. "Well, what reason IS proper?" she thoughtfully
demanded.
"Oh a long-legged stick of a tomboy: there's none so good as that." Her
father enjoyed both her drollery and his own and tried again to get
possession of her--an effort deprecated by their comrade and leading
again to something of a public scuffle. Miss Overmore declared to the
child that she had been all the while with good friends; on which Beale
Farange went on: "She means good friends of mine, you know--tremendous
friends of mine. There has been no end of THEM about--that I WILL say
for her!" Maisie felt bewildered and was afterwards for some time
conscious of a vagueness, just slightly embarrassing, as to the subject
of so much amusement and as to where her governess had really been.
She didn't feel at all as if she had been seriously told, and no such
feeling was supplied by anything that occurred later. Her embarrassment,
of a precocious instinctive order, attached itself to the idea that
this was another of the matters it was not for her, as her mother used
to say, to go into. Therefore, under her father's roof during the time
that followed, she made no attempt to clear up her ambiguity by an
ingratiating way with housemaids; and it was an odd truth that the
ambiguity itself took nothing from the fresh pleasure promised her by
renewed contact with Miss Overmore. The confidence looked for by that
young lady was of the fine sort that explanation can't improve, and she
herself at any rate was a person superior to any confusion. For Maisie
moreover concealment had never necessarily seemed deception; she had
grown up among things as to which her foremost knowledge was that
she was never to ask about them. It was far from new to her that the
questions of the small are the peculiar diversion of the great: except
the affairs of her doll Lisette there had scarcely ever been anything at
her mother's that was explicable with a grave face. Nothing was so easy
to her as to send the ladies who gathered there off into shrieks, and
she might have practised upon them largely if she had been of a more
calculating turn. Everything had something behind it: life was like a
long, long corridor with rows of closed doors. She had learned that at
these doors it was wise not to knock--this seemed to produce from within
such sounds of derision. Little by little, however, she understood more,
for it befell that she was enlightened by Lisette's questions, which
reproduced the effect of her own upon those for whom she sat in the very
darkness of Lisette. Was she not herself convulsed by such innocence? In
the presence of it she often imitated the shrieking ladies. There were
at any rate things she really couldn't tell even a French doll. She
could only pass on her lessons and study to produce on Lisette the
impression of having mysteries in her life, wondering the while whether
she succeeded in the air of shading off, like her mother, into the
unknowable. When the reign of Miss Overmore followed that of Mrs. Wix
she took a fresh cue, emulating her governess and bridging over the
interval with the simple expectation of trust. Yes, there were matters
one couldn't "go into" with a pupil. There were for instance days when,
after prolonged absence, Lisette, watching her take off her things,
tried hard to discover where she had been. Well, she discovered a
little, but never discovered all. There was an occasion when, on her
being particularly indiscreet, Maisie replied to her--and precisely
about the motive of a disappearance--as she, Maisie, had once been
replied to by Mrs. Farange: "Find out for yourself!" She mimicked her
mother's sharpness, but she was rather ashamed afterwards, though as
to whether of the sharpness or of the mimicry was not quite clear.
----------CHAPTER 6---------
She became aware in time that this phase wouldn't have shone by
lessons, the care of her education being now only one of the many
duties devolving on Miss Overmore; a devolution as to which she was
present at various passages between that lady and her father--passages
significant, on either side, of dissent and even of displeasure. It was
gathered by the child on these occasions that there was something in the
situation for which her mother might "come down" on them all, though
indeed the remark, always dropped by her father, was greeted on his
companion's part with direct contradiction. Such scenes were usually
brought to a climax by Miss Overmore's demanding, with more asperity
than she applied to any other subject, in what position under the sun
such a person as Mrs. Farange would find herself for coming down. As the
months went on the little girl's interpretations thickened, and the more
effectually that this stretch was the longest she had known without a
break. She got used to the idea that her mother, for some reason, was
in no hurry to reinstate her: that idea was forcibly expressed by her
father whenever Miss Overmore, differing and decided, took him up on the
question, which he was always putting forward, of the urgency of sending
her to school. For a governess Miss Overmore differed surprisingly; far
more for instance than would have entered into the bowed head of Mrs.
Wix. She observed to Maisie many times that she was quite conscious of
not doing her justice, and that Mr. Farange equally measured and equally
lamented this deficiency. The reason of it was that she had mysterious
responsibilities that interfered--responsibilities, Miss Overmore
intimated, to Mr. Farange himself and to the friendly noisy little house
and those who came there. Mr. Farange's remedy for every inconvenience
was that the child should be put at school--there were such lots of
splendid schools, as everybody knew, at Brighton and all over the place.
That, however, Maisie learned, was just what would bring her mother
down: from the moment he should delegate to others the housing of his
little charge he hadn't a leg to stand on before the law. Didn't he keep
her away from her mother precisely because Mrs. Farange was one of these
others?
There was also the solution of a second governess, a young person to
come in by the day and really do the work; but to this Miss Overmore
wouldn't for a moment listen, arguing against it with great public
relish and wanting to know from all comers--she put it even to Maisie
herself--they didn't see how frightfully it would give her away. "What
am I supposed to be at all, don't you see, if I'm not here to look
after her?" She was in a false position and so freely and loudly called
attention to it that it seemed to become almost a source of glory. The
way out of it of course was just to do her plain duty; but that was
unfortunately what, with his excessive, his exorbitant demands on her,
which every one indeed appeared quite to understand, he practically, he
selfishly prevented. Beale Farange, for Miss Overmore, was now never
anything but "he," and the house was as full as ever of lively gentlemen
with whom, under that designation, she chaffingly talked about him.
Maisie meanwhile, as a subject of familiar gossip on what was to be done
with her, was left so much to herself that she had hours of wistful
thought of the large loose discipline of Mrs. Wix; yet she none the less
held it under her father's roof a point of superiority that none of his
visitors were ladies. It added to this odd security that she had once
heard a gentleman say to him as if it were a great joke and in obvious
reference to Miss Overmore: "Hanged if she'll let another woman come
near you--hanged if she ever will. She'd let fly a stick at her as they
do at a strange cat!" Maisie greatly preferred gentlemen as inmates
in spite of their also having their way--louder but sooner over--of
laughing out at her. They pulled and pinched, they teased and tickled
her; some of them even, as they termed it, shied things at her, and all
of them thought it funny to call her by names having no resemblance to
her own. The ladies on the other hand addressed her as "You poor pet"
and scarcely touched her even to kiss her. But it was of the ladies she
was most afraid.
She was now old enough to understand how disproportionate a stay she had
already made with her father; and also old enough to enter a little into
the ambiguity attending this excess, which oppressed her particularly
whenever the question had been touched upon in talk with her governess.
"Oh you needn't worry: she doesn't care!" Miss Overmore had often
said to her in reference to any fear that her mother might resent her
prolonged detention. "She has other people than poor little YOU to
think about, and has gone abroad with them; so you needn't be in the
least afraid she'll stickle this time for her rights." Maisie knew Mrs.
Farange had gone abroad, for she had had weeks and weeks before a letter
from her beginning "My precious pet" and taking leave of her for an
indeterminate time; but she had not seen in it a renunciation of hatred
or of the writer's policy of asserting herself, for the sharpest of all
her impressions had been that there was nothing her mother would ever
care so much about as to torment Mr. Farange. What at last, however, was
in this connexion bewildering and a little frightening was the dawn of a
suspicion that a better way had been found to torment Mr. Farange than
to deprive him of his periodical burden. This was the question that
worried our young lady and that Miss Overmore's confidences and the
frequent observations of her employer only rendered more mystifying. It
was a contradiction that if Ida had now a fancy for waiving the rights
she had originally been so hot about her late husband shouldn't jump at
the monopoly for which he had also in the first instance so fiercely
fought; but when Maisie, with a subtlety beyond her years, sounded this
new ground her main success was in hearing her mother more freshly
abused. Miss Overmore had up to now rarely deviated from a decent
reserve, but the day came when she expressed herself with a vividness
not inferior to Beale's own on the subject of the lady who had fled to
the Continent to wriggle out of her job. It would serve this lady right,
Maisie gathered, if that contract, in the shape of an overgrown and
underdressed daughter, should be shipped straight out to her and landed
at her feet in the midst of scandalous excesses.
The picture of these pursuits was what Miss Overmore took refuge in when
the child tried timidly to ascertain if her father were disposed to feel
he had too much of her. She evaded the point and only kicked up all
round it the dust of Ida's heartlessness and folly, of which the supreme
proof, it appeared, was the fact that she was accompanied on her journey
by a gentleman whom, to be painfully plain on it, she had--well, "picked
up." The terms on which, unless they were married, ladies and gentlemen
might, as Miss Overmore expressed it, knock about together, were the
terms on which she and Mr. Farange had exposed themselves to possible
misconception. She had indeed, as has been noted, often explained this
before, often said to Maisie: "I don't know what in the world, darling,
your father and I should do without you, for you just make the
difference, as I've told you, of keeping us perfectly proper." The child
took in the office it was so endearingly presented to her that she
performed a comfort that helped her to a sense of security even in the
event of her mother's giving her up. Familiar as she had grown with the
fact of the great alternative to the proper, she felt in her governess
and her father a strong reason for not emulating that detachment. At the
same time she had heard somehow of little girls--of exalted rank, it was
true--whose education was carried on by instructors of the other sex,
and she knew that if she were at school at Brighton it would be thought
an advantage to her to be more or less in the hands of masters. She
turned these things over and remarked to Miss Overmore that if she
should go to her mother perhaps the gentleman might become her tutor.
"The gentleman?" The proposition was complicated enough to make Miss
Overmore stare.
"The one who's with mamma. Mightn't that make it right--as right as your
being my governess makes it for you to be with papa?"
Miss Overmore considered; she coloured a little; then she embraced her
ingenious friend. "You're too sweet! I'm a REAL governess."
"And couldn't he be a real tutor?"
"Of course not. He's ignorant and bad."
"Bad--?" Maisie echoed with wonder.
Her companion gave a queer little laugh at her tone. "He's ever so much
younger--" But that was all.
"Younger than you?"
Miss Overmore laughed again; it was the first time Maisie had seen her
approach so nearly to a giggle.
"Younger than--no matter whom. I don't know anything about him and don't
want to," she rather inconsequently added. "He's not my sort, and I'm
sure, my own darling, he's not yours." And she repeated the free caress
into which her colloquies with Maisie almost always broke and which made
the child feel that HER affection at least was a gage of safety. Parents
had come to seem vague, but governesses were evidently to be trusted.
Maisie's faith in Mrs. Wix for instance had suffered no lapse from the
fact that all communication with her had temporarily dropped. During the
first weeks of their separation Clara Matilda's mamma had repeatedly and
dolefully written to her, and Maisie had answered with an enthusiasm
controlled only by orthographical doubts; but the correspondence had
been duly submitted to Miss Overmore, with the final effect of its not
suiting her. It was this lady's view that Mr. Farange wouldn't care for
it at all, and she ended by confessing--since her pupil pushed her--that
she didn't care for it herself. She was furiously jealous, she said; and
that weakness was but a new proof of her disinterested affection. She
pronounced Mrs. Wix's effusions moreover illiterate and unprofitable;
she made no scruple of declaring it monstrous that a woman in her
senses should have placed the formation of her daughter's mind in such
ridiculous hands. Maisie was well aware that the proprietress of the old
brown dress and the old odd headgear was lower in the scale of "form"
than Miss Overmore; but it was now brought home to her with pain that
she was educationally quite out of the question. She was buried for the
time beneath a conclusive remark of her critic's: "She's really beyond a
joke!" This remark was made as that charming woman held in her hand the
last letter that Maisie was to receive from Mrs. Wix; it was fortified
by a decree proscribing the preposterous tie. "Must I then write and
tell her?" the child bewilderedly asked: she grew pale at the dreadful
things it appeared involved for her to say. "Don't dream of it, my
dear--I'll write: you may trust me!" cried Miss Overmore; who indeed
wrote to such purpose that a hush in which you could have heard a pin
drop descended upon poor Mrs. Wix. She gave for weeks and weeks no sign
whatever of life: it was as if she had been as effectually disposed of
by Miss Overmore's communication as her little girl, in the Harrow Road,
had been disposed of by the terrible hansom. Her very silence became
after this one of the largest elements of Maisie's consciousness; it
proved a warm and habitable air, into which the child penetrated further
than she dared ever to mention to her companions. Somewhere in the
depths of it the dim straighteners were fixed upon her; somewhere out of
the troubled little current Mrs. Wix intensely waited.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 7, utilizing the provided context. | chapter 7|chapter 10 | One day while Maisie is still living at her father's house, Mrs. Wix visits out of the blue. Maisie believes Mrs. Wix came on this day because both her father and Miss Overmore are away, supposedly investigating a school for Maisie to attend, but Miss Overmore returns a day early and so catches Mrs. Wix. Mrs. Wix announces that she has come because she has a message from Ida for Maisie, saying she had to come to deliver the message because letters sent for Maisie obviously do not get to her. The important message for Maisie is that her mother is engaged to be married to a man named Sir Claude. Miss Overmore seems shocked by this revelation and says that it "would of course put an end to any further pretension to take her daughter back". Mrs. Wix argues against this and then pulls out a photograph of Sir Claude to show Maisie. Maisie admires the photo of Sir Claude greatly and begs to keep it. Mrs. Wix clearly wants to keep the photo for herself, but quickly surrenders it to Maisie. Miss Overmore insults Mrs. Wix by saying she will not touch the photograph because it is "an object belonging to Mrs. Wix" , and Mrs. Wix retaliates by informing Maisie that she will definitely be returning to her mother's house soon. Miss Overmore tops this by implying that Maisie's father is married, then explaining exactly how: "Papa's not about to marry--papa is married, my dear. Papa was married the day before yesterday at Brighton. He's my husband, if you please, and I'm his little wife. So now we'll see who's your little mother |
----------CHAPTER 7---------
It quite fell in with this intensity that one day, on returning from
a walk with the housemaid, Maisie should have found her in the hall,
seated on the stool usually occupied by the telegraph-boys who haunted
Beale Farange's door and kicked their heels while, in his room, answers
to their missives took form with the aid of smoke-puffs and growls. It
had seemed to her on their parting that Mrs. Wix had reached the last
limits of the squeeze, but she now felt those limits to be transcended
and that the duration of her visitor's hug was a direct reply to Miss
Overmore's veto. She understood in a flash how the visit had come to be
possible--that Mrs. Wix, watching her chance, must have slipped in under
protection of the fact that papa, always tormented in spite of arguments
with the idea of a school, had, for a three days' excursion to Brighton,
absolutely insisted on the attendance of her adversary. It was true that
when Maisie explained their absence and their important motive Mrs. Wix
wore an expression so peculiar that it could only have had its origin in
surprise. This contradiction indeed peeped out only to vanish, for at
the very moment that, in the spirit of it, she threw herself afresh upon
her young friend a hansom crested with neat luggage rattled up to the
door and Miss Overmore bounded out. The shock of her encounter with Mrs.
Wix was less violent than Maisie had feared on seeing her and didn't
at all interfere with the sociable tone in which, under her rival's
eyes, she explained to her little charge that she had returned, for a
particular reason, a day sooner than she first intended. She had left
papa--in such nice lodgings--at Brighton; but he would come back to
his dear little home on the morrow. As for Mrs. Wix, papa's companion
supplied Maisie in later converse with the right word for the attitude
of this personage: Mrs. Wix "stood up" to her in a manner that the child
herself felt at the time to be astonishing. This occurred indeed after
Miss Overmore had so far raised her interdict as to make a move to the
dining-room, where, in the absence of any suggestion of sitting down,
it was scarcely more than natural that even poor Mrs. Wix should stand
up. Maisie at once enquired if at Brighton, this time, anything had
come of the possibility of a school; to which, much to her surprise,
Miss Overmore, who had always grandly repudiated it, replied after an
instant, but quite as if Mrs. Wix were not there:
"It may be, darling, that something WILL come. The objection, I must
tell you, has been quite removed."
At this it was still more startling to hear Mrs. Wix speak out with
great firmness. "I don't think, if you'll allow me to say so, that
there's any arrangement by which the objection CAN be 'removed.' What
has brought me here to-day is that I've a message for Maisie from dear
Mrs. Farange."
The child's heart gave a great thump. "Oh mamma's come back?"
"Not yet, sweet love, but she's coming," said Mrs. Wix, "and she
has--most thoughtfully, you know--sent me on to prepare you."
"To prepare her for what, pray?" asked Miss Overmore, whose first
smoothness began, with this news, to be ruffled.
Mrs. Wix quietly applied her straighteners to Miss Overmore's flushed
beauty. "Well, miss, for a very important communication."
"Can't dear Mrs. Farange, as you so oddly call her, make her
communications directly? Can't she take the trouble to write to her only
daughter?" the younger lady demanded. "Maisie herself will tell you that
it's months and months since she has had so much as a word from her."
"Oh but I've written to mamma!" cried the child as if this would do
quite as well.
"That makes her treatment of you all the greater scandal," the governess
in possession promptly declared.
"Mrs. Farange is too well aware," said Mrs. Wix with sustained spirit,
"of what becomes of her letters in this house."
Maisie's sense of fairness hereupon interposed for her visitor. "You
know, Miss Overmore, that papa doesn't like everything of mamma's."
"No one likes, my dear, to be made the subject of such language as your
mother's letters contain. They were not fit for the innocent child to
see," Miss Overmore observed to Mrs. Wix.
"Then I don't know what you complain of, and she's better without them.
It serves every purpose that I'm in Mrs. Farange's confidence."
Miss Overmore gave a scornful laugh. "Then you must be mixed up with
some extraordinary proceedings!"
"None so extraordinary," cried Mrs. Wix, turning very pale, "as to say
horrible things about the mother to the face of the helpless daughter!"
"Things not a bit more horrible, I think," Miss Overmore returned, "than
those you, madam, appear to have come here to say about the father!"
Mrs. Wix looked for a moment hard at Maisie, and then, turning again to
this witness, spoke with a trembling voice. "I came to say nothing about
him, and you must excuse Mrs. Farange and me if we're not so above all
reproach as the companion of his travels."
The young woman thus described stared at the apparent breadth of the
description--she needed a moment to take it in. Maisie, however, gazing
solemnly from one of the disputants to the other, noted that her answer,
when it came, perched upon smiling lips. "It will do quite as well,
no doubt, if you come up to the requirements of the companion of Mrs.
Farange's!"
Mrs. Wix broke into a queer laugh; it sounded to Maisie an unsuccessful
imitation of a neigh. "That's just what I'm here to make known--how
perfectly the poor lady comes up to them herself." She held up her head
at the child. "You must take your mamma's message, Maisie, and you must
feel that her wishing me to come to you with it this way is a great
proof of interest and affection. She sends you her particular love and
announces to you that she's engaged to be married to Sir Claude."
"Sir Claude?" Maisie wonderingly echoed. But while Mrs. Wix explained
that this gentleman was a dear friend of Mrs. Farange's, who had been
of great assistance to her in getting to Florence and in making herself
comfortable there for the winter, she was not too violently shaken to
perceive her old friend's enjoyment of the effect of this news on Miss
Overmore. That young lady opened her eyes very wide; she immediately
remarked that Mrs. Farange's marriage would of course put an end to any
further pretension to take her daughter back. Mrs. Wix enquired with
astonishment why it should do anything of the sort, and Miss Overmore
gave as an instant reason that it was clearly but another dodge in a
system of dodges. She wanted to get out of the bargain: why else had she
now left Maisie on her father's hands weeks and weeks beyond the time
about which she had originally made such a fuss? It was vain for Mrs.
Wix to represent--as she speciously proceeded to do--that all this time
would be made up as soon as Mrs. Farange returned: she, Miss Overmore,
knew nothing, thank heaven, about her confederate, but was very sure
any person capable of forming that sort of relation with the lady in
Florence would easily agree to object to the presence in his house
of the fruit of a union that his dignity must ignore. It was a game
like another, and Mrs. Wix's visit was clearly the first move in it.
Maisie found in this exchange of asperities a fresh incitement to the
unformulated fatalism in which her sense of her own career had long
since taken refuge; and it was the beginning for her of a deeper
prevision that, in spite of Miss Overmore's brilliancy and Mrs. Wix's
passion, she should live to see a change in the nature of the struggle
she appeared to have come into the world to produce. It would still be
essentially a struggle, but its object would now be NOT to receive her.
Mrs. Wix, after Miss Overmore's last demonstration, addressed herself
wholly to the little girl, and, drawing from the pocket of her dingy old
pelisse a small flat parcel, removed its envelope and wished to know
if THAT looked like a gentleman who wouldn't be nice to everybody--let
alone to a person he would be so sure to find so nice. Mrs. Farange, in
the candour of new-found happiness, had enclosed a "cabinet" photograph
of Sir Claude, and Maisie lost herself in admiration of the fair smooth
face, the regular features, the kind eyes, the amiable air, the general
glossiness and smartness of her prospective stepfather--only vaguely
puzzled to suppose herself now with two fathers at once. Her researches
had hitherto indicated that to incur a second parent of the same sex you
had usually to lose the first. "ISN'T he sympathetic?" asked Mrs. Wix,
who had clearly, on the strength of his charming portrait, made up her
mind that Sir Claude promised her a future. "You can see, I hope," she
added with much expression, "that HE'S a perfect gentleman!" Maisie had
never before heard the word "sympathetic" applied to anybody's face; she
heard it with pleasure and from that moment it agreeably remained with
her. She testified moreover to the force of her own perception in a
small soft sigh of response to the pleasant eyes that seemed to seek
her acquaintance, to speak to her directly. "He's quite lovely!" she
declared to Mrs. Wix. Then eagerly, irrepressibly, as she still held the
photograph and Sir Claude continued to fraternise, "Oh can't I keep it?"
she broke out. No sooner had she done so than she looked up from it at
Miss Overmore: this was with the sudden instinct of appealing to the
authority that had long ago impressed on her that she mustn't ask for
things. Miss Overmore, to her surprise, looked distant and rather odd,
hesitating and giving her time to turn again to Mrs. Wix. Then Maisie
saw that lady's long face lengthen; it was stricken and almost scared,
as if her young friend really expected more of her than she had to give.
The photograph was a possession that, direly denuded, she clung to,
and there was a momentary struggle between her fond clutch of it and
her capability of every sacrifice for her precarious pupil. With the
acuteness of her years, however, Maisie saw that her own avidity would
triumph, and she held out the picture to Miss Overmore as if she were
quite proud of her mother. "Isn't he just lovely?" she demanded while
poor Mrs. Wix hungrily wavered, her straighteners largely covering it
and her pelisse gathered about her with an intensity that strained its
ancient seams.
"It was to ME, darling," the visitor said, "that your mamma so
generously sent it; but of course if it would give you particular
pleasure--" she faltered, only gasping her surrender.
Miss Overmore continued extremely remote. "If the photograph's your
property, my dear, I shall be happy to oblige you by looking at it on
some future occasion. But you must excuse me if I decline to touch an
object belonging to Mrs. Wix."
That lady had by this time grown very red. "You might as well see him
this way, miss," she retorted, "as you certainly never will, I believe,
in any other! Keep the pretty picture, by all means, my precious," she
went on: "Sir Claude will be happy himself, I dare say, to give me one
with a kind inscription." The pathetic quaver of this brave boast was
not lost on Maisie, who threw herself so gratefully on the speaker's
neck that, when they had concluded their embrace, the public tenderness
of which, she felt, made up for the sacrifice she imposed, their
companion had had time to lay a quick hand on Sir Claude and, with a
glance at him or not, whisk him effectually out of sight. Released from
the child's arms Mrs. Wix looked about for the picture; then she fixed
Miss Overmore with a hard dumb stare; and finally, with her eyes on
the little girl again, achieved the grimmest of smiles. "Well, nothing
matters, Maisie, because there's another thing your mamma wrote about.
She has made sure of me." Even after her loyal hug Maisie felt a bit of
a sneak as she glanced at Miss Overmore for permission to understand
this. But Mrs. Wix left them in no doubt of what it meant. "She has
definitely engaged me--for her return and for yours. Then you'll see
for yourself." Maisie, on the spot, quite believed she should; but
the prospect was suddenly thrown into confusion by an extraordinary
demonstration from Miss Overmore.
"Mrs. Wix," said that young lady, "has some undiscoverable reason for
regarding your mother's hold on you as strengthened by the fact that
she's about to marry. I wonder then--on that system--what our visitor
will say to your father's."
Miss Overmore's words were directed to her pupil, but her face, lighted
with an irony that made it prettier even than ever before, was presented
to the dingy figure that had stiffened itself for departure. The
child's discipline had been bewildering--had ranged freely between the
prescription that she was to answer when spoken to and the experience of
lively penalties on obeying that prescription. This time, nevertheless,
she felt emboldened for risks; above all as something portentous seemed
to have leaped into her sense of the relations of things. She looked at
Miss Overmore much as she had a way of looking at persons who treated
her to "grown up" jokes. "Do you mean papa's hold on me--do you mean
HE'S about to marry?"
"Papa's not about to marry--papa IS married, my dear. Papa was married
the day before yesterday at Brighton." Miss Overmore glittered more
gaily; meanwhile it came over Maisie, and quite dazzlingly, that her
"smart" governess was a bride. "He's my husband, if you please, and I'm
his little wife. So NOW we'll see who's your little mother!" She caught
her pupil to her bosom in a manner that was not to be outdone by the
emissary of her predecessor, and a few moments later, when things had
lurched back into their places, that poor lady, quite defeated of the
last word, had soundlessly taken flight.
----------CHAPTER 10---------
He was smoking a cigarette and he stood before the fire and looked
at the meagre appointments of the room in a way that made her rather
ashamed of them. Then before (on the subject of Mrs. Beale) he let her
"draw" him--that was another of his words; it was astonishing how many
she gathered in--he remarked that really mamma kept them rather low on
the question of decorations. Mrs. Wix had put up a Japanese fan and two
rather grim texts; she had wished they were gayer, but they were all she
happened to have. Without Sir Claude's photograph, however, the place
would have been, as he said, as dull as a cold dinner. He had said
as well that there were all sorts of things they ought to have; yet
governess and pupil, it had to be admitted, were still divided between
discussing the places where any sort of thing would look best if any
sort of thing should ever come and acknowledging that mutability in the
child's career which was naturally unfavourable to accumulation. She
stayed long enough only to miss things, not half long enough to deserve
them. The way Sir Claude looked about the schoolroom had made her feel
with humility as if it were not very different from the shabby attic in
which she had visited Susan Ash. Then he had said in abrupt reference to
Mrs. Beale: "Do you think she really cares for you?"
"Oh awfully!" Maisie had replied.
"But, I mean, does she love you for yourself, as they call it, don't you
know? Is she as fond of you, now, as Mrs. Wix?"
The child turned it over. "Oh I'm not every bit Mrs. Beale has!"
Sir Claude seemed much amused at this. "No; you're not every bit she
has!"
He laughed for some moments, but that was an old story to Maisie, who
was not too much disconcerted to go on: "But she'll never give me up."
"Well, I won't either, old boy: so that's not so wonderful, and she's
not the only one. But if she's so fond of you, why doesn't she write to
you?"
"Oh on account of mamma." This was rudimentary, and she was almost
surprised at the simplicity of Sir Claude's question.
"I see--that's quite right," he answered. "She might get at you--there
are all sorts of ways. But of course there's Mrs. Wix."
"There's Mrs. Wix," Maisie lucidly concurred. "Mrs. Wix can't abide
her."
Sir Claude seemed interested. "Oh she can't abide her? Then what does
she say about her?"
"Nothing at all--because she knows I shouldn't like it. Isn't it sweet
of her?" the child asked.
"Certainly; rather nice. Mrs. Beale wouldn't hold her tongue for any
such thing as that, would she?"
Maisie remembered how little she had done so; but she desired to protect
Mrs. Beale too. The only protection she could think of, however, was the
plea: "Oh at papa's, you know, they don't mind!"
At this Sir Claude only smiled. "No, I dare say not. But here we mind,
don't we?--we take care what we say. I don't suppose it's a matter on
which I ought to prejudice you," he went on; "but I think we must on the
whole be rather nicer here than at your father's. However, I don't press
that; for it's the sort of question on which it's awfully awkward for
you to speak. Don't worry, at any rate: I assure you I'll back you up."
Then after a moment and while he smoked he reverted to Mrs. Beale and
the child's first enquiry. "I'm afraid we can't do much for her just
now. I haven't seen her since that day--upon my word I haven't seen
her." The next instant, with a laugh the least bit foolish, the young
man slightly coloured: he must have felt this profession of innocence to
be excessive as addressed to Maisie. It was inevitable to say to her,
however, that of course her mother loathed the lady of the other house.
He couldn't go there again with his wife's consent, and he wasn't the
man--he begged her to believe, falling once more, in spite of himself,
into the scruple of showing the child he didn't trip--to go there
without it. He was liable in talking with her to take the tone of her
being also a man of the world. He had gone to Mrs. Beale's to fetch
away Maisie, but that was altogether different. Now that she was in
her mother's house what pretext had he to give her mother for paying
calls on her father's wife? And of course Mrs. Beale couldn't come to
Ida's--Ida would tear her limb from limb. Maisie, with this talk of
pretexts, remembered how much Mrs. Beale had made of her being a good
one, and how, for such a function, it was her fate to be either much
depended on or much missed. Sir Claude moreover recognised on this
occasion that perhaps things would take a turn later on; and he wound
up by saying: "I'm sure she does sincerely care for you--how can she
possibly help it? She's very young and very pretty and very clever: I
think she's charming. But we must walk very straight. If you'll help me,
you know, I'll help YOU," he concluded in the pleasant fraternising,
equalising, not a bit patronising way which made the child ready to go
through anything for him and the beauty of which, as she dimly felt, was
that it was so much less a deceitful descent to her years than a real
indifference to them.
It gave her moments of secret rapture--moments of believing she might
help him indeed. The only mystification in this was the imposing time of
life that her elders spoke of as youth. For Sir Claude then Mrs. Beale
was "young," just as for Mrs. Wix Sir Claude was: that was one of the
merits for which Mrs. Wix most commended him. What therefore was Maisie
herself, and, in another relation to the matter, what therefore was
mamma? It took her some time to puzzle out with the aid of an experiment
or two that it wouldn't do to talk about mamma's youth. She even went
so far one day, in the presence of that lady's thick colour and marked
lines, as to wonder if it would occur to any one but herself to do so.
Yet if she wasn't young then she was old; and this threw an odd light on
her having a husband of a different generation. Mr. Farange was still
older--that Maisie perfectly knew; and it brought her in due course
to the perception of how much more, since Mrs. Beale was younger than
Sir Claude, papa must be older than Mrs. Beale. Such discoveries were
disconcerting and even a trifle confounding: these persons, it appeared,
were not of the age they ought to be. This was somehow particularly
the case with mamma, and the fact made her reflect with some relief on
her not having gone with Mrs. Wix into the question of Sir Claude's
attachment to his wife. She was conscious that in confining their
attention to the state of her ladyship's own affections they had been
controlled--Mrs. Wix perhaps in especial--by delicacy and even by
embarrassment. The end of her colloquy with her stepfather in the
schoolroom was her saying: "Then if we're not to see Mrs. Beale at all
it isn't what she seemed to think when you came for me."
He looked rather blank. "What did she seem to think?"
"Why that I've brought you together."
"She thought that?" Sir Claude asked.
Maisie was surprised at his already forgetting it. "Just as I had
brought papa and her. Don't you remember she said so?"
It came back to Sir Claude in a peal of laughter. "Oh yes--she said so!"
"And YOU said so," Maisie lucidly pursued.
He recovered, with increasing mirth, the whole occasion. "And YOU said
so!" he retorted as if they were playing a game.
"Then were we all mistaken?"
He considered a little. "No, on the whole not. I dare say it's just what
you HAVE done. We ARE together--it's really most odd. She's thinking of
us--of you and me--though we don't meet. And I've no doubt you'll find
it will be all right when you go back to her."
"Am I going back to her?" Maisie brought out with a little gasp which
was like a sudden clutch of the happy present.
It appeared to make Sir Claude grave a moment; it might have made him
feel the weight of the pledge his action had given. "Oh some day, I
suppose! We've plenty of time."
"I've such a tremendous lot to make up," Maisie said with a sense of
great boldness.
"Certainly, and you must make up every hour of it. Oh I'll SEE that you
do!"
This was encouraging; and to show cheerfully that she was reassured she
replied: "That's what Mrs. Wix sees too."
"Oh yes," said Sir Claude; "Mrs. Wix and I are shoulder to shoulder."
Maisie took in a little this strong image; after which she exclaimed:
"Then I've done it also to you and her--I've brought YOU together!"
"Blest if you haven't!" Sir Claude laughed. "And more, upon my word,
than any of the lot. Oh you've done for US! Now if you could--as I
suggested, you know, that day--only manage me and your mother!"
The child wondered. "Bring you and HER together?"
"You see we're not together--not a bit. But I oughtn't to tell you such
things; all the more that you won't really do it--not you. No, old
chap," the young man continued; "there you'll break down. But it won't
matter--we'll rub along. The great thing is that you and I are all
right."
"WE'RE all right!" Maisie echoed devoutly. But the next moment, in the
light of what he had just said, she asked: "How shall I ever leave you?"
It was as if she must somehow take care of him.
His smile did justice to her anxiety. "Oh well, you needn't! It won't
come to that."
"Do you mean that when I do go you'll go with me?"
Sir Claude cast about. "Not exactly 'with' you perhaps; but I shall
never be far off."
"But how do you know where mamma may take you?"
He laughed again. "I don't, I confess!" Then he had an idea, though
something too jocose. "That will be for you to see--that she shan't take
me too far."
"How can I help it?" Maisie enquired in surprise. "Mamma doesn't care
for me," she said very simply. "Not really." Child as she was, her
little long history was in the words; and it was as impossible to
contradict her as if she had been venerable.
Sir Claude's silence was an admission of this, and still more the tone
in which he presently replied: "That won't prevent her from--some time
or other--leaving me with you."
"Then we'll live together?" she eagerly demanded.
"I'm afraid," said Sir Claude, smiling, "that that will be Mrs. Beale's
real chance."
Her eagerness just slightly dropped at this; she remembered Mrs. Wix's
pronouncement that it was all an extraordinary muddle. "To take me
again? Well, can't you come to see me there?"
"Oh I dare say!"
Though there were parts of childhood Maisie had lost she had all
childhood's preference for the particular promise. "Then you WILL
come--you'll come often, won't you?" she insisted; while at the moment
she spoke the door opened for the return of Mrs. Wix. Sir Claude
hereupon, instead of replying, gave her a look which left her silent
and embarrassed.
When he again found privacy convenient, however--which happened to be
long in coming--he took up their conversation very much where it had
dropped. "You see, my dear, if I shall be able to go to you at your
father's it yet isn't at all the same thing for Mrs. Beale to come to
you here." Maisie gave a thoughtful assent to this proposition, though
conscious she could scarcely herself say just where the difference would
lie. She felt how much her stepfather saved her, as he said with his
habitual amusement, the trouble of that. "I shall probably be able to go
to Mrs. Beale's without your mother's knowing it."
Maisie stared with a certain thrill at the dramatic element in this.
"And she couldn't come here without mamma's--" She was unable to
articulate the word for what mamma would do.
"My dear child, Mrs. Wix would tell of it."
"But I thought," Maisie objected, "that Mrs. Wix and you--"
"Are such brothers-in-arms?"--Sir Claude caught her up. "Oh yes, about
everything but Mrs. Beale. And if you should suggest," he went on, "that
we might somehow or other hide her peeping in from Mrs. Wix--"
"Oh, I don't suggest THAT!" Maisie in turn cut him short.
Sir Claude looked as if he could indeed quite see why. "No; it would
really be impossible." There came to her from this glance at what they
might hide the first small glimpse of something in him that she wouldn't
have expected. There had been times when she had had to make the best
of the impression that she was herself deceitful; yet she had never
concealed anything bigger than a thought. Of course she now concealed
this thought of how strange it would be to see HIM hide; and while she
was so actively engaged he continued: "Besides, you know, I'm not afraid
of your father."
"And you are of my mother?"
"Rather, old man!" Sir Claude returned.
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 13 based on the provided context. | chapter 13|chapter 22 | Sir Claude continues to take Maisie on outings--those specifically mentioned at the beginning of this chapter are the National Gallery and a cafe on Baker Street. As they visit sites together, Sir Claude and Maisie have candid, mature conversations about the nature of Sir Claude's relationships with Ida and Mrs. Beale. When Maisie asks Sir Claude if he has seen Mrs. Beale in person since their first meeting, Sir Claude says that they haven't met in person but they have exchanged letters. He then cuts off the conversation by teasing Maisie about the number of buns she's eaten during tea time. When Maisie tells Mrs. Wix later about how Sir Claude has not seen Mrs. Beale in person, Mrs. Wix says that he actually has seen the woman, meaning he lied to Maisie. When Maisie asks how she knows this, Mrs. Wix says that she herself has gone to see Mrs. Beale and found out directly. Mrs. Wix reports that not only has he seen Mrs. Beale, "He has seen her repeatedly". Maisie and Mrs. Wix are both so disturbed by the idea that Sir Claude has lied, having idolized him until this point, that they weep together. The next day, when Sir Claude takes Maisie out, instead of going to town he takes her to a house: her father and Mrs. Beale's new house. Maisie asks if he's brought her here for her to live with her father again, and Sir Claude says that isn't for him to decide. Maisie is conflicted as to whether she would want to stay at her father's house; she does miss Mrs. Beale and feels it has been "a hundred years since she had seen " , but she also doesn't want to leave Sir Claude for such a long time. She brings up Mrs. Wix's plan for Sir Claude, Maisie, and herself to live together, and Sir Claude says it isn't possible. However, he promises to visit her often if she does move to her father's house. As the chapter ends, Maisie suddenly realizes that she hasn't thought about what will happen to Mrs. Wix if she stays with her father and Mrs. Beale, but Sir Claude only teases, "Ah you should have thought of that sooner |
----------CHAPTER 13---------
This might moreover have been taken to be the sense of a remark made by
her stepfather as--one rainy day when the streets were all splash and
two umbrellas unsociable and the wanderers had sought shelter in the
National Gallery--Maisie sat beside him staring rather sightlessly at a
roomful of pictures which he had mystified her much by speaking of with
a bored sigh as a "silly superstition." They represented, with patches
of gold and cataracts of purple, with stiff saints and angular angels,
with ugly Madonnas and uglier babies, strange prayers and prostrations;
so that she at first took his words for a protest against devotional
idolatry--all the more that he had of late often come with her and
with Mrs. Wix to morning church, a place of worship of Mrs. Wix's own
choosing, where there was nothing of that sort; no haloes on heads,
but only, during long sermons, beguiling backs of bonnets, and where,
as her governess always afterwards observed, he gave the most earnest
attention. It presently appeared, however, that his reference was merely
to the affectation of admiring such ridiculous works--an admonition that
she received from him as submissively as she received everything. What
turn it gave to their talk needn't here be recorded: the transition to
the colourless schoolroom and lonely Mrs. Wix was doubtless an effect of
relaxed interest in what was before them. Maisie expressed in her own
way the truth that she never went home nowadays without expecting to
find the temple of her studies empty and the poor priestess cast out.
This conveyed a full appreciation of her peril, and it was in rejoinder
that Sir Claude uttered, acknowledging the source of that peril, the
reassurance at which I have glanced. "Don't be afraid, my dear: I've
squared her." It required indeed a supplement when he saw that it left
the child momentarily blank. "I mean that your mother lets me do what I
want so long as I let her do what SHE wants."
"So you ARE doing what you want?" Maisie asked.
"Rather, Miss Farange!"
Miss Farange turned it over. "And she's doing the same?"
"Up to the hilt!"
Again she considered. "Then, please, what may it be?"
"I wouldn't tell you for the whole world."
She gazed at a gaunt Madonna; after which she broke into a slow smile.
"Well, I don't care, so long as you do let her."
"Oh you monster!"--and Sir Claude's gay vehemence brought him to his
feet.
Another day, in another place--a place in Baker Street where at a hungry
hour she had sat down with him to tea and buns--he brought out a question
disconnected from previous talk. "I say, you know, what do you suppose
your father WOULD do?"
Maisie hadn't long to cast about or to question his pleasant eyes. "If
you were really to go with us? He'd make a great complaint."
He seemed amused at the term she employed. "Oh I shouldn't mind a
'complaint'!"
"He'd talk to every one about it," said Maisie.
"Well, I shouldn't mind that either."
"Of course not," the child hastened to respond. "You've told me you're
not afraid of him."
"The question is are you?" said Sir Claude.
Maisie candidly considered; then she spoke resolutely. "No, not of
papa."
"But of somebody else?"
"Certainly, of lots of people."
"Of your mother first and foremost of course."
"Dear, yes; more of mamma than of--than of--"
"Than of what?" Sir Claude asked as she hesitated for a comparison.
She thought over all objects of dread. "Than of a wild elephant!" she at
last declared. "And you are too," she reminded him as he laughed.
"Oh yes, I am too."
Again she meditated. "Why then did you marry her?"
"Just because I WAS afraid."
"Even when she loved you?"
"That made her the more alarming."
For Maisie herself, though her companion seemed to find it droll, this
opened up depths of gravity. "More alarming than she is now?"
"Well, in a different way. Fear, unfortunately, is a very big thing, and
there's a great variety of kinds."
She took this in with complete intelligence. "Then I think I've got them
all."
"You?" her friend cried. "Nonsense! You're thoroughly 'game.'"
"I'm awfully afraid of Mrs. Beale," Maisie objected.
He raised his smooth brows. "That charming woman?"
"Well," she answered, "you can't understand it because you're not in the
same state."
She had been going on with a luminous "But" when, across the table, he
laid his hand on her arm. "I CAN understand it," he confessed. "I AM in
the same state."
"Oh but she likes you so!" Maisie promptly pleaded.
Sir Claude literally coloured. "That has something to do with it."
Maisie wondered again. "Being liked with being afraid?"
"Yes, when it amounts to adoration."
"Then why aren't you afraid of ME?"
"Because with you it amounts to that?" He had kept his hand on her arm.
"Well, what prevents is simply that you're the gentlest spirit on earth.
Besides--" he pursued; but he came to a pause.
"Besides--?"
"I SHOULD be in fear if you were older--there! See--you already make me
talk nonsense," the young man added. "The question's about your father.
Is he likewise afraid of Mrs. Beale?"
"I think not. And yet he loves her," Maisie mused.
"Oh no--he doesn't; not a bit!" After which, as his companion stared,
Sir Claude apparently felt that he must make this oddity fit with her
recollections. "There's nothing of that sort NOW."
But Maisie only stared the more. "They've changed?"
"Like your mother and me."
She wondered how he knew. "Then you've seen Mrs. Beale again?"
He demurred. "Oh no. She has written to me," he presently subjoined.
"SHE'S not afraid of your father either. No one at all is--really."
Then he went on while Maisie's little mind, with its filial spring
too relaxed from of old for a pang at this want of parental majesty,
speculated on the vague relation between Mrs. Beale's courage and the
question, for Mrs. Wix and herself, of a neat lodging with their friend.
"She wouldn't care a bit if Mr. Farange should make a row."
"Do you mean about you and me and Mrs. Wix? Why should she care? It
wouldn't hurt HER."
Sir Claude, with his legs out and his hand diving into his
trousers-pocket, threw back his head with a laugh just perceptibly
tempered, as she thought, by a sigh. "My dear stepchild, you're
delightful! Look here, we must pay. You've had five buns?"
"How CAN you?" Maisie demanded, crimson under the eye of the young woman
who had stepped to their board. "I've had three."
Shortly after this Mrs. Wix looked so ill that it was to be feared her
ladyship had treated her to some unexampled passage. Maisie asked if
anything worse than usual had occurred; whereupon the poor woman brought
out with infinite gloom: "He has been seeing Mrs. Beale."
"Sir Claude?" The child remembered what he had said. "Oh no--not SEEING
her!"
"I beg your pardon. I absolutely know it." Mrs. Wix was as positive as
she was dismal.
Maisie nevertheless ventured to challenge her. "And how, please, do you
know it?"
She faltered a moment. "From herself. I've been to see her."
Then on Maisie's visible surprise: "I went yesterday while you were out
with him. He has seen her repeatedly."
It was not wholly clear to Maisie why Mrs. Wix should be prostrate at
this discovery; but her general consciousness of the way things could be
both perpetrated and resented always eased off for her the strain of the
particular mystery. "There may be some mistake. He says he hasn't."
Mrs. Wix turned paler, as if this were a still deeper ground for alarm.
"He says so?--he denies that he has seen her?"
"He told me so three days ago. Perhaps she's mistaken," Maisie
suggested.
"Do you mean perhaps she lies? She lies whenever it suits her, I'm very
sure. But I know when people lie--and that's what I've loved in you,
that YOU never do. Mrs. Beale didn't yesterday at any rate. He HAS seen
her."
Maisie was silent a little. "He says not," she then repeated.
"Perhaps--perhaps--" Once more she paused.
"Do you mean perhaps HE lies?"
"Gracious goodness, no!" Maisie shouted.
Mrs. Wix's bitterness, however, again overflowed. "He does, he does,"
she cried, "and it's that that's just the worst of it! They'll take
you, they'll take you, and what in the world will then become of me?"
She threw herself afresh upon her pupil and wept over her with the
inevitable effect of causing the child's own tears to flow. But Maisie
couldn't have told you if she had been crying at the image of their
separation or at that of Sir Claude's untruth. As regards this deviation
it was agreed between them that they were not in a position to bring it
home to him. Mrs. Wix was in dread of doing anything to make him, as
she said, "worse"; and Maisie was sufficiently initiated to be able to
reflect that in speaking to her as he had done he had only wished to be
tender of Mrs. Beale. It fell in with all her inclinations to think of
him as tender, and she forbore to let him know that the two ladies had,
as SHE would never do, betrayed him.
She had not long to keep her secret, for the next day, when she went
out with him, he suddenly said in reference to some errand he had first
proposed: "No, we won't do that--we'll do something else." On this, a
few steps from the door, he stopped a hansom and helped her in; then
following her he gave the driver over the top an address that she lost.
When he was seated beside her she asked him where they were going; to
which he replied "My dear child, you'll see." She saw while she watched
and wondered that they took the direction of the Regent's Park; but
she didn't know why he should make a mystery of that, and it was not
till they passed under a pretty arch and drew up at a white house
in a terrace from which the view, she thought, must be lovely that,
mystified, she clutched him and broke out: "I shall see papa?"
He looked down at her with a kind smile. "No, probably not. I haven't
brought you for that."
"Then whose house is it?"
"It's your father's. They've moved here."
She looked about: she had known Mr. Farange in four or five houses, and
there was nothing astonishing in this except that it was the nicest
place yet. "But I shall see Mrs. Beale?"
"It's to see her that I brought you."
She stared, very white, and, with her hand on his arm, though they had
stopped, kept him sitting in the cab. "To leave me, do you mean?"
He could scarce bring it out. "It's not for me to say if you CAN stay.
We must look into it."
"But if I do I shall see papa?"
"Oh some time or other, no doubt." Then Sir Claude went on: "Have you
really so very great a dread of that?"
Maisie glanced away over the apron of the cab--gazed a minute at the
green expanse of the Regent's Park and, at this moment colouring to the
roots of her hair, felt the full, hot rush of an emotion more mature
than any she had yet known. It consisted of an odd unexpected shame at
placing in an inferior light, to so perfect a gentleman and so charming
a person as Sir Claude, so very near a relative as Mr. Farange. She
remembered, however, her friend's telling her that no one was seriously
afraid of her father, and she turned round with a small toss of her
head. "Oh I dare say I can manage him!"
Sir Claude smiled, but she noted that the violence with which she had
just changed colour had brought into his own face a slight compunctious
and embarrassed flush. It was as if he had caught his first glimpse of
her sense of responsibility. Neither of them made a movement to get out,
and after an instant he said to her: "Look here, if you say so we won't
after all go in."
"Ah but I want to see Mrs. Beale!" the child gently wailed.
"But what if she does decide to take you? Then, you know, you'll have to
remain."
Maisie turned it over. "Straight on--and give you up?"
"Well--I don't quite know about giving me up."
"I mean as I gave up Mrs. Beale when I last went to mamma's. I couldn't
do without you here for anything like so long a time as that." It struck
her as a hundred years since she had seen Mrs. Beale, who was on the
other side of the door they were so near and whom she yet had not taken
the jump to clasp in her arms.
"Oh I dare say you'll see more of me than you've seen of Mrs. Beale.
It isn't in ME to be so beautifully discreet," Sir Claude said. "But
all the same," he continued, "I leave the thing, now that we're here,
absolutely WITH you. You must settle it. We'll only go in if you say so.
If you don't say so we'll turn right round and drive away."
"So in that case Mrs. Beale won't take me?"
"Well--not by any act of ours."
"And I shall be able to go on with mamma?" Maisie asked.
"Oh I don't say that!"
She considered. "But I thought you said you had squared her?"
Sir Claude poked his stick at the splashboard of the cab. "Not, my dear
child, to the point she now requires."
"Then if she turns me out and I don't come here--"
Sir Claude promptly took her up. "What do I offer you, you naturally
enquire? My poor chick, that's just what I ask myself. I don't see it,
I confess, quite as straight as Mrs. Wix."
His companion gazed a moment at what Mrs. Wix saw. "You mean WE can't
make a little family?"
"It's very base of me, no doubt, but I can't wholly chuck your mother."
Maisie, at this, emitted a low but lengthened sigh, a slight sound of
reluctant assent which would certainly have been amusing to an auditor.
"Then there isn't anything else?"
"I vow I don't quite see what there is."
Maisie waited; her silence seemed to signify that she too had no
alternative to suggest. But she made another appeal. "If I come here
you'll come to see me?"
"I won't lose sight of you."
"But how often will you come?" As he hung fire she pressed him. "Often
and often?"
Still he faltered. "My dear old woman--" he began. Then he paused again,
going on the next moment with a change of tone. "You're too funny! Yes
then," he said; "often and often."
"All right!" Maisie jumped out. Mrs. Beale was at home, but not in the
drawing-room, and when the butler had gone for her the child suddenly
broke out: "But when I'm here what will Mrs. Wix do?"
"Ah you should have thought of that sooner!" said her companion with the
first faint note of asperity she had ever heard him sound.
----------CHAPTER 22---------
The next day it seemed to her indeed at the bottom--down too far, in
shuddering plunges, even to leave her a sense, on the Channel boat, of
the height at which Sir Claude remained and which had never in every way
been so great as when, much in the wet, though in the angle of a screen
of canvas, he sociably sat with his stepdaughter's head in his lap and
that of Mrs. Beale's housemaid fairly pillowed on his breast. Maisie was
surprised to learn as they drew into port that they had had a lovely
passage; but this emotion, at Boulogne, was speedily quenched in others,
above all in the great ecstasy of a larger impression of life. She was
"abroad" and she gave herself up to it, responded to it, in the bright
air, before the pink houses, among the bare-legged fishwives and the
red-legged soldiers, with the instant certitude of a vocation. Her
vocation was to see the world and to thrill with enjoyment of the
picture; she had grown older in five minutes and had by the time they
reached the hotel recognised in the institutions and manners of France a
multitude of affinities and messages. Literally in the course of an hour
she found her initiation; a consciousness much quickened by the superior
part that, as soon as they had gobbled down a French breakfast--which
was indeed a high note in the concert--she observed herself to play to
Susan Ash. Sir Claude, who had already bumped against people he knew and
who, as he said, had business and letters, sent them out together for a
walk, a walk in which the child was avenged, so far as poetic justice
required, not only for the loud giggles that in their London trudges
used to break from her attendant, but for all the years of her tendency
to produce socially that impression of an excess of the queer something
which had seemed to waver so widely between innocence and guilt. On the
spot, at Boulogne, though there might have been excess there was at
least no wavering; she recognised, she understood, she adored and took
possession; feeling herself attuned to everything and laying her hand,
right and left, on what had simply been waiting for her. She explained
to Susan, she laughed at Susan, she towered over Susan; and it was
somehow Susan's stupidity, of which she had never yet been so sure,
and Susan's bewilderment and ignorance and antagonism, that gave the
liveliest rebound to her immediate perceptions and adoptions. The place
and the people were all a picture together, a picture that, when they
went down to the wide sands, shimmered, in a thousand tints, with the
pretty organisation of the _plage_, with the gaiety of spectators and
bathers, with that of the language and the weather, and above all with
that of our young lady's unprecedented situation. For it appeared to her
that no one since the beginning of time could have had such an adventure
or, in an hour, so much experience; as a sequel to which she only
needed, in order to feel with conscious wonder how the past was changed,
to hear Susan, inscrutably aggravated, express a preference for the
Edgware Road. The past was so changed and the circle it had formed
already so overstepped that on that very afternoon, in the course of
another walk, she found herself enquiring of Sir Claude--without a
single scruple--if he were prepared as yet to name the moment at which
they should start for Paris. His answer, it must be said, gave her the
least little chill.
"Oh Paris, my dear child--I don't quite know about Paris!"
This required to be met, but it was much less to challenge him than for
the rich joy of her first discussion of the details of a tour that,
after looking at him a minute, she replied: "Well, isn't that the REAL
thing, the thing that when one does come abroad--?"
He had turned grave again, and she merely threw that out: it was a way
of doing justice to the seriousness of their life. She couldn't moreover
be so much older since yesterday without reflecting that if by this time
she probed a little he would recognise that she had done enough for mere
patience. There was in fact something in his eyes that suddenly, to her
own, made her discretion shabby. Before she could remedy this he had
answered her last question, answered it in the way that, of all ways,
she had least expected. "The thing it doesn't do not to do? Certainly
Paris is charming. But, my dear fellow, Paris eats your head off. I mean
it's so beastly expensive."
That note gave her a pang--it suddenly let in a harder light. Were they
poor then, that is was HE poor, really poor beyond the pleasantry of
apollinaris and cold beef? They had walked to the end of the long jetty
that enclosed the harbour and were looking out at the dangers they had
escaped, the grey horizon that was England, the tumbled surface of the
sea and the brown smacks that bobbed upon it. Why had he chosen an
embarrassed time to make this foreign dash? unless indeed it was just
the dash economic, of which she had often heard and on which, after
another look at the grey horizon and the bobbing boats, she was ready
to turn round with elation. She replied to him quite in his own manner:
"I see, I see." She smiled up at him. "Our affairs are involved."
"That's it." He returned her smile. "Mine are not quite so bad as yours;
for yours are really, my dear man, in a state I can't see through at
all. But mine will do--for a mess."
She thought this over. "But isn't France cheaper than England?"
England, over there in the thickening gloom, looked just then remarkably
dear. "I dare say; some parts."
"Then can't we live in those parts?"
There was something that for an instant, in satisfaction of this, he had
the air of being about to say and yet not saying. What he presently said
was: "This very place is one of them."
"Then we shall live here?"
He didn't treat it quite so definitely as she liked. "Since we've come
to save money!"
This made her press him more. "How long shall we stay?"
"Oh three or four days."
It took her breath away. "You can save money in that time?"
He burst out laughing, starting to walk again and taking her under his
arm. He confessed to her on the way that she too had put a finger on
the weakest of all his weaknesses, the fact, of which he was perfectly
aware, that he probably might have lived within his means if he had
never done anything for thrift. "It's the happy thoughts that do it," he
said; "there's nothing so ruinous as putting in a cheap week." Maisie
heard afresh among the pleasant sounds of the closing day that steel
click of Ida's change of mind. She thought of the ten-pound note
it would have been delightful at this juncture to produce for her
companion's encouragement. But the idea was dissipated by his saying
irrelevantly, in presence of the next thing they stopped to admire: "We
shall stay till she arrives."
She turned upon him. "Mrs. Beale?"
"Mrs. Wix. I've had a wire," he went on. "She has seen your mother."
"Seen mamma?" Maisie stared. "Where in the world?"
"Apparently in London. They've been together."
For an instant this looked ominous--a fear came into her eyes. "Then
she hasn't gone?"
"Your mother?--to South Africa? I give it up, dear boy," Sir Claude
said; and she seemed literally to see him give it up as he stood
there and with a kind of absent gaze--absent, that is, from HER
affairs--followed the fine stride and shining limbs of a young fishwife
who had just waded out of the sea with her basketful of shrimps. His
thought came back to her sooner than his eyes. "But I dare say it's all
right. She wouldn't come if it wasn't, poor old thing: she knows rather
well what she's about."
This was so reassuring that Maisie, after turning it over, could make it
fit into her dream. "Well, what IS she about?"
He finally stopped looking at the fishwife--he met his companion's
enquiry. "Oh you know!" There was something in the way he said it that
made, between them, more of an equality than she had yet imagined; but
it had also more the effect of raising her up than of letting him down,
and what it did with her was shown by the sound of her assent.
"Yes--I know!" What she knew, what she COULD know is by this time no
secret to us: it grew and grew at any rate, the rest of that day, in the
air of what he took for granted. It was better he should do that than
attempt to test her knowledge; but there at the worst was the gist of
the matter: it was open between them at last that their great change,
as, speaking as if it had already lasted weeks, Maisie called it, was
somehow built up round Mrs. Wix. Before she went to bed that night she
knew further that Sir Claude, since, as HE called it, they had been on
the rush, had received more telegrams than one. But they separated again
without speaking of Mrs. Beale.
Oh what a crossing for the straighteners and the old brown dress--which
latter appurtenance the child saw thriftily revived for the possible
disasters of travel! The wind got up in the night and from her little
room at the inn Maisie could hear the noise of the sea. The next day it
was raining and everything different: this was the case even with Susan
Ash, who positively crowed over the bad weather, partly, it seemed, for
relish of the time their visitor would have in the boat, and partly to
point the moral of the folly of coming to such holes. In the wet, with
Sir Claude, Maisie went to the Folkestone packet, on the arrival of
which, with many signs of the fray, he made her wait under an umbrella
by the quay; whence almost ere the vessel touched, he was to be
descried, in quest of their friend, wriggling--that had been his
word--through the invalids massed upon the deck. It was long till
he reappeared--it was not indeed till every one had landed; when he
presented the object of his benevolence in a light that Maisie scarce
knew whether to suppose the depth of prostration or the flush of
triumph. The lady on his arm, still bent beneath her late ordeal, was
muffled in such draperies as had never before offered so much support
to so much woe. At the hotel, an hour later, this ambiguity dropped:
assisting Mrs. Wix in private to refresh and reinvest herself, Maisie
heard from her in detail how little she could have achieved if Sir
Claude hadn't put it in her power. It was a phrase that in her room she
repeated in connexions indescribable: he had put it in her power to have
"changes," as she said, of the most intimate order, adapted to climates
and occasions so various as to foreshadow in themselves the stages of
a vast itinerary. Cheap weeks would of course be in their place after
so much money spent on a governess; sums not grudged, however, by this
lady's pupil, even on her feeling her own appearance give rise, through
the straighteners, to an attention perceptibly mystified. Sir Claude in
truth had had less time to devote to it than to Mrs. Wix's; and moreover
she would rather be in her own shoes than in her friend's creaking new
ones in the event of an encounter with Mrs. Beale. Maisie was too lost
in the idea of Mrs. Beale's judgement of so much newness to pass any
judgement herself. Besides, after much luncheon and many endearments,
the question took quite another turn, to say nothing of the pleasure
of the child's quick view that there were other eyes than Susan Ash's
to open to what she could show. She couldn't show much, alas, till it
stopped raining, which it declined to do that day; but this had only the
effect of leaving more time for Mrs. Wix's own demonstration. It came
as they sat in the little white and gold salon which Maisie thought the
loveliest place she had ever seen except perhaps the apartment of the
Countess; it came while the hard summer storm lashed the windows and
blew in such a chill that Sir Claude, with his hands in his pockets and
cigarettes in his teeth, fidgeting, frowning, looking out and turning
back, ended by causing a smoky little fire to be made in the dressy
little chimney. It came in spite of something that could only be named
his air of wishing to put it off; an air that had served him--oh as all
his airs served him!--to the extent of his having for a couple of hours
confined the conversation to gratuitous jokes and generalities, kept it
on the level of the little empty coffee-cups and _petits verres_ (Mrs.
Wix had two of each!) that struck Maisie, through the fumes of the
French fire and the English tobacco, as a token more than ever that they
were launched. She felt now, in close quarters and as clearly as if Mrs.
Wix had told her, that what this lady had come over for was not merely
to be chaffed and to hear her pupil chaffed; not even to hear Sir
Claude, who knew French in perfection, imitate the strange sounds
emitted by the English folk at the hotel. It was perhaps half an effect
of her present renovations, as if her clothes had been somebody's else:
she had at any rate never produced such an impression of high colour,
of a redness associated in Maisie's mind at THAT pitch either with
measles or with "habits." Her heart was not at all in the gossip about
Boulogne; and if her complexion was partly the result of the dejeuner
and the _petits verres_ it was also the brave signal of what she was
there to say. Maisie knew when this did come how anxiously it had been
awaited by the youngest member of the party. "Her ladyship packed me
off--she almost put me into the cab!" That was what Mrs. Wix at last
brought out.
|
null | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter 23 using the context provided. | chapter 23|chapter 27 | Mrs. Wix explains the situation further: Ida came to visit Mrs. Wix at her own lowly house and gave her a ten-pound note to go to France. Sir Claude hints to Maisie that this could have been the money Ida took out and then put away while talking with Maisie in the garden. Mrs. Wix says that she was sent so that Susan Ash can go back to England. Sir Claude suggests that he will take Susan Ash back, as he was the one who took her to France in the first place and she shouldn't have to venture back alone. Maisie and Mrs. Wix are both very against this plan. Sir Claude asks whether Ida was alone when she visited Mrs. Wix, and Mrs. Wix blushes as she replies that there was a man waiting in the cab. Mrs. Wix and Sir Claude talk about Ida further, agreeing that Sir Claude is free and that Ida seems to have completely given up responsibility for Maisie. Mrs. Wix says that she "almost admire" Ida for her recent decisions. Sir Claude steers the conversation back to who was in the cab; Mrs. Wix says that it wasn't the Captain but that she doesn't want to talk about it in front of Maisie. Sir Claude and Maisie say that it is just fine to do so, so Mrs. Wix says it is someone named Mr. Tischbein. Both Sir Claude and Maisie seem to take this lightly. Mrs. Wix slightly offends Maisie with what she says next; she tells them that she has been sent so that Maisie can be raised by "a decent person" , implying that Sir Claude is not decent enough to raise her properly. She elaborates that she is also intended to save Sir Claude from himself and keep him decent. Sir Claude tells Mrs. Wix that she is "too hard on Mrs. Beale". When Sir Claude distractedly looks for his hat, Maisie sees it first and runs to give it to him. They stare at each other, both holding the hat, until Mrs. Wix interrupts to ask whether he is really going back. Maisie adds the question of whether his going back would be to see Mrs. Beale. Sir Claude deflects the question, saying they'll talk about it tomorrow and that he needs to go outside for a while. Before he can leave, Mrs. Wix accuses him of being afraid of Mrs. Beale and he agrees with her. Sir Claude leaves and Maisie thinks about how he is also afraid of her mother, and perhaps of Mrs. Wix as well |
----------CHAPTER 23---------
Sir Claude was stationed at the window; he didn't so much as turn round,
and it was left to the youngest of the three to take up the remark. "Do
you mean you went to see her yesterday?"
"She came to see ME. She knocked at my shabby door. She mounted my
squalid stair. She told me she had seen you at Folkestone."
Maisie wondered. "She went back that evening?"
"No; yesterday morning. She drove to me straight from the station. It
was most remarkable. If I had a job to get off she did nothing to make
it worse--she did a great deal to make it better." Mrs. Wix hung fire,
though the flame in her face burned brighter; then she became capable
of saying: "Her ladyship's kind! She did what I didn't expect."
Maisie, on this, looked straight at her stepfather's back; it might well
have been for her at that hour a monument of her ladyship's kindness. It
remained, as such, monumentally still, and for a time that permitted the
child to ask of their companion: "Did she really help you?"
"Most practically." Again Mrs. Wix paused; again she quite resounded.
"She gave me a ten-pound note."
At that, still looking out, Sir Claude, at the window, laughed loud. "So
you see, Maisie, we've not quite lost it!"
"Oh no," Maisie responded. "Isn't that too charming?" She smiled at Mrs.
Wix. "We know all about it." Then on her friend's showing such blankness
as was compatible with such a flush she pursued: "She does want me to
have you?"
Mrs. Wix showed a final hesitation, which, however, while Sir Claude
drummed on the window-pane, she presently surmounted. It came to Maisie
that in spite of his drumming and of his not turning round he was really
so much interested as to leave himself in a manner in her hands; which
somehow suddenly seemed to her a greater proof than he could have given
by interfering. "She wants me to have YOU!" Mrs. Wix declared.
Maisie answered this bang at Sir Claude. "Then that's nice for all of
us."
Of course it was, his continued silence sufficiently admitted while
Mrs. Wix rose from her chair and, as if to take more of a stand, placed
herself, not without majesty, before the fire. The incongruity of her
smartness, the circumference of her stiff frock, presented her as really
more ready for Paris than any of them. She also gazed hard at Sir
Claude's back. "Your wife was different from anything she had ever shown
me. She recognises certain proprieties."
"Which? Do you happen to remember?" Sir Claude asked.
Mrs. Wix's reply was prompt. "The importance for Maisie of a
gentlewoman, of some one who's not--well, so bad! She objects to a mere
maid, and I don't in the least mind telling you what she wants me to
do." One thing was clear--Mrs. Wix was now bold enough for anything.
"She wants me to persuade you to get rid of the person from Mrs.
Beale's."
Maisie waited for Sir Claude to pronounce on this; then she could only
understand that he on his side waited, and she felt particularly full of
common sense as she met her responsibility. "Oh I don't want Susan with
YOU!" she said to Mrs. Wix.
Sir Claude, always from the window, approved. "That's quite simple. I'll
take her back."
Mrs. Wix gave a positive jump; Maisie caught her look of alarm. "'Take'
her? You don't mean to go over on purpose?"
Sir Claude said nothing for a moment; after which, "Why shouldn't I
leave you here?" he enquired.
Maisie, at this, sprang up. "Oh do, oh do, oh do!" The next moment she
was interlaced with Mrs. Wix, and the two, on the hearth-rug, their eyes
in each other's eyes, considered the plan with intensity. Then Maisie
felt the difference of what they saw in it.
"She can surely go back alone: why should you put yourself out?" Mrs.
Wix demanded.
"Oh she's an idiot--she's incapable. If anything should happen to her
it would be awkward: it was I who brought her--without her asking. If I
turn her away I ought with my own hand to place her again exactly where
I found her."
Mrs. Wix's face appealed to Maisie on such folly, and her manner,
as directed to their companion, had, to her pupil's surprise, an
unprecedented firmness. "Dear Sir Claude, I think you're perverse. Pay
her fare and give her a sovereign. She has had an experience that she
never dreamed of and that will be an advantage to her through life.
If she goes wrong on the way it will be simply because she wants to,
and, with her expenses and her remuneration--make it even what you
like!--you'll have treated her as handsomely as you always treat every
one."
This was a new tone--as new as Mrs. Wix's cap; and it could strike a
young person with a sharpened sense for latent meanings as the upshot of
a relation that had taken on a new character. It brought out for Maisie
how much more even than she had guessed her friends were fighting side
by side. At the same time it needed so definite a justification that as
Sir Claude now at last did face them she at first supposed him merely
resentful of excessive familiarity. She was therefore yet more puzzled
to see him show his serene beauty untroubled, as well as an equal
interest in a matter quite distinct from any freedom but her ladyship's.
"Did my wife come alone?" He could ask even that good-humouredly.
"When she called on me?" Mrs. Wix WAS red now: his good humour wouldn't
keep down her colour, which for a minute glowed there like her ugly
honesty. "No--there was some one in the cab." The only attenuation she
could think of was after a minute to add: "But they didn't come up."
Sir Claude broke into a laugh--Maisie herself could guess what it was
at: while he now walked about, still laughing, and at the fireplace
gave a gay kick to a displaced log, she felt more vague about almost
everything than about the drollery of such a "they." She in fact could
scarce have told you if it was to deepen or to cover the joke that she
bethought herself to observe: "Perhaps it was her maid."
Mrs. Wix gave her a look that at any rate deprecated the wrong tone. "It
was not her maid."
"Do you mean there are this time two?" Sir Claude asked as if he hadn't
heard.
"Two maids?" Maisie went on as if she might assume he had.
The reproach of the straighteners darkened; but Sir Claude cut across it
with a sudden: "See here; what do you mean? And what do you suppose SHE
meant?"
Mrs. Wix let him for a moment, in silence, understand that the answer
to his question, if he didn't take care, might give him more than he
wanted. It was as if, with this scruple, she measured and adjusted all
she gave him in at last saying: "What she meant was to make me know that
you're definitely free. To have that straight from her was a joy I of
course hadn't hoped for: it made the assurance, and my delight at it, a
thing I could really proceed upon. You already know now certainly I'd
have started even if she hadn't pressed me; you already know what, so
long, we've been looking for and what, as soon as she told me of her
step taken at Folkestone, I recognised with rapture that we HAVE. It's
your freedom that makes me right"--she fairly bristled with her logic.
"But I don't mind telling you that it's her action that makes me happy!"
"Her action?" Sir Claude echoed. "Why, my dear woman, her action is just
a hideous crime. It happens to satisfy our sympathies in a way that's
quite delicious; but that doesn't in the least alter the fact that it's
the most abominable thing ever done. She has chucked our friend here
overboard not a bit less than if she had shoved her shrieking and
pleading, out of that window and down two floors to the paving-stones."
Maisie surveyed serenely the parties to the discussion. "Oh your friend
here, dear Sir Claude, doesn't plead and shriek!"
He looked at her a moment. "Never. Never. That's one, only one, but
charming so far as it goes, of about a hundred things we love her for."
Then he pursued to Mrs. Wix: "What I can't for the life of me make out
is what Ida is REALLY up to, what game she was playing in turning to you
with that cursed cheek after the beastly way she has used you. Where--to
explain her at all--does she fancy she can presently, when we least
expect it, take it out of us?"
"She doesn't fancy anything, nor want anything out of any one. Her
cursed cheek, as you call it, is the best thing I've ever seen in her.
I don't care a fig for the beastly way she used me--I forgive it all a
thousand times over!" Mrs. Wix raised her voice as she had never raised
it; she quite triumphed in her lucidity. "I understand her, I almost
admire her!" she quavered. She spoke as if this might practically
suffice; yet in charity to fainter lights she threw out an explanation.
"As I've said, she was different; upon my word I wouldn't have known
her. She had a glimmering, she had an instinct; they brought her. It was
a kind of happy thought, and if you couldn't have supposed she would
ever have had such a thing, why of course I quite agree with you. But
she did have it! There!"
Maisie could feel again how a certain rude rightness in this plea might
have been found exasperating; but as she had often watched Sir Claude in
apprehension of displeasures that didn't come, so now, instead of saying
"Oh hell!" as her father used, she observed him only to take refuge in a
question that at the worst was abrupt.
"Who IS it this time, do you know?"
Mrs. Wix tried blind dignity. "Who is what, Sir Claude?"
"The man who stands the cabs. Who was in the one that waited at your
door?"
At this challenge she faltered so long that her young friend's pitying
conscience gave her a hand. "It wasn't the Captain."
This good intention, however, only converted the excellent woman's
scruple to a more ambiguous stare; besides of course making Sir Claude
go off. Mrs. Wix fairly appealed to him. "Must I really tell you?"
His amusement continued. "Did she make you promise not to?"
Mrs. Wix looked at him still harder. "I mean before Maisie."
Sir Claude laughed again. "Why SHE can't hurt him!"
Maisie felt herself, as it passed, brushed by the light humour of this.
"Yes, I can't hurt him."
The straighteners again roofed her over; after which they seemed to
crack with the explosion of their wearer's honesty. Amid the flying
splinters Mrs. Wix produced a name. "Mr. Tischbein."
There was for an instant a silence that, under Sir Claude's influence
and while he and Maisie looked at each other, suddenly pretended to be
that of gravity. "We don't know Mr. Tischbein, do we, dear?"
Maisie gave the point all needful thought. "No, I can't place Mr.
Tischbein."
It was a passage that worked visibly on their friend. "You must pardon
me, Sir Claude," she said with an austerity of which the note was real,
"if I thank God to your face that he has in his mercy--I mean his mercy
to our charge--allowed me to achieve this act." She gave out a long puff
of pain. "It was time!" Then as if still more to point the moral: "I
said just now I understood your wife. I said just now I admired her. I
stand to it: I did both of those things when I saw how even SHE, poor
thing, saw. If you want the dots on the i's you shall have them. What
she came to me for, in spite of everything, was that I'm just"--she
quavered it out--"well, just clean! What she saw for her daughter was
that there must at last be a DECENT person!"
Maisie was quick enough to jump a little at the sound of this
implication that such a person was what Sir Claude was not; the
next instant, however, she more profoundly guessed against whom the
discrimination was made. She was therefore left the more surprised at
the complete candour with which he embraced the worst. "If she's bent on
decent persons why has she given her to ME? You don't call me a decent
person, and I'll do Ida the justice that SHE never did. I think I'm as
indecent as any one and that there's nothing in my behaviour that makes
my wife's surrender a bit less ignoble!"
"Don't speak of your behaviour!" Mrs. Wix cried. "Don't say such
horrible things; they're false and they're wicked and I forbid you! It's
to KEEP you decent that I'm here and that I've done everything I have
done. It's to save you--I won't say from yourself, because in yourself
you're beautiful and good! It's to save you from the worst person of
all. I haven't, after all, come over to be afraid to speak of her!
That's the person in whose place her ladyship wants such a person as
even me; and if she thought herself, as she as good as told me, not fit
for Maisie's company, it's not, as you may well suppose, that she may
make room for Mrs. Beale!"
Maisie watched his face as it took this outbreak, and the most she saw
in it was that it turned a little white. That indeed made him look,
as Susan Ash would have said, queer; and it was perhaps a part of the
queerness that he intensely smiled. "You're too hard on Mrs. Beale. She
has great merits of her own."
Mrs. Wix, at this, instead of immediately replying, did what Sir Claude
had been doing before: she moved across to the window and stared a while
into the storm. There was for a minute, to Maisie's sense, a hush that
resounded with wind and rain. Sir Claude, in spite of these things,
glanced about for his hat; on which Maisie spied it first and, making
a dash for it, held it out to him. He took it with a gleam of a
"thank-you" in his face, and then something moved her still to hold the
other side of the brim; so that, united by their grasp of this object,
they stood some seconds looking many things at each other. By this time
Mrs. Wix had turned round. "Do you mean to tell me," she demanded, "that
you are going back?"
"To Mrs. Beale?" Maisie surrendered his hat, and there was something
that touched her in the embarrassed, almost humiliated way their
companion's challenge made him turn it round and round. She had seen
people do that who, she was sure, did nothing else that Sir Claude did.
"I can't just say, my dear thing. We'll see about I--we'll talk of it
to-morrow. Meantime I must get some air."
Mrs. Wix, with her back to the window, threw up her head to a height
that, still for a moment, had the effect of detaining him. "All the air
in France, Sir Claude, won't, I think, give you the courage to deny that
you're simply afraid of her!"
Oh this time he did look queer; Maisie had no need of Susan's vocabulary
to note it! It would have come to her of itself as, with his hand on
the door, he turned his eyes from his stepdaughter to her governess and
then back again. Resting on Maisie's, though for ever so short a time,
there was something they gave up to her and tried to explain. His lips,
however, explained nothing; they only surrendered to Mrs. Wix. "Yes. I'm
simply afraid of her!" He opened the door and passed out. It brought
back to Maisie his confession of fear of her mother; it made her
stepmother then the second lady about whom he failed of the particular
virtue that was supposed most to mark a gentleman. In fact there were
three of them, if she counted in Mrs. Wix, before whom he had undeniably
quailed. Well, his want of valour was but a deeper appeal to her
tenderness. To thrill with response to it she had only to remember all
the ladies she herself had, as they called it, funked.
----------CHAPTER 27---------
The greatest wonder of all was the way Mrs. Beale addressed her
announcement, so far as could be judged, equally to Mrs. Wix, who, as
if from sudden failure of strength, sank into a chair while Maisie
surrendered to the visitor's embrace. As soon as the child was liberated
she met with profundity Mrs. Wix's stupefaction and actually was able to
see that while in a manner sustaining the encounter her face yet seemed
with intensity to say: "Now, for God's sake, don't crow 'I told you
so!'" Maisie was somehow on the spot aware of an absence of disposition
to crow; it had taken her but an extra minute to arrive at such a quick
survey of the objects surrounding Mrs. Beale as showed that among them
was no appurtenance of Sir Claude's. She knew his dressing-bag now--oh
with the fondest knowledge!--and there was an instant during which its
not being there was a stroke of the worst news. She was yet to learn
what it could be to recognise in some lapse of a sequence the proof of
an extinction, and therefore remained unaware that this momentary pang
was a foretaste of the experience of death. It of course yielded in
a flash to Mrs. Beale's brightness, it gasped itself away in her own
instant appeal. "You've come alone?"
"Without Sir Claude?" Strangely, Mrs. Beale looked even brighter. "Yes;
in the eagerness to get at you. You abominable little villain!"--and her
stepmother, laughing clear, administered to her cheek a pat that was
partly a pinch. "What were you up to and what did you take me for? But
I'm glad to be abroad, and after all it's you who have shown me the way.
I mightn't, without you, have been able to come--to come, that is, so
soon. Well, here I am at any rate and in a moment more I should have
begun to worry about you. This will do very well"--she was good-natured
about the place and even presently added that it was charming. Then with
a rosier glow she made again her great point: "I'm free, I'm free!"
Maisie made on her side her own: she carried back her gaze to Mrs. Wix,
whom amazement continued to hold; she drew afresh her old friend's
attention to the superior way she didn't take that up. What she did take
up the next minute was the question of Sir Claude. "Where is he? Won't
he come?"
Mrs. Beale's consideration of this oscillated with a smile between the
two expectancies with which she was flanked: it was conspicuous, it
was extraordinary, her unblinking acceptance of Mrs. Wix, a miracle of
which Maisie had even now begun to read a reflexion in that lady's long
visage. "He'll come, but we must MAKE him!" she gaily brought forth.
"Make him?" Maisie echoed.
"We must give him time. We must play our cards."
"But he promised us awfully," Maisie replied.
"My dear child, he has promised ME awfully; I mean lots of things, and
not in every case kept his promise to the letter." Mrs. Beale's good
humour insisted on taking for granted Mrs. Wix's, to whom her attention
had suddenly grown prodigious. "I dare say he has done the same with
you, and not always come to time. But he makes it up in his own way--and
it isn't as if we didn't know exactly what he is. There's one thing he
is," she went on, "which makes everything else only a question, for us,
of tact." They scarce had time to wonder what this was before, as they
might have said, it flew straight into their face. "He's as free as I
am!"
"Yes, I know," said Maisie; as if, however, independently weighing the
value of that. She really weighed also the oddity of her stepmother's
treating it as news to HER, who had been the first person literally to
whom Sir Claude had mentioned it. For a few seconds, as if with the
sound of it in her ears, she stood with him again, in memory and in the
twilight, in the hotel garden at Folkestone.
Anything Mrs. Beale overlooked was, she indeed divined, but the effect
of an exaltation of high spirits, a tendency to soar that showed even
when she dropped--still quite impartially--almost to the confidential.
"Well, then--we've only to wait. He can't do without us long. I'm sure,
Mrs. Wix, he can't do without YOU! He's devoted to you; he has told me
so much about you. The extent I count on you, you know, count on you to
help me--" was an extent that even all her radiance couldn't express.
What it couldn't express quite as much as what it could made at any rate
every instant her presence and even her famous freedom loom larger; and
it was this mighty mass that once more led her companions, bewildered
and disjoined, to exchange with each other as through a thickening veil
confused and ineffectual signs. They clung together at least on the
common ground of unpreparedness, and Maisie watched without relief the
havoc of wonder in Mrs. Wix. It had reduced her to perfect impotence,
and, but that gloom was black upon her, she sat as if fascinated by Mrs.
Beale's high style. It had plunged her into a long deep hush; for what
had happened was the thing she had least allowed for and before which
the particular rigour she had worked up could only grow limp and sick.
Sir Claude was to have reappeared with his accomplice or without
her; never, never his accomplice without HIM. Mrs. Beale had gained
apparently by this time an advantage she could pursue: she looked at the
droll dumb figure with jesting reproach. "You really won't shake hands
with me? Never mind; you'll come round!" She put the matter to no test,
going on immediately and, instead of offering her hand, raising it, with
a pretty gesture that her bent head met, to a long black pin that played
a part in her back hair. "Are hats worn at luncheon? If you're as hungry
as I am we must go right down."
Mrs. Wix stuck fast, but she met the question in a voice her pupil
scarce recognised. "I wear mine."
Mrs. Beale, swallowing at one glance her brand-new bravery, which she
appeared at once to refer to its origin and to follow in its flights,
accepted this as conclusive. "Oh but I've not such a beauty!" Then she
turned rejoicingly to Maisie. "I've got a beauty for YOU my dear."
"A beauty?"
"A love of a hat--in my luggage. I remembered THAT"--she nodded at the
object on her stepdaughter's head--"and I've brought you one with a
peacock's breast. It's the most gorgeous blue!"
It was too strange, this talking with her there already not about
Sir Claude but about peacocks--too strange for the child to have the
presence of mind to thank her. But the felicity in which she had arrived
was so proof against everything that Maisie felt more and more the depth
of the purpose that must underlie it. She had a vague sense of its being
abysmal, the spirit with which Mrs. Beale carried off the awkwardness,
in the white and gold salon, of such a want of breath and of welcome.
Mrs. Wix was more breathless than ever; the embarrassment of Mrs.
Beale's isolation was as nothing to the embarrassment of her grace. The
perception of this dilemma was the germ on the child's part of a new
question altogether. What if WITH this indulgence--? But the idea lost
itself in something too frightened for hope and too conjectured for
fear; and while everything went by leaps and bounds one of the waiters
stood at the door to remind them that the _table d'hote_ was half over.
"Had you come up to wash hands?" Mrs. Beale hereupon asked them. "Go and
do it quickly and I'll be with you: they've put my boxes in that nice
room--it was Sir Claude's. Trust him," she laughed, "to have a nice
one!" The door of a neighbouring room stood open, and now from the
threshold, addressing herself again to Mrs. Wix, she launched a note
that gave the very key of what, as she would have said, she was up to.
"Dear lady, please attend to my daughter."
She was up to a change of deportment so complete that it represented--oh
for offices still honourably subordinate if not too explicitly
menial--an absolute coercion, an interested clutch of the old woman's
respectability. There was response, to Maisie's view, I may say at once,
in the jump of that respectability to its feet: it was itself capable of
one of the leaps, one of the bounds just mentioned, and it carried its
charge, with this momentum and while Mrs. Beale popped into Sir Claude's
chamber, straight away to where, at the end of the passage, pupil and
governess were quartered. The greatest stride of all, for that matter,
was that within a few seconds the pupil had, in another relation, been
converted into a daughter. Maisie's eyes were still following it when,
after the rush, with the door almost slammed and no thought of soap and
towels, the pair stood face to face. Mrs. Wix, in this position, was the
first to gasp a sound. "Can it ever be that SHE has one?"
Maisie felt still more bewildered. "One what?"
"Why moral sense."
They spoke as if you might have two, but Mrs. Wix looked as if it were
not altogether a happy thought, and Maisie didn't see how even an
affirmative from her own lips would clear up what had become most of a
mystery. It was to this larger puzzle she sprang pretty straight. "IS
she my mother now?"
It was a point as to which an horrific glimpse of the responsibility of
an opinion appeared to affect Mrs. Wix like a blow in the stomach. She
had evidently never thought of it; but she could think and rebound. "If
she is, he's equally your father."
Maisie, however, thought further. "Then my father and my mother--!"
But she had already faltered and Mrs. Wix had already glared back:
"Ought to live together? Don't begin it AGAIN!" She turned away with
a groan, to reach the washing-stand, and Maisie could by this time
recognise with a certain ease that that way verily madness did lie. Mrs.
Wix gave a great untidy splash, but the next instant had faced round.
"She has taken a new line."
"She was nice to you," Maisie concurred.
"What SHE thinks so--'go and dress the young lady!' But it's something!"
she panted. Then she thought out the rest. "If he won't have her, why
she'll have YOU. She'll be the one."
"The one to keep me abroad?"
"The one to give you a home." Mrs. Wix saw further; she mastered all the
portents. "Oh she's cruelly clever! It's not a moral sense." She reached
her climax: "It's a game!"
"A game?"
"Not to lose him. She has sacrificed him--to her duty."
"Then won't he come?" Maisie pleaded.
Mrs. Wix made no answer; her vision absorbed her. "He has fought. But
she has won."
"Then won't he come?" the child repeated.
Mrs. Wix made it out. "Yes, hang him!" She had never been so profane.
For all Maisie minded! "Soon--to-morrow?"
"Too soon--whenever. Indecently soon."
"But then we SHALL be together!" the child went on. It made Mrs. Wix
look at her as if in exasperation; but nothing had time to come before
she precipitated: "Together with YOU!" The air of criticism continued,
but took voice only in her companion's bidding her wash herself and come
down. The silence of quick ablutions fell upon them, presently broken,
however, by one of Maisie's sudden reversions. "Mercy, isn't she
handsome?"
Mrs. Wix had finished; she waited. "She'll attract attention." They
were rapid, and it would have been noticed that the shock the beauty
had given them acted, incongruously, as a positive spur to their
preparations for rejoining her. She had none the less, when they
returned to the sitting-room, already descended; the open door of her
room showed it empty and the chambermaid explained. Here again they were
delayed by another sharp thought of Mrs. Wix's. "But what will she live
on meanwhile?"
Maisie stopped short. "Till Sir Claude comes?"
It was nothing to the violence with which her friend had been arrested.
"Who'll pay the bills?"
Maisie thought. "Can't SHE?"
"She? She hasn't a penny."
The child wondered. "But didn't papa--?"
"Leave her a fortune?" Mrs. Wix would have appeared to speak of papa as
dead had she not immediately added: "Why he lives on other women!"
Oh yes, Maisie remembered. "Then can't he send--" She faltered again;
even to herself it sounded queer.
"Some of their money to his wife?" Mrs. Wix pave a laugh still stranger
than the weird suggestion. "I dare say she'd take it!"
They hurried on again; yet again, on the stairs, Maisie pulled up.
"Well, if she had stopped in England--!" she threw out.
Mrs. Wix considered. "And he had come over instead?"
"Yes, as we expected." Maisie launched her speculation. "What then would
she have lived on?"
Mrs. Wix hung fire but an instant. "On other men!" And she marched
downstairs.
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter i with the given context. | chapter 28|chapter i|chapter ii | We meet Maisie, age six, and find out what her world is like while she's spending her "first term with her father" . After the impersonal preface, James's narrator shows us what it feels like to be Maisie, and the novel will remain close to her point of view throughout . In short, Maisie has got a tough life ahead of her. Beale Farange doesn't hide his anger for her benefit and bad-mouths Maisie's mother in front of his daughter on the regular. We also meet Maisie's babysitter, Moddle . Moddle is always telling Maisie what a bad pair her parents are . Moddle promises Maisie that things will be better when she goes to stay with her mother. But the chapter ends with Maisie repeating an insult per her father's request, one that's sure to get Ida Farange's goat: "'He said I was to tell you, from him,' she faithfully reported, 'that you're a nasty, horrid pig!'" . Ouch. |
----------CHAPTER 28---------
Mrs. Beale, at table between the pair, plainly attracted the attention
Mrs. Wix had foretold. No other lady present was nearly so handsome,
nor did the beauty of any other accommodate itself with such art to the
homage it produced. She talked mainly to her other neighbour, and that
left Maisie leisure both to note the manner in which eyes were riveted
and nudges interchanged, and to lose herself in the meanings that, dimly
as yet and disconnectedly, but with a vividness that fed apprehension,
she could begin to read into her stepmother's independent move. Mrs. Wix
had helped her by talking of a game; it was a connexion in which the
move could put on a strategic air. Her notions of diplomacy were thin,
but it was a kind of cold diplomatic shoulder and an elbow of more than
usual point that, temporarily at least, were presented to her by the
averted inclination of Mrs. Beale's head. There was a phrase familiar to
Maisie, so often was it used by this lady to express the idea of one's
getting what one wanted: one got it--Mrs. Beale always said SHE at all
events always got it or proposed to get it--by "making love." She was
at present making love, singular as it appeared, to Mrs. Wix, and her
young friend's mind had never moved in such freedom as on thus finding
itself face to face with the question of what she wanted to get. This
period of the _omelette aux rognons_ and the poulet saute, while her sole
surviving parent, her fourth, fairly chattered to her governess, left
Maisie rather wondering if her governess would hold out. It was strange,
but she became on the spot quite as interested in Mrs. Wix's moral
sense as Mrs. Wix could possibly be in hers: it had risen before her so
pressingly that this was something new for Mrs. Wix to resist. Resisting
Mrs. Beale herself promised at such a rate to become a very different
business from resisting Sir Claude's view of her. More might come of
what had happened--whatever it was--than Maisie felt she could have
expected. She put it together with a suspicion that, had she ever in
her life had a sovereign changed, would have resembled an impression,
baffled by the want of arithmetic, that her change was wrong: she groped
about in it that she was perhaps playing the passive part in a case of
violent substitution. A victim was what she should surely be if the
issue between her step-parents had been settled by Mrs. Beale's saying:
"Well, if she can live with but one of us alone, with which in the world
should it be but me?" That answer was far from what, for days, she had
nursed herself in, and the desolation of it was deepened by the absence
of anything from Sir Claude to show he had not had to take it as
triumphant. Had not Mrs. Beale, upstairs, as good as given out that
she had quitted him with the snap of a tension, left him, dropped him
in London, after some struggle as a sequel to which her own advent
represented that she had practically sacrificed him? Maisie assisted in
fancy at the probable episode in the Regent's Park, finding elements
almost of terror in the suggestion that Sir Claude had not had fair
play. They drew something, as she sat there, even from the pride of an
association with such beauty as Mrs. Beale's; and the child quite forgot
that, though the sacrifice of Mrs. Beale herself was a solution she had
not invented, she would probably have seen Sir Claude embark upon it
without a direct remonstrance.
What her stepmother had clearly now promised herself to wring from Mrs.
Wix was an assent to the great modification, the change, as smart as a
juggler's trick, in the interest of which nothing so much mattered as
the new convenience of Mrs. Beale. Maisie could positively seize the
moral that her elbow seemed to point in ribs thinly defended--the moral
of its not mattering a straw which of the step-parents was the guardian.
The essence of the question was that a girl wasn't a boy: if Maisie had
been a mere rough trousered thing, destined at the best probably to grow
up a scamp, Sir Claude would have been welcome. As the case stood he had
simply tumbled out of it, and Mrs. Wix would henceforth find herself in
the employ of the right person. These arguments had really fallen into
their place, for our young friend, at the very touch of that tone in
which she had heard her new title declared. She was still, as a result
of so many parents, a daughter to somebody even after papa and mamma
were to all intents dead. If her father's wife and her mother's husband,
by the operation of a natural or, for all she knew, a legal rule, were
in the shoes of their defunct partners, then Mrs. Beale's partner was
exactly as defunct as Sir Claude's and her shoes the very pair to which,
in "Farange _v._ Farange and Others," the divorce court had given
priority. The subject of that celebrated settlement saw the rest of
her day really filled out with the pomp of all that Mrs. Beale assumed.
The assumption rounded itself there between this lady's entertainers,
flourished in a way that left them, in their bottomless element, scarce
a free pair of eyes to exchange signals. It struck Maisie even a little
that there was a rope or two Mrs. Wix might have thrown out if she
would, a rocket or two she might have sent up. They had at any rate
never been so long together without communion or telegraphy, and their
companion kept them apart by simply keeping them with her. From this
situation they saw the grandeur of their intenser relation to her pass
and pass like an endless procession. It was a day of lively movement
and of talk on Mrs. Beale's part so brilliant and overflowing as to
represent music and banners. She took them out with her promptly to walk
and to drive, and even--towards night--sketched a plan for carrying them
to the Etablissement, where, for only a franc apiece, they should listen
to a concert of celebrities. It reminded Maisie, the plan, of the
side-shows at Earl's Court, and the franc sounded brighter than the
shillings which had at that time failed; yet this too, like the other,
was a frustrated hope: the francs failed like the shillings and the
side-shows had set an example to the concert. The Etablissement in short
melted away, and it was little wonder that a lady who from the moment of
her arrival had been so gallantly in the breach should confess herself
it last done up. Maisie could appreciate her fatigue; the day had not
passed without such an observer's discovering that she was excited and
even mentally comparing her state to that of the breakers after a gale.
It had blown hard in London, and she would take time to go down. It was
of the condition known to the child by report as that of talking against
time that her emphasis, her spirit, her humour, which had never dropped,
now gave the impression.
She too was delighted with foreign manners; but her daughter's
opportunities of explaining them to her were unexpectedly forestalled
by her own tone of large acquaintance with them. One of the things that
nipped in the bud all response to her volubility was Maisie's surprised
retreat before the fact that Continental life was what she had been
almost brought up on. It was Mrs. Beale, disconcertingly, who began to
explain it to her friends; it was she who, wherever they turned, was the
interpreter, the historian and the guide. She was full of reference to
her early travels--at the age of eighteen: she had at that period made,
with a distinguished Dutch family, a stay on the Lake of Geneva. Maisie
had in the old days been regaled with anecdotes of these adventures,
but they had with time become phantasmal, and the heroine's quite showy
exemption from bewilderment at Boulogne, her acuteness on some of the
very subjects on which Maisie had been acute to Mrs. Wix, were a high
note of the majesty, of the variety of advantage, with which she had
alighted. It was all a part of the wind in her sails and of the weight
with which her daughter was now to feel her hand. The effect of it on
Maisie was to add already the burden of time to her separation from Sir
Claude. This might, to her sense, have lasted for days; it was as if,
with their main agitation transferred thus to France and with neither
mamma now nor Mrs. Beale nor Mrs. Wix nor herself at his side, he must
be fearfully alone in England. Hour after hour she felt as if she were
waiting; yet she couldn't have said exactly for what. There were moments
when Mrs. Beale's flow of talk was a mere rattle to smother a knock.
At no part of the crisis had the rattle so public a purpose as when,
instead of letting Maisie go with Mrs. Wix to prepare for dinner, she
pushed her--with a push at last incontestably maternal--straight into
the room inherited from Sir Claude. She titivated her little charge with
her own brisk hands; then she brought out: "I'm going to divorce your
father."
This was so different from anything Maisie had expected that it took
some time to reach her mind. She was aware meanwhile that she probably
looked rather wan. "To marry Sir Claude?"
Mrs. Beale rewarded her with a kiss. "It's sweet to hear you put it so."
This was a tribute, but it left Maisie balancing for an objection. "How
CAN you when he's married?"
"He isn't--practically. He's free, you know."
"Free to marry?"
"Free, first, to divorce his own fiend."
The benefit that, these last days, she had felt she owed a certain
person left Maisie a moment so ill-prepared for recognising this lurid
label that she hesitated long enough to risk: "Mamma?"
"She isn't your mamma any longer," Mrs. Beale returned. "Sir Claude has
paid her money to cease to be." Then as if remembering how little, to
the child, a pecuniary transaction must represent: "She lets him off
supporting her if he'll let her off supporting you."
Mrs. Beale appeared, however, to have done injustice to her daughter's
financial grasp. "And support me himself?" Maisie asked.
"Take the whole bother and burden of you and never let her hear of you
again. It's a regular signed contract."
"Why that's lovely of her!" Maisie cried.
"It's not so lovely, my dear, but that he'll get his divorce."
Maisie was briefly silent; after which, "No--he won't get it," she said.
Then she added still more boldly: "And you won't get yours."
Mrs. Beale, who was at the dressing-glass, turned round with amusement
and surprise. "How do you know that?"
"Oh I know!" cried Maisie.
"From Mrs. Wix?"
Maisie debated, then after an instant took her cue from Mrs. Beale's
absence of anger, which struck her the more as she had felt how much of
her courage she needed. "From Mrs. Wix," she admitted.
Mrs. Beale, at the glass again, made play with a powder-puff. "My own
sweet, she's mistaken!" was all she said.
There was a certain force in the very amenity of this, but our young
lady reflected long enough to remember that it was not the answer Sir
Claude himself had made. The recollection nevertheless failed to prevent
her saying: "Do you mean then that he won't come till he has got it?"
Mrs. Beale gave a last touch; she was ready; she stood there in all her
elegance. "I mean, my dear, that it's because he HASN'T got it that I
left him."
This opened a view that stretched further than Maisie could reach. She
turned away from it, but she spoke before they went out again. "Do you
like Mrs. Wix now?"
"Why, my chick, I was just going to ask you if you think she has come at
all to like poor bad me!"
Maisie thought, at this hint; but unsuccessfully. "I haven't the least
idea. But I'll find out."
"Do!" said Mrs. Beale, rustling out with her in a scented air and as if
it would be a very particular favour.
The child tried promptly at bed-time, relieved now of the fear that
their visitor would wish to separate her for the night from her
attendant. "Have you held out?" she began as soon as the two doors at
the end of the passage were again closed on them.
Mrs. Wix looked hard at the flame of the candle. "Held out--?"
"Why, she has been making love to you. Has she won you over?"
Mrs. Wix transferred her intensity to her pupil's face. "Over to what?"
"To HER keeping me instead."
"Instead of Sir Claude?" Mrs. Wix was distinctly gaining time.
"Yes; who else? since it's not instead of you."
Mrs. Wix coloured at this lucidity. "Yes, that IS what she means."
"Well, do you like it?" Maisie asked.
She actually had to wait, for oh her friend was embarrassed! "My
opposition to the connexion--theirs--would then naturally to some extent
fall. She has treated me to-day as if I weren't after all quite such a
worm; not that I don't know very well where she got the pattern of her
politeness. But of course," Mrs. Wix hastened to add, "I shouldn't like
her as THE one nearly so well as him."
"'Nearly so well!'" Maisie echoed. "I should hope indeed not." She spoke
with a firmness under which she was herself the first to quiver. "I
thought you 'adored' him."
"I do," Mrs. Wix sturdily allowed.
"Then have you suddenly begun to adore her too?"
Mrs. Wix, instead of directly answering, only blinked in support of her
sturdiness. "My dear, in what a tone you ask that! You're coming out."
"Why shouldn't I? YOU'VE come out. Mrs. Beale has come out. We each have
our turn!" And Maisie threw off the most extraordinary little laugh that
had ever passed her young lips.
There passed Mrs. Wix's indeed the next moment a sound that more than
matched it. "You're most remarkable!" she neighed.
Her pupil, though wholly without aspirations to pertness, barely
faltered. "I think you've done a great deal to make me so."
"Very true, I have." She dropped to humility, as if she recalled her so
recent self-arraignment.
"Would you accept her then? That's what I ask," said Maisie.
"As a substitute?" Mrs. Wix turned it over; she met again the child's
eyes. "She has literally almost fawned upon me."
"She hasn't fawned upon HIM. She hasn't even been kind to him."
Mrs. Wix looked as if she had now an advantage. "Then do you propose to
'kill' her?"
"You don't answer my question," Maisie persisted. "I want to know if you
accept her."
Mrs. Wix continued to hedge. "I want to know if YOU do!"
Everything in the child's person, at this, announced that it was easy to
know. "Not for a moment."
"Not the two now?" Mrs. Wix had caught on; she flushed with it. "Only
him alone?"
"Him alone or nobody."
"Not even ME?" cried Mrs. Wix.
Maisie looked at her a moment, then began to undress. "Oh you're
nobody!"
----------CHAPTER I---------
The child was provided for, but the new arrangement was inevitably
confounding to a young intelligence intensely aware that something had
happened which must matter a good deal and looking anxiously out for
the effects of so great a cause. It was to be the fate of this patient
little girl to see much more than she at first understood, but also even
at first to understand much more than any little girl, however patient,
had perhaps ever understood before. Only a drummer-boy in a ballad or
a story could have been so in the thick of the fight. She was taken
into the confidence of passions on which she fixed just the stare she
might have had for images bounding across the wall in the slide of a
magic-lantern. Her little world was phantasmagoric--strange shadows
dancing on a sheet. It was as if the whole performance had been given
for her--a mite of a half-scared infant in a great dim theatre. She was
in short introduced to life with a liberality in which the selfishness
of others found its account, and there was nothing to avert the
sacrifice but the modesty of her youth.
Her first term was with her father, who spared her only in not letting
her have the wild letters addressed to her by her mother: he confined
himself to holding them up at her and shaking them, while he showed his
teeth, and then amusing her by the way he chucked them, across the room,
bang into the fire. Even at that moment, however, she had a scared
anticipation of fatigue, a guilty sense of not rising to the occasion,
feeling the charm of the violence with which the stiff unopened
envelopes, whose big monograms--Ida bristled with monograms--she would
have liked to see, were made to whizz, like dangerous missiles, through
the air. The greatest effect of the great cause was her own greater
importance, chiefly revealed to her in the larger freedom with which
she was handled, pulled hither and thither and kissed, and the
proportionately greater niceness she was obliged to show. Her features
had somehow become prominent; they were so perpetually nipped by the
gentlemen who came to see her father and the smoke of whose cigarettes
went into her face. Some of these gentlemen made her strike matches and
light their cigarettes; others, holding her on knees violently jolted,
pinched the calves of her legs till she shrieked--her shriek was much
admired--and reproached them with being toothpicks. The word stuck in
her mind and contributed to her feeling from this time that she was
deficient in something that would meet the general desire. She found
out what it was: it was a congenital tendency to the production of a
substance to which Moddle, her nurse, gave a short ugly name, a name
painfully associated at dinner with the part of the joint that she
didn't like. She had left behind her the time when she had no desires
to meet, none at least save Moddle's, who, in Kensington Gardens, was
always on the bench when she came back to see if she had been playing
too far. Moddle's desire was merely that she shouldn't do that, and she
met it so easily that the only spots in that long brightness were the
moments of her wondering what would become of her if, on her rushing
back, there should be no Moddle on the bench. They still went to the
Gardens, but there was a difference even there; she was impelled
perpetually to look at the legs of other children and ask her nurse if
THEY were toothpicks. Moddle was terribly truthful; she always said: "Oh
my dear, you'll not find such another pair as your own." It seemed to
have to do with something else that Moddle often said: "You feel the
strain--that's where it is; and you'll feel it still worse, you know."
Thus from the first Maisie not only felt it, but knew she felt it. A
part of it was the consequence of her father's telling her he felt it
too, and telling Moddle, in her presence, that she must make a point of
driving that home. She was familiar, at the age of six, with the fact
that everything had been changed on her account, everything ordered to
enable him to give himself up to her. She was to remember always the
words in which Moddle impressed upon her that he did so give himself:
"Your papa wishes you never to forget, you know, that he has been
dreadfully put about." If the skin on Moddle's face had to Maisie the
air of being unduly, almost painfully, stretched, it never presented
that appearance so much as when she uttered, as she often had occasion
to utter, such words. The child wondered if they didn't make it hurt
more than usual; but it was only after some time that she was able to
attach to the picture of her father's sufferings, and more particularly
to her nurse's manner about them, the meaning for which these things
had waited. By the time she had grown sharper, as the gentlemen who had
criticised her calves used to say, she found in her mind a collection of
images and echoes to which meanings were attachable--images and echoes
kept for her in the childish dusk, the dim closet, the high drawers,
like games she wasn't yet big enough to play. The great strain meanwhile
was that of carrying by the right end the things her father said about
her mother--things mostly indeed that Moddle, on a glimpse of them, as
if they had been complicated toys or difficult books, took out of her
hands and put away in the closet. A wonderful assortment of objects of
this kind she was to discover there later, all tumbled up too with the
things, shuffled into the same receptacle, that her mother had said
about her father.
She had the knowledge that on a certain occasion which every day brought
nearer her mother would be at the door to take her away, and this would
have darkened all the days if the ingenious Moddle hadn't written on a
paper in very big easy words ever so many pleasures that she would enjoy
at the other house. These promises ranged from "a mother's fond love"
to "a nice poached egg to your tea," and took by the way the prospect
of sitting up ever so late to see the lady in question dressed, in
silks and velvets and diamonds and pearls, to go out: so that it was a
real support to Maisie, at the supreme hour, to feel how, by Moddle's
direction, the paper was thrust away in her pocket and there clenched in
her fist. The supreme hour was to furnish her with a vivid reminiscence,
that of a strange outbreak in the drawing-room on the part of Moddle,
who, in reply to something her father had just said, cried aloud: "You
ought to be perfectly ashamed of yourself--you ought to blush, sir, for
the way you go on!" The carriage, with her mother in it, was at the
door; a gentleman who was there, who was always there, laughed out very
loud; her father, who had her in his arms, said to Moddle: "My dear
woman, I'll settle you presently!"--after which he repeated, showing
his teeth more than ever at Maisie while he hugged her, the words for
which her nurse had taken him up. Maisie was not at the moment so fully
conscious of them as of the wonder of Moddle's sudden disrespect and
crimson face; but she was able to produce them in the course of five
minutes when, in the carriage, her mother, all kisses, ribbons, eyes,
arms, strange sounds and sweet smells, said to her: "And did your
beastly papa, my precious angel, send any message to your own loving
mamma?" Then it was that she found the words spoken by her beastly papa
to be, after all, in her little bewildered ears, from which, at her
mother's appeal, they passed, in her clear shrill voice, straight to
her little innocent lips. "He said I was to tell you, from him," she
faithfully reported, "that you're a nasty horrid pig!"
----------CHAPTER II---------
In that lively sense of the immediate which is the very air of a child's
mind the past, on each occasion, became for her as indistinct as
the future: she surrendered herself to the actual with a good faith
that might have been touching to either parent. Crudely as they had
calculated they were at first justified by the event: she was the little
feathered shuttlecock they could fiercely keep flying between them. The
evil they had the gift of thinking or pretending to think of each other
they poured into her little gravely-gazing soul as into a boundless
receptacle, and each of them had doubtless the best conscience in the
world as to the duty of teaching her the stern truth that should be her
safeguard against the other. She was at the age for which all stories
are true and all conceptions are stories. The actual was the absolute,
the present alone was vivid. The objurgation for instance launched
in the carriage by her mother after she had at her father's bidding
punctually performed was a missive that dropped into her memory with the
dry rattle of a letter falling into a pillar-box. Like the letter it
was, as part of the contents of a well-stuffed post-bag, delivered in
due course at the right address. In the presence of these overflowings,
after they had continued for a couple of years, the associates of either
party sometimes felt that something should be done for what they called
"the real good, don't you know?" of the child. The only thing done,
however, in general, took place when it was sighingly remarked that she
fortunately wasn't all the year round where she happened to be at the
awkward moment, and that, furthermore, either from extreme cunning or
from extreme stupidity, she appeared not to take things in.
The theory of her stupidity, eventually embraced by her parents,
corresponded with a great date in her small still life: the complete
vision, private but final, of the strange office she filled. It was
literally a moral revolution and accomplished in the depths of her
nature. The stiff dolls on the dusky shelves began to move their arms
and legs; old forms and phrases began to have a sense that frightened
her. She had a new feeling, the feeling of danger; on which a new remedy
rose to meet it, the idea of an inner self or, in other words, of
concealment. She puzzled out with imperfect signs, but with a prodigious
spirit, that she had been a centre of hatred and a messenger of insult,
and that everything was bad because she had been employed to make it so.
Her parted lips locked themselves with the determination to be employed
no longer. She would forget everything, she would repeat nothing, and
when, as a tribute to the successful application of her system, she
began to be called a little idiot, she tasted a pleasure new and keen.
When therefore, as she grew older, her parents in turn announced before
her that she had grown shockingly dull, it was not from any real
contraction of her little stream of life. She spoiled their fun, but she
practically added to her own. She saw more and more; she saw too much.
It was Miss Overmore, her first governess, who on a momentous occasion
had sown the seeds of secrecy; sown them not by anything she said, but
by a mere roll of those fine eyes which Maisie already admired. Moddle
had become at this time, after alternations of residence of which the
child had no clear record, an image faintly embalmed in the remembrance
of hungry disappearances from the nursery and distressful lapses in the
alphabet, sad embarrassments, in particular, when invited to recognise
something her nurse described as "the important letter haitch." Miss
Overmore, however hungry, never disappeared: this marked her somehow as
of higher rank, and the character was confirmed by a prettiness that
Maisie supposed to be extraordinary. Mrs. Farange had described her as
almost too pretty, and some one had asked what that mattered so long as
Beale wasn't there. "Beale or no Beale," Maisie had heard her mother
reply, "I take her because she's a lady and yet awfully poor. Rather
nice people, but there are seven sisters at home. What do people mean?"
Maisie didn't know what people meant, but she knew very soon all the
names of all the sisters; she could say them off better than she could
say the multiplication-table. She privately wondered moreover, though
she never asked, about the awful poverty, of which her companion also
never spoke. Food at any rate came up by mysterious laws; Miss Overmore
never, like Moddle, had on an apron, and when she ate she held her fork
with her little finger curled out. The child, who watched her at many
moments, watched her particularly at that one. "I think you're lovely,"
she often said to her; even mamma, who was lovely too, had not such a
pretty way with the fork. Maisie associated this showier presence with
her now being "big," knowing of course that nursery-governesses were
only for little girls who were not, as she said, "really" little. She
vaguely knew, further, somehow, that the future was still bigger than
she, and that a part of what made it so was the number of governesses
lurking in it and ready to dart out. Everything that had happened
when she was really little was dormant, everything but the positive
certitude, bequeathed from afar by Moddle, that the natural way for a
child to have her parents was separate and successive, like her mutton
and her pudding or her bath and her nap.
"DOES he know he lies?"--that was what she had vivaciously asked Miss
Overmore on the occasion which was so suddenly to lead to a change in
her life.
"Does he know--" Miss Overmore stared; she had a stocking pulled over
her hand and was pricking at it with a needle which she poised in the
act. Her task was homely, but her movement, like all her movements,
graceful.
"Why papa."
"That he 'lies'?"
"That's what mamma says I'm to tell him--'that he lies and he knows he
lies.'" Miss Overmore turned very red, though she laughed out till her
head fell back; then she pricked again at her muffled hand so hard
that Maisie wondered how she could bear it. "AM I to tell him?" the
child went on. It was then that her companion addressed her in the
unmistakeable language of a pair of eyes of deep dark grey. "I can't say
No," they replied as distinctly as possible; "I can't say No, because
I'm afraid of your mamma, don't you see? Yet how can I say Yes after
your papa has been so kind to me, talking to me so long the other day,
smiling and flashing his beautiful teeth at me the time we met him in
the Park, the time when, rejoicing at the sight of us, he left the
gentlemen he was with and turned and walked with us, stayed with us for
half an hour?" Somehow in the light of Miss Overmore's lovely eyes that
incident came back to Maisie with a charm it hadn't had at the time, and
this in spite of the fact that after it was over her governess had never
but once alluded to it. On their way home, when papa had quitted them,
she had expressed the hope that the child wouldn't mention it to mamma.
Maisie liked her so, and had so the charmed sense of being liked by her,
that she accepted this remark as settling the matter and wonderingly
conformed to it. The wonder now lived again, lived in the recollection
of what papa had said to Miss Overmore: "I've only to look at you to see
you're a person I can appeal to for help to save my daughter." Maisie's
ignorance of what she was to be saved from didn't diminish the pleasure
of the thought that Miss Overmore was saving her. It seemed to make them
cling together as in some wild game of "going round."
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter iv with the given context. | chapter iii|chapter iv|chapter v | Maisie heads back to her mother's. Enter Mrs. Wix, the governess who's now to be responsible for Maisie when she is with her mother. Mrs. Wix is off-putting to Maisie at first but soon wins her over. We learn that Mrs. Wix had a young daughter, Clara Matilda, who died, and Maisie can tell by Mrs. Wix's voice that she "had been ... a mother, and that this was something Miss Overmore was not, something, strangely, confusingly that mamma was even less" . So Maisie has her first experience of mother love from Mrs. Wix--more foreshadowing. Mrs. Wix is described as both poor and ugly but "peculiarly and soothingly safe," which in James-speak means super-protective of Maisie . Maisie and Mrs. Wix visit Clara Matilda's grave. It turns out that Mrs. Wix is less accomplished than Miss Overmore as well as less elegant. Instead of learning school subjects from Mrs. Wix, Maisie listens to stories--lots and lots of them. The only thing that Mrs. Wix reveals about her late husband is that he has been dead for a long time. She and Maisie never go to visit his grave. |
----------CHAPTER III---------
She was therefore all the more startled when her mother said to her in
connexion with something to be done before her next migration: "You
understand of course that she's not going with you."
Maisie turned quite faint. "Oh I thought she was."
"It doesn't in the least matter, you know, what you think," Mrs. Farange
loudly replied; "and you had better indeed for the future, miss, learn
to keep your thoughts to yourself." This was exactly what Maisie had
already learned, and the accomplishment was just the source of her
mother's irritation. It was of a horrid little critical system, a
tendency, in her silence, to judge her elders, that this lady suspected
her, liking as she did, for her own part, a child to be simple and
confiding. She liked also to hear the report of the whacks she
administered to Mr. Farange's character, to his pretensions to peace
of mind: the satisfaction of dealing them diminished when nothing came
back. The day was at hand, and she saw it, when she should feel more
delight in hurling Maisie at him than in snatching her away; so much so
that her conscience winced under the acuteness of a candid friend who
had remarked that the real end of all their tugging would be that each
parent would try to make the little girl a burden to the other--a sort
of game in which a fond mother clearly wouldn't show to advantage. The
prospect of not showing to advantage, a distinction in which she held
she had never failed, begot in Ida Farange an ill humour of which
several persons felt the effect. She determined that Beale at any rate
should feel it; she reflected afresh that in the study of how to be
odious to him she must never give way. Nothing could incommode him more
than not to get the good, for the child, of a nice female appendage who
had clearly taken a fancy to her. One of the things Ida said to the
appendage was that Beale's was a house in which no decent woman could
consent to be seen. It was Miss Overmore herself who explained to
Maisie that she had had a hope of being allowed to accompany her to her
father's, and that this hope had been dashed by the way her mother took
it. "She says that if I ever do such a thing as enter his service I must
never expect to show my face in this house again. So I've promised not
to attempt to go with you. If I wait patiently till you come back here
we shall certainly be together once more."
Waiting patiently, and above all waiting till she should come back
there, seemed to Maisie a long way round--it reminded her of all the
things she had been told, first and last, that she should have if she'd
be good and that in spite of her goodness she had never had at all.
"Then who'll take care of me at papa's?"
"Heaven only knows, my own precious!" Miss Overmore replied, tenderly
embracing her. There was indeed no doubt that she was dear to this
beautiful friend. What could have proved it better than the fact that
before a week was out, in spite of their distressing separation and her
mother's prohibition and Miss Overmore's scruples and Miss Overmore's
promise, the beautiful friend had turned up at her father's? The little
lady already engaged there to come by the hour, a fat dark little lady
with a foreign name and dirty fingers, who wore, throughout, a bonnet
that had at first given her a deceptive air, too soon dispelled, of
not staying long, besides asking her pupil questions that had nothing
to do with lessons, questions that Beale Farange himself, when two or
three were repeated to him, admitted to be awfully low--this strange
apparition faded before the bright creature who had braved everything
for Maisie's sake. The bright creature told her little charge frankly
what had happened--that she had really been unable to hold out. She had
broken her vow to Mrs. Farange; she had struggled for three days and
then had come straight to Maisie's papa and told him the simple truth.
She adored his daughter; she couldn't give her up; she'd make for her
any sacrifice. On this basis it had been arranged that she should stay;
her courage had been rewarded; she left Maisie in no doubt as to the
amount of courage she had required. Some of the things she said made
a particular impression on the child--her declaration for instance
that when her pupil should get older she'd understand better just how
"dreadfully bold" a young lady, to do exactly what she had done, had
to be.
"Fortunately your papa appreciates it; he appreciates it IMMENSELY"--
that was one of the things Miss Overmore also said, with a striking
insistence on the adverb. Maisie herself was no less impressed with
what this martyr had gone through, especially after hearing of the
terrible letter that had come from Mrs. Farange. Mamma had been so
angry that, in Miss Overmore's own words, she had loaded her with
insult--proof enough indeed that they must never look forward to being
together again under mamma's roof. Mamma's roof, however, had its turn,
this time, for the child, of appearing but remotely contingent, so that,
to reassure her, there was scarce a need of her companion's secret,
solemnly confided--the probability there would be no going back to mamma
at all. It was Miss Overmore's private conviction, and a part of the
same communication, that if Mr. Farange's daughter would only show a
really marked preference she would be backed up by "public opinion" in
holding on to him. Poor Maisie could scarcely grasp that incentive, but
she could surrender herself to the day. She had conceived her first
passion, and the object of it was her governess. It hadn't been put to
her, and she couldn't, or at any rate she didn't, put it to herself,
that she liked Miss Overmore better than she liked papa; but it would
have sustained her under such an imputation to feel herself able
to reply that papa too liked Miss Overmore exactly as much. He had
particularly told her so. Besides she could easily see it.
----------CHAPTER IV---------
All this led her on, but it brought on her fate as well, the day when
her mother would be at the door in the carriage in which Maisie now rode
on no occasions but these. There was no question at present of Miss
Overmore's going back with her: it was universally recognised that her
quarrel with Mrs. Farange was much too acute. The child felt it from
the first; there was no hugging nor exclaiming as that lady drove her
away--there was only a frightening silence, unenlivened even by the
invidious enquiries of former years, which culminated, according to its
stern nature, in a still more frightening old woman, a figure awaiting
her on the very doorstep. "You're to be under this lady's care," said
her mother. "Take her, Mrs. Wix," she added, addressing the figure
impatiently and giving the child a push from which Maisie gathered that
she wished to set Mrs. Wix an example of energy. Mrs. Wix took her and,
Maisie felt the next day, would never let her go. She had struck her at
first, just after Miss Overmore, as terrible; but something in her voice
at the end of an hour touched the little girl in a spot that had never
even yet been reached. Maisie knew later what it was, though doubtless
she couldn't have made a statement of it: these were things that a few
days' talk with Mrs. Wix quite lighted up. The principal one was a
matter Mrs. Wix herself always immediately mentioned: she had had a
little girl quite of her own, and the little girl had been killed on
the spot. She had had absolutely nothing else in all the world, and her
affliction had broken her heart. It was comfortably established between
them that Mrs. Wix's heart was broken. What Maisie felt was that she had
been, with passion and anguish, a mother, and that this was something
Miss Overmore was not, something (strangely, confusingly) that mamma was
even less.
So it was that in the course of an extraordinarily short time she
found herself as deeply absorbed in the image of the little dead
Clara Matilda, who, on a crossing in the Harrow Road, had been knocked
down and crushed by the cruellest of hansoms, as she had ever found
herself in the family group made vivid by one of seven. "She's your
little dead sister," Mrs. Wix ended by saying, and Maisie, all in
a tremor of curiosity and compassion, addressed from that moment a
particular piety to the small accepted acquisition. Somehow she wasn't
a real sister, but that only made her the more romantic. It contributed
to this view of her that she was never to be spoken of in that character
to any one else--least of all to Mrs. Farange, who wouldn't care for
her nor recognise the relationship: it was to be just an unutterable and
inexhaustible little secret with Mrs. Wix. Maisie knew everything about
her that could be known, everything she had said or done in her little
mutilated life, exactly how lovely she was, exactly how her hair was
curled and her frocks were trimmed. Her hair came down far below her
waist--it was of the most wonderful golden brightness, just as Mrs.
Wix's own had been a long time before. Mrs. Wix's own was indeed very
remarkable still, and Maisie had felt at first that she should never get
on with it. It played a large part in the sad and strange appearance,
the appearance as of a kind of greasy greyness, which Mrs. Wix had
presented on the child's arrival. It had originally been yellow, but
time had turned that elegance to ashes, to a turbid sallow unvenerable
white. Still excessively abundant, it was dressed in a manner of which
the poor lady appeared not yet to have recognised the supersession, with
a glossy braid, like a large diadem, on the top of the head, and behind,
at the nape of the neck, a dingy rosette like a large button. She wore
glasses which, in humble reference to a divergent obliquity of vision,
she called her straighteners, and a little ugly snuff-coloured dress
trimmed with satin bands in the form of scallops and glazed with
antiquity. The straighteners, she explained to Maisie, were put on for
the sake of others, whom, as she believed, they helped to recognise the
bearing, otherwise doubtful, of her regard; the rest of the melancholy
garb could only have been put on for herself. With the added suggestion
of her goggles it reminded her pupil of the polished shell or corslet
of a horrid beetle. At first she had looked cross and almost cruel; but
this impression passed away with the child's increased perception of
her being in the eyes of the world a figure mainly to laugh at. She
was as droll as a charade or an animal toward the end of the "natural
history"--a person whom people, to make talk lively, described to each
other and imitated. Every one knew the straighteners; every one knew the
diadem and the button, the scallops and satin bands; every one, though
Maisie had never betrayed her, knew even Clara Matilda.
It was on account of these things that mamma got her for such low pay,
really for nothing: so much, one day when Mrs. Wix had accompanied her
into the drawing-room and left her, the child heard one of the ladies
she found there--a lady with eyebrows arched like skipping-ropes and
thick black stitching, like ruled lines for musical notes on beautiful
white gloves--announce to another. She knew governesses were poor; Miss
Overmore was unmentionably and Mrs. Wix ever so publicly so. Neither
this, however, nor the old brown frock nor the diadem nor the button,
made a difference for Maisie in the charm put forth through everything,
the charm of Mrs. Wix's conveying that somehow, in her ugliness and her
poverty, she was peculiarly and soothingly safe; safer than any one
in the world, than papa, than mamma, than the lady with the arched
eyebrows; safer even, though so much less beautiful, than Miss Overmore,
on whose loveliness, as she supposed it, the little girl was faintly
conscious that one couldn't rest with quite the same tucked-in and
kissed-for-good-night feeling. Mrs. Wix was as safe as Clara Matilda,
who was in heaven and yet, embarrassingly, also in Kensal Green, where
they had been together to see her little huddled grave. It was from
something in Mrs. Wix's tone, which in spite of caricature remained
indescribable and inimitable, that Maisie, before her term with her
mother was over, drew this sense of a support, like a breast-high
banister in a place of "drops," that would never give way. If she knew
her instructress was poor and queer she also knew she was not nearly so
"qualified" as Miss Overmore, who could say lots of dates straight off
(letting you hold the book yourself), state the position of Malabar, play
six pieces without notes and, in a sketch, put in beautifully the trees
and houses and difficult parts. Maisie herself could play more pieces
than Mrs. Wix, who was moreover visibly ashamed of her houses and trees
and could only, with the help of a smutty forefinger, of doubtful
legitimacy in the field of art, do the smoke coming out of the chimneys.
They dealt, the governess and her pupil, in "subjects," but there were
many the governess put off from week to week and that they never got to
at all: she only used to say "We'll take that in its proper order." Her
order was a circle as vast as the untravelled globe. She had not the
spirit of adventure--the child could perfectly see how many subjects she
was afraid of. She took refuge on the firm ground of fiction, through
which indeed there curled the blue river of truth. She knew swarms of
stories, mostly those of the novels she had read; relating them with
a memory that never faltered and a wealth of detail that was Maisie's
delight. They were all about love and beauty and countesses and
wickedness. Her conversation was practically an endless narrative,
a great garden of romance, with sudden vistas into her own life and
gushing fountains of homeliness. These were the parts where they most
lingered; she made the child take with her again every step of her long,
lame course and think it beyond magic or monsters. Her pupil acquired a
vivid vision of every one who had ever, in her phrase, knocked against
her--some of them oh so hard!--every one literally but Mr. Wix, her
husband, as to whom nothing was mentioned save that he had been dead for
ages. He had been rather remarkably absent from his wife's career, and
Maisie was never taken to see his grave.
----------CHAPTER V---------
The second parting from Miss Overmore had been bad enough, but this
first parting from Mrs. Wix was much worse. The child had lately been to
the dentist's and had a term of comparison for the screwed-up intensity
of the scene. It was dreadfully silent, as it had been when her tooth
was taken out; Mrs. Wix had on that occasion grabbed her hand and they
had clung to each other with the frenzy of their determination not to
scream. Maisie, at the dentist's, had been heroically still, but just
when she felt most anguish had become aware of an audible shriek on the
part of her companion, a spasm of stifled sympathy. This was reproduced
by the only sound that broke their supreme embrace when, a month later,
the "arrangement," as her periodical uprootings were called, played the
part of the horrible forceps. Embedded in Mrs. Wix's nature as her tooth
had been socketed in her gum, the operation of extracting her would
really have been a case for chloroform. It was a hug that fortunately
left nothing to say, for the poor woman's want of words at such an
hour seemed to fall in with her want of everything. Maisie's alternate
parent, in the outermost vestibule--he liked the impertinence of
crossing as much as that of his late wife's threshold--stood over them
with his open watch and his still more open grin, while from the only
corner of an eye on which something of Mrs. Wix's didn't impinge the
child saw at the door a brougham in which Miss Overmore also waited.
She remembered the difference when, six months before, she had been
torn from the breast of that more spirited protectress. Miss Overmore,
then also in the vestibule, but of course in the other one, had been
thoroughly audible and voluble; her protest had rung out bravely and she
had declared that something--her pupil didn't know exactly what--was
a regular wicked shame. That had at the time dimly recalled to Maisie
the far-away moment of Moddle's great outbreak: there seemed always to
be "shames" connected in one way or another with her migrations. At
present, while Mrs. Wix's arms tightened and the smell of her hair was
strong, she further remembered how, in pacifying Miss Overmore, papa had
made use of the words "you dear old duck!"--an expression which, by its
oddity, had stuck fast in her young mind, having moreover a place well
prepared for it there by what she knew of the governess whom she now
always mentally characterised as the pretty one. She wondered whether
this affection would be as great as before: that would at all events be
the case with the prettiness Maisie could see in the face which showed
brightly at the window of the brougham.
The brougham was a token of harmony, of the fine conditions papa would
this time offer: he had usually come for her in a hansom, with a
four-wheeler behind for the boxes. The four-wheeler with the boxes on it
was actually there, but mamma was the only lady with whom she had ever
been in a conveyance of the kind always of old spoken of by Moddle as a
private carriage. Papa's carriage was, now that he had one, still more
private, somehow, than mamma's; and when at last she found herself quite
on top, as she felt, of its inmates and gloriously rolling away, she
put to Miss Overmore, after another immense and talkative squeeze, a
question of which the motive was a desire for information as to the
continuity of a certain sentiment. "Did papa like you just the same
while I was gone?" she enquired--full of the sense of how markedly his
favour had been established in her presence. She had bethought herself
that this favour might, like her presence and as if depending on it, be
only intermittent and for the season. Papa, on whose knee she sat, burst
into one of those loud laughs of his that, however prepared she was,
seemed always, like some trick in a frightening game, to leap forth and
make her jump. Before Miss Overmore could speak he replied: "Why, you
little donkey, when you're away what have I left to do but just to love
her?" Miss Overmore hereupon immediately took her from him, and they had
a merry little scrimmage over her of which Maisie caught the surprised
perception in the white stare of an old lady who passed in a victoria.
Then her beautiful friend remarked to her very gravely: "I shall make
him understand that if he ever again says anything as horrid as that
to you I shall carry you straight off and we'll go and live somewhere
together and be good quiet little girls." The child couldn't quite make
out why her father's speech had been horrid, since it only expressed
that appreciation which their companion herself had of old described as
"immense." To enter more into the truth of the matter she appealed to
him again directly, asked if in all those months Miss Overmore hadn't
been with him just as she had been before and just as she would be now.
"Of course she has, old girl--where else could the poor dear be?" cried
Beale Farange, to the still greater scandal of their companion, who
protested that unless he straightway "took back" his nasty wicked fib
it would be, this time, not only him she would leave, but his child too
and his house and his tiresome trouble--all the impossible things he
had succeeded in putting on her. Beale, under this frolic menace, took
nothing back at all; he was indeed apparently on the point of repeating
his extravagance, but Miss Overmore instructed her little charge that
she was not to listen to his bad jokes: she was to understand that a
lady couldn't stay with a gentleman that way without some awfully proper
reason.
Maisie looked from one of her companions to the other; this was the
freshest gayest start she had yet enjoyed, but she had a shy fear of not
exactly believing them. "Well, what reason IS proper?" she thoughtfully
demanded.
"Oh a long-legged stick of a tomboy: there's none so good as that." Her
father enjoyed both her drollery and his own and tried again to get
possession of her--an effort deprecated by their comrade and leading
again to something of a public scuffle. Miss Overmore declared to the
child that she had been all the while with good friends; on which Beale
Farange went on: "She means good friends of mine, you know--tremendous
friends of mine. There has been no end of THEM about--that I WILL say
for her!" Maisie felt bewildered and was afterwards for some time
conscious of a vagueness, just slightly embarrassing, as to the subject
of so much amusement and as to where her governess had really been.
She didn't feel at all as if she had been seriously told, and no such
feeling was supplied by anything that occurred later. Her embarrassment,
of a precocious instinctive order, attached itself to the idea that
this was another of the matters it was not for her, as her mother used
to say, to go into. Therefore, under her father's roof during the time
that followed, she made no attempt to clear up her ambiguity by an
ingratiating way with housemaids; and it was an odd truth that the
ambiguity itself took nothing from the fresh pleasure promised her by
renewed contact with Miss Overmore. The confidence looked for by that
young lady was of the fine sort that explanation can't improve, and she
herself at any rate was a person superior to any confusion. For Maisie
moreover concealment had never necessarily seemed deception; she had
grown up among things as to which her foremost knowledge was that
she was never to ask about them. It was far from new to her that the
questions of the small are the peculiar diversion of the great: except
the affairs of her doll Lisette there had scarcely ever been anything at
her mother's that was explicable with a grave face. Nothing was so easy
to her as to send the ladies who gathered there off into shrieks, and
she might have practised upon them largely if she had been of a more
calculating turn. Everything had something behind it: life was like a
long, long corridor with rows of closed doors. She had learned that at
these doors it was wise not to knock--this seemed to produce from within
such sounds of derision. Little by little, however, she understood more,
for it befell that she was enlightened by Lisette's questions, which
reproduced the effect of her own upon those for whom she sat in the very
darkness of Lisette. Was she not herself convulsed by such innocence? In
the presence of it she often imitated the shrieking ladies. There were
at any rate things she really couldn't tell even a French doll. She
could only pass on her lessons and study to produce on Lisette the
impression of having mysteries in her life, wondering the while whether
she succeeded in the air of shading off, like her mother, into the
unknowable. When the reign of Miss Overmore followed that of Mrs. Wix
she took a fresh cue, emulating her governess and bridging over the
interval with the simple expectation of trust. Yes, there were matters
one couldn't "go into" with a pupil. There were for instance days when,
after prolonged absence, Lisette, watching her take off her things,
tried hard to discover where she had been. Well, she discovered a
little, but never discovered all. There was an occasion when, on her
being particularly indiscreet, Maisie replied to her--and precisely
about the motive of a disappearance--as she, Maisie, had once been
replied to by Mrs. Farange: "Find out for yourself!" She mimicked her
mother's sharpness, but she was rather ashamed afterwards, though as
to whether of the sharpness or of the mimicry was not quite clear.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter vii, utilizing the provided context. | chapter vi|chapter vii | Mrs. Wix appears at Beale Farange's. Miss Overmore can't even. She really hates Mrs. Wix and all that she stands for, including Mrs. Farange. But Mrs. Wix holds her own, fights back with some surprisingly sharp words, and manages to give Maisie the message she has come to give: that her mother will marry a man named Sir Claude. Mrs. Wix also shows Maisie a picture of the man in question, and little Maisie is very, very impressed by the looks of her soon-to-be stepfather. Maisie convinces Mrs. Wix to give her the picture, and Mrs. Wix parts with it reluctantly. Out of nowhere, Miss Overmore announces that she, too, has just gotten married: to Mr. Farange. |
----------CHAPTER VI---------
She became aware in time that this phase wouldn't have shone by
lessons, the care of her education being now only one of the many
duties devolving on Miss Overmore; a devolution as to which she was
present at various passages between that lady and her father--passages
significant, on either side, of dissent and even of displeasure. It was
gathered by the child on these occasions that there was something in the
situation for which her mother might "come down" on them all, though
indeed the remark, always dropped by her father, was greeted on his
companion's part with direct contradiction. Such scenes were usually
brought to a climax by Miss Overmore's demanding, with more asperity
than she applied to any other subject, in what position under the sun
such a person as Mrs. Farange would find herself for coming down. As the
months went on the little girl's interpretations thickened, and the more
effectually that this stretch was the longest she had known without a
break. She got used to the idea that her mother, for some reason, was
in no hurry to reinstate her: that idea was forcibly expressed by her
father whenever Miss Overmore, differing and decided, took him up on the
question, which he was always putting forward, of the urgency of sending
her to school. For a governess Miss Overmore differed surprisingly; far
more for instance than would have entered into the bowed head of Mrs.
Wix. She observed to Maisie many times that she was quite conscious of
not doing her justice, and that Mr. Farange equally measured and equally
lamented this deficiency. The reason of it was that she had mysterious
responsibilities that interfered--responsibilities, Miss Overmore
intimated, to Mr. Farange himself and to the friendly noisy little house
and those who came there. Mr. Farange's remedy for every inconvenience
was that the child should be put at school--there were such lots of
splendid schools, as everybody knew, at Brighton and all over the place.
That, however, Maisie learned, was just what would bring her mother
down: from the moment he should delegate to others the housing of his
little charge he hadn't a leg to stand on before the law. Didn't he keep
her away from her mother precisely because Mrs. Farange was one of these
others?
There was also the solution of a second governess, a young person to
come in by the day and really do the work; but to this Miss Overmore
wouldn't for a moment listen, arguing against it with great public
relish and wanting to know from all comers--she put it even to Maisie
herself--they didn't see how frightfully it would give her away. "What
am I supposed to be at all, don't you see, if I'm not here to look
after her?" She was in a false position and so freely and loudly called
attention to it that it seemed to become almost a source of glory. The
way out of it of course was just to do her plain duty; but that was
unfortunately what, with his excessive, his exorbitant demands on her,
which every one indeed appeared quite to understand, he practically, he
selfishly prevented. Beale Farange, for Miss Overmore, was now never
anything but "he," and the house was as full as ever of lively gentlemen
with whom, under that designation, she chaffingly talked about him.
Maisie meanwhile, as a subject of familiar gossip on what was to be done
with her, was left so much to herself that she had hours of wistful
thought of the large loose discipline of Mrs. Wix; yet she none the less
held it under her father's roof a point of superiority that none of his
visitors were ladies. It added to this odd security that she had once
heard a gentleman say to him as if it were a great joke and in obvious
reference to Miss Overmore: "Hanged if she'll let another woman come
near you--hanged if she ever will. She'd let fly a stick at her as they
do at a strange cat!" Maisie greatly preferred gentlemen as inmates
in spite of their also having their way--louder but sooner over--of
laughing out at her. They pulled and pinched, they teased and tickled
her; some of them even, as they termed it, shied things at her, and all
of them thought it funny to call her by names having no resemblance to
her own. The ladies on the other hand addressed her as "You poor pet"
and scarcely touched her even to kiss her. But it was of the ladies she
was most afraid.
She was now old enough to understand how disproportionate a stay she had
already made with her father; and also old enough to enter a little into
the ambiguity attending this excess, which oppressed her particularly
whenever the question had been touched upon in talk with her governess.
"Oh you needn't worry: she doesn't care!" Miss Overmore had often
said to her in reference to any fear that her mother might resent her
prolonged detention. "She has other people than poor little YOU to
think about, and has gone abroad with them; so you needn't be in the
least afraid she'll stickle this time for her rights." Maisie knew Mrs.
Farange had gone abroad, for she had had weeks and weeks before a letter
from her beginning "My precious pet" and taking leave of her for an
indeterminate time; but she had not seen in it a renunciation of hatred
or of the writer's policy of asserting herself, for the sharpest of all
her impressions had been that there was nothing her mother would ever
care so much about as to torment Mr. Farange. What at last, however, was
in this connexion bewildering and a little frightening was the dawn of a
suspicion that a better way had been found to torment Mr. Farange than
to deprive him of his periodical burden. This was the question that
worried our young lady and that Miss Overmore's confidences and the
frequent observations of her employer only rendered more mystifying. It
was a contradiction that if Ida had now a fancy for waiving the rights
she had originally been so hot about her late husband shouldn't jump at
the monopoly for which he had also in the first instance so fiercely
fought; but when Maisie, with a subtlety beyond her years, sounded this
new ground her main success was in hearing her mother more freshly
abused. Miss Overmore had up to now rarely deviated from a decent
reserve, but the day came when she expressed herself with a vividness
not inferior to Beale's own on the subject of the lady who had fled to
the Continent to wriggle out of her job. It would serve this lady right,
Maisie gathered, if that contract, in the shape of an overgrown and
underdressed daughter, should be shipped straight out to her and landed
at her feet in the midst of scandalous excesses.
The picture of these pursuits was what Miss Overmore took refuge in when
the child tried timidly to ascertain if her father were disposed to feel
he had too much of her. She evaded the point and only kicked up all
round it the dust of Ida's heartlessness and folly, of which the supreme
proof, it appeared, was the fact that she was accompanied on her journey
by a gentleman whom, to be painfully plain on it, she had--well, "picked
up." The terms on which, unless they were married, ladies and gentlemen
might, as Miss Overmore expressed it, knock about together, were the
terms on which she and Mr. Farange had exposed themselves to possible
misconception. She had indeed, as has been noted, often explained this
before, often said to Maisie: "I don't know what in the world, darling,
your father and I should do without you, for you just make the
difference, as I've told you, of keeping us perfectly proper." The child
took in the office it was so endearingly presented to her that she
performed a comfort that helped her to a sense of security even in the
event of her mother's giving her up. Familiar as she had grown with the
fact of the great alternative to the proper, she felt in her governess
and her father a strong reason for not emulating that detachment. At the
same time she had heard somehow of little girls--of exalted rank, it was
true--whose education was carried on by instructors of the other sex,
and she knew that if she were at school at Brighton it would be thought
an advantage to her to be more or less in the hands of masters. She
turned these things over and remarked to Miss Overmore that if she
should go to her mother perhaps the gentleman might become her tutor.
"The gentleman?" The proposition was complicated enough to make Miss
Overmore stare.
"The one who's with mamma. Mightn't that make it right--as right as your
being my governess makes it for you to be with papa?"
Miss Overmore considered; she coloured a little; then she embraced her
ingenious friend. "You're too sweet! I'm a REAL governess."
"And couldn't he be a real tutor?"
"Of course not. He's ignorant and bad."
"Bad--?" Maisie echoed with wonder.
Her companion gave a queer little laugh at her tone. "He's ever so much
younger--" But that was all.
"Younger than you?"
Miss Overmore laughed again; it was the first time Maisie had seen her
approach so nearly to a giggle.
"Younger than--no matter whom. I don't know anything about him and don't
want to," she rather inconsequently added. "He's not my sort, and I'm
sure, my own darling, he's not yours." And she repeated the free caress
into which her colloquies with Maisie almost always broke and which made
the child feel that HER affection at least was a gage of safety. Parents
had come to seem vague, but governesses were evidently to be trusted.
Maisie's faith in Mrs. Wix for instance had suffered no lapse from the
fact that all communication with her had temporarily dropped. During the
first weeks of their separation Clara Matilda's mamma had repeatedly and
dolefully written to her, and Maisie had answered with an enthusiasm
controlled only by orthographical doubts; but the correspondence had
been duly submitted to Miss Overmore, with the final effect of its not
suiting her. It was this lady's view that Mr. Farange wouldn't care for
it at all, and she ended by confessing--since her pupil pushed her--that
she didn't care for it herself. She was furiously jealous, she said; and
that weakness was but a new proof of her disinterested affection. She
pronounced Mrs. Wix's effusions moreover illiterate and unprofitable;
she made no scruple of declaring it monstrous that a woman in her
senses should have placed the formation of her daughter's mind in such
ridiculous hands. Maisie was well aware that the proprietress of the old
brown dress and the old odd headgear was lower in the scale of "form"
than Miss Overmore; but it was now brought home to her with pain that
she was educationally quite out of the question. She was buried for the
time beneath a conclusive remark of her critic's: "She's really beyond a
joke!" This remark was made as that charming woman held in her hand the
last letter that Maisie was to receive from Mrs. Wix; it was fortified
by a decree proscribing the preposterous tie. "Must I then write and
tell her?" the child bewilderedly asked: she grew pale at the dreadful
things it appeared involved for her to say. "Don't dream of it, my
dear--I'll write: you may trust me!" cried Miss Overmore; who indeed
wrote to such purpose that a hush in which you could have heard a pin
drop descended upon poor Mrs. Wix. She gave for weeks and weeks no sign
whatever of life: it was as if she had been as effectually disposed of
by Miss Overmore's communication as her little girl, in the Harrow Road,
had been disposed of by the terrible hansom. Her very silence became
after this one of the largest elements of Maisie's consciousness; it
proved a warm and habitable air, into which the child penetrated further
than she dared ever to mention to her companions. Somewhere in the
depths of it the dim straighteners were fixed upon her; somewhere out of
the troubled little current Mrs. Wix intensely waited.
----------CHAPTER VII---------
It quite fell in with this intensity that one day, on returning from
a walk with the housemaid, Maisie should have found her in the hall,
seated on the stool usually occupied by the telegraph-boys who haunted
Beale Farange's door and kicked their heels while, in his room, answers
to their missives took form with the aid of smoke-puffs and growls. It
had seemed to her on their parting that Mrs. Wix had reached the last
limits of the squeeze, but she now felt those limits to be transcended
and that the duration of her visitor's hug was a direct reply to Miss
Overmore's veto. She understood in a flash how the visit had come to be
possible--that Mrs. Wix, watching her chance, must have slipped in under
protection of the fact that papa, always tormented in spite of arguments
with the idea of a school, had, for a three days' excursion to Brighton,
absolutely insisted on the attendance of her adversary. It was true that
when Maisie explained their absence and their important motive Mrs. Wix
wore an expression so peculiar that it could only have had its origin in
surprise. This contradiction indeed peeped out only to vanish, for at
the very moment that, in the spirit of it, she threw herself afresh upon
her young friend a hansom crested with neat luggage rattled up to the
door and Miss Overmore bounded out. The shock of her encounter with Mrs.
Wix was less violent than Maisie had feared on seeing her and didn't
at all interfere with the sociable tone in which, under her rival's
eyes, she explained to her little charge that she had returned, for a
particular reason, a day sooner than she first intended. She had left
papa--in such nice lodgings--at Brighton; but he would come back to
his dear little home on the morrow. As for Mrs. Wix, papa's companion
supplied Maisie in later converse with the right word for the attitude
of this personage: Mrs. Wix "stood up" to her in a manner that the child
herself felt at the time to be astonishing. This occurred indeed after
Miss Overmore had so far raised her interdict as to make a move to the
dining-room, where, in the absence of any suggestion of sitting down,
it was scarcely more than natural that even poor Mrs. Wix should stand
up. Maisie at once enquired if at Brighton, this time, anything had
come of the possibility of a school; to which, much to her surprise,
Miss Overmore, who had always grandly repudiated it, replied after an
instant, but quite as if Mrs. Wix were not there:
"It may be, darling, that something WILL come. The objection, I must
tell you, has been quite removed."
At this it was still more startling to hear Mrs. Wix speak out with
great firmness. "I don't think, if you'll allow me to say so, that
there's any arrangement by which the objection CAN be 'removed.' What
has brought me here to-day is that I've a message for Maisie from dear
Mrs. Farange."
The child's heart gave a great thump. "Oh mamma's come back?"
"Not yet, sweet love, but she's coming," said Mrs. Wix, "and she
has--most thoughtfully, you know--sent me on to prepare you."
"To prepare her for what, pray?" asked Miss Overmore, whose first
smoothness began, with this news, to be ruffled.
Mrs. Wix quietly applied her straighteners to Miss Overmore's flushed
beauty. "Well, miss, for a very important communication."
"Can't dear Mrs. Farange, as you so oddly call her, make her
communications directly? Can't she take the trouble to write to her only
daughter?" the younger lady demanded. "Maisie herself will tell you that
it's months and months since she has had so much as a word from her."
"Oh but I've written to mamma!" cried the child as if this would do
quite as well.
"That makes her treatment of you all the greater scandal," the governess
in possession promptly declared.
"Mrs. Farange is too well aware," said Mrs. Wix with sustained spirit,
"of what becomes of her letters in this house."
Maisie's sense of fairness hereupon interposed for her visitor. "You
know, Miss Overmore, that papa doesn't like everything of mamma's."
"No one likes, my dear, to be made the subject of such language as your
mother's letters contain. They were not fit for the innocent child to
see," Miss Overmore observed to Mrs. Wix.
"Then I don't know what you complain of, and she's better without them.
It serves every purpose that I'm in Mrs. Farange's confidence."
Miss Overmore gave a scornful laugh. "Then you must be mixed up with
some extraordinary proceedings!"
"None so extraordinary," cried Mrs. Wix, turning very pale, "as to say
horrible things about the mother to the face of the helpless daughter!"
"Things not a bit more horrible, I think," Miss Overmore returned, "than
those you, madam, appear to have come here to say about the father!"
Mrs. Wix looked for a moment hard at Maisie, and then, turning again to
this witness, spoke with a trembling voice. "I came to say nothing about
him, and you must excuse Mrs. Farange and me if we're not so above all
reproach as the companion of his travels."
The young woman thus described stared at the apparent breadth of the
description--she needed a moment to take it in. Maisie, however, gazing
solemnly from one of the disputants to the other, noted that her answer,
when it came, perched upon smiling lips. "It will do quite as well,
no doubt, if you come up to the requirements of the companion of Mrs.
Farange's!"
Mrs. Wix broke into a queer laugh; it sounded to Maisie an unsuccessful
imitation of a neigh. "That's just what I'm here to make known--how
perfectly the poor lady comes up to them herself." She held up her head
at the child. "You must take your mamma's message, Maisie, and you must
feel that her wishing me to come to you with it this way is a great
proof of interest and affection. She sends you her particular love and
announces to you that she's engaged to be married to Sir Claude."
"Sir Claude?" Maisie wonderingly echoed. But while Mrs. Wix explained
that this gentleman was a dear friend of Mrs. Farange's, who had been
of great assistance to her in getting to Florence and in making herself
comfortable there for the winter, she was not too violently shaken to
perceive her old friend's enjoyment of the effect of this news on Miss
Overmore. That young lady opened her eyes very wide; she immediately
remarked that Mrs. Farange's marriage would of course put an end to any
further pretension to take her daughter back. Mrs. Wix enquired with
astonishment why it should do anything of the sort, and Miss Overmore
gave as an instant reason that it was clearly but another dodge in a
system of dodges. She wanted to get out of the bargain: why else had she
now left Maisie on her father's hands weeks and weeks beyond the time
about which she had originally made such a fuss? It was vain for Mrs.
Wix to represent--as she speciously proceeded to do--that all this time
would be made up as soon as Mrs. Farange returned: she, Miss Overmore,
knew nothing, thank heaven, about her confederate, but was very sure
any person capable of forming that sort of relation with the lady in
Florence would easily agree to object to the presence in his house
of the fruit of a union that his dignity must ignore. It was a game
like another, and Mrs. Wix's visit was clearly the first move in it.
Maisie found in this exchange of asperities a fresh incitement to the
unformulated fatalism in which her sense of her own career had long
since taken refuge; and it was the beginning for her of a deeper
prevision that, in spite of Miss Overmore's brilliancy and Mrs. Wix's
passion, she should live to see a change in the nature of the struggle
she appeared to have come into the world to produce. It would still be
essentially a struggle, but its object would now be NOT to receive her.
Mrs. Wix, after Miss Overmore's last demonstration, addressed herself
wholly to the little girl, and, drawing from the pocket of her dingy old
pelisse a small flat parcel, removed its envelope and wished to know
if THAT looked like a gentleman who wouldn't be nice to everybody--let
alone to a person he would be so sure to find so nice. Mrs. Farange, in
the candour of new-found happiness, had enclosed a "cabinet" photograph
of Sir Claude, and Maisie lost herself in admiration of the fair smooth
face, the regular features, the kind eyes, the amiable air, the general
glossiness and smartness of her prospective stepfather--only vaguely
puzzled to suppose herself now with two fathers at once. Her researches
had hitherto indicated that to incur a second parent of the same sex you
had usually to lose the first. "ISN'T he sympathetic?" asked Mrs. Wix,
who had clearly, on the strength of his charming portrait, made up her
mind that Sir Claude promised her a future. "You can see, I hope," she
added with much expression, "that HE'S a perfect gentleman!" Maisie had
never before heard the word "sympathetic" applied to anybody's face; she
heard it with pleasure and from that moment it agreeably remained with
her. She testified moreover to the force of her own perception in a
small soft sigh of response to the pleasant eyes that seemed to seek
her acquaintance, to speak to her directly. "He's quite lovely!" she
declared to Mrs. Wix. Then eagerly, irrepressibly, as she still held the
photograph and Sir Claude continued to fraternise, "Oh can't I keep it?"
she broke out. No sooner had she done so than she looked up from it at
Miss Overmore: this was with the sudden instinct of appealing to the
authority that had long ago impressed on her that she mustn't ask for
things. Miss Overmore, to her surprise, looked distant and rather odd,
hesitating and giving her time to turn again to Mrs. Wix. Then Maisie
saw that lady's long face lengthen; it was stricken and almost scared,
as if her young friend really expected more of her than she had to give.
The photograph was a possession that, direly denuded, she clung to,
and there was a momentary struggle between her fond clutch of it and
her capability of every sacrifice for her precarious pupil. With the
acuteness of her years, however, Maisie saw that her own avidity would
triumph, and she held out the picture to Miss Overmore as if she were
quite proud of her mother. "Isn't he just lovely?" she demanded while
poor Mrs. Wix hungrily wavered, her straighteners largely covering it
and her pelisse gathered about her with an intensity that strained its
ancient seams.
"It was to ME, darling," the visitor said, "that your mamma so
generously sent it; but of course if it would give you particular
pleasure--" she faltered, only gasping her surrender.
Miss Overmore continued extremely remote. "If the photograph's your
property, my dear, I shall be happy to oblige you by looking at it on
some future occasion. But you must excuse me if I decline to touch an
object belonging to Mrs. Wix."
That lady had by this time grown very red. "You might as well see him
this way, miss," she retorted, "as you certainly never will, I believe,
in any other! Keep the pretty picture, by all means, my precious," she
went on: "Sir Claude will be happy himself, I dare say, to give me one
with a kind inscription." The pathetic quaver of this brave boast was
not lost on Maisie, who threw herself so gratefully on the speaker's
neck that, when they had concluded their embrace, the public tenderness
of which, she felt, made up for the sacrifice she imposed, their
companion had had time to lay a quick hand on Sir Claude and, with a
glance at him or not, whisk him effectually out of sight. Released from
the child's arms Mrs. Wix looked about for the picture; then she fixed
Miss Overmore with a hard dumb stare; and finally, with her eyes on
the little girl again, achieved the grimmest of smiles. "Well, nothing
matters, Maisie, because there's another thing your mamma wrote about.
She has made sure of me." Even after her loyal hug Maisie felt a bit of
a sneak as she glanced at Miss Overmore for permission to understand
this. But Mrs. Wix left them in no doubt of what it meant. "She has
definitely engaged me--for her return and for yours. Then you'll see
for yourself." Maisie, on the spot, quite believed she should; but
the prospect was suddenly thrown into confusion by an extraordinary
demonstration from Miss Overmore.
"Mrs. Wix," said that young lady, "has some undiscoverable reason for
regarding your mother's hold on you as strengthened by the fact that
she's about to marry. I wonder then--on that system--what our visitor
will say to your father's."
Miss Overmore's words were directed to her pupil, but her face, lighted
with an irony that made it prettier even than ever before, was presented
to the dingy figure that had stiffened itself for departure. The
child's discipline had been bewildering--had ranged freely between the
prescription that she was to answer when spoken to and the experience of
lively penalties on obeying that prescription. This time, nevertheless,
she felt emboldened for risks; above all as something portentous seemed
to have leaped into her sense of the relations of things. She looked at
Miss Overmore much as she had a way of looking at persons who treated
her to "grown up" jokes. "Do you mean papa's hold on me--do you mean
HE'S about to marry?"
"Papa's not about to marry--papa IS married, my dear. Papa was married
the day before yesterday at Brighton." Miss Overmore glittered more
gaily; meanwhile it came over Maisie, and quite dazzlingly, that her
"smart" governess was a bride. "He's my husband, if you please, and I'm
his little wife. So NOW we'll see who's your little mother!" She caught
her pupil to her bosom in a manner that was not to be outdone by the
emissary of her predecessor, and a few moments later, when things had
lurched back into their places, that poor lady, quite defeated of the
last word, had soundlessly taken flight.
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter x based on the provided context. | chapter x|chapter xiii | Maisie and Sir Claude have a heart-to-heart. Sir Claude drops lots of vague hints. Maisie reminds him that she has brought him and Mrs. Beale together, and he hints at his marital difficulties. Sir Claude also tells Maisie that she won't be apart from him when she goes back to live with her father and Mrs. Beale, even though they won't all be living in the same place. This is almost as confusing for the reader as it is for Maisie; Sir Claude is being cagey, and none of what he's saying makes much sense. Sir Claude says that Mrs. Wix doesn't approve of Mrs. Beale, and Maisie starts to suspect that he's hiding something, although she can't yet say what it is. |
----------CHAPTER X---------
He was smoking a cigarette and he stood before the fire and looked
at the meagre appointments of the room in a way that made her rather
ashamed of them. Then before (on the subject of Mrs. Beale) he let her
"draw" him--that was another of his words; it was astonishing how many
she gathered in--he remarked that really mamma kept them rather low on
the question of decorations. Mrs. Wix had put up a Japanese fan and two
rather grim texts; she had wished they were gayer, but they were all she
happened to have. Without Sir Claude's photograph, however, the place
would have been, as he said, as dull as a cold dinner. He had said
as well that there were all sorts of things they ought to have; yet
governess and pupil, it had to be admitted, were still divided between
discussing the places where any sort of thing would look best if any
sort of thing should ever come and acknowledging that mutability in the
child's career which was naturally unfavourable to accumulation. She
stayed long enough only to miss things, not half long enough to deserve
them. The way Sir Claude looked about the schoolroom had made her feel
with humility as if it were not very different from the shabby attic in
which she had visited Susan Ash. Then he had said in abrupt reference to
Mrs. Beale: "Do you think she really cares for you?"
"Oh awfully!" Maisie had replied.
"But, I mean, does she love you for yourself, as they call it, don't you
know? Is she as fond of you, now, as Mrs. Wix?"
The child turned it over. "Oh I'm not every bit Mrs. Beale has!"
Sir Claude seemed much amused at this. "No; you're not every bit she
has!"
He laughed for some moments, but that was an old story to Maisie, who
was not too much disconcerted to go on: "But she'll never give me up."
"Well, I won't either, old boy: so that's not so wonderful, and she's
not the only one. But if she's so fond of you, why doesn't she write to
you?"
"Oh on account of mamma." This was rudimentary, and she was almost
surprised at the simplicity of Sir Claude's question.
"I see--that's quite right," he answered. "She might get at you--there
are all sorts of ways. But of course there's Mrs. Wix."
"There's Mrs. Wix," Maisie lucidly concurred. "Mrs. Wix can't abide
her."
Sir Claude seemed interested. "Oh she can't abide her? Then what does
she say about her?"
"Nothing at all--because she knows I shouldn't like it. Isn't it sweet
of her?" the child asked.
"Certainly; rather nice. Mrs. Beale wouldn't hold her tongue for any
such thing as that, would she?"
Maisie remembered how little she had done so; but she desired to protect
Mrs. Beale too. The only protection she could think of, however, was the
plea: "Oh at papa's, you know, they don't mind!"
At this Sir Claude only smiled. "No, I dare say not. But here we mind,
don't we?--we take care what we say. I don't suppose it's a matter on
which I ought to prejudice you," he went on; "but I think we must on the
whole be rather nicer here than at your father's. However, I don't press
that; for it's the sort of question on which it's awfully awkward for
you to speak. Don't worry, at any rate: I assure you I'll back you up."
Then after a moment and while he smoked he reverted to Mrs. Beale and
the child's first enquiry. "I'm afraid we can't do much for her just
now. I haven't seen her since that day--upon my word I haven't seen
her." The next instant, with a laugh the least bit foolish, the young
man slightly coloured: he must have felt this profession of innocence to
be excessive as addressed to Maisie. It was inevitable to say to her,
however, that of course her mother loathed the lady of the other house.
He couldn't go there again with his wife's consent, and he wasn't the
man--he begged her to believe, falling once more, in spite of himself,
into the scruple of showing the child he didn't trip--to go there
without it. He was liable in talking with her to take the tone of her
being also a man of the world. He had gone to Mrs. Beale's to fetch
away Maisie, but that was altogether different. Now that she was in
her mother's house what pretext had he to give her mother for paying
calls on her father's wife? And of course Mrs. Beale couldn't come to
Ida's--Ida would tear her limb from limb. Maisie, with this talk of
pretexts, remembered how much Mrs. Beale had made of her being a good
one, and how, for such a function, it was her fate to be either much
depended on or much missed. Sir Claude moreover recognised on this
occasion that perhaps things would take a turn later on; and he wound
up by saying: "I'm sure she does sincerely care for you--how can she
possibly help it? She's very young and very pretty and very clever: I
think she's charming. But we must walk very straight. If you'll help me,
you know, I'll help YOU," he concluded in the pleasant fraternising,
equalising, not a bit patronising way which made the child ready to go
through anything for him and the beauty of which, as she dimly felt, was
that it was so much less a deceitful descent to her years than a real
indifference to them.
It gave her moments of secret rapture--moments of believing she might
help him indeed. The only mystification in this was the imposing time of
life that her elders spoke of as youth. For Sir Claude then Mrs. Beale
was "young," just as for Mrs. Wix Sir Claude was: that was one of the
merits for which Mrs. Wix most commended him. What therefore was Maisie
herself, and, in another relation to the matter, what therefore was
mamma? It took her some time to puzzle out with the aid of an experiment
or two that it wouldn't do to talk about mamma's youth. She even went
so far one day, in the presence of that lady's thick colour and marked
lines, as to wonder if it would occur to any one but herself to do so.
Yet if she wasn't young then she was old; and this threw an odd light on
her having a husband of a different generation. Mr. Farange was still
older--that Maisie perfectly knew; and it brought her in due course
to the perception of how much more, since Mrs. Beale was younger than
Sir Claude, papa must be older than Mrs. Beale. Such discoveries were
disconcerting and even a trifle confounding: these persons, it appeared,
were not of the age they ought to be. This was somehow particularly
the case with mamma, and the fact made her reflect with some relief on
her not having gone with Mrs. Wix into the question of Sir Claude's
attachment to his wife. She was conscious that in confining their
attention to the state of her ladyship's own affections they had been
controlled--Mrs. Wix perhaps in especial--by delicacy and even by
embarrassment. The end of her colloquy with her stepfather in the
schoolroom was her saying: "Then if we're not to see Mrs. Beale at all
it isn't what she seemed to think when you came for me."
He looked rather blank. "What did she seem to think?"
"Why that I've brought you together."
"She thought that?" Sir Claude asked.
Maisie was surprised at his already forgetting it. "Just as I had
brought papa and her. Don't you remember she said so?"
It came back to Sir Claude in a peal of laughter. "Oh yes--she said so!"
"And YOU said so," Maisie lucidly pursued.
He recovered, with increasing mirth, the whole occasion. "And YOU said
so!" he retorted as if they were playing a game.
"Then were we all mistaken?"
He considered a little. "No, on the whole not. I dare say it's just what
you HAVE done. We ARE together--it's really most odd. She's thinking of
us--of you and me--though we don't meet. And I've no doubt you'll find
it will be all right when you go back to her."
"Am I going back to her?" Maisie brought out with a little gasp which
was like a sudden clutch of the happy present.
It appeared to make Sir Claude grave a moment; it might have made him
feel the weight of the pledge his action had given. "Oh some day, I
suppose! We've plenty of time."
"I've such a tremendous lot to make up," Maisie said with a sense of
great boldness.
"Certainly, and you must make up every hour of it. Oh I'll SEE that you
do!"
This was encouraging; and to show cheerfully that she was reassured she
replied: "That's what Mrs. Wix sees too."
"Oh yes," said Sir Claude; "Mrs. Wix and I are shoulder to shoulder."
Maisie took in a little this strong image; after which she exclaimed:
"Then I've done it also to you and her--I've brought YOU together!"
"Blest if you haven't!" Sir Claude laughed. "And more, upon my word,
than any of the lot. Oh you've done for US! Now if you could--as I
suggested, you know, that day--only manage me and your mother!"
The child wondered. "Bring you and HER together?"
"You see we're not together--not a bit. But I oughtn't to tell you such
things; all the more that you won't really do it--not you. No, old
chap," the young man continued; "there you'll break down. But it won't
matter--we'll rub along. The great thing is that you and I are all
right."
"WE'RE all right!" Maisie echoed devoutly. But the next moment, in the
light of what he had just said, she asked: "How shall I ever leave you?"
It was as if she must somehow take care of him.
His smile did justice to her anxiety. "Oh well, you needn't! It won't
come to that."
"Do you mean that when I do go you'll go with me?"
Sir Claude cast about. "Not exactly 'with' you perhaps; but I shall
never be far off."
"But how do you know where mamma may take you?"
He laughed again. "I don't, I confess!" Then he had an idea, though
something too jocose. "That will be for you to see--that she shan't take
me too far."
"How can I help it?" Maisie enquired in surprise. "Mamma doesn't care
for me," she said very simply. "Not really." Child as she was, her
little long history was in the words; and it was as impossible to
contradict her as if she had been venerable.
Sir Claude's silence was an admission of this, and still more the tone
in which he presently replied: "That won't prevent her from--some time
or other--leaving me with you."
"Then we'll live together?" she eagerly demanded.
"I'm afraid," said Sir Claude, smiling, "that that will be Mrs. Beale's
real chance."
Her eagerness just slightly dropped at this; she remembered Mrs. Wix's
pronouncement that it was all an extraordinary muddle. "To take me
again? Well, can't you come to see me there?"
"Oh I dare say!"
Though there were parts of childhood Maisie had lost she had all
childhood's preference for the particular promise. "Then you WILL
come--you'll come often, won't you?" she insisted; while at the moment
she spoke the door opened for the return of Mrs. Wix. Sir Claude
hereupon, instead of replying, gave her a look which left her silent
and embarrassed.
When he again found privacy convenient, however--which happened to be
long in coming--he took up their conversation very much where it had
dropped. "You see, my dear, if I shall be able to go to you at your
father's it yet isn't at all the same thing for Mrs. Beale to come to
you here." Maisie gave a thoughtful assent to this proposition, though
conscious she could scarcely herself say just where the difference would
lie. She felt how much her stepfather saved her, as he said with his
habitual amusement, the trouble of that. "I shall probably be able to go
to Mrs. Beale's without your mother's knowing it."
Maisie stared with a certain thrill at the dramatic element in this.
"And she couldn't come here without mamma's--" She was unable to
articulate the word for what mamma would do.
"My dear child, Mrs. Wix would tell of it."
"But I thought," Maisie objected, "that Mrs. Wix and you--"
"Are such brothers-in-arms?"--Sir Claude caught her up. "Oh yes, about
everything but Mrs. Beale. And if you should suggest," he went on, "that
we might somehow or other hide her peeping in from Mrs. Wix--"
"Oh, I don't suggest THAT!" Maisie in turn cut him short.
Sir Claude looked as if he could indeed quite see why. "No; it would
really be impossible." There came to her from this glance at what they
might hide the first small glimpse of something in him that she wouldn't
have expected. There had been times when she had had to make the best
of the impression that she was herself deceitful; yet she had never
concealed anything bigger than a thought. Of course she now concealed
this thought of how strange it would be to see HIM hide; and while she
was so actively engaged he continued: "Besides, you know, I'm not afraid
of your father."
"And you are of my mother?"
"Rather, old man!" Sir Claude returned.
----------CHAPTER XIII---------
This might moreover have been taken to be the sense of a remark made by
her stepfather as--one rainy day when the streets were all splash and
two umbrellas unsociable and the wanderers had sought shelter in the
National Gallery--Maisie sat beside him staring rather sightlessly at a
roomful of pictures which he had mystified her much by speaking of with
a bored sigh as a "silly superstition." They represented, with patches
of gold and cataracts of purple, with stiff saints and angular angels,
with ugly Madonnas and uglier babies, strange prayers and prostrations;
so that she at first took his words for a protest against devotional
idolatry--all the more that he had of late often come with her and
with Mrs. Wix to morning church, a place of worship of Mrs. Wix's own
choosing, where there was nothing of that sort; no haloes on heads,
but only, during long sermons, beguiling backs of bonnets, and where,
as her governess always afterwards observed, he gave the most earnest
attention. It presently appeared, however, that his reference was merely
to the affectation of admiring such ridiculous works--an admonition that
she received from him as submissively as she received everything. What
turn it gave to their talk needn't here be recorded: the transition to
the colourless schoolroom and lonely Mrs. Wix was doubtless an effect of
relaxed interest in what was before them. Maisie expressed in her own
way the truth that she never went home nowadays without expecting to
find the temple of her studies empty and the poor priestess cast out.
This conveyed a full appreciation of her peril, and it was in rejoinder
that Sir Claude uttered, acknowledging the source of that peril, the
reassurance at which I have glanced. "Don't be afraid, my dear: I've
squared her." It required indeed a supplement when he saw that it left
the child momentarily blank. "I mean that your mother lets me do what I
want so long as I let her do what SHE wants."
"So you ARE doing what you want?" Maisie asked.
"Rather, Miss Farange!"
Miss Farange turned it over. "And she's doing the same?"
"Up to the hilt!"
Again she considered. "Then, please, what may it be?"
"I wouldn't tell you for the whole world."
She gazed at a gaunt Madonna; after which she broke into a slow smile.
"Well, I don't care, so long as you do let her."
"Oh you monster!"--and Sir Claude's gay vehemence brought him to his
feet.
Another day, in another place--a place in Baker Street where at a hungry
hour she had sat down with him to tea and buns--he brought out a question
disconnected from previous talk. "I say, you know, what do you suppose
your father WOULD do?"
Maisie hadn't long to cast about or to question his pleasant eyes. "If
you were really to go with us? He'd make a great complaint."
He seemed amused at the term she employed. "Oh I shouldn't mind a
'complaint'!"
"He'd talk to every one about it," said Maisie.
"Well, I shouldn't mind that either."
"Of course not," the child hastened to respond. "You've told me you're
not afraid of him."
"The question is are you?" said Sir Claude.
Maisie candidly considered; then she spoke resolutely. "No, not of
papa."
"But of somebody else?"
"Certainly, of lots of people."
"Of your mother first and foremost of course."
"Dear, yes; more of mamma than of--than of--"
"Than of what?" Sir Claude asked as she hesitated for a comparison.
She thought over all objects of dread. "Than of a wild elephant!" she at
last declared. "And you are too," she reminded him as he laughed.
"Oh yes, I am too."
Again she meditated. "Why then did you marry her?"
"Just because I WAS afraid."
"Even when she loved you?"
"That made her the more alarming."
For Maisie herself, though her companion seemed to find it droll, this
opened up depths of gravity. "More alarming than she is now?"
"Well, in a different way. Fear, unfortunately, is a very big thing, and
there's a great variety of kinds."
She took this in with complete intelligence. "Then I think I've got them
all."
"You?" her friend cried. "Nonsense! You're thoroughly 'game.'"
"I'm awfully afraid of Mrs. Beale," Maisie objected.
He raised his smooth brows. "That charming woman?"
"Well," she answered, "you can't understand it because you're not in the
same state."
She had been going on with a luminous "But" when, across the table, he
laid his hand on her arm. "I CAN understand it," he confessed. "I AM in
the same state."
"Oh but she likes you so!" Maisie promptly pleaded.
Sir Claude literally coloured. "That has something to do with it."
Maisie wondered again. "Being liked with being afraid?"
"Yes, when it amounts to adoration."
"Then why aren't you afraid of ME?"
"Because with you it amounts to that?" He had kept his hand on her arm.
"Well, what prevents is simply that you're the gentlest spirit on earth.
Besides--" he pursued; but he came to a pause.
"Besides--?"
"I SHOULD be in fear if you were older--there! See--you already make me
talk nonsense," the young man added. "The question's about your father.
Is he likewise afraid of Mrs. Beale?"
"I think not. And yet he loves her," Maisie mused.
"Oh no--he doesn't; not a bit!" After which, as his companion stared,
Sir Claude apparently felt that he must make this oddity fit with her
recollections. "There's nothing of that sort NOW."
But Maisie only stared the more. "They've changed?"
"Like your mother and me."
She wondered how he knew. "Then you've seen Mrs. Beale again?"
He demurred. "Oh no. She has written to me," he presently subjoined.
"SHE'S not afraid of your father either. No one at all is--really."
Then he went on while Maisie's little mind, with its filial spring
too relaxed from of old for a pang at this want of parental majesty,
speculated on the vague relation between Mrs. Beale's courage and the
question, for Mrs. Wix and herself, of a neat lodging with their friend.
"She wouldn't care a bit if Mr. Farange should make a row."
"Do you mean about you and me and Mrs. Wix? Why should she care? It
wouldn't hurt HER."
Sir Claude, with his legs out and his hand diving into his
trousers-pocket, threw back his head with a laugh just perceptibly
tempered, as she thought, by a sigh. "My dear stepchild, you're
delightful! Look here, we must pay. You've had five buns?"
"How CAN you?" Maisie demanded, crimson under the eye of the young woman
who had stepped to their board. "I've had three."
Shortly after this Mrs. Wix looked so ill that it was to be feared her
ladyship had treated her to some unexampled passage. Maisie asked if
anything worse than usual had occurred; whereupon the poor woman brought
out with infinite gloom: "He has been seeing Mrs. Beale."
"Sir Claude?" The child remembered what he had said. "Oh no--not SEEING
her!"
"I beg your pardon. I absolutely know it." Mrs. Wix was as positive as
she was dismal.
Maisie nevertheless ventured to challenge her. "And how, please, do you
know it?"
She faltered a moment. "From herself. I've been to see her."
Then on Maisie's visible surprise: "I went yesterday while you were out
with him. He has seen her repeatedly."
It was not wholly clear to Maisie why Mrs. Wix should be prostrate at
this discovery; but her general consciousness of the way things could be
both perpetrated and resented always eased off for her the strain of the
particular mystery. "There may be some mistake. He says he hasn't."
Mrs. Wix turned paler, as if this were a still deeper ground for alarm.
"He says so?--he denies that he has seen her?"
"He told me so three days ago. Perhaps she's mistaken," Maisie
suggested.
"Do you mean perhaps she lies? She lies whenever it suits her, I'm very
sure. But I know when people lie--and that's what I've loved in you,
that YOU never do. Mrs. Beale didn't yesterday at any rate. He HAS seen
her."
Maisie was silent a little. "He says not," she then repeated.
"Perhaps--perhaps--" Once more she paused.
"Do you mean perhaps HE lies?"
"Gracious goodness, no!" Maisie shouted.
Mrs. Wix's bitterness, however, again overflowed. "He does, he does,"
she cried, "and it's that that's just the worst of it! They'll take
you, they'll take you, and what in the world will then become of me?"
She threw herself afresh upon her pupil and wept over her with the
inevitable effect of causing the child's own tears to flow. But Maisie
couldn't have told you if she had been crying at the image of their
separation or at that of Sir Claude's untruth. As regards this deviation
it was agreed between them that they were not in a position to bring it
home to him. Mrs. Wix was in dread of doing anything to make him, as
she said, "worse"; and Maisie was sufficiently initiated to be able to
reflect that in speaking to her as he had done he had only wished to be
tender of Mrs. Beale. It fell in with all her inclinations to think of
him as tender, and she forbore to let him know that the two ladies had,
as SHE would never do, betrayed him.
She had not long to keep her secret, for the next day, when she went
out with him, he suddenly said in reference to some errand he had first
proposed: "No, we won't do that--we'll do something else." On this, a
few steps from the door, he stopped a hansom and helped her in; then
following her he gave the driver over the top an address that she lost.
When he was seated beside her she asked him where they were going; to
which he replied "My dear child, you'll see." She saw while she watched
and wondered that they took the direction of the Regent's Park; but
she didn't know why he should make a mystery of that, and it was not
till they passed under a pretty arch and drew up at a white house
in a terrace from which the view, she thought, must be lovely that,
mystified, she clutched him and broke out: "I shall see papa?"
He looked down at her with a kind smile. "No, probably not. I haven't
brought you for that."
"Then whose house is it?"
"It's your father's. They've moved here."
She looked about: she had known Mr. Farange in four or five houses, and
there was nothing astonishing in this except that it was the nicest
place yet. "But I shall see Mrs. Beale?"
"It's to see her that I brought you."
She stared, very white, and, with her hand on his arm, though they had
stopped, kept him sitting in the cab. "To leave me, do you mean?"
He could scarce bring it out. "It's not for me to say if you CAN stay.
We must look into it."
"But if I do I shall see papa?"
"Oh some time or other, no doubt." Then Sir Claude went on: "Have you
really so very great a dread of that?"
Maisie glanced away over the apron of the cab--gazed a minute at the
green expanse of the Regent's Park and, at this moment colouring to the
roots of her hair, felt the full, hot rush of an emotion more mature
than any she had yet known. It consisted of an odd unexpected shame at
placing in an inferior light, to so perfect a gentleman and so charming
a person as Sir Claude, so very near a relative as Mr. Farange. She
remembered, however, her friend's telling her that no one was seriously
afraid of her father, and she turned round with a small toss of her
head. "Oh I dare say I can manage him!"
Sir Claude smiled, but she noted that the violence with which she had
just changed colour had brought into his own face a slight compunctious
and embarrassed flush. It was as if he had caught his first glimpse of
her sense of responsibility. Neither of them made a movement to get out,
and after an instant he said to her: "Look here, if you say so we won't
after all go in."
"Ah but I want to see Mrs. Beale!" the child gently wailed.
"But what if she does decide to take you? Then, you know, you'll have to
remain."
Maisie turned it over. "Straight on--and give you up?"
"Well--I don't quite know about giving me up."
"I mean as I gave up Mrs. Beale when I last went to mamma's. I couldn't
do without you here for anything like so long a time as that." It struck
her as a hundred years since she had seen Mrs. Beale, who was on the
other side of the door they were so near and whom she yet had not taken
the jump to clasp in her arms.
"Oh I dare say you'll see more of me than you've seen of Mrs. Beale.
It isn't in ME to be so beautifully discreet," Sir Claude said. "But
all the same," he continued, "I leave the thing, now that we're here,
absolutely WITH you. You must settle it. We'll only go in if you say so.
If you don't say so we'll turn right round and drive away."
"So in that case Mrs. Beale won't take me?"
"Well--not by any act of ours."
"And I shall be able to go on with mamma?" Maisie asked.
"Oh I don't say that!"
She considered. "But I thought you said you had squared her?"
Sir Claude poked his stick at the splashboard of the cab. "Not, my dear
child, to the point she now requires."
"Then if she turns me out and I don't come here--"
Sir Claude promptly took her up. "What do I offer you, you naturally
enquire? My poor chick, that's just what I ask myself. I don't see it,
I confess, quite as straight as Mrs. Wix."
His companion gazed a moment at what Mrs. Wix saw. "You mean WE can't
make a little family?"
"It's very base of me, no doubt, but I can't wholly chuck your mother."
Maisie, at this, emitted a low but lengthened sigh, a slight sound of
reluctant assent which would certainly have been amusing to an auditor.
"Then there isn't anything else?"
"I vow I don't quite see what there is."
Maisie waited; her silence seemed to signify that she too had no
alternative to suggest. But she made another appeal. "If I come here
you'll come to see me?"
"I won't lose sight of you."
"But how often will you come?" As he hung fire she pressed him. "Often
and often?"
Still he faltered. "My dear old woman--" he began. Then he paused again,
going on the next moment with a change of tone. "You're too funny! Yes
then," he said; "often and often."
"All right!" Maisie jumped out. Mrs. Beale was at home, but not in the
drawing-room, and when the butler had gone for her the child suddenly
broke out: "But when I'm here what will Mrs. Wix do?"
"Ah you should have thought of that sooner!" said her companion with the
first faint note of asperity she had ever heard him sound.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter xxii, utilizing the provided context. | chapter xxii|chapter xxiii | Maisie, Sir Claude, and Susan Ash cross the Channel together and arrive in Boulogne, France. Maisie asks Sir Claude whether they will be traveling on to Paris, but Sir Claude says not yet, explaining that Paris is too expensive. Maisie is disappointed at first, but then she realizes that she loves Boulogne because of all the new things there are to see and do. Sir Claude says that Mrs. Wix will soon be joining them. Poor Mrs. Wix arrives in the middle of a rainstorm, after a hard journey crossing the Channel. |
----------CHAPTER XXII---------
The next day it seemed to her indeed at the bottom--down too far, in
shuddering plunges, even to leave her a sense, on the Channel boat, of
the height at which Sir Claude remained and which had never in every way
been so great as when, much in the wet, though in the angle of a screen
of canvas, he sociably sat with his stepdaughter's head in his lap and
that of Mrs. Beale's housemaid fairly pillowed on his breast. Maisie was
surprised to learn as they drew into port that they had had a lovely
passage; but this emotion, at Boulogne, was speedily quenched in others,
above all in the great ecstasy of a larger impression of life. She was
"abroad" and she gave herself up to it, responded to it, in the bright
air, before the pink houses, among the bare-legged fishwives and the
red-legged soldiers, with the instant certitude of a vocation. Her
vocation was to see the world and to thrill with enjoyment of the
picture; she had grown older in five minutes and had by the time they
reached the hotel recognised in the institutions and manners of France a
multitude of affinities and messages. Literally in the course of an hour
she found her initiation; a consciousness much quickened by the superior
part that, as soon as they had gobbled down a French breakfast--which
was indeed a high note in the concert--she observed herself to play to
Susan Ash. Sir Claude, who had already bumped against people he knew and
who, as he said, had business and letters, sent them out together for a
walk, a walk in which the child was avenged, so far as poetic justice
required, not only for the loud giggles that in their London trudges
used to break from her attendant, but for all the years of her tendency
to produce socially that impression of an excess of the queer something
which had seemed to waver so widely between innocence and guilt. On the
spot, at Boulogne, though there might have been excess there was at
least no wavering; she recognised, she understood, she adored and took
possession; feeling herself attuned to everything and laying her hand,
right and left, on what had simply been waiting for her. She explained
to Susan, she laughed at Susan, she towered over Susan; and it was
somehow Susan's stupidity, of which she had never yet been so sure,
and Susan's bewilderment and ignorance and antagonism, that gave the
liveliest rebound to her immediate perceptions and adoptions. The place
and the people were all a picture together, a picture that, when they
went down to the wide sands, shimmered, in a thousand tints, with the
pretty organisation of the _plage_, with the gaiety of spectators and
bathers, with that of the language and the weather, and above all with
that of our young lady's unprecedented situation. For it appeared to her
that no one since the beginning of time could have had such an adventure
or, in an hour, so much experience; as a sequel to which she only
needed, in order to feel with conscious wonder how the past was changed,
to hear Susan, inscrutably aggravated, express a preference for the
Edgware Road. The past was so changed and the circle it had formed
already so overstepped that on that very afternoon, in the course of
another walk, she found herself enquiring of Sir Claude--without a
single scruple--if he were prepared as yet to name the moment at which
they should start for Paris. His answer, it must be said, gave her the
least little chill.
"Oh Paris, my dear child--I don't quite know about Paris!"
This required to be met, but it was much less to challenge him than for
the rich joy of her first discussion of the details of a tour that,
after looking at him a minute, she replied: "Well, isn't that the REAL
thing, the thing that when one does come abroad--?"
He had turned grave again, and she merely threw that out: it was a way
of doing justice to the seriousness of their life. She couldn't moreover
be so much older since yesterday without reflecting that if by this time
she probed a little he would recognise that she had done enough for mere
patience. There was in fact something in his eyes that suddenly, to her
own, made her discretion shabby. Before she could remedy this he had
answered her last question, answered it in the way that, of all ways,
she had least expected. "The thing it doesn't do not to do? Certainly
Paris is charming. But, my dear fellow, Paris eats your head off. I mean
it's so beastly expensive."
That note gave her a pang--it suddenly let in a harder light. Were they
poor then, that is was HE poor, really poor beyond the pleasantry of
apollinaris and cold beef? They had walked to the end of the long jetty
that enclosed the harbour and were looking out at the dangers they had
escaped, the grey horizon that was England, the tumbled surface of the
sea and the brown smacks that bobbed upon it. Why had he chosen an
embarrassed time to make this foreign dash? unless indeed it was just
the dash economic, of which she had often heard and on which, after
another look at the grey horizon and the bobbing boats, she was ready
to turn round with elation. She replied to him quite in his own manner:
"I see, I see." She smiled up at him. "Our affairs are involved."
"That's it." He returned her smile. "Mine are not quite so bad as yours;
for yours are really, my dear man, in a state I can't see through at
all. But mine will do--for a mess."
She thought this over. "But isn't France cheaper than England?"
England, over there in the thickening gloom, looked just then remarkably
dear. "I dare say; some parts."
"Then can't we live in those parts?"
There was something that for an instant, in satisfaction of this, he had
the air of being about to say and yet not saying. What he presently said
was: "This very place is one of them."
"Then we shall live here?"
He didn't treat it quite so definitely as she liked. "Since we've come
to save money!"
This made her press him more. "How long shall we stay?"
"Oh three or four days."
It took her breath away. "You can save money in that time?"
He burst out laughing, starting to walk again and taking her under his
arm. He confessed to her on the way that she too had put a finger on
the weakest of all his weaknesses, the fact, of which he was perfectly
aware, that he probably might have lived within his means if he had
never done anything for thrift. "It's the happy thoughts that do it," he
said; "there's nothing so ruinous as putting in a cheap week." Maisie
heard afresh among the pleasant sounds of the closing day that steel
click of Ida's change of mind. She thought of the ten-pound note
it would have been delightful at this juncture to produce for her
companion's encouragement. But the idea was dissipated by his saying
irrelevantly, in presence of the next thing they stopped to admire: "We
shall stay till she arrives."
She turned upon him. "Mrs. Beale?"
"Mrs. Wix. I've had a wire," he went on. "She has seen your mother."
"Seen mamma?" Maisie stared. "Where in the world?"
"Apparently in London. They've been together."
For an instant this looked ominous--a fear came into her eyes. "Then
she hasn't gone?"
"Your mother?--to South Africa? I give it up, dear boy," Sir Claude
said; and she seemed literally to see him give it up as he stood
there and with a kind of absent gaze--absent, that is, from HER
affairs--followed the fine stride and shining limbs of a young fishwife
who had just waded out of the sea with her basketful of shrimps. His
thought came back to her sooner than his eyes. "But I dare say it's all
right. She wouldn't come if it wasn't, poor old thing: she knows rather
well what she's about."
This was so reassuring that Maisie, after turning it over, could make it
fit into her dream. "Well, what IS she about?"
He finally stopped looking at the fishwife--he met his companion's
enquiry. "Oh you know!" There was something in the way he said it that
made, between them, more of an equality than she had yet imagined; but
it had also more the effect of raising her up than of letting him down,
and what it did with her was shown by the sound of her assent.
"Yes--I know!" What she knew, what she COULD know is by this time no
secret to us: it grew and grew at any rate, the rest of that day, in the
air of what he took for granted. It was better he should do that than
attempt to test her knowledge; but there at the worst was the gist of
the matter: it was open between them at last that their great change,
as, speaking as if it had already lasted weeks, Maisie called it, was
somehow built up round Mrs. Wix. Before she went to bed that night she
knew further that Sir Claude, since, as HE called it, they had been on
the rush, had received more telegrams than one. But they separated again
without speaking of Mrs. Beale.
Oh what a crossing for the straighteners and the old brown dress--which
latter appurtenance the child saw thriftily revived for the possible
disasters of travel! The wind got up in the night and from her little
room at the inn Maisie could hear the noise of the sea. The next day it
was raining and everything different: this was the case even with Susan
Ash, who positively crowed over the bad weather, partly, it seemed, for
relish of the time their visitor would have in the boat, and partly to
point the moral of the folly of coming to such holes. In the wet, with
Sir Claude, Maisie went to the Folkestone packet, on the arrival of
which, with many signs of the fray, he made her wait under an umbrella
by the quay; whence almost ere the vessel touched, he was to be
descried, in quest of their friend, wriggling--that had been his
word--through the invalids massed upon the deck. It was long till
he reappeared--it was not indeed till every one had landed; when he
presented the object of his benevolence in a light that Maisie scarce
knew whether to suppose the depth of prostration or the flush of
triumph. The lady on his arm, still bent beneath her late ordeal, was
muffled in such draperies as had never before offered so much support
to so much woe. At the hotel, an hour later, this ambiguity dropped:
assisting Mrs. Wix in private to refresh and reinvest herself, Maisie
heard from her in detail how little she could have achieved if Sir
Claude hadn't put it in her power. It was a phrase that in her room she
repeated in connexions indescribable: he had put it in her power to have
"changes," as she said, of the most intimate order, adapted to climates
and occasions so various as to foreshadow in themselves the stages of
a vast itinerary. Cheap weeks would of course be in their place after
so much money spent on a governess; sums not grudged, however, by this
lady's pupil, even on her feeling her own appearance give rise, through
the straighteners, to an attention perceptibly mystified. Sir Claude in
truth had had less time to devote to it than to Mrs. Wix's; and moreover
she would rather be in her own shoes than in her friend's creaking new
ones in the event of an encounter with Mrs. Beale. Maisie was too lost
in the idea of Mrs. Beale's judgement of so much newness to pass any
judgement herself. Besides, after much luncheon and many endearments,
the question took quite another turn, to say nothing of the pleasure
of the child's quick view that there were other eyes than Susan Ash's
to open to what she could show. She couldn't show much, alas, till it
stopped raining, which it declined to do that day; but this had only the
effect of leaving more time for Mrs. Wix's own demonstration. It came
as they sat in the little white and gold salon which Maisie thought the
loveliest place she had ever seen except perhaps the apartment of the
Countess; it came while the hard summer storm lashed the windows and
blew in such a chill that Sir Claude, with his hands in his pockets and
cigarettes in his teeth, fidgeting, frowning, looking out and turning
back, ended by causing a smoky little fire to be made in the dressy
little chimney. It came in spite of something that could only be named
his air of wishing to put it off; an air that had served him--oh as all
his airs served him!--to the extent of his having for a couple of hours
confined the conversation to gratuitous jokes and generalities, kept it
on the level of the little empty coffee-cups and _petits verres_ (Mrs.
Wix had two of each!) that struck Maisie, through the fumes of the
French fire and the English tobacco, as a token more than ever that they
were launched. She felt now, in close quarters and as clearly as if Mrs.
Wix had told her, that what this lady had come over for was not merely
to be chaffed and to hear her pupil chaffed; not even to hear Sir
Claude, who knew French in perfection, imitate the strange sounds
emitted by the English folk at the hotel. It was perhaps half an effect
of her present renovations, as if her clothes had been somebody's else:
she had at any rate never produced such an impression of high colour,
of a redness associated in Maisie's mind at THAT pitch either with
measles or with "habits." Her heart was not at all in the gossip about
Boulogne; and if her complexion was partly the result of the dejeuner
and the _petits verres_ it was also the brave signal of what she was
there to say. Maisie knew when this did come how anxiously it had been
awaited by the youngest member of the party. "Her ladyship packed me
off--she almost put me into the cab!" That was what Mrs. Wix at last
brought out.
----------CHAPTER XXIII---------
Sir Claude was stationed at the window; he didn't so much as turn round,
and it was left to the youngest of the three to take up the remark. "Do
you mean you went to see her yesterday?"
"She came to see ME. She knocked at my shabby door. She mounted my
squalid stair. She told me she had seen you at Folkestone."
Maisie wondered. "She went back that evening?"
"No; yesterday morning. She drove to me straight from the station. It
was most remarkable. If I had a job to get off she did nothing to make
it worse--she did a great deal to make it better." Mrs. Wix hung fire,
though the flame in her face burned brighter; then she became capable
of saying: "Her ladyship's kind! She did what I didn't expect."
Maisie, on this, looked straight at her stepfather's back; it might well
have been for her at that hour a monument of her ladyship's kindness. It
remained, as such, monumentally still, and for a time that permitted the
child to ask of their companion: "Did she really help you?"
"Most practically." Again Mrs. Wix paused; again she quite resounded.
"She gave me a ten-pound note."
At that, still looking out, Sir Claude, at the window, laughed loud. "So
you see, Maisie, we've not quite lost it!"
"Oh no," Maisie responded. "Isn't that too charming?" She smiled at Mrs.
Wix. "We know all about it." Then on her friend's showing such blankness
as was compatible with such a flush she pursued: "She does want me to
have you?"
Mrs. Wix showed a final hesitation, which, however, while Sir Claude
drummed on the window-pane, she presently surmounted. It came to Maisie
that in spite of his drumming and of his not turning round he was really
so much interested as to leave himself in a manner in her hands; which
somehow suddenly seemed to her a greater proof than he could have given
by interfering. "She wants me to have YOU!" Mrs. Wix declared.
Maisie answered this bang at Sir Claude. "Then that's nice for all of
us."
Of course it was, his continued silence sufficiently admitted while
Mrs. Wix rose from her chair and, as if to take more of a stand, placed
herself, not without majesty, before the fire. The incongruity of her
smartness, the circumference of her stiff frock, presented her as really
more ready for Paris than any of them. She also gazed hard at Sir
Claude's back. "Your wife was different from anything she had ever shown
me. She recognises certain proprieties."
"Which? Do you happen to remember?" Sir Claude asked.
Mrs. Wix's reply was prompt. "The importance for Maisie of a
gentlewoman, of some one who's not--well, so bad! She objects to a mere
maid, and I don't in the least mind telling you what she wants me to
do." One thing was clear--Mrs. Wix was now bold enough for anything.
"She wants me to persuade you to get rid of the person from Mrs.
Beale's."
Maisie waited for Sir Claude to pronounce on this; then she could only
understand that he on his side waited, and she felt particularly full of
common sense as she met her responsibility. "Oh I don't want Susan with
YOU!" she said to Mrs. Wix.
Sir Claude, always from the window, approved. "That's quite simple. I'll
take her back."
Mrs. Wix gave a positive jump; Maisie caught her look of alarm. "'Take'
her? You don't mean to go over on purpose?"
Sir Claude said nothing for a moment; after which, "Why shouldn't I
leave you here?" he enquired.
Maisie, at this, sprang up. "Oh do, oh do, oh do!" The next moment she
was interlaced with Mrs. Wix, and the two, on the hearth-rug, their eyes
in each other's eyes, considered the plan with intensity. Then Maisie
felt the difference of what they saw in it.
"She can surely go back alone: why should you put yourself out?" Mrs.
Wix demanded.
"Oh she's an idiot--she's incapable. If anything should happen to her
it would be awkward: it was I who brought her--without her asking. If I
turn her away I ought with my own hand to place her again exactly where
I found her."
Mrs. Wix's face appealed to Maisie on such folly, and her manner,
as directed to their companion, had, to her pupil's surprise, an
unprecedented firmness. "Dear Sir Claude, I think you're perverse. Pay
her fare and give her a sovereign. She has had an experience that she
never dreamed of and that will be an advantage to her through life.
If she goes wrong on the way it will be simply because she wants to,
and, with her expenses and her remuneration--make it even what you
like!--you'll have treated her as handsomely as you always treat every
one."
This was a new tone--as new as Mrs. Wix's cap; and it could strike a
young person with a sharpened sense for latent meanings as the upshot of
a relation that had taken on a new character. It brought out for Maisie
how much more even than she had guessed her friends were fighting side
by side. At the same time it needed so definite a justification that as
Sir Claude now at last did face them she at first supposed him merely
resentful of excessive familiarity. She was therefore yet more puzzled
to see him show his serene beauty untroubled, as well as an equal
interest in a matter quite distinct from any freedom but her ladyship's.
"Did my wife come alone?" He could ask even that good-humouredly.
"When she called on me?" Mrs. Wix WAS red now: his good humour wouldn't
keep down her colour, which for a minute glowed there like her ugly
honesty. "No--there was some one in the cab." The only attenuation she
could think of was after a minute to add: "But they didn't come up."
Sir Claude broke into a laugh--Maisie herself could guess what it was
at: while he now walked about, still laughing, and at the fireplace
gave a gay kick to a displaced log, she felt more vague about almost
everything than about the drollery of such a "they." She in fact could
scarce have told you if it was to deepen or to cover the joke that she
bethought herself to observe: "Perhaps it was her maid."
Mrs. Wix gave her a look that at any rate deprecated the wrong tone. "It
was not her maid."
"Do you mean there are this time two?" Sir Claude asked as if he hadn't
heard.
"Two maids?" Maisie went on as if she might assume he had.
The reproach of the straighteners darkened; but Sir Claude cut across it
with a sudden: "See here; what do you mean? And what do you suppose SHE
meant?"
Mrs. Wix let him for a moment, in silence, understand that the answer
to his question, if he didn't take care, might give him more than he
wanted. It was as if, with this scruple, she measured and adjusted all
she gave him in at last saying: "What she meant was to make me know that
you're definitely free. To have that straight from her was a joy I of
course hadn't hoped for: it made the assurance, and my delight at it, a
thing I could really proceed upon. You already know now certainly I'd
have started even if she hadn't pressed me; you already know what, so
long, we've been looking for and what, as soon as she told me of her
step taken at Folkestone, I recognised with rapture that we HAVE. It's
your freedom that makes me right"--she fairly bristled with her logic.
"But I don't mind telling you that it's her action that makes me happy!"
"Her action?" Sir Claude echoed. "Why, my dear woman, her action is just
a hideous crime. It happens to satisfy our sympathies in a way that's
quite delicious; but that doesn't in the least alter the fact that it's
the most abominable thing ever done. She has chucked our friend here
overboard not a bit less than if she had shoved her shrieking and
pleading, out of that window and down two floors to the paving-stones."
Maisie surveyed serenely the parties to the discussion. "Oh your friend
here, dear Sir Claude, doesn't plead and shriek!"
He looked at her a moment. "Never. Never. That's one, only one, but
charming so far as it goes, of about a hundred things we love her for."
Then he pursued to Mrs. Wix: "What I can't for the life of me make out
is what Ida is REALLY up to, what game she was playing in turning to you
with that cursed cheek after the beastly way she has used you. Where--to
explain her at all--does she fancy she can presently, when we least
expect it, take it out of us?"
"She doesn't fancy anything, nor want anything out of any one. Her
cursed cheek, as you call it, is the best thing I've ever seen in her.
I don't care a fig for the beastly way she used me--I forgive it all a
thousand times over!" Mrs. Wix raised her voice as she had never raised
it; she quite triumphed in her lucidity. "I understand her, I almost
admire her!" she quavered. She spoke as if this might practically
suffice; yet in charity to fainter lights she threw out an explanation.
"As I've said, she was different; upon my word I wouldn't have known
her. She had a glimmering, she had an instinct; they brought her. It was
a kind of happy thought, and if you couldn't have supposed she would
ever have had such a thing, why of course I quite agree with you. But
she did have it! There!"
Maisie could feel again how a certain rude rightness in this plea might
have been found exasperating; but as she had often watched Sir Claude in
apprehension of displeasures that didn't come, so now, instead of saying
"Oh hell!" as her father used, she observed him only to take refuge in a
question that at the worst was abrupt.
"Who IS it this time, do you know?"
Mrs. Wix tried blind dignity. "Who is what, Sir Claude?"
"The man who stands the cabs. Who was in the one that waited at your
door?"
At this challenge she faltered so long that her young friend's pitying
conscience gave her a hand. "It wasn't the Captain."
This good intention, however, only converted the excellent woman's
scruple to a more ambiguous stare; besides of course making Sir Claude
go off. Mrs. Wix fairly appealed to him. "Must I really tell you?"
His amusement continued. "Did she make you promise not to?"
Mrs. Wix looked at him still harder. "I mean before Maisie."
Sir Claude laughed again. "Why SHE can't hurt him!"
Maisie felt herself, as it passed, brushed by the light humour of this.
"Yes, I can't hurt him."
The straighteners again roofed her over; after which they seemed to
crack with the explosion of their wearer's honesty. Amid the flying
splinters Mrs. Wix produced a name. "Mr. Tischbein."
There was for an instant a silence that, under Sir Claude's influence
and while he and Maisie looked at each other, suddenly pretended to be
that of gravity. "We don't know Mr. Tischbein, do we, dear?"
Maisie gave the point all needful thought. "No, I can't place Mr.
Tischbein."
It was a passage that worked visibly on their friend. "You must pardon
me, Sir Claude," she said with an austerity of which the note was real,
"if I thank God to your face that he has in his mercy--I mean his mercy
to our charge--allowed me to achieve this act." She gave out a long puff
of pain. "It was time!" Then as if still more to point the moral: "I
said just now I understood your wife. I said just now I admired her. I
stand to it: I did both of those things when I saw how even SHE, poor
thing, saw. If you want the dots on the i's you shall have them. What
she came to me for, in spite of everything, was that I'm just"--she
quavered it out--"well, just clean! What she saw for her daughter was
that there must at last be a DECENT person!"
Maisie was quick enough to jump a little at the sound of this
implication that such a person was what Sir Claude was not; the
next instant, however, she more profoundly guessed against whom the
discrimination was made. She was therefore left the more surprised at
the complete candour with which he embraced the worst. "If she's bent on
decent persons why has she given her to ME? You don't call me a decent
person, and I'll do Ida the justice that SHE never did. I think I'm as
indecent as any one and that there's nothing in my behaviour that makes
my wife's surrender a bit less ignoble!"
"Don't speak of your behaviour!" Mrs. Wix cried. "Don't say such
horrible things; they're false and they're wicked and I forbid you! It's
to KEEP you decent that I'm here and that I've done everything I have
done. It's to save you--I won't say from yourself, because in yourself
you're beautiful and good! It's to save you from the worst person of
all. I haven't, after all, come over to be afraid to speak of her!
That's the person in whose place her ladyship wants such a person as
even me; and if she thought herself, as she as good as told me, not fit
for Maisie's company, it's not, as you may well suppose, that she may
make room for Mrs. Beale!"
Maisie watched his face as it took this outbreak, and the most she saw
in it was that it turned a little white. That indeed made him look,
as Susan Ash would have said, queer; and it was perhaps a part of the
queerness that he intensely smiled. "You're too hard on Mrs. Beale. She
has great merits of her own."
Mrs. Wix, at this, instead of immediately replying, did what Sir Claude
had been doing before: she moved across to the window and stared a while
into the storm. There was for a minute, to Maisie's sense, a hush that
resounded with wind and rain. Sir Claude, in spite of these things,
glanced about for his hat; on which Maisie spied it first and, making
a dash for it, held it out to him. He took it with a gleam of a
"thank-you" in his face, and then something moved her still to hold the
other side of the brim; so that, united by their grasp of this object,
they stood some seconds looking many things at each other. By this time
Mrs. Wix had turned round. "Do you mean to tell me," she demanded, "that
you are going back?"
"To Mrs. Beale?" Maisie surrendered his hat, and there was something
that touched her in the embarrassed, almost humiliated way their
companion's challenge made him turn it round and round. She had seen
people do that who, she was sure, did nothing else that Sir Claude did.
"I can't just say, my dear thing. We'll see about I--we'll talk of it
to-morrow. Meantime I must get some air."
Mrs. Wix, with her back to the window, threw up her head to a height
that, still for a moment, had the effect of detaining him. "All the air
in France, Sir Claude, won't, I think, give you the courage to deny that
you're simply afraid of her!"
Oh this time he did look queer; Maisie had no need of Susan's vocabulary
to note it! It would have come to her of itself as, with his hand on
the door, he turned his eyes from his stepdaughter to her governess and
then back again. Resting on Maisie's, though for ever so short a time,
there was something they gave up to her and tried to explain. His lips,
however, explained nothing; they only surrendered to Mrs. Wix. "Yes. I'm
simply afraid of her!" He opened the door and passed out. It brought
back to Maisie his confession of fear of her mother; it made her
stepmother then the second lady about whom he failed of the particular
virtue that was supposed most to mark a gentleman. In fact there were
three of them, if she counted in Mrs. Wix, before whom he had undeniably
quailed. Well, his want of valour was but a deeper appeal to her
tenderness. To thrill with response to it she had only to remember all
the ladies she herself had, as they called it, funked.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter xxviii, utilizing the provided context. | null | Mrs. Beale tells Maisie that Sir Claude has made a deal with Ida, his soon-to-be ex-wife: Ida will stop expecting Sir Claude's financial support if Sir Claude takes on the responsibility of supporting Maisie. It's not yet clear, though, whether this will work out. Mrs. Wix concludes that Mrs. Beale is using Maisie as a pawn to allow her to hold onto Sir Claude. Maisie and Mrs. Wix discuss the possibility of Mrs. Beale taking care of Maisie, instead of Sir Claude. Both decide, though, that this is unacceptable; Maisie will live with Sir Claude, with "Him alone or nobody" . |
----------CHAPTER XXVII---------
The greatest wonder of all was the way Mrs. Beale addressed her
announcement, so far as could be judged, equally to Mrs. Wix, who, as
if from sudden failure of strength, sank into a chair while Maisie
surrendered to the visitor's embrace. As soon as the child was liberated
she met with profundity Mrs. Wix's stupefaction and actually was able to
see that while in a manner sustaining the encounter her face yet seemed
with intensity to say: "Now, for God's sake, don't crow 'I told you
so!'" Maisie was somehow on the spot aware of an absence of disposition
to crow; it had taken her but an extra minute to arrive at such a quick
survey of the objects surrounding Mrs. Beale as showed that among them
was no appurtenance of Sir Claude's. She knew his dressing-bag now--oh
with the fondest knowledge!--and there was an instant during which its
not being there was a stroke of the worst news. She was yet to learn
what it could be to recognise in some lapse of a sequence the proof of
an extinction, and therefore remained unaware that this momentary pang
was a foretaste of the experience of death. It of course yielded in
a flash to Mrs. Beale's brightness, it gasped itself away in her own
instant appeal. "You've come alone?"
"Without Sir Claude?" Strangely, Mrs. Beale looked even brighter. "Yes;
in the eagerness to get at you. You abominable little villain!"--and her
stepmother, laughing clear, administered to her cheek a pat that was
partly a pinch. "What were you up to and what did you take me for? But
I'm glad to be abroad, and after all it's you who have shown me the way.
I mightn't, without you, have been able to come--to come, that is, so
soon. Well, here I am at any rate and in a moment more I should have
begun to worry about you. This will do very well"--she was good-natured
about the place and even presently added that it was charming. Then with
a rosier glow she made again her great point: "I'm free, I'm free!"
Maisie made on her side her own: she carried back her gaze to Mrs. Wix,
whom amazement continued to hold; she drew afresh her old friend's
attention to the superior way she didn't take that up. What she did take
up the next minute was the question of Sir Claude. "Where is he? Won't
he come?"
Mrs. Beale's consideration of this oscillated with a smile between the
two expectancies with which she was flanked: it was conspicuous, it
was extraordinary, her unblinking acceptance of Mrs. Wix, a miracle of
which Maisie had even now begun to read a reflexion in that lady's long
visage. "He'll come, but we must MAKE him!" she gaily brought forth.
"Make him?" Maisie echoed.
"We must give him time. We must play our cards."
"But he promised us awfully," Maisie replied.
"My dear child, he has promised ME awfully; I mean lots of things, and
not in every case kept his promise to the letter." Mrs. Beale's good
humour insisted on taking for granted Mrs. Wix's, to whom her attention
had suddenly grown prodigious. "I dare say he has done the same with
you, and not always come to time. But he makes it up in his own way--and
it isn't as if we didn't know exactly what he is. There's one thing he
is," she went on, "which makes everything else only a question, for us,
of tact." They scarce had time to wonder what this was before, as they
might have said, it flew straight into their face. "He's as free as I
am!"
"Yes, I know," said Maisie; as if, however, independently weighing the
value of that. She really weighed also the oddity of her stepmother's
treating it as news to HER, who had been the first person literally to
whom Sir Claude had mentioned it. For a few seconds, as if with the
sound of it in her ears, she stood with him again, in memory and in the
twilight, in the hotel garden at Folkestone.
Anything Mrs. Beale overlooked was, she indeed divined, but the effect
of an exaltation of high spirits, a tendency to soar that showed even
when she dropped--still quite impartially--almost to the confidential.
"Well, then--we've only to wait. He can't do without us long. I'm sure,
Mrs. Wix, he can't do without YOU! He's devoted to you; he has told me
so much about you. The extent I count on you, you know, count on you to
help me--" was an extent that even all her radiance couldn't express.
What it couldn't express quite as much as what it could made at any rate
every instant her presence and even her famous freedom loom larger; and
it was this mighty mass that once more led her companions, bewildered
and disjoined, to exchange with each other as through a thickening veil
confused and ineffectual signs. They clung together at least on the
common ground of unpreparedness, and Maisie watched without relief the
havoc of wonder in Mrs. Wix. It had reduced her to perfect impotence,
and, but that gloom was black upon her, she sat as if fascinated by Mrs.
Beale's high style. It had plunged her into a long deep hush; for what
had happened was the thing she had least allowed for and before which
the particular rigour she had worked up could only grow limp and sick.
Sir Claude was to have reappeared with his accomplice or without
her; never, never his accomplice without HIM. Mrs. Beale had gained
apparently by this time an advantage she could pursue: she looked at the
droll dumb figure with jesting reproach. "You really won't shake hands
with me? Never mind; you'll come round!" She put the matter to no test,
going on immediately and, instead of offering her hand, raising it, with
a pretty gesture that her bent head met, to a long black pin that played
a part in her back hair. "Are hats worn at luncheon? If you're as hungry
as I am we must go right down."
Mrs. Wix stuck fast, but she met the question in a voice her pupil
scarce recognised. "I wear mine."
Mrs. Beale, swallowing at one glance her brand-new bravery, which she
appeared at once to refer to its origin and to follow in its flights,
accepted this as conclusive. "Oh but I've not such a beauty!" Then she
turned rejoicingly to Maisie. "I've got a beauty for YOU my dear."
"A beauty?"
"A love of a hat--in my luggage. I remembered THAT"--she nodded at the
object on her stepdaughter's head--"and I've brought you one with a
peacock's breast. It's the most gorgeous blue!"
It was too strange, this talking with her there already not about
Sir Claude but about peacocks--too strange for the child to have the
presence of mind to thank her. But the felicity in which she had arrived
was so proof against everything that Maisie felt more and more the depth
of the purpose that must underlie it. She had a vague sense of its being
abysmal, the spirit with which Mrs. Beale carried off the awkwardness,
in the white and gold salon, of such a want of breath and of welcome.
Mrs. Wix was more breathless than ever; the embarrassment of Mrs.
Beale's isolation was as nothing to the embarrassment of her grace. The
perception of this dilemma was the germ on the child's part of a new
question altogether. What if WITH this indulgence--? But the idea lost
itself in something too frightened for hope and too conjectured for
fear; and while everything went by leaps and bounds one of the waiters
stood at the door to remind them that the _table d'hote_ was half over.
"Had you come up to wash hands?" Mrs. Beale hereupon asked them. "Go and
do it quickly and I'll be with you: they've put my boxes in that nice
room--it was Sir Claude's. Trust him," she laughed, "to have a nice
one!" The door of a neighbouring room stood open, and now from the
threshold, addressing herself again to Mrs. Wix, she launched a note
that gave the very key of what, as she would have said, she was up to.
"Dear lady, please attend to my daughter."
She was up to a change of deportment so complete that it represented--oh
for offices still honourably subordinate if not too explicitly
menial--an absolute coercion, an interested clutch of the old woman's
respectability. There was response, to Maisie's view, I may say at once,
in the jump of that respectability to its feet: it was itself capable of
one of the leaps, one of the bounds just mentioned, and it carried its
charge, with this momentum and while Mrs. Beale popped into Sir Claude's
chamber, straight away to where, at the end of the passage, pupil and
governess were quartered. The greatest stride of all, for that matter,
was that within a few seconds the pupil had, in another relation, been
converted into a daughter. Maisie's eyes were still following it when,
after the rush, with the door almost slammed and no thought of soap and
towels, the pair stood face to face. Mrs. Wix, in this position, was the
first to gasp a sound. "Can it ever be that SHE has one?"
Maisie felt still more bewildered. "One what?"
"Why moral sense."
They spoke as if you might have two, but Mrs. Wix looked as if it were
not altogether a happy thought, and Maisie didn't see how even an
affirmative from her own lips would clear up what had become most of a
mystery. It was to this larger puzzle she sprang pretty straight. "IS
she my mother now?"
It was a point as to which an horrific glimpse of the responsibility of
an opinion appeared to affect Mrs. Wix like a blow in the stomach. She
had evidently never thought of it; but she could think and rebound. "If
she is, he's equally your father."
Maisie, however, thought further. "Then my father and my mother--!"
But she had already faltered and Mrs. Wix had already glared back:
"Ought to live together? Don't begin it AGAIN!" She turned away with
a groan, to reach the washing-stand, and Maisie could by this time
recognise with a certain ease that that way verily madness did lie. Mrs.
Wix gave a great untidy splash, but the next instant had faced round.
"She has taken a new line."
"She was nice to you," Maisie concurred.
"What SHE thinks so--'go and dress the young lady!' But it's something!"
she panted. Then she thought out the rest. "If he won't have her, why
she'll have YOU. She'll be the one."
"The one to keep me abroad?"
"The one to give you a home." Mrs. Wix saw further; she mastered all the
portents. "Oh she's cruelly clever! It's not a moral sense." She reached
her climax: "It's a game!"
"A game?"
"Not to lose him. She has sacrificed him--to her duty."
"Then won't he come?" Maisie pleaded.
Mrs. Wix made no answer; her vision absorbed her. "He has fought. But
she has won."
"Then won't he come?" the child repeated.
Mrs. Wix made it out. "Yes, hang him!" She had never been so profane.
For all Maisie minded! "Soon--to-morrow?"
"Too soon--whenever. Indecently soon."
"But then we SHALL be together!" the child went on. It made Mrs. Wix
look at her as if in exasperation; but nothing had time to come before
she precipitated: "Together with YOU!" The air of criticism continued,
but took voice only in her companion's bidding her wash herself and come
down. The silence of quick ablutions fell upon them, presently broken,
however, by one of Maisie's sudden reversions. "Mercy, isn't she
handsome?"
Mrs. Wix had finished; she waited. "She'll attract attention." They
were rapid, and it would have been noticed that the shock the beauty
had given them acted, incongruously, as a positive spur to their
preparations for rejoining her. She had none the less, when they
returned to the sitting-room, already descended; the open door of her
room showed it empty and the chambermaid explained. Here again they were
delayed by another sharp thought of Mrs. Wix's. "But what will she live
on meanwhile?"
Maisie stopped short. "Till Sir Claude comes?"
It was nothing to the violence with which her friend had been arrested.
"Who'll pay the bills?"
Maisie thought. "Can't SHE?"
"She? She hasn't a penny."
The child wondered. "But didn't papa--?"
"Leave her a fortune?" Mrs. Wix would have appeared to speak of papa as
dead had she not immediately added: "Why he lives on other women!"
Oh yes, Maisie remembered. "Then can't he send--" She faltered again;
even to herself it sounded queer.
"Some of their money to his wife?" Mrs. Wix pave a laugh still stranger
than the weird suggestion. "I dare say she'd take it!"
They hurried on again; yet again, on the stairs, Maisie pulled up.
"Well, if she had stopped in England--!" she threw out.
Mrs. Wix considered. "And he had come over instead?"
"Yes, as we expected." Maisie launched her speculation. "What then would
she have lived on?"
Mrs. Wix hung fire but an instant. "On other men!" And she marched
downstairs.
----------CHAPTER XXVIII---------
Mrs. Beale, at table between the pair, plainly attracted the attention
Mrs. Wix had foretold. No other lady present was nearly so handsome,
nor did the beauty of any other accommodate itself with such art to the
homage it produced. She talked mainly to her other neighbour, and that
left Maisie leisure both to note the manner in which eyes were riveted
and nudges interchanged, and to lose herself in the meanings that, dimly
as yet and disconnectedly, but with a vividness that fed apprehension,
she could begin to read into her stepmother's independent move. Mrs. Wix
had helped her by talking of a game; it was a connexion in which the
move could put on a strategic air. Her notions of diplomacy were thin,
but it was a kind of cold diplomatic shoulder and an elbow of more than
usual point that, temporarily at least, were presented to her by the
averted inclination of Mrs. Beale's head. There was a phrase familiar to
Maisie, so often was it used by this lady to express the idea of one's
getting what one wanted: one got it--Mrs. Beale always said SHE at all
events always got it or proposed to get it--by "making love." She was
at present making love, singular as it appeared, to Mrs. Wix, and her
young friend's mind had never moved in such freedom as on thus finding
itself face to face with the question of what she wanted to get. This
period of the _omelette aux rognons_ and the poulet saute, while her sole
surviving parent, her fourth, fairly chattered to her governess, left
Maisie rather wondering if her governess would hold out. It was strange,
but she became on the spot quite as interested in Mrs. Wix's moral
sense as Mrs. Wix could possibly be in hers: it had risen before her so
pressingly that this was something new for Mrs. Wix to resist. Resisting
Mrs. Beale herself promised at such a rate to become a very different
business from resisting Sir Claude's view of her. More might come of
what had happened--whatever it was--than Maisie felt she could have
expected. She put it together with a suspicion that, had she ever in
her life had a sovereign changed, would have resembled an impression,
baffled by the want of arithmetic, that her change was wrong: she groped
about in it that she was perhaps playing the passive part in a case of
violent substitution. A victim was what she should surely be if the
issue between her step-parents had been settled by Mrs. Beale's saying:
"Well, if she can live with but one of us alone, with which in the world
should it be but me?" That answer was far from what, for days, she had
nursed herself in, and the desolation of it was deepened by the absence
of anything from Sir Claude to show he had not had to take it as
triumphant. Had not Mrs. Beale, upstairs, as good as given out that
she had quitted him with the snap of a tension, left him, dropped him
in London, after some struggle as a sequel to which her own advent
represented that she had practically sacrificed him? Maisie assisted in
fancy at the probable episode in the Regent's Park, finding elements
almost of terror in the suggestion that Sir Claude had not had fair
play. They drew something, as she sat there, even from the pride of an
association with such beauty as Mrs. Beale's; and the child quite forgot
that, though the sacrifice of Mrs. Beale herself was a solution she had
not invented, she would probably have seen Sir Claude embark upon it
without a direct remonstrance.
What her stepmother had clearly now promised herself to wring from Mrs.
Wix was an assent to the great modification, the change, as smart as a
juggler's trick, in the interest of which nothing so much mattered as
the new convenience of Mrs. Beale. Maisie could positively seize the
moral that her elbow seemed to point in ribs thinly defended--the moral
of its not mattering a straw which of the step-parents was the guardian.
The essence of the question was that a girl wasn't a boy: if Maisie had
been a mere rough trousered thing, destined at the best probably to grow
up a scamp, Sir Claude would have been welcome. As the case stood he had
simply tumbled out of it, and Mrs. Wix would henceforth find herself in
the employ of the right person. These arguments had really fallen into
their place, for our young friend, at the very touch of that tone in
which she had heard her new title declared. She was still, as a result
of so many parents, a daughter to somebody even after papa and mamma
were to all intents dead. If her father's wife and her mother's husband,
by the operation of a natural or, for all she knew, a legal rule, were
in the shoes of their defunct partners, then Mrs. Beale's partner was
exactly as defunct as Sir Claude's and her shoes the very pair to which,
in "Farange _v._ Farange and Others," the divorce court had given
priority. The subject of that celebrated settlement saw the rest of
her day really filled out with the pomp of all that Mrs. Beale assumed.
The assumption rounded itself there between this lady's entertainers,
flourished in a way that left them, in their bottomless element, scarce
a free pair of eyes to exchange signals. It struck Maisie even a little
that there was a rope or two Mrs. Wix might have thrown out if she
would, a rocket or two she might have sent up. They had at any rate
never been so long together without communion or telegraphy, and their
companion kept them apart by simply keeping them with her. From this
situation they saw the grandeur of their intenser relation to her pass
and pass like an endless procession. It was a day of lively movement
and of talk on Mrs. Beale's part so brilliant and overflowing as to
represent music and banners. She took them out with her promptly to walk
and to drive, and even--towards night--sketched a plan for carrying them
to the Etablissement, where, for only a franc apiece, they should listen
to a concert of celebrities. It reminded Maisie, the plan, of the
side-shows at Earl's Court, and the franc sounded brighter than the
shillings which had at that time failed; yet this too, like the other,
was a frustrated hope: the francs failed like the shillings and the
side-shows had set an example to the concert. The Etablissement in short
melted away, and it was little wonder that a lady who from the moment of
her arrival had been so gallantly in the breach should confess herself
it last done up. Maisie could appreciate her fatigue; the day had not
passed without such an observer's discovering that she was excited and
even mentally comparing her state to that of the breakers after a gale.
It had blown hard in London, and she would take time to go down. It was
of the condition known to the child by report as that of talking against
time that her emphasis, her spirit, her humour, which had never dropped,
now gave the impression.
She too was delighted with foreign manners; but her daughter's
opportunities of explaining them to her were unexpectedly forestalled
by her own tone of large acquaintance with them. One of the things that
nipped in the bud all response to her volubility was Maisie's surprised
retreat before the fact that Continental life was what she had been
almost brought up on. It was Mrs. Beale, disconcertingly, who began to
explain it to her friends; it was she who, wherever they turned, was the
interpreter, the historian and the guide. She was full of reference to
her early travels--at the age of eighteen: she had at that period made,
with a distinguished Dutch family, a stay on the Lake of Geneva. Maisie
had in the old days been regaled with anecdotes of these adventures,
but they had with time become phantasmal, and the heroine's quite showy
exemption from bewilderment at Boulogne, her acuteness on some of the
very subjects on which Maisie had been acute to Mrs. Wix, were a high
note of the majesty, of the variety of advantage, with which she had
alighted. It was all a part of the wind in her sails and of the weight
with which her daughter was now to feel her hand. The effect of it on
Maisie was to add already the burden of time to her separation from Sir
Claude. This might, to her sense, have lasted for days; it was as if,
with their main agitation transferred thus to France and with neither
mamma now nor Mrs. Beale nor Mrs. Wix nor herself at his side, he must
be fearfully alone in England. Hour after hour she felt as if she were
waiting; yet she couldn't have said exactly for what. There were moments
when Mrs. Beale's flow of talk was a mere rattle to smother a knock.
At no part of the crisis had the rattle so public a purpose as when,
instead of letting Maisie go with Mrs. Wix to prepare for dinner, she
pushed her--with a push at last incontestably maternal--straight into
the room inherited from Sir Claude. She titivated her little charge with
her own brisk hands; then she brought out: "I'm going to divorce your
father."
This was so different from anything Maisie had expected that it took
some time to reach her mind. She was aware meanwhile that she probably
looked rather wan. "To marry Sir Claude?"
Mrs. Beale rewarded her with a kiss. "It's sweet to hear you put it so."
This was a tribute, but it left Maisie balancing for an objection. "How
CAN you when he's married?"
"He isn't--practically. He's free, you know."
"Free to marry?"
"Free, first, to divorce his own fiend."
The benefit that, these last days, she had felt she owed a certain
person left Maisie a moment so ill-prepared for recognising this lurid
label that she hesitated long enough to risk: "Mamma?"
"She isn't your mamma any longer," Mrs. Beale returned. "Sir Claude has
paid her money to cease to be." Then as if remembering how little, to
the child, a pecuniary transaction must represent: "She lets him off
supporting her if he'll let her off supporting you."
Mrs. Beale appeared, however, to have done injustice to her daughter's
financial grasp. "And support me himself?" Maisie asked.
"Take the whole bother and burden of you and never let her hear of you
again. It's a regular signed contract."
"Why that's lovely of her!" Maisie cried.
"It's not so lovely, my dear, but that he'll get his divorce."
Maisie was briefly silent; after which, "No--he won't get it," she said.
Then she added still more boldly: "And you won't get yours."
Mrs. Beale, who was at the dressing-glass, turned round with amusement
and surprise. "How do you know that?"
"Oh I know!" cried Maisie.
"From Mrs. Wix?"
Maisie debated, then after an instant took her cue from Mrs. Beale's
absence of anger, which struck her the more as she had felt how much of
her courage she needed. "From Mrs. Wix," she admitted.
Mrs. Beale, at the glass again, made play with a powder-puff. "My own
sweet, she's mistaken!" was all she said.
There was a certain force in the very amenity of this, but our young
lady reflected long enough to remember that it was not the answer Sir
Claude himself had made. The recollection nevertheless failed to prevent
her saying: "Do you mean then that he won't come till he has got it?"
Mrs. Beale gave a last touch; she was ready; she stood there in all her
elegance. "I mean, my dear, that it's because he HASN'T got it that I
left him."
This opened a view that stretched further than Maisie could reach. She
turned away from it, but she spoke before they went out again. "Do you
like Mrs. Wix now?"
"Why, my chick, I was just going to ask you if you think she has come at
all to like poor bad me!"
Maisie thought, at this hint; but unsuccessfully. "I haven't the least
idea. But I'll find out."
"Do!" said Mrs. Beale, rustling out with her in a scented air and as if
it would be a very particular favour.
The child tried promptly at bed-time, relieved now of the fear that
their visitor would wish to separate her for the night from her
attendant. "Have you held out?" she began as soon as the two doors at
the end of the passage were again closed on them.
Mrs. Wix looked hard at the flame of the candle. "Held out--?"
"Why, she has been making love to you. Has she won you over?"
Mrs. Wix transferred her intensity to her pupil's face. "Over to what?"
"To HER keeping me instead."
"Instead of Sir Claude?" Mrs. Wix was distinctly gaining time.
"Yes; who else? since it's not instead of you."
Mrs. Wix coloured at this lucidity. "Yes, that IS what she means."
"Well, do you like it?" Maisie asked.
She actually had to wait, for oh her friend was embarrassed! "My
opposition to the connexion--theirs--would then naturally to some extent
fall. She has treated me to-day as if I weren't after all quite such a
worm; not that I don't know very well where she got the pattern of her
politeness. But of course," Mrs. Wix hastened to add, "I shouldn't like
her as THE one nearly so well as him."
"'Nearly so well!'" Maisie echoed. "I should hope indeed not." She spoke
with a firmness under which she was herself the first to quiver. "I
thought you 'adored' him."
"I do," Mrs. Wix sturdily allowed.
"Then have you suddenly begun to adore her too?"
Mrs. Wix, instead of directly answering, only blinked in support of her
sturdiness. "My dear, in what a tone you ask that! You're coming out."
"Why shouldn't I? YOU'VE come out. Mrs. Beale has come out. We each have
our turn!" And Maisie threw off the most extraordinary little laugh that
had ever passed her young lips.
There passed Mrs. Wix's indeed the next moment a sound that more than
matched it. "You're most remarkable!" she neighed.
Her pupil, though wholly without aspirations to pertness, barely
faltered. "I think you've done a great deal to make me so."
"Very true, I have." She dropped to humility, as if she recalled her so
recent self-arraignment.
"Would you accept her then? That's what I ask," said Maisie.
"As a substitute?" Mrs. Wix turned it over; she met again the child's
eyes. "She has literally almost fawned upon me."
"She hasn't fawned upon HIM. She hasn't even been kind to him."
Mrs. Wix looked as if she had now an advantage. "Then do you propose to
'kill' her?"
"You don't answer my question," Maisie persisted. "I want to know if you
accept her."
Mrs. Wix continued to hedge. "I want to know if YOU do!"
Everything in the child's person, at this, announced that it was easy to
know. "Not for a moment."
"Not the two now?" Mrs. Wix had caught on; she flushed with it. "Only
him alone?"
"Him alone or nobody."
"Not even ME?" cried Mrs. Wix.
Maisie looked at her a moment, then began to undress. "Oh you're
nobody!"
|
Where Angels Fear to Trea | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 10, utilizing the provided context. | By the time the English group had recuperated enough to leave Italy, the two men are good friends again. On the way back to England, Philip received another disappointment. Because of the romantic atmosphere and their close association, he has fallen in love with Miss Abbott. He almost proposes to her when they are talking about love and the future, but she, thinking he had suspected it long before, tells him of her passion for Gino. Philip for years thought that he understood the world, but he now recognizes that he really understood nothing. Womp womp. |
----------CHAPTER 9---------
The details of Harriet's crime were never known. In her illness
she spoke more of the inlaid box that she lent to Lilia--lent, not
given--than of recent troubles. It was clear that she had gone prepared
for an interview with Gino, and finding him out, she had yielded to a
grotesque temptation. But how far this was the result of ill-temper, to
what extent she had been fortified by her religion, when and how she had
met the poor idiot--these questions were never answered, nor did they
interest Philip greatly. Detection was certain: they would have been
arrested by the police of Florence or Milan, or at the frontier. As it
was, they had been stopped in a simpler manner a few miles out of the
town.
As yet he could scarcely survey the thing. It was too great. Round the
Italian baby who had died in the mud there centred deep passions and
high hopes. People had been wicked or wrong in the matter; no one save
himself had been trivial. Now the baby had gone, but there remained this
vast apparatus of pride and pity and love. For the dead, who seemed
to take away so much, really take with them nothing that is ours. The
passion they have aroused lives after them, easy to transmute or to
transfer, but well-nigh impossible to destroy. And Philip knew that he
was still voyaging on the same magnificent, perilous sea, with the sun
or the clouds above him, and the tides below.
The course of the moment--that, at all events, was certain. He and no
one else must take the news to Gino. It was easy to talk of Harriet's
crime--easy also to blame the negligent Perfetta or Mrs. Herriton at
home. Every one had contributed--even Miss Abbott and Irma. If one
chose, one might consider the catastrophe composite or the work of fate.
But Philip did not so choose. It was his own fault, due to acknowledged
weakness in his own character. Therefore he, and no one else, must take
the news of it to Gino.
Nothing prevented him. Miss Abbott was engaged with Harriet, and people
had sprung out of the darkness and were conducting them towards some
cottage. Philip had only to get into the uninjured carriage and order
the driver to return. He was back at Monteriano after a two hours'
absence. Perfetta was in the house now, and greeted him cheerfully.
Pain, physical and mental, had made him stupid. It was some time before
he realized that she had never missed the child.
Gino was still out. The woman took him to the reception-room, just as
she had taken Miss Abbott in the morning, and dusted a circle for him on
one of the horsehair chairs. But it was dark now, so she left the guest
a little lamp.
"I will be as quick as I can," she told him. "But there are many streets
in Monteriano; he is sometimes difficult to find. I could not find him
this morning."
"Go first to the Caffe Garibaldi," said Philip, remembering that this
was the hour appointed by his friends of yesterday.
He occupied the time he was left alone not in thinking--there was
nothing to think about; he simply had to tell a few facts--but in trying
to make a sling for his broken arm. The trouble was in the elbow-joint,
and as long as he kept this motionless he could go on as usual. But
inflammation was beginning, and the slightest jar gave him agony. The
sling was not fitted before Gino leapt up the stairs, crying--
"So you are back! How glad I am! We are all waiting--"
Philip had seen too much to be nervous. In low, even tones he told what
had happened; and the other, also perfectly calm, heard him to the end.
In the silence Perfetta called up that she had forgotten the baby's
evening milk; she must fetch it. When she had gone Gino took up the lamp
without a word, and they went into the other room.
"My sister is ill," said Philip, "and Miss Abbott is guiltless. I should
be glad if you did not have to trouble them."
Gino had stooped down by the way, and was feeling the place where his
son had lain. Now and then he frowned a little and glanced at Philip.
"It is through me," he continued. "It happened because I was cowardly
and idle. I have come to know what you will do."
Gino had left the rug, and began to pat the table from the end, as if
he was blind. The action was so uncanny that Philip was driven to
intervene.
"Gently, man, gently; he is not here."
He went up and touched him on the shoulder.
He twitched away, and began to pass his hands over things more
rapidly--over the table, the chairs, the entire floor, the walls as high
as he could reach them. Philip had not presumed to comfort him. But now
the tension was too great--he tried.
"Break down, Gino; you must break down. Scream and curse and give in for
a little; you must break down."
There was no reply, and no cessation of the sweeping hands.
"It is time to be unhappy. Break down or you will be ill like my sister.
You will go--"
The tour of the room was over. He had touched everything in it except
Philip. Now he approached him. He face was that of a man who has lost
his old reason for life and seeks a new one.
"Gino!"
He stopped for a moment; then he came nearer. Philip stood his ground.
"You are to do what you like with me, Gino. Your son is dead, Gino. He
died in my arms, remember. It does not excuse me; but he did die in my
arms."
The left hand came forward, slowly this time. It hovered before Philip
like an insect. Then it descended and gripped him by his broken elbow.
Philip struck out with all the strength of his other arm. Gino fell to
the blow without a cry or a word.
"You brute!" exclaimed the Englishman. "Kill me if you like! But just
you leave my broken arm alone."
Then he was seized with remorse, and knelt beside his adversary and
tried to revive him. He managed to raise him up, and propped his body
against his own. He passed his arm round him. Again he was filled with
pity and tenderness. He awaited the revival without fear, sure that both
of them were safe at last.
Gino recovered suddenly. His lips moved. For one blessed moment it
seemed that he was going to speak. But he scrambled up in silence,
remembering everything, and he made not towards Philip, but towards the
lamp.
"Do what you like; but think first--"
The lamp was tossed across the room, out through the loggia. It broke
against one of the trees below. Philip began to cry out in the dark.
Gino approached from behind and gave him a sharp pinch. Philip spun
round with a yell. He had only been pinched on the back, but he knew
what was in store for him. He struck out, exhorting the devil to fight
him, to kill him, to do anything but this. Then he stumbled to the door.
It was open. He lost his head, and, instead of turning down the stairs,
he ran across the landing into the room opposite. There he lay down on
the floor between the stove and the skirting-board.
His senses grew sharper. He could hear Gino coming in on tiptoe. He even
knew what was passing in his mind, how now he was at fault, now he
was hopeful, now he was wondering whether after all the victim had not
escaped down the stairs. There was a quick swoop above him, and then
a low growl like a dog's. Gino had broken his finger-nails against the
stove.
Physical pain is almost too terrible to bear. We can just bear it when
it comes by accident or for our good--as it generally does in modern
life--except at school. But when it is caused by the malignity of a
man, full grown, fashioned like ourselves, all our control disappears.
Philip's one thought was to get away from that room at whatever
sacrifice of nobility or pride.
Gino was now at the further end of the room, groping by the little
tables. Suddenly the instinct came to him. He crawled quickly to where
Philip lay and had him clean by the elbow.
The whole arm seemed red-hot, and the broken bone grated in the joint,
sending out shoots of the essence of pain. His other arm was pinioned
against the wall, and Gino had trampled in behind the stove and was
kneeling on his legs. For the space of a minute he yelled and yelled
with all the force of his lungs. Then this solace was denied him. The
other hand, moist and strong, began to close round his throat.
At first he was glad, for here, he thought, was death at last. But
it was only a new torture; perhaps Gino inherited the skill of his
ancestors--and childlike ruffians who flung each other from the towers.
Just as the windpipe closed, the hand fell off, and Philip was revived
by the motion of his arm. And just as he was about to faint and gain at
last one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggle
instead against the pressure on his throat.
Vivid pictures were dancing through the pain--Lilia dying some months
back in this very house, Miss Abbott bending over the baby, his mother
at home, now reading evening prayers to the servants. He felt that he
was growing weaker; his brain wandered; the agony did not seem so great.
Not all Gino's care could indefinitely postpone the end. His yells and
gurgles became mechanical--functions of the tortured flesh rather than
true notes of indignation and despair. He was conscious of a horrid
tumbling. Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everything
was quiet at last.
"But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear Gino. Your son is
dead."
The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by the shoulders,
holding him down in a chair. She was exhausted with the struggle, and
her arms were trembling.
"What is the good of another death? What is the good of more pain?"
He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip,
whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. Miss
Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gave
a loud and curious cry--a cry of interrogation it might be called. Below
there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby's milk.
"Go to him," said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. "Pick him up. Treat
him kindly."
She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling
with trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up.
"Help! help!" moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino.
It could not bear to be touched by him.
Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott
herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.
"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him for me."
Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she
said gravely to them both, "This thing stops here."
"Latte! latte!" cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs.
"Remember," she continued, "there is to be no revenge. I will have no
more intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other any more."
"I shall never forgive him," sighed Philip.
"Latte! latte freschissima! bianca come neve!" Perfetta came in with
another lamp and a little jug.
Gino spoke for the first time. "Put the milk on the table," he said.
"It will not be wanted in the other room." The peril was over at last.
A great sob shook the whole body, another followed, and then he gave a
piercing cry of woe, and stumbled towards Miss Abbott like a child and
clung to her.
All through the day Miss Abbott had seemed to Philip like a goddess, and
more than ever did she seem so now. Many people look younger and more
intimate during great emotion. But some there are who look older, and
remote, and he could not think that there was little difference in
years, and none in composition, between her and the man whose head was
laid upon her breast. Her eyes were open, full of infinite pity and
full of majesty, as if they discerned the boundaries of sorrow, and saw
unimaginable tracts beyond. Such eyes he had seen in great pictures but
never in a mortal. Her hands were folded round the sufferer, stroking
him lightly, for even a goddess can do no more than that. And it seemed
fitting, too, that she should bend her head and touch his forehead with
her lips.
Philip looked away, as he sometimes looked away from the great pictures
where visible forms suddenly become inadequate for the things they have
shown to us. He was happy; he was assured that there was greatness in
the world. There came to him an earnest desire to be good through the
example of this good woman. He would try henceforward to be worthy of
the things she had revealed. Quietly, without hysterical prayers or
banging of drums, he underwent conversion. He was saved.
"That milk," said she, "need not be wasted. Take it, Signor Carella, and
persuade Mr. Herriton to drink."
Gino obeyed her, and carried the child's milk to Philip. And Philip
obeyed also and drank.
"Is there any left?"
"A little," answered Gino.
"Then finish it." For she was determined to use such remnants as lie
about the world.
"Will you not have some?"
"I do not care for milk; finish it all."
"Philip, have you had enough milk?"
"Yes, thank you, Gino; finish it all."
He drank the milk, and then, either by accident or in some spasm of
pain, broke the jug to pieces. Perfetta exclaimed in bewilderment. "It
does not matter," he told her. "It does not matter. It will never be
wanted any more."
----------CHAPTER 10---------
"He will have to marry her," said Philip. "I heard from him this
morning, just as we left Milan. He finds he has gone too far to back
out. It would be expensive. I don't know how much he minds--not as much
as we suppose, I think. At all events there's not a word of blame in the
letter. I don't believe he even feels angry. I never was so completely
forgiven. Ever since you stopped him killing me, it has been a vision of
perfect friendship. He nursed me, he lied for me at the inquest, and at
the funeral, though he was crying, you would have thought it was my son
who had died. Certainly I was the only person he had to be kind to;
he was so distressed not to make Harriet's acquaintance, and that he
scarcely saw anything of you. In his letter he says so again."
"Thank him, please, when you write," said Miss Abbott, "and give him my
kindest regards."
"Indeed I will." He was surprised that she could slide away from the
man so easily. For his own part, he was bound by ties of almost alarming
intimacy. Gino had the southern knack of friendship. In the intervals
of business he would pull out Philip's life, turn it inside out,
remodel it, and advise him how to use it for the best. The sensation was
pleasant, for he was a kind as well as a skilful operator. But Philip
came away feeling that he had not a secret corner left. In that
very letter Gino had again implored him, as a refuge from domestic
difficulties, "to marry Miss Abbott, even if her dowry is small." And
how Miss Abbott herself, after such tragic intercourse, could resume
the conventions and send calm messages of esteem, was more than he could
understand.
"When will you see him again?" she asked. They were standing together in
the corridor of the train, slowly ascending out of Italy towards the San
Gothard tunnel.
"I hope next spring. Perhaps we shall paint Siena red for a day or
two with some of the new wife's money. It was one of the arguments for
marrying her."
"He has no heart," she said severely. "He does not really mind about the
child at all."
"No; you're wrong. He does. He is unhappy, like the rest of us. But he
doesn't try to keep up appearances as we do. He knows that the things
that have made him happy once will probably make him happy again--"
"He said he would never be happy again."
"In his passion. Not when he was calm. We English say it when we are
calm--when we do not really believe it any longer. Gino is not ashamed
of inconsistency. It is one of the many things I like him for."
"Yes; I was wrong. That is so."
"He's much more honest with himself than I am," continued Philip, "and
he is honest without an effort and without pride. But you, Miss Abbott,
what about you? Will you be in Italy next spring?"
"No."
"I'm sorry. When will you come back, do you think?"
"I think never."
"For whatever reason?" He stared at her as if she were some monstrosity.
"Because I understand the place. There is no need."
"Understand Italy!" he exclaimed.
"Perfectly."
"Well, I don't. And I don't understand you," he murmured to himself, as
he paced away from her up the corridor. By this time he loved her very
much, and he could not bear to be puzzled. He had reached love by the
spiritual path: her thoughts and her goodness and her nobility had
moved him first, and now her whole body and all its gestures had become
transfigured by them. The beauties that are called obvious--the beauties
of her hair and her voice and her limbs--he had noticed these
last; Gino, who never traversed any path at all, had commended them
dispassionately to his friend.
Why was he so puzzling? He had known so much about her once--what she
thought, how she felt, the reasons for her actions. And now he only knew
that he loved her, and all the other knowledge seemed passing from him
just as he needed it most. Why would she never come to Italy again? Why
had she avoided himself and Gino ever since the evening that she had
saved their lives? The train was nearly empty. Harriet slumbered in
a compartment by herself. He must ask her these questions now, and he
returned quickly to her down the corridor.
She greeted him with a question of her own. "Are your plans decided?"
"Yes. I can't live at Sawston."
"Have you told Mrs. Herriton?"
"I wrote from Monteriano. I tried to explain things; but she will
never understand me. Her view will be that the affair is settled--sadly
settled since the baby is dead. Still it's over; our family circle need
be vexed no more. She won't even be angry with you. You see, you have
done us no harm in the long run. Unless, of course, you talk about
Harriet and make a scandal. So that is my plan--London and work. What is
yours?"
"Poor Harriet!" said Miss Abbott. "As if I dare judge Harriet! Or
anybody." And without replying to Philip's question she left him to
visit the other invalid.
Philip gazed after her mournfully, and then he looked mournfully out of
the window at the decreasing streams. All the excitement was over--the
inquest, Harriet's short illness, his own visit to the surgeon. He was
convalescent, both in body and spirit, but convalescence brought no joy.
In the looking-glass at the end of the corridor he saw his face haggard,
and his shoulders pulled forward by the weight of the sling. Life was
greater than he had supposed, but it was even less complete. He had seen
the need for strenuous work and for righteousness. And now he saw what a
very little way those things would go.
"Is Harriet going to be all right?" he asked. Miss Abbott had come back
to him.
"She will soon be her old self," was the reply. For Harriet, after a
short paroxysm of illness and remorse, was quickly returning to her
normal state. She had been "thoroughly upset" as she phrased it, but
she soon ceased to realize that anything was wrong beyond the death of
a poor little child. Already she spoke of "this unlucky accident," and
"the mysterious frustration of one's attempts to make things better."
Miss Abbott had seen that she was comfortable, and had given her a kind
kiss. But she returned feeling that Harriet, like her mother, considered
the affair as settled.
"I'm clear enough about Harriet's future, and about parts of my own. But
I ask again, What about yours?"
"Sawston and work," said Miss Abbott.
"No."
"Why not?" she asked, smiling.
"You've seen too much. You've seen as much and done more than I have."
"But it's so different. Of course I shall go to Sawston. You forget
my father; and even if he wasn't there, I've a hundred ties: my
district--I'm neglecting it shamefully--my evening classes, the St.
James'--"
"Silly nonsense!" he exploded, suddenly moved to have the whole thing
out with her. "You're too good--about a thousand times better than I am.
You can't live in that hole; you must go among people who can hope to
understand you. I mind for myself. I want to see you often--again and
again."
"Of course we shall meet whenever you come down; and I hope that it will
mean often."
"It's not enough; it'll only be in the old horrible way, each with a
dozen relatives round us. No, Miss Abbott; it's not good enough."
"We can write at all events."
"You will write?" he cried, with a flush of pleasure. At times his hopes
seemed so solid.
"I will indeed."
"But I say it's not enough--you can't go back to the old life if you
wanted to. Too much has happened."
"I know that," she said sadly.
"Not only pain and sorrow, but wonderful things: that tower in the
sunlight--do you remember it, and all you said to me? The theatre, even.
And the next day--in the church; and our times with Gino."
"All the wonderful things are over," she said. "That is just where it
is."
"I don't believe it. At all events not for me. The most wonderful things
may be to come--"
"The wonderful things are over," she repeated, and looked at him so
mournfully that he dare not contradict her. The train was crawling up
the last ascent towards the Campanile of Airolo and the entrance of the
tunnel.
"Miss Abbott," he murmured, speaking quickly, as if their free
intercourse might soon be ended, "what is the matter with you? I
thought I understood you, and I don't. All those two great first days at
Monteriano I read you as clearly as you read me still. I saw why you
had come, and why you changed sides, and afterwards I saw your wonderful
courage and pity. And now you're frank with me one moment, as you used
to be, and the next moment you shut me up. You see I owe too much to
you--my life, and I don't know what besides. I won't stand it. You've
gone too far to turn mysterious. I'll quote what you said to me: 'Don't
be mysterious; there isn't the time.' I'll quote something else: 'I and
my life must be where I live.' You can't live at Sawston."
He had moved her at last. She whispered to herself hurriedly. "It is
tempting--" And those three words threw him into a tumult of joy. What
was tempting to her? After all was the greatest of things possible?
Perhaps, after long estrangement, after much tragedy, the South had
brought them together in the end. That laughter in the theatre, those
silver stars in the purple sky, even the violets of a departed spring,
all had helped, and sorrow had helped also, and so had tenderness to
others.
"It is tempting," she repeated, "not to be mysterious. I've wanted often
to tell you, and then been afraid. I could never tell any one else,
certainly no woman, and I think you're the one man who might understand
and not be disgusted."
"Are you lonely?" he whispered. "Is it anything like that?"
"Yes." The train seemed to shake him towards her. He was resolved that
though a dozen people were looking, he would yet take her in his
arms. "I'm terribly lonely, or I wouldn't speak. I think you must know
already." Their faces were crimson, as if the same thought was surging
through them both.
"Perhaps I do." He came close to her. "Perhaps I could speak instead.
But if you will say the word plainly you'll never be sorry; I will thank
you for it all my life."
She said plainly, "That I love him." Then she broke down. Her body was
shaken with sobs, and lest there should be any doubt she cried between
the sobs for Gino! Gino! Gino!
He heard himself remark "Rather! I love him too! When I can forget how
he hurt me that evening. Though whenever we shake hands--" One of them
must have moved a step or two, for when she spoke again she was already
a little way apart.
"You've upset me." She stifled something that was perilously near
hysterics. "I thought I was past all this. You're taking it wrongly. I'm
in love with Gino--don't pass it off--I mean it crudely--you know what I
mean. So laugh at me."
"Laugh at love?" asked Philip.
"Yes. Pull it to pieces. Tell me I'm a fool or worse--that he's a cad.
Say all you said when Lilia fell in love with him. That's the help
I want. I dare tell you this because I like you--and because you're
without passion; you look on life as a spectacle; you don't enter it;
you only find it funny or beautiful. So I can trust you to cure me.
Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny?" She tried to laugh herself, but became
frightened and had to stop. "He's not a gentleman, nor a Christian, nor
good in any way. He's never flattered me nor honoured me. But because
he's handsome, that's been enough. The son of an Italian dentist, with
a pretty face." She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm against
passion. "Oh, Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny!" Then, to his relief, she
began to cry. "I love him, and I'm not ashamed of it. I love him, and
I'm going to Sawston, and if I mayn't speak about him to you sometimes,
I shall die."
In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not of himself but of
her. He did not lament. He did not even speak to her kindly, for he saw
that she could not stand it. A flippant reply was what she asked and
needed--something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed it was the
only reply he could trust himself to make.
"Perhaps it is what the books call 'a passing fancy'?"
She shook her head. Even this question was too pathetic. For as far
as she knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, once
aroused, were sure. "If I saw him often," she said, "I might remember
what he is like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so
nothing can alter me now."
"Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all, he could say
what he wanted.
"Oh, you shall know quick enough--"
"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"
"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as she
had hoped.
"That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of them together.
Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once sent
forth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture--and the
world could not escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got in
common?"
"Nothing except the times we have seen each other." Again her face was
crimson. He turned his own face away.
"Which--which times?"
"The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went instead of you to
get the baby. That began it, as far as I know the beginning. Or it may
have begun when you took us to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up with
music and light. But didn't understand till the morning. Then you opened
the door--and I knew why I had been so happy. Afterwards, in the church,
I prayed for us all; not for anything new, but that we might just be as
we were--he with the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out of
the place--and that I might never see him or speak to him again. I could
have pulled through then--the thing was only coming near, like a wreath
of smoke; it hadn't wrapped me round."
"But through my fault," said Philip solemnly, "he is parted from the
child he loves. And because my life was in danger you came and saw
him and spoke to him again." For the thing was even greater than she
imagined. Nobody but himself would ever see round it now. And to see
round it he was standing at an immense distance. He could even be glad
that she had once held the beloved in her arms.
"Don't talk of 'faults.' You're my friend for ever, Mr. Herriton, I
think. Only don't be charitable and shift or take the blame. Get over
supposing I'm refined. That's what puzzles you. Get over that."
As he spoke she seemed to be transfigured, and to have indeed no part
with refinement or unrefinement any longer. Out of this wreck there was
revealed to him something indestructible--something which she, who had
given it, could never take away.
"I say again, don't be charitable. If he had asked me, I might have
given myself body and soul. That would have been the end of my rescue
party. But all through he took me for a superior being--a goddess. I
who was worshipping every inch of him, and every word he spoke. And that
saved me."
Philip's eyes were fixed on the Campanile of Airolo. But he saw instead
the fair myth of Endymion. This woman was a goddess to the end. For
her no love could be degrading: she stood outside all degradation. This
episode, which she thought so sordid, and which was so tragic for him,
remained supremely beautiful. To such a height was he lifted, that
without regret he could now have told her that he was her worshipper
too. But what was the use of telling her? For all the wonderful things
had happened.
"Thank you," was all that he permitted himself. "Thank you for
everything."
She looked at him with great friendliness, for he had made her life
endurable. At that moment the train entered the San Gothard tunnel. They
hurried back to the carriage to close the windows lest the smuts should
get into Harriet's eyes.
|
|
White Fang.part 1.chapter | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of part 1, chapter 1 the trail of the meat, utilizing the provided context. | NOTE White Fang is divided into five parts of two to six chapters each. For quick reference, this commentary will refer to chapters with a Roman part numeral followed by an Arabic chapter numeral . Bill and Henry are sled-drivers in the Yukon who are conveying a dead body-the corpse of a man who was "a lord or something in his own country" who would not have had to come "a-buttin' round the God-forsaken ends of the earth"-to the trading post of Fort McGurry. Six dogs pull their sled across the frozen wilderness; one man on snowshoes goes in front of the team, the other follows behind the sled itself. As they make their perilous trek, they hear, from time to time, the howling of wolves trailing them. When they make camp for the night, Bill tells Henry that he fed fish to seven dogs, not six. Apparently, a wolf infiltrated the dogs-unusual behavior for a supposedly undomesticated creature. Henry cannot understand why the team's dogs didn't attack the wolf. In the morning, Bill discovers that he and Henry are left with only five dogs. "Fatty" has been eaten-presumably, by the team's wolf visitor. |
----------PART 1, CHAPTER 1 THE TRAIL OF THE MEAT---------
Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees
had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and
they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous, in the fading
light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a
desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit
of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter,
but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness--a laughter that was
mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and
partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and
incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and
the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted
Northland Wild.
But there _was_ life, abroad in the land and defiant. Down the frozen
waterway toiled a string of wolfish dogs. Their bristly fur was rimed
with frost. Their breath froze in the air as it left their mouths,
spouting forth in spumes of vapour that settled upon the hair of their
bodies and formed into crystals of frost. Leather harness was on the
dogs, and leather traces attached them to a sled which dragged along
behind. The sled was without runners. It was made of stout birch-bark,
and its full surface rested on the snow. The front end of the sled was
turned up, like a scroll, in order to force down and under the bore of
soft snow that surged like a wave before it. On the sled, securely
lashed, was a long and narrow oblong box. There were other things on the
sled--blankets, an axe, and a coffee-pot and frying-pan; but prominent,
occupying most of the space, was the long and narrow oblong box.
In advance of the dogs, on wide snowshoes, toiled a man. At the rear of
the sled toiled a second man. On the sled, in the box, lay a third man
whose toil was over,--a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten down
until he would never move nor struggle again. It is not the way of the
Wild to like movement. Life is an offence to it, for life is movement;
and the Wild aims always to destroy movement. It freezes the water to
prevent it running to the sea; it drives the sap out of the trees till
they are frozen to their mighty hearts; and most ferociously and terribly
of all does the Wild harry and crush into submission man--man who is the
most restless of life, ever in revolt against the dictum that all
movement must in the end come to the cessation of movement.
But at front and rear, unawed and indomitable, toiled the two men who
were not yet dead. Their bodies were covered with fur and soft-tanned
leather. Eyelashes and cheeks and lips were so coated with the crystals
from their frozen breath that their faces were not discernible. This
gave them the seeming of ghostly masques, undertakers in a spectral world
at the funeral of some ghost. But under it all they were men,
penetrating the land of desolation and mockery and silence, puny
adventurers bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves against the
might of a world as remote and alien and pulseless as the abysses of
space.
They travelled on without speech, saving their breath for the work of
their bodies. On every side was the silence, pressing upon them with a
tangible presence. It affected their minds as the many atmospheres of
deep water affect the body of the diver. It crushed them with the weight
of unending vastness and unalterable decree. It crushed them into the
remotest recesses of their own minds, pressing out of them, like juices
from the grape, all the false ardours and exaltations and undue
self-values of the human soul, until they perceived themselves finite and
small, specks and motes, moving with weak cunning and little wisdom
amidst the play and inter-play of the great blind elements and forces.
An hour went by, and a second hour. The pale light of the short sunless
day was beginning to fade, when a faint far cry arose on the still air.
It soared upward with a swift rush, till it reached its topmost note,
where it persisted, palpitant and tense, and then slowly died away. It
might have been a lost soul wailing, had it not been invested with a
certain sad fierceness and hungry eagerness. The front man turned his
head until his eyes met the eyes of the man behind. And then, across the
narrow oblong box, each nodded to the other.
A second cry arose, piercing the silence with needle-like shrillness.
Both men located the sound. It was to the rear, somewhere in the snow
expanse they had just traversed. A third and answering cry arose, also
to the rear and to the left of the second cry.
"They're after us, Bill," said the man at the front.
His voice sounded hoarse and unreal, and he had spoken with apparent
effort.
"Meat is scarce," answered his comrade. "I ain't seen a rabbit sign for
days."
Thereafter they spoke no more, though their ears were keen for the
hunting-cries that continued to rise behind them.
At the fall of darkness they swung the dogs into a cluster of spruce
trees on the edge of the waterway and made a camp. The coffin, at the
side of the fire, served for seat and table. The wolf-dogs, clustered on
the far side of the fire, snarled and bickered among themselves, but
evinced no inclination to stray off into the darkness.
"Seems to me, Henry, they're stayin' remarkable close to camp," Bill
commented.
Henry, squatting over the fire and settling the pot of coffee with a
piece of ice, nodded. Nor did he speak till he had taken his seat on the
coffin and begun to eat.
"They know where their hides is safe," he said. "They'd sooner eat grub
than be grub. They're pretty wise, them dogs."
Bill shook his head. "Oh, I don't know."
His comrade looked at him curiously. "First time I ever heard you say
anything about their not bein' wise."
"Henry," said the other, munching with deliberation the beans he was
eating, "did you happen to notice the way them dogs kicked up when I was
a-feedin' 'em?"
"They did cut up more'n usual," Henry acknowledged.
"How many dogs 've we got, Henry?"
"Six."
"Well, Henry . . . " Bill stopped for a moment, in order that his words
might gain greater significance. "As I was sayin', Henry, we've got six
dogs. I took six fish out of the bag. I gave one fish to each dog, an',
Henry, I was one fish short."
"You counted wrong."
"We've got six dogs," the other reiterated dispassionately. "I took out
six fish. One Ear didn't get no fish. I came back to the bag afterward
an' got 'm his fish."
"We've only got six dogs," Henry said.
"Henry," Bill went on. "I won't say they was all dogs, but there was
seven of 'm that got fish."
Henry stopped eating to glance across the fire and count the dogs.
"There's only six now," he said.
"I saw the other one run off across the snow," Bill announced with cool
positiveness. "I saw seven."
Henry looked at him commiseratingly, and said, "I'll be almighty glad
when this trip's over."
"What d'ye mean by that?" Bill demanded.
"I mean that this load of ourn is gettin' on your nerves, an' that you're
beginnin' to see things."
"I thought of that," Bill answered gravely. "An' so, when I saw it run
off across the snow, I looked in the snow an' saw its tracks. Then I
counted the dogs an' there was still six of 'em. The tracks is there in
the snow now. D'ye want to look at 'em? I'll show 'em to you."
Henry did not reply, but munched on in silence, until, the meal finished,
he topped it with a final cup of coffee. He wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand and said:
"Then you're thinkin' as it was--"
A long wailing cry, fiercely sad, from somewhere in the darkness, had
interrupted him. He stopped to listen to it, then he finished his
sentence with a wave of his hand toward the sound of the cry, "--one of
them?"
Bill nodded. "I'd a blame sight sooner think that than anything else.
You noticed yourself the row the dogs made."
Cry after cry, and answering cries, were turning the silence into a
bedlam. From every side the cries arose, and the dogs betrayed their
fear by huddling together and so close to the fire that their hair was
scorched by the heat. Bill threw on more wood, before lighting his pipe.
"I'm thinking you're down in the mouth some," Henry said.
"Henry . . . " He sucked meditatively at his pipe for some time before
he went on. "Henry, I was a-thinkin' what a blame sight luckier he is
than you an' me'll ever be."
He indicated the third person by a downward thrust of the thumb to the
box on which they sat.
"You an' me, Henry, when we die, we'll be lucky if we get enough stones
over our carcases to keep the dogs off of us."
"But we ain't got people an' money an' all the rest, like him," Henry
rejoined. "Long-distance funerals is somethin' you an' me can't exactly
afford."
"What gets me, Henry, is what a chap like this, that's a lord or
something in his own country, and that's never had to bother about grub
nor blankets; why he comes a-buttin' round the Godforsaken ends of the
earth--that's what I can't exactly see."
"He might have lived to a ripe old age if he'd stayed at home," Henry
agreed.
Bill opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind. Instead, he
pointed towards the wall of darkness that pressed about them from every
side. There was no suggestion of form in the utter blackness; only could
be seen a pair of eyes gleaming like live coals. Henry indicated with
his head a second pair, and a third. A circle of the gleaming eyes had
drawn about their camp. Now and again a pair of eyes moved, or
disappeared to appear again a moment later.
The unrest of the dogs had been increasing, and they stampeded, in a
surge of sudden fear, to the near side of the fire, cringing and crawling
about the legs of the men. In the scramble one of the dogs had been
overturned on the edge of the fire, and it had yelped with pain and
fright as the smell of its singed coat possessed the air. The commotion
caused the circle of eyes to shift restlessly for a moment and even to
withdraw a bit, but it settled down again as the dogs became quiet.
"Henry, it's a blame misfortune to be out of ammunition."
Bill had finished his pipe and was helping his companion to spread the
bed of fur and blanket upon the spruce boughs which he had laid over the
snow before supper. Henry grunted, and began unlacing his moccasins.
"How many cartridges did you say you had left?" he asked.
"Three," came the answer. "An' I wisht 'twas three hundred. Then I'd
show 'em what for, damn 'em!"
He shook his fist angrily at the gleaming eyes, and began securely to
prop his moccasins before the fire.
"An' I wisht this cold snap'd break," he went on. "It's ben fifty below
for two weeks now. An' I wisht I'd never started on this trip, Henry. I
don't like the looks of it. I don't feel right, somehow. An' while I'm
wishin', I wisht the trip was over an' done with, an' you an' me
a-sittin' by the fire in Fort McGurry just about now an' playing
cribbage--that's what I wisht."
Henry grunted and crawled into bed. As he dozed off he was aroused by
his comrade's voice.
"Say, Henry, that other one that come in an' got a fish--why didn't the
dogs pitch into it? That's what's botherin' me."
"You're botherin' too much, Bill," came the sleepy response. "You was
never like this before. You jes' shut up now, an' go to sleep, an'
you'll be all hunkydory in the mornin'. Your stomach's sour, that's
what's botherin' you."
The men slept, breathing heavily, side by side, under the one covering.
The fire died down, and the gleaming eyes drew closer the circle they had
flung about the camp. The dogs clustered together in fear, now and again
snarling menacingly as a pair of eyes drew close. Once their uproar
became so loud that Bill woke up. He got out of bed carefully, so as not
to disturb the sleep of his comrade, and threw more wood on the fire. As
it began to flame up, the circle of eyes drew farther back. He glanced
casually at the huddling dogs. He rubbed his eyes and looked at them
more sharply. Then he crawled back into the blankets.
"Henry," he said. "Oh, Henry."
Henry groaned as he passed from sleep to waking, and demanded, "What's
wrong now?"
"Nothin'," came the answer; "only there's seven of 'em again. I just
counted."
Henry acknowledged receipt of the information with a grunt that slid into
a snore as he drifted back into sleep.
In the morning it was Henry who awoke first and routed his companion out
of bed. Daylight was yet three hours away, though it was already six
o'clock; and in the darkness Henry went about preparing breakfast, while
Bill rolled the blankets and made the sled ready for lashing.
"Say, Henry," he asked suddenly, "how many dogs did you say we had?"
"Six."
"Wrong," Bill proclaimed triumphantly.
"Seven again?" Henry queried.
"No, five; one's gone."
"The hell!" Henry cried in wrath, leaving the cooking to come and count
the dogs.
"You're right, Bill," he concluded. "Fatty's gone."
"An' he went like greased lightnin' once he got started. Couldn't 've
seen 'm for smoke."
"No chance at all," Henry concluded. "They jes' swallowed 'm alive. I
bet he was yelpin' as he went down their throats, damn 'em!"
"He always was a fool dog," said Bill.
"But no fool dog ought to be fool enough to go off an' commit suicide
that way." He looked over the remainder of the team with a speculative
eye that summed up instantly the salient traits of each animal. "I bet
none of the others would do it."
"Couldn't drive 'em away from the fire with a club," Bill agreed. "I
always did think there was somethin' wrong with Fatty anyway."
And this was the epitaph of a dead dog on the Northland trail--less scant
than the epitaph of many another dog, of many a man.
----------CHAPTER 1---------
Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees
had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and
they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous, in the fading
light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a
desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit
of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter,
but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness--a laughter that was
mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and
partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and
incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and
the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted
Northland Wild.
But there _was_ life, abroad in the land and defiant. Down the frozen
waterway toiled a string of wolfish dogs. Their bristly fur was rimed
with frost. Their breath froze in the air as it left their mouths,
spouting forth in spumes of vapour that settled upon the hair of their
bodies and formed into crystals of frost. Leather harness was on the
dogs, and leather traces attached them to a sled which dragged along
behind. The sled was without runners. It was made of stout birch-bark,
and its full surface rested on the snow. The front end of the sled was
turned up, like a scroll, in order to force down and under the bore of
soft snow that surged like a wave before it. On the sled, securely
lashed, was a long and narrow oblong box. There were other things on the
sled--blankets, an axe, and a coffee-pot and frying-pan; but prominent,
occupying most of the space, was the long and narrow oblong box.
In advance of the dogs, on wide snowshoes, toiled a man. At the rear of
the sled toiled a second man. On the sled, in the box, lay a third man
whose toil was over,--a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten down
until he would never move nor struggle again. It is not the way of the
Wild to like movement. Life is an offence to it, for life is movement;
and the Wild aims always to destroy movement. It freezes the water to
prevent it running to the sea; it drives the sap out of the trees till
they are frozen to their mighty hearts; and most ferociously and terribly
of all does the Wild harry and crush into submission man--man who is the
most restless of life, ever in revolt against the dictum that all
movement must in the end come to the cessation of movement.
But at front and rear, unawed and indomitable, toiled the two men who
were not yet dead. Their bodies were covered with fur and soft-tanned
leather. Eyelashes and cheeks and lips were so coated with the crystals
from their frozen breath that their faces were not discernible. This
gave them the seeming of ghostly masques, undertakers in a spectral world
at the funeral of some ghost. But under it all they were men,
penetrating the land of desolation and mockery and silence, puny
adventurers bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves against the
might of a world as remote and alien and pulseless as the abysses of
space.
They travelled on without speech, saving their breath for the work of
their bodies. On every side was the silence, pressing upon them with a
tangible presence. It affected their minds as the many atmospheres of
deep water affect the body of the diver. It crushed them with the weight
of unending vastness and unalterable decree. It crushed them into the
remotest recesses of their own minds, pressing out of them, like juices
from the grape, all the false ardours and exaltations and undue
self-values of the human soul, until they perceived themselves finite and
small, specks and motes, moving with weak cunning and little wisdom
amidst the play and inter-play of the great blind elements and forces.
An hour went by, and a second hour. The pale light of the short sunless
day was beginning to fade, when a faint far cry arose on the still air.
It soared upward with a swift rush, till it reached its topmost note,
where it persisted, palpitant and tense, and then slowly died away. It
might have been a lost soul wailing, had it not been invested with a
certain sad fierceness and hungry eagerness. The front man turned his
head until his eyes met the eyes of the man behind. And then, across the
narrow oblong box, each nodded to the other.
A second cry arose, piercing the silence with needle-like shrillness.
Both men located the sound. It was to the rear, somewhere in the snow
expanse they had just traversed. A third and answering cry arose, also
to the rear and to the left of the second cry.
"They're after us, Bill," said the man at the front.
His voice sounded hoarse and unreal, and he had spoken with apparent
effort.
"Meat is scarce," answered his comrade. "I ain't seen a rabbit sign for
days."
Thereafter they spoke no more, though their ears were keen for the
hunting-cries that continued to rise behind them.
At the fall of darkness they swung the dogs into a cluster of spruce
trees on the edge of the waterway and made a camp. The coffin, at the
side of the fire, served for seat and table. The wolf-dogs, clustered on
the far side of the fire, snarled and bickered among themselves, but
evinced no inclination to stray off into the darkness.
"Seems to me, Henry, they're stayin' remarkable close to camp," Bill
commented.
Henry, squatting over the fire and settling the pot of coffee with a
piece of ice, nodded. Nor did he speak till he had taken his seat on the
coffin and begun to eat.
"They know where their hides is safe," he said. "They'd sooner eat grub
than be grub. They're pretty wise, them dogs."
Bill shook his head. "Oh, I don't know."
His comrade looked at him curiously. "First time I ever heard you say
anything about their not bein' wise."
"Henry," said the other, munching with deliberation the beans he was
eating, "did you happen to notice the way them dogs kicked up when I was
a-feedin' 'em?"
"They did cut up more'n usual," Henry acknowledged.
"How many dogs 've we got, Henry?"
"Six."
"Well, Henry . . . " Bill stopped for a moment, in order that his words
might gain greater significance. "As I was sayin', Henry, we've got six
dogs. I took six fish out of the bag. I gave one fish to each dog, an',
Henry, I was one fish short."
"You counted wrong."
"We've got six dogs," the other reiterated dispassionately. "I took out
six fish. One Ear didn't get no fish. I came back to the bag afterward
an' got 'm his fish."
"We've only got six dogs," Henry said.
"Henry," Bill went on. "I won't say they was all dogs, but there was
seven of 'm that got fish."
Henry stopped eating to glance across the fire and count the dogs.
"There's only six now," he said.
"I saw the other one run off across the snow," Bill announced with cool
positiveness. "I saw seven."
Henry looked at him commiseratingly, and said, "I'll be almighty glad
when this trip's over."
"What d'ye mean by that?" Bill demanded.
"I mean that this load of ourn is gettin' on your nerves, an' that you're
beginnin' to see things."
"I thought of that," Bill answered gravely. "An' so, when I saw it run
off across the snow, I looked in the snow an' saw its tracks. Then I
counted the dogs an' there was still six of 'em. The tracks is there in
the snow now. D'ye want to look at 'em? I'll show 'em to you."
Henry did not reply, but munched on in silence, until, the meal finished,
he topped it with a final cup of coffee. He wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand and said:
"Then you're thinkin' as it was--"
A long wailing cry, fiercely sad, from somewhere in the darkness, had
interrupted him. He stopped to listen to it, then he finished his
sentence with a wave of his hand toward the sound of the cry, "--one of
them?"
Bill nodded. "I'd a blame sight sooner think that than anything else.
You noticed yourself the row the dogs made."
Cry after cry, and answering cries, were turning the silence into a
bedlam. From every side the cries arose, and the dogs betrayed their
fear by huddling together and so close to the fire that their hair was
scorched by the heat. Bill threw on more wood, before lighting his pipe.
"I'm thinking you're down in the mouth some," Henry said.
"Henry . . . " He sucked meditatively at his pipe for some time before
he went on. "Henry, I was a-thinkin' what a blame sight luckier he is
than you an' me'll ever be."
He indicated the third person by a downward thrust of the thumb to the
box on which they sat.
"You an' me, Henry, when we die, we'll be lucky if we get enough stones
over our carcases to keep the dogs off of us."
"But we ain't got people an' money an' all the rest, like him," Henry
rejoined. "Long-distance funerals is somethin' you an' me can't exactly
afford."
"What gets me, Henry, is what a chap like this, that's a lord or
something in his own country, and that's never had to bother about grub
nor blankets; why he comes a-buttin' round the Godforsaken ends of the
earth--that's what I can't exactly see."
"He might have lived to a ripe old age if he'd stayed at home," Henry
agreed.
Bill opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind. Instead, he
pointed towards the wall of darkness that pressed about them from every
side. There was no suggestion of form in the utter blackness; only could
be seen a pair of eyes gleaming like live coals. Henry indicated with
his head a second pair, and a third. A circle of the gleaming eyes had
drawn about their camp. Now and again a pair of eyes moved, or
disappeared to appear again a moment later.
The unrest of the dogs had been increasing, and they stampeded, in a
surge of sudden fear, to the near side of the fire, cringing and crawling
about the legs of the men. In the scramble one of the dogs had been
overturned on the edge of the fire, and it had yelped with pain and
fright as the smell of its singed coat possessed the air. The commotion
caused the circle of eyes to shift restlessly for a moment and even to
withdraw a bit, but it settled down again as the dogs became quiet.
"Henry, it's a blame misfortune to be out of ammunition."
Bill had finished his pipe and was helping his companion to spread the
bed of fur and blanket upon the spruce boughs which he had laid over the
snow before supper. Henry grunted, and began unlacing his moccasins.
"How many cartridges did you say you had left?" he asked.
"Three," came the answer. "An' I wisht 'twas three hundred. Then I'd
show 'em what for, damn 'em!"
He shook his fist angrily at the gleaming eyes, and began securely to
prop his moccasins before the fire.
"An' I wisht this cold snap'd break," he went on. "It's ben fifty below
for two weeks now. An' I wisht I'd never started on this trip, Henry. I
don't like the looks of it. I don't feel right, somehow. An' while I'm
wishin', I wisht the trip was over an' done with, an' you an' me
a-sittin' by the fire in Fort McGurry just about now an' playing
cribbage--that's what I wisht."
Henry grunted and crawled into bed. As he dozed off he was aroused by
his comrade's voice.
"Say, Henry, that other one that come in an' got a fish--why didn't the
dogs pitch into it? That's what's botherin' me."
"You're botherin' too much, Bill," came the sleepy response. "You was
never like this before. You jes' shut up now, an' go to sleep, an'
you'll be all hunkydory in the mornin'. Your stomach's sour, that's
what's botherin' you."
The men slept, breathing heavily, side by side, under the one covering.
The fire died down, and the gleaming eyes drew closer the circle they had
flung about the camp. The dogs clustered together in fear, now and again
snarling menacingly as a pair of eyes drew close. Once their uproar
became so loud that Bill woke up. He got out of bed carefully, so as not
to disturb the sleep of his comrade, and threw more wood on the fire. As
it began to flame up, the circle of eyes drew farther back. He glanced
casually at the huddling dogs. He rubbed his eyes and looked at them
more sharply. Then he crawled back into the blankets.
"Henry," he said. "Oh, Henry."
Henry groaned as he passed from sleep to waking, and demanded, "What's
wrong now?"
"Nothin'," came the answer; "only there's seven of 'em again. I just
counted."
Henry acknowledged receipt of the information with a grunt that slid into
a snore as he drifted back into sleep.
In the morning it was Henry who awoke first and routed his companion out
of bed. Daylight was yet three hours away, though it was already six
o'clock; and in the darkness Henry went about preparing breakfast, while
Bill rolled the blankets and made the sled ready for lashing.
"Say, Henry," he asked suddenly, "how many dogs did you say we had?"
"Six."
"Wrong," Bill proclaimed triumphantly.
"Seven again?" Henry queried.
"No, five; one's gone."
"The hell!" Henry cried in wrath, leaving the cooking to come and count
the dogs.
"You're right, Bill," he concluded. "Fatty's gone."
"An' he went like greased lightnin' once he got started. Couldn't 've
seen 'm for smoke."
"No chance at all," Henry concluded. "They jes' swallowed 'm alive. I
bet he was yelpin' as he went down their throats, damn 'em!"
"He always was a fool dog," said Bill.
"But no fool dog ought to be fool enough to go off an' commit suicide
that way." He looked over the remainder of the team with a speculative
eye that summed up instantly the salient traits of each animal. "I bet
none of the others would do it."
"Couldn't drive 'em away from the fire with a club," Bill agreed. "I
always did think there was somethin' wrong with Fatty anyway."
And this was the epitaph of a dead dog on the Northland trail--less scant
than the epitaph of many another dog, of many a man.
|
|
White Fang.part 2.chapter | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of part 2, chapter 3 the gray cub, utilizing the provided context. | part 2, chapter 3 the gray cub|part 2, chapter 5 the law of meat | The only gray cub, and the fiercest member of the she-wolf's litter, demonstrates a special awareness and aptitude for survival early on. He discovers that one wall of the cave opens to the outside world. All the cubs are drawn toward the light, but the she-wolf keeps them away from the "wall of light" first with her nose, then with her paw. " Thus learned hurt." Eventually, however, as hunger takes hold, even his attempts to gain the wall of light cease: "The cubs slept, while the life that was in them flickered and died down. " Desperate to feed their offspring, One Eye and the she-wolf spend a great deal of time outside the lair in search of food. As the famine wears on, only the gray cub survives. One Eye eventually stops returning to the lair; the she-wolf discovers One Eye's remains at the end of a certain trail, the physical evidence of a battle One Eye lost against the lynx. |
----------PART 2, CHAPTER 3 THE GRAY CUB---------
He was different from his brothers and sisters. Their hair already
betrayed the reddish hue inherited from their mother, the she-wolf; while
he alone, in this particular, took after his father. He was the one
little grey cub of the litter. He had bred true to the straight wolf-
stock--in fact, he had bred true to old One Eye himself, physically, with
but a single exception, and that was he had two eyes to his father's one.
The grey cub's eyes had not been open long, yet already he could see with
steady clearness. And while his eyes were still closed, he had felt,
tasted, and smelled. He knew his two brothers and his two sisters very
well. He had begun to romp with them in a feeble, awkward way, and even
to squabble, his little throat vibrating with a queer rasping noise (the
forerunner of the growl), as he worked himself into a passion. And long
before his eyes had opened he had learned by touch, taste, and smell to
know his mother--a fount of warmth and liquid food and tenderness. She
possessed a gentle, caressing tongue that soothed him when it passed over
his soft little body, and that impelled him to snuggle close against her
and to doze off to sleep.
Most of the first month of his life had been passed thus in sleeping; but
now he could see quite well, and he stayed awake for longer periods of
time, and he was coming to learn his world quite well. His world was
gloomy; but he did not know that, for he knew no other world. It was dim-
lighted; but his eyes had never had to adjust themselves to any other
light. His world was very small. Its limits were the walls of the lair;
but as he had no knowledge of the wide world outside, he was never
oppressed by the narrow confines of his existence.
But he had early discovered that one wall of his world was different from
the rest. This was the mouth of the cave and the source of light. He
had discovered that it was different from the other walls long before he
had any thoughts of his own, any conscious volitions. It had been an
irresistible attraction before ever his eyes opened and looked upon it.
The light from it had beat upon his sealed lids, and the eyes and the
optic nerves had pulsated to little, sparklike flashes, warm-coloured and
strangely pleasing. The life of his body, and of every fibre of his
body, the life that was the very substance of his body and that was apart
from his own personal life, had yearned toward this light and urged his
body toward it in the same way that the cunning chemistry of a plant
urges it toward the sun.
Always, in the beginning, before his conscious life dawned, he had
crawled toward the mouth of the cave. And in this his brothers and
sisters were one with him. Never, in that period, did any of them crawl
toward the dark corners of the back-wall. The light drew them as if they
were plants; the chemistry of the life that composed them demanded the
light as a necessity of being; and their little puppet-bodies crawled
blindly and chemically, like the tendrils of a vine. Later on, when each
developed individuality and became personally conscious of impulsions and
desires, the attraction of the light increased. They were always
crawling and sprawling toward it, and being driven back from it by their
mother.
It was in this way that the grey cub learned other attributes of his
mother than the soft, soothing tongue. In his insistent crawling toward
the light, he discovered in her a nose that with a sharp nudge
administered rebuke, and later, a paw, that crushed him down and rolled
him over and over with swift, calculating stroke. Thus he learned hurt;
and on top of it he learned to avoid hurt, first, by not incurring the
risk of it; and second, when he had incurred the risk, by dodging and by
retreating. These were conscious actions, and were the results of his
first generalisations upon the world. Before that he had recoiled
automatically from hurt, as he had crawled automatically toward the
light. After that he recoiled from hurt because he _knew_ that it was
hurt.
He was a fierce little cub. So were his brothers and sisters. It was to
be expected. He was a carnivorous animal. He came of a breed of meat-
killers and meat-eaters. His father and mother lived wholly upon meat.
The milk he had sucked with his first flickering life, was milk
transformed directly from meat, and now, at a month old, when his eyes
had been open for but a week, he was beginning himself to eat meat--meat
half-digested by the she-wolf and disgorged for the five growing cubs
that already made too great demand upon her breast.
But he was, further, the fiercest of the litter. He could make a louder
rasping growl than any of them. His tiny rages were much more terrible
than theirs. It was he that first learned the trick of rolling a fellow-
cub over with a cunning paw-stroke. And it was he that first gripped
another cub by the ear and pulled and tugged and growled through jaws
tight-clenched. And certainly it was he that caused the mother the most
trouble in keeping her litter from the mouth of the cave.
The fascination of the light for the grey cub increased from day to day.
He was perpetually departing on yard-long adventures toward the cave's
entrance, and as perpetually being driven back. Only he did not know it
for an entrance. He did not know anything about entrances--passages
whereby one goes from one place to another place. He did not know any
other place, much less of a way to get there. So to him the entrance of
the cave was a wall--a wall of light. As the sun was to the outside
dweller, this wall was to him the sun of his world. It attracted him as
a candle attracts a moth. He was always striving to attain it. The life
that was so swiftly expanding within him, urged him continually toward
the wall of light. The life that was within him knew that it was the one
way out, the way he was predestined to tread. But he himself did not
know anything about it. He did not know there was any outside at all.
There was one strange thing about this wall of light. His father (he had
already come to recognise his father as the one other dweller in the
world, a creature like his mother, who slept near the light and was a
bringer of meat)--his father had a way of walking right into the white
far wall and disappearing. The grey cub could not understand this.
Though never permitted by his mother to approach that wall, he had
approached the other walls, and encountered hard obstruction on the end
of his tender nose. This hurt. And after several such adventures, he
left the walls alone. Without thinking about it, he accepted this
disappearing into the wall as a peculiarity of his father, as milk and
half-digested meat were peculiarities of his mother.
In fact, the grey cub was not given to thinking--at least, to the kind of
thinking customary of men. His brain worked in dim ways. Yet his
conclusions were as sharp and distinct as those achieved by men. He had
a method of accepting things, without questioning the why and wherefore.
In reality, this was the act of classification. He was never disturbed
over why a thing happened. How it happened was sufficient for him. Thus,
when he had bumped his nose on the back-wall a few times, he accepted
that he would not disappear into walls. In the same way he accepted that
his father could disappear into walls. But he was not in the least
disturbed by desire to find out the reason for the difference between his
father and himself. Logic and physics were no part of his mental make-
up.
Like most creatures of the Wild, he early experienced famine. There came
a time when not only did the meat-supply cease, but the milk no longer
came from his mother's breast. At first, the cubs whimpered and cried,
but for the most part they slept. It was not long before they were
reduced to a coma of hunger. There were no more spats and squabbles, no
more tiny rages nor attempts at growling; while the adventures toward the
far white wall ceased altogether. The cubs slept, while the life that
was in them flickered and died down.
One Eye was desperate. He ranged far and wide, and slept but little in
the lair that had now become cheerless and miserable. The she-wolf, too,
left her litter and went out in search of meat. In the first days after
the birth of the cubs, One Eye had journeyed several times back to the
Indian camp and robbed the rabbit snares; but, with the melting of the
snow and the opening of the streams, the Indian camp had moved away, and
that source of supply was closed to him.
When the grey cub came back to life and again took interest in the far
white wall, he found that the population of his world had been reduced.
Only one sister remained to him. The rest were gone. As he grew
stronger, he found himself compelled to play alone, for the sister no
longer lifted her head nor moved about. His little body rounded out with
the meat he now ate; but the food had come too late for her. She slept
continuously, a tiny skeleton flung round with skin in which the flame
flickered lower and lower and at last went out.
Then there came a time when the grey cub no longer saw his father
appearing and disappearing in the wall nor lying down asleep in the
entrance. This had happened at the end of a second and less severe
famine. The she-wolf knew why One Eye never came back, but there was no
way by which she could tell what she had seen to the grey cub. Hunting
herself for meat, up the left fork of the stream where lived the lynx,
she had followed a day-old trail of One Eye. And she had found him, or
what remained of him, at the end of the trail. There were many signs of
the battle that had been fought, and of the lynx's withdrawal to her lair
after having won the victory. Before she went away, the she-wolf had
found this lair, but the signs told her that the lynx was inside, and she
had not dared to venture in.
After that, the she-wolf in her hunting avoided the left fork. For she
knew that in the lynx's lair was a litter of kittens, and she knew the
lynx for a fierce, bad-tempered creature and a terrible fighter. It was
all very well for half a dozen wolves to drive a lynx, spitting and
bristling, up a tree; but it was quite a different matter for a lone wolf
to encounter a lynx--especially when the lynx was known to have a litter
of hungry kittens at her back.
But the Wild is the Wild, and motherhood is motherhood, at all times
fiercely protective whether in the Wild or out of it; and the time was to
come when the she-wolf, for her grey cub's sake, would venture the left
fork, and the lair in the rocks, and the lynx's wrath.
----------PART 2, CHAPTER 5 THE LAW OF MEAT---------
The cub's development was rapid. He rested for two days, and then
ventured forth from the cave again. It was on this adventure that he
found the young weasel whose mother he had helped eat, and he saw to it
that the young weasel went the way of its mother. But on this trip he
did not get lost. When he grew tired, he found his way back to the cave
and slept. And every day thereafter found him out and ranging a wider
area.
He began to get accurate measurement of his strength and his weakness,
and to know when to be bold and when to be cautious. He found it
expedient to be cautious all the time, except for the rare moments, when,
assured of his own intrepidity, he abandoned himself to petty rages and
lusts.
He was always a little demon of fury when he chanced upon a stray
ptarmigan. Never did he fail to respond savagely to the chatter of the
squirrel he had first met on the blasted pine. While the sight of a
moose-bird almost invariably put him into the wildest of rages; for he
never forgot the peck on the nose he had received from the first of that
ilk he encountered.
But there were times when even a moose-bird failed to affect him, and
those were times when he felt himself to be in danger from some other
prowling meat hunter. He never forgot the hawk, and its moving shadow
always sent him crouching into the nearest thicket. He no longer
sprawled and straddled, and already he was developing the gait of his
mother, slinking and furtive, apparently without exertion, yet sliding
along with a swiftness that was as deceptive as it was imperceptible.
In the matter of meat, his luck had been all in the beginning. The seven
ptarmigan chicks and the baby weasel represented the sum of his killings.
His desire to kill strengthened with the days, and he cherished hungry
ambitions for the squirrel that chattered so volubly and always informed
all wild creatures that the wolf-cub was approaching. But as birds flew
in the air, squirrels could climb trees, and the cub could only try to
crawl unobserved upon the squirrel when it was on the ground.
The cub entertained a great respect for his mother. She could get meat,
and she never failed to bring him his share. Further, she was unafraid
of things. It did not occur to him that this fearlessness was founded
upon experience and knowledge. Its effect on him was that of an
impression of power. His mother represented power; and as he grew older
he felt this power in the sharper admonishment of her paw; while the
reproving nudge of her nose gave place to the slash of her fangs. For
this, likewise, he respected his mother. She compelled obedience from
him, and the older he grew the shorter grew her temper.
Famine came again, and the cub with clearer consciousness knew once more
the bite of hunger. The she-wolf ran herself thin in the quest for meat.
She rarely slept any more in the cave, spending most of her time on the
meat-trail, and spending it vainly. This famine was not a long one, but
it was severe while it lasted. The cub found no more milk in his
mother's breast, nor did he get one mouthful of meat for himself.
Before, he had hunted in play, for the sheer joyousness of it; now he
hunted in deadly earnestness, and found nothing. Yet the failure of it
accelerated his development. He studied the habits of the squirrel with
greater carefulness, and strove with greater craft to steal upon it and
surprise it. He studied the wood-mice and tried to dig them out of their
burrows; and he learned much about the ways of moose-birds and
woodpeckers. And there came a day when the hawk's shadow did not drive
him crouching into the bushes. He had grown stronger and wiser, and more
confident. Also, he was desperate. So he sat on his haunches,
conspicuously in an open space, and challenged the hawk down out of the
sky. For he knew that there, floating in the blue above him, was meat,
the meat his stomach yearned after so insistently. But the hawk refused
to come down and give battle, and the cub crawled away into a thicket and
whimpered his disappointment and hunger.
The famine broke. The she-wolf brought home meat. It was strange meat,
different from any she had ever brought before. It was a lynx kitten,
partly grown, like the cub, but not so large. And it was all for him.
His mother had satisfied her hunger elsewhere; though he did not know
that it was the rest of the lynx litter that had gone to satisfy her. Nor
did he know the desperateness of her deed. He knew only that the velvet-
furred kitten was meat, and he ate and waxed happier with every mouthful.
A full stomach conduces to inaction, and the cub lay in the cave,
sleeping against his mother's side. He was aroused by her snarling.
Never had he heard her snarl so terribly. Possibly in her whole life it
was the most terrible snarl she ever gave. There was reason for it, and
none knew it better than she. A lynx's lair is not despoiled with
impunity. In the full glare of the afternoon light, crouching in the
entrance of the cave, the cub saw the lynx-mother. The hair rippled up
along his back at the sight. Here was fear, and it did not require his
instinct to tell him of it. And if sight alone were not sufficient, the
cry of rage the intruder gave, beginning with a snarl and rushing
abruptly upward into a hoarse screech, was convincing enough in itself.
The cub felt the prod of the life that was in him, and stood up and
snarled valiantly by his mother's side. But she thrust him ignominiously
away and behind her. Because of the low-roofed entrance the lynx could
not leap in, and when she made a crawling rush of it the she-wolf sprang
upon her and pinned her down. The cub saw little of the battle. There
was a tremendous snarling and spitting and screeching. The two animals
threshed about, the lynx ripping and tearing with her claws and using her
teeth as well, while the she-wolf used her teeth alone.
Once, the cub sprang in and sank his teeth into the hind leg of the lynx.
He clung on, growling savagely. Though he did not know it, by the weight
of his body he clogged the action of the leg and thereby saved his mother
much damage. A change in the battle crushed him under both their bodies
and wrenched loose his hold. The next moment the two mothers separated,
and, before they rushed together again, the lynx lashed out at the cub
with a huge fore-paw that ripped his shoulder open to the bone and sent
him hurtling sidewise against the wall. Then was added to the uproar the
cub's shrill yelp of pain and fright. But the fight lasted so long that
he had time to cry himself out and to experience a second burst of
courage; and the end of the battle found him again clinging to a hind-leg
and furiously growling between his teeth.
The lynx was dead. But the she-wolf was very weak and sick. At first
she caressed the cub and licked his wounded shoulder; but the blood she
had lost had taken with it her strength, and for all of a day and a night
she lay by her dead foe's side, without movement, scarcely breathing. For
a week she never left the cave, except for water, and then her movements
were slow and painful. At the end of that time the lynx was devoured,
while the she-wolf's wounds had healed sufficiently to permit her to take
the meat-trail again.
The cub's shoulder was stiff and sore, and for some time he limped from
the terrible slash he had received. But the world now seemed changed. He
went about in it with greater confidence, with a feeling of prowess that
had not been his in the days before the battle with the lynx. He had
looked upon life in a more ferocious aspect; he had fought; he had buried
his teeth in the flesh of a foe; and he had survived. And because of all
this, he carried himself more boldly, with a touch of defiance that was
new in him. He was no longer afraid of minor things, and much of his
timidity had vanished, though the unknown never ceased to press upon him
with its mysteries and terrors, intangible and ever-menacing.
He began to accompany his mother on the meat-trail, and he saw much of
the killing of meat and began to play his part in it. And in his own dim
way he learned the law of meat. There were two kinds of life--his own
kind and the other kind. His own kind included his mother and himself.
The other kind included all live things that moved. But the other kind
was divided. One portion was what his own kind killed and ate. This
portion was composed of the non-killers and the small killers. The other
portion killed and ate his own kind, or was killed and eaten by his own
kind. And out of this classification arose the law. The aim of life was
meat. Life itself was meat. Life lived on life. There were the eaters
and the eaten. The law was: EAT OR BE EATEN. He did not formulate the
law in clear, set terms and moralise about it. He did not even think the
law; he merely lived the law without thinking about it at all.
He saw the law operating around him on every side. He had eaten the
ptarmigan chicks. The hawk had eaten the ptarmigan-mother. The hawk
would also have eaten him. Later, when he had grown more formidable, he
wanted to eat the hawk. He had eaten the lynx kitten. The lynx-mother
would have eaten him had she not herself been killed and eaten. And so
it went. The law was being lived about him by all live things, and he
himself was part and parcel of the law. He was a killer. His only food
was meat, live meat, that ran away swiftly before him, or flew into the
air, or climbed trees, or hid in the ground, or faced him and fought with
him, or turned the tables and ran after him.
Had the cub thought in man-fashion, he might have epitomised life as a
voracious appetite and the world as a place wherein ranged a multitude of
appetites, pursuing and being pursued, hunting and being hunted, eating
and being eaten, all in blindness and confusion, with violence and
disorder, a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance,
merciless, planless, endless.
But the cub did not think in man-fashion. He did not look at things with
wide vision. He was single-purposed, and entertained but one thought or
desire at a time. Besides the law of meat, there were a myriad other and
lesser laws for him to learn and obey. The world was filled with
surprise. The stir of the life that was in him, the play of his muscles,
was an unending happiness. To run down meat was to experience thrills
and elations. His rages and battles were pleasures. Terror itself, and
the mystery of the unknown, led to his living.
And there were easements and satisfactions. To have a full stomach, to
doze lazily in the sunshine--such things were remuneration in full for
his ardours and toils, while his ardours and tolls were in themselves
self-remunerative. They were expressions of life, and life is always
happy when it is expressing itself. So the cub had no quarrel with his
hostile environment. He was very much alive, very happy, and very proud
of himself.
PART III
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter 5 with the given context. | null | After his adventure, the cub rests for two days before setting out again. This time he encounters the baby weasel and devours it with relish. He also finds his way back to the cave easily when he is tired. In sharpening his own skills, he tries to follow the example of his mother. However, as he grows older, the she-wolf grows impatient with him. Since food is short, the cub now goes hunting in deadly earnest, not just for the joy of it. Failure encourages him further, and he carefully hunts for squirrels, woodmice, and birds. He even challenges the hawk. The she-wolf eventually brings him the meat of a lynx cub. She herself has devoured the rest of the litter. She is later challenged to a fight by the mother lynx, and the cub participates. After a long fight, the lynx is finally killed and eaten by mother and son. Although the cub is hurt by the lynx, he is rather proud of his feat. He is also proud to accompany his mother on the hunt, where he learns the principle of eat or be eaten, the basic law of the survival of the fittest. |
----------CHAPTER 3---------
He was different from his brothers and sisters. Their hair already
betrayed the reddish hue inherited from their mother, the she-wolf; while
he alone, in this particular, took after his father. He was the one
little grey cub of the litter. He had bred true to the straight wolf-
stock--in fact, he had bred true to old One Eye himself, physically, with
but a single exception, and that was he had two eyes to his father's one.
The grey cub's eyes had not been open long, yet already he could see with
steady clearness. And while his eyes were still closed, he had felt,
tasted, and smelled. He knew his two brothers and his two sisters very
well. He had begun to romp with them in a feeble, awkward way, and even
to squabble, his little throat vibrating with a queer rasping noise (the
forerunner of the growl), as he worked himself into a passion. And long
before his eyes had opened he had learned by touch, taste, and smell to
know his mother--a fount of warmth and liquid food and tenderness. She
possessed a gentle, caressing tongue that soothed him when it passed over
his soft little body, and that impelled him to snuggle close against her
and to doze off to sleep.
Most of the first month of his life had been passed thus in sleeping; but
now he could see quite well, and he stayed awake for longer periods of
time, and he was coming to learn his world quite well. His world was
gloomy; but he did not know that, for he knew no other world. It was dim-
lighted; but his eyes had never had to adjust themselves to any other
light. His world was very small. Its limits were the walls of the lair;
but as he had no knowledge of the wide world outside, he was never
oppressed by the narrow confines of his existence.
But he had early discovered that one wall of his world was different from
the rest. This was the mouth of the cave and the source of light. He
had discovered that it was different from the other walls long before he
had any thoughts of his own, any conscious volitions. It had been an
irresistible attraction before ever his eyes opened and looked upon it.
The light from it had beat upon his sealed lids, and the eyes and the
optic nerves had pulsated to little, sparklike flashes, warm-coloured and
strangely pleasing. The life of his body, and of every fibre of his
body, the life that was the very substance of his body and that was apart
from his own personal life, had yearned toward this light and urged his
body toward it in the same way that the cunning chemistry of a plant
urges it toward the sun.
Always, in the beginning, before his conscious life dawned, he had
crawled toward the mouth of the cave. And in this his brothers and
sisters were one with him. Never, in that period, did any of them crawl
toward the dark corners of the back-wall. The light drew them as if they
were plants; the chemistry of the life that composed them demanded the
light as a necessity of being; and their little puppet-bodies crawled
blindly and chemically, like the tendrils of a vine. Later on, when each
developed individuality and became personally conscious of impulsions and
desires, the attraction of the light increased. They were always
crawling and sprawling toward it, and being driven back from it by their
mother.
It was in this way that the grey cub learned other attributes of his
mother than the soft, soothing tongue. In his insistent crawling toward
the light, he discovered in her a nose that with a sharp nudge
administered rebuke, and later, a paw, that crushed him down and rolled
him over and over with swift, calculating stroke. Thus he learned hurt;
and on top of it he learned to avoid hurt, first, by not incurring the
risk of it; and second, when he had incurred the risk, by dodging and by
retreating. These were conscious actions, and were the results of his
first generalisations upon the world. Before that he had recoiled
automatically from hurt, as he had crawled automatically toward the
light. After that he recoiled from hurt because he _knew_ that it was
hurt.
He was a fierce little cub. So were his brothers and sisters. It was to
be expected. He was a carnivorous animal. He came of a breed of meat-
killers and meat-eaters. His father and mother lived wholly upon meat.
The milk he had sucked with his first flickering life, was milk
transformed directly from meat, and now, at a month old, when his eyes
had been open for but a week, he was beginning himself to eat meat--meat
half-digested by the she-wolf and disgorged for the five growing cubs
that already made too great demand upon her breast.
But he was, further, the fiercest of the litter. He could make a louder
rasping growl than any of them. His tiny rages were much more terrible
than theirs. It was he that first learned the trick of rolling a fellow-
cub over with a cunning paw-stroke. And it was he that first gripped
another cub by the ear and pulled and tugged and growled through jaws
tight-clenched. And certainly it was he that caused the mother the most
trouble in keeping her litter from the mouth of the cave.
The fascination of the light for the grey cub increased from day to day.
He was perpetually departing on yard-long adventures toward the cave's
entrance, and as perpetually being driven back. Only he did not know it
for an entrance. He did not know anything about entrances--passages
whereby one goes from one place to another place. He did not know any
other place, much less of a way to get there. So to him the entrance of
the cave was a wall--a wall of light. As the sun was to the outside
dweller, this wall was to him the sun of his world. It attracted him as
a candle attracts a moth. He was always striving to attain it. The life
that was so swiftly expanding within him, urged him continually toward
the wall of light. The life that was within him knew that it was the one
way out, the way he was predestined to tread. But he himself did not
know anything about it. He did not know there was any outside at all.
There was one strange thing about this wall of light. His father (he had
already come to recognise his father as the one other dweller in the
world, a creature like his mother, who slept near the light and was a
bringer of meat)--his father had a way of walking right into the white
far wall and disappearing. The grey cub could not understand this.
Though never permitted by his mother to approach that wall, he had
approached the other walls, and encountered hard obstruction on the end
of his tender nose. This hurt. And after several such adventures, he
left the walls alone. Without thinking about it, he accepted this
disappearing into the wall as a peculiarity of his father, as milk and
half-digested meat were peculiarities of his mother.
In fact, the grey cub was not given to thinking--at least, to the kind of
thinking customary of men. His brain worked in dim ways. Yet his
conclusions were as sharp and distinct as those achieved by men. He had
a method of accepting things, without questioning the why and wherefore.
In reality, this was the act of classification. He was never disturbed
over why a thing happened. How it happened was sufficient for him. Thus,
when he had bumped his nose on the back-wall a few times, he accepted
that he would not disappear into walls. In the same way he accepted that
his father could disappear into walls. But he was not in the least
disturbed by desire to find out the reason for the difference between his
father and himself. Logic and physics were no part of his mental make-
up.
Like most creatures of the Wild, he early experienced famine. There came
a time when not only did the meat-supply cease, but the milk no longer
came from his mother's breast. At first, the cubs whimpered and cried,
but for the most part they slept. It was not long before they were
reduced to a coma of hunger. There were no more spats and squabbles, no
more tiny rages nor attempts at growling; while the adventures toward the
far white wall ceased altogether. The cubs slept, while the life that
was in them flickered and died down.
One Eye was desperate. He ranged far and wide, and slept but little in
the lair that had now become cheerless and miserable. The she-wolf, too,
left her litter and went out in search of meat. In the first days after
the birth of the cubs, One Eye had journeyed several times back to the
Indian camp and robbed the rabbit snares; but, with the melting of the
snow and the opening of the streams, the Indian camp had moved away, and
that source of supply was closed to him.
When the grey cub came back to life and again took interest in the far
white wall, he found that the population of his world had been reduced.
Only one sister remained to him. The rest were gone. As he grew
stronger, he found himself compelled to play alone, for the sister no
longer lifted her head nor moved about. His little body rounded out with
the meat he now ate; but the food had come too late for her. She slept
continuously, a tiny skeleton flung round with skin in which the flame
flickered lower and lower and at last went out.
Then there came a time when the grey cub no longer saw his father
appearing and disappearing in the wall nor lying down asleep in the
entrance. This had happened at the end of a second and less severe
famine. The she-wolf knew why One Eye never came back, but there was no
way by which she could tell what she had seen to the grey cub. Hunting
herself for meat, up the left fork of the stream where lived the lynx,
she had followed a day-old trail of One Eye. And she had found him, or
what remained of him, at the end of the trail. There were many signs of
the battle that had been fought, and of the lynx's withdrawal to her lair
after having won the victory. Before she went away, the she-wolf had
found this lair, but the signs told her that the lynx was inside, and she
had not dared to venture in.
After that, the she-wolf in her hunting avoided the left fork. For she
knew that in the lynx's lair was a litter of kittens, and she knew the
lynx for a fierce, bad-tempered creature and a terrible fighter. It was
all very well for half a dozen wolves to drive a lynx, spitting and
bristling, up a tree; but it was quite a different matter for a lone wolf
to encounter a lynx--especially when the lynx was known to have a litter
of hungry kittens at her back.
But the Wild is the Wild, and motherhood is motherhood, at all times
fiercely protective whether in the Wild or out of it; and the time was to
come when the she-wolf, for her grey cub's sake, would venture the left
fork, and the lair in the rocks, and the lynx's wrath.
----------CHAPTER 5---------
The cub's development was rapid. He rested for two days, and then
ventured forth from the cave again. It was on this adventure that he
found the young weasel whose mother he had helped eat, and he saw to it
that the young weasel went the way of its mother. But on this trip he
did not get lost. When he grew tired, he found his way back to the cave
and slept. And every day thereafter found him out and ranging a wider
area.
He began to get accurate measurement of his strength and his weakness,
and to know when to be bold and when to be cautious. He found it
expedient to be cautious all the time, except for the rare moments, when,
assured of his own intrepidity, he abandoned himself to petty rages and
lusts.
He was always a little demon of fury when he chanced upon a stray
ptarmigan. Never did he fail to respond savagely to the chatter of the
squirrel he had first met on the blasted pine. While the sight of a
moose-bird almost invariably put him into the wildest of rages; for he
never forgot the peck on the nose he had received from the first of that
ilk he encountered.
But there were times when even a moose-bird failed to affect him, and
those were times when he felt himself to be in danger from some other
prowling meat hunter. He never forgot the hawk, and its moving shadow
always sent him crouching into the nearest thicket. He no longer
sprawled and straddled, and already he was developing the gait of his
mother, slinking and furtive, apparently without exertion, yet sliding
along with a swiftness that was as deceptive as it was imperceptible.
In the matter of meat, his luck had been all in the beginning. The seven
ptarmigan chicks and the baby weasel represented the sum of his killings.
His desire to kill strengthened with the days, and he cherished hungry
ambitions for the squirrel that chattered so volubly and always informed
all wild creatures that the wolf-cub was approaching. But as birds flew
in the air, squirrels could climb trees, and the cub could only try to
crawl unobserved upon the squirrel when it was on the ground.
The cub entertained a great respect for his mother. She could get meat,
and she never failed to bring him his share. Further, she was unafraid
of things. It did not occur to him that this fearlessness was founded
upon experience and knowledge. Its effect on him was that of an
impression of power. His mother represented power; and as he grew older
he felt this power in the sharper admonishment of her paw; while the
reproving nudge of her nose gave place to the slash of her fangs. For
this, likewise, he respected his mother. She compelled obedience from
him, and the older he grew the shorter grew her temper.
Famine came again, and the cub with clearer consciousness knew once more
the bite of hunger. The she-wolf ran herself thin in the quest for meat.
She rarely slept any more in the cave, spending most of her time on the
meat-trail, and spending it vainly. This famine was not a long one, but
it was severe while it lasted. The cub found no more milk in his
mother's breast, nor did he get one mouthful of meat for himself.
Before, he had hunted in play, for the sheer joyousness of it; now he
hunted in deadly earnestness, and found nothing. Yet the failure of it
accelerated his development. He studied the habits of the squirrel with
greater carefulness, and strove with greater craft to steal upon it and
surprise it. He studied the wood-mice and tried to dig them out of their
burrows; and he learned much about the ways of moose-birds and
woodpeckers. And there came a day when the hawk's shadow did not drive
him crouching into the bushes. He had grown stronger and wiser, and more
confident. Also, he was desperate. So he sat on his haunches,
conspicuously in an open space, and challenged the hawk down out of the
sky. For he knew that there, floating in the blue above him, was meat,
the meat his stomach yearned after so insistently. But the hawk refused
to come down and give battle, and the cub crawled away into a thicket and
whimpered his disappointment and hunger.
The famine broke. The she-wolf brought home meat. It was strange meat,
different from any she had ever brought before. It was a lynx kitten,
partly grown, like the cub, but not so large. And it was all for him.
His mother had satisfied her hunger elsewhere; though he did not know
that it was the rest of the lynx litter that had gone to satisfy her. Nor
did he know the desperateness of her deed. He knew only that the velvet-
furred kitten was meat, and he ate and waxed happier with every mouthful.
A full stomach conduces to inaction, and the cub lay in the cave,
sleeping against his mother's side. He was aroused by her snarling.
Never had he heard her snarl so terribly. Possibly in her whole life it
was the most terrible snarl she ever gave. There was reason for it, and
none knew it better than she. A lynx's lair is not despoiled with
impunity. In the full glare of the afternoon light, crouching in the
entrance of the cave, the cub saw the lynx-mother. The hair rippled up
along his back at the sight. Here was fear, and it did not require his
instinct to tell him of it. And if sight alone were not sufficient, the
cry of rage the intruder gave, beginning with a snarl and rushing
abruptly upward into a hoarse screech, was convincing enough in itself.
The cub felt the prod of the life that was in him, and stood up and
snarled valiantly by his mother's side. But she thrust him ignominiously
away and behind her. Because of the low-roofed entrance the lynx could
not leap in, and when she made a crawling rush of it the she-wolf sprang
upon her and pinned her down. The cub saw little of the battle. There
was a tremendous snarling and spitting and screeching. The two animals
threshed about, the lynx ripping and tearing with her claws and using her
teeth as well, while the she-wolf used her teeth alone.
Once, the cub sprang in and sank his teeth into the hind leg of the lynx.
He clung on, growling savagely. Though he did not know it, by the weight
of his body he clogged the action of the leg and thereby saved his mother
much damage. A change in the battle crushed him under both their bodies
and wrenched loose his hold. The next moment the two mothers separated,
and, before they rushed together again, the lynx lashed out at the cub
with a huge fore-paw that ripped his shoulder open to the bone and sent
him hurtling sidewise against the wall. Then was added to the uproar the
cub's shrill yelp of pain and fright. But the fight lasted so long that
he had time to cry himself out and to experience a second burst of
courage; and the end of the battle found him again clinging to a hind-leg
and furiously growling between his teeth.
The lynx was dead. But the she-wolf was very weak and sick. At first
she caressed the cub and licked his wounded shoulder; but the blood she
had lost had taken with it her strength, and for all of a day and a night
she lay by her dead foe's side, without movement, scarcely breathing. For
a week she never left the cave, except for water, and then her movements
were slow and painful. At the end of that time the lynx was devoured,
while the she-wolf's wounds had healed sufficiently to permit her to take
the meat-trail again.
The cub's shoulder was stiff and sore, and for some time he limped from
the terrible slash he had received. But the world now seemed changed. He
went about in it with greater confidence, with a feeling of prowess that
had not been his in the days before the battle with the lynx. He had
looked upon life in a more ferocious aspect; he had fought; he had buried
his teeth in the flesh of a foe; and he had survived. And because of all
this, he carried himself more boldly, with a touch of defiance that was
new in him. He was no longer afraid of minor things, and much of his
timidity had vanished, though the unknown never ceased to press upon him
with its mysteries and terrors, intangible and ever-menacing.
He began to accompany his mother on the meat-trail, and he saw much of
the killing of meat and began to play his part in it. And in his own dim
way he learned the law of meat. There were two kinds of life--his own
kind and the other kind. His own kind included his mother and himself.
The other kind included all live things that moved. But the other kind
was divided. One portion was what his own kind killed and ate. This
portion was composed of the non-killers and the small killers. The other
portion killed and ate his own kind, or was killed and eaten by his own
kind. And out of this classification arose the law. The aim of life was
meat. Life itself was meat. Life lived on life. There were the eaters
and the eaten. The law was: EAT OR BE EATEN. He did not formulate the
law in clear, set terms and moralise about it. He did not even think the
law; he merely lived the law without thinking about it at all.
He saw the law operating around him on every side. He had eaten the
ptarmigan chicks. The hawk had eaten the ptarmigan-mother. The hawk
would also have eaten him. Later, when he had grown more formidable, he
wanted to eat the hawk. He had eaten the lynx kitten. The lynx-mother
would have eaten him had she not herself been killed and eaten. And so
it went. The law was being lived about him by all live things, and he
himself was part and parcel of the law. He was a killer. His only food
was meat, live meat, that ran away swiftly before him, or flew into the
air, or climbed trees, or hid in the ground, or faced him and fought with
him, or turned the tables and ran after him.
Had the cub thought in man-fashion, he might have epitomised life as a
voracious appetite and the world as a place wherein ranged a multitude of
appetites, pursuing and being pursued, hunting and being hunted, eating
and being eaten, all in blindness and confusion, with violence and
disorder, a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance,
merciless, planless, endless.
But the cub did not think in man-fashion. He did not look at things with
wide vision. He was single-purposed, and entertained but one thought or
desire at a time. Besides the law of meat, there were a myriad other and
lesser laws for him to learn and obey. The world was filled with
surprise. The stir of the life that was in him, the play of his muscles,
was an unending happiness. To run down meat was to experience thrills
and elations. His rages and battles were pleasures. Terror itself, and
the mystery of the unknown, led to his living.
And there were easements and satisfactions. To have a full stomach, to
doze lazily in the sunshine--such things were remuneration in full for
his ardours and toils, while his ardours and tolls were in themselves
self-remunerative. They were expressions of life, and life is always
happy when it is expressing itself. So the cub had no quarrel with his
hostile environment. He was very much alive, very happy, and very proud
of himself.
PART III
|
White Fang.part 3.chapter | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of part 3, chapter 3 the outcast, utilizing the provided context. | part 3, chapter 3 the outcast|part 3, chapter 4 the trail of the gods|chapter 3 | The other dogs gradually join Lip-lip in persecuting White Fang; the pup becomes increasingly hostile to the point that not only the other animals but also the humans in the camp shun and hate him. In order to survive, White Fang becomes "more cruel, more ferocious, and more intelligent." . |
----------PART 3, CHAPTER 3 THE OUTCAST---------
Lip-lip continued so to darken his days that White Fang became wickeder
and more ferocious than it was his natural right to be. Savageness was a
part of his make-up, but the savageness thus developed exceeded his make-
up. He acquired a reputation for wickedness amongst the man-animals
themselves. Wherever there was trouble and uproar in camp, fighting and
squabbling or the outcry of a squaw over a bit of stolen meat, they were
sure to find White Fang mixed up in it and usually at the bottom of it.
They did not bother to look after the causes of his conduct. They saw
only the effects, and the effects were bad. He was a sneak and a thief,
a mischief-maker, a fomenter of trouble; and irate squaws told him to his
face, the while he eyed them alert and ready to dodge any quick-flung
missile, that he was a wolf and worthless and bound to come to an evil
end.
He found himself an outcast in the midst of the populous camp. All the
young dogs followed Lip-lip's lead. There was a difference between White
Fang and them. Perhaps they sensed his wild-wood breed, and
instinctively felt for him the enmity that the domestic dog feels for the
wolf. But be that as it may, they joined with Lip-lip in the
persecution. And, once declared against him, they found good reason to
continue declared against him. One and all, from time to time, they felt
his teeth; and to his credit, he gave more than he received. Many of
them he could whip in single fight; but single fight was denied him. The
beginning of such a fight was a signal for all the young dogs in camp to
come running and pitch upon him.
Out of this pack-persecution he learned two important things: how to take
care of himself in a mass-fight against him--and how, on a single dog, to
inflict the greatest amount of damage in the briefest space of time. To
keep one's feet in the midst of the hostile mass meant life, and this he
learnt well. He became cat-like in his ability to stay on his feet. Even
grown dogs might hurtle him backward or sideways with the impact of their
heavy bodies; and backward or sideways he would go, in the air or sliding
on the ground, but always with his legs under him and his feet downward
to the mother earth.
When dogs fight, there are usually preliminaries to the actual
combat--snarlings and bristlings and stiff-legged struttings. But White
Fang learned to omit these preliminaries. Delay meant the coming against
him of all the young dogs. He must do his work quickly and get away. So
he learnt to give no warning of his intention. He rushed in and snapped
and slashed on the instant, without notice, before his foe could prepare
to meet him. Thus he learned how to inflict quick and severe damage.
Also he learned the value of surprise. A dog, taken off its guard, its
shoulder slashed open or its ear ripped in ribbons before it knew what
was happening, was a dog half whipped.
Furthermore, it was remarkably easy to overthrow a dog taken by surprise;
while a dog, thus overthrown, invariably exposed for a moment the soft
underside of its neck--the vulnerable point at which to strike for its
life. White Fang knew this point. It was a knowledge bequeathed to him
directly from the hunting generation of wolves. So it was that White
Fang's method when he took the offensive, was: first to find a young dog
alone; second, to surprise it and knock it off its feet; and third, to
drive in with his teeth at the soft throat.
Being but partly grown his jaws had not yet become large enough nor
strong enough to make his throat-attack deadly; but many a young dog went
around camp with a lacerated throat in token of White Fang's intention.
And one day, catching one of his enemies alone on the edge of the woods,
he managed, by repeatedly overthrowing him and attacking the throat, to
cut the great vein and let out the life. There was a great row that
night. He had been observed, the news had been carried to the dead dog's
master, the squaws remembered all the instances of stolen meat, and Grey
Beaver was beset by many angry voices. But he resolutely held the door
of his tepee, inside which he had placed the culprit, and refused to
permit the vengeance for which his tribespeople clamoured.
White Fang became hated by man and dog. During this period of his
development he never knew a moment's security. The tooth of every dog
was against him, the hand of every man. He was greeted with snarls by
his kind, with curses and stones by his gods. He lived tensely. He was
always keyed up, alert for attack, wary of being attacked, with an eye
for sudden and unexpected missiles, prepared to act precipitately and
coolly, to leap in with a flash of teeth, or to leap away with a menacing
snarl.
As for snarling he could snarl more terribly than any dog, young or old,
in camp. The intent of the snarl is to warn or frighten, and judgment is
required to know when it should be used. White Fang knew how to make it
and when to make it. Into his snarl he incorporated all that was
vicious, malignant, and horrible. With nose serrulated by continuous
spasms, hair bristling in recurrent waves, tongue whipping out like a red
snake and whipping back again, ears flattened down, eyes gleaming hatred,
lips wrinkled back, and fangs exposed and dripping, he could compel a
pause on the part of almost any assailant. A temporary pause, when taken
off his guard, gave him the vital moment in which to think and determine
his action. But often a pause so gained lengthened out until it evolved
into a complete cessation from the attack. And before more than one of
the grown dogs White Fang's snarl enabled him to beat an honourable
retreat.
An outcast himself from the pack of the part-grown dogs, his sanguinary
methods and remarkable efficiency made the pack pay for its persecution
of him. Not permitted himself to run with the pack, the curious state of
affairs obtained that no member of the pack could run outside the pack.
White Fang would not permit it. What of his bushwhacking and waylaying
tactics, the young dogs were afraid to run by themselves. With the
exception of Lip-lip, they were compelled to hunch together for mutual
protection against the terrible enemy they had made. A puppy alone by
the river bank meant a puppy dead or a puppy that aroused the camp with
its shrill pain and terror as it fled back from the wolf-cub that had
waylaid it.
But White Fang's reprisals did not cease, even when the young dogs had
learned thoroughly that they must stay together. He attacked them when
he caught them alone, and they attacked him when they were bunched. The
sight of him was sufficient to start them rushing after him, at which
times his swiftness usually carried him into safety. But woe the dog
that outran his fellows in such pursuit! White Fang had learned to turn
suddenly upon the pursuer that was ahead of the pack and thoroughly to
rip him up before the pack could arrive. This occurred with great
frequency, for, once in full cry, the dogs were prone to forget
themselves in the excitement of the chase, while White Fang never forgot
himself. Stealing backward glances as he ran, he was always ready to
whirl around and down the overzealous pursuer that outran his fellows.
Young dogs are bound to play, and out of the exigencies of the situation
they realised their play in this mimic warfare. Thus it was that the
hunt of White Fang became their chief game--a deadly game, withal, and at
all times a serious game. He, on the other hand, being the
fastest-footed, was unafraid to venture anywhere. During the period that
he waited vainly for his mother to come back, he led the pack many a wild
chase through the adjacent woods. But the pack invariably lost him. Its
noise and outcry warned him of its presence, while he ran alone, velvet-
footed, silently, a moving shadow among the trees after the manner of his
father and mother before him. Further he was more directly connected
with the Wild than they; and he knew more of its secrets and stratagems.
A favourite trick of his was to lose his trail in running water and then
lie quietly in a near-by thicket while their baffled cries arose around
him.
Hated by his kind and by mankind, indomitable, perpetually warred upon
and himself waging perpetual war, his development was rapid and
one-sided. This was no soil for kindliness and affection to blossom in.
Of such things he had not the faintest glimmering. The code he learned
was to obey the strong and to oppress the weak. Grey Beaver was a god,
and strong. Therefore White Fang obeyed him. But the dog younger or
smaller than himself was weak, a thing to be destroyed. His development
was in the direction of power. In order to face the constant danger of
hurt and even of destruction, his predatory and protective faculties were
unduly developed. He became quicker of movement than the other dogs,
swifter of foot, craftier, deadlier, more lithe, more lean with ironlike
muscle and sinew, more enduring, more cruel, more ferocious, and more
intelligent. He had to become all these things, else he would not have
held his own nor survive the hostile environment in which he found
himself.
----------PART 3, CHAPTER 4 THE TRAIL OF THE GODS---------
In the fall of the year, when the days were shortening and the bite of
the frost was coming into the air, White Fang got his chance for liberty.
For several days there had been a great hubbub in the village. The
summer camp was being dismantled, and the tribe, bag and baggage, was
preparing to go off to the fall hunting. White Fang watched it all with
eager eyes, and when the tepees began to come down and the canoes were
loading at the bank, he understood. Already the canoes were departing,
and some had disappeared down the river.
Quite deliberately he determined to stay behind. He waited his
opportunity to slink out of camp to the woods. Here, in the running
stream where ice was beginning to form, he hid his trail. Then he
crawled into the heart of a dense thicket and waited. The time passed
by, and he slept intermittently for hours. Then he was aroused by Grey
Beaver's voice calling him by name. There were other voices. White Fang
could hear Grey Beaver's squaw taking part in the search, and Mit-sah,
who was Grey Beaver's son.
White Fang trembled with fear, and though the impulse came to crawl out
of his hiding-place, he resisted it. After a time the voices died away,
and some time after that he crept out to enjoy the success of his
undertaking. Darkness was coming on, and for a while he played about
among the trees, pleasuring in his freedom. Then, and quite suddenly, he
became aware of loneliness. He sat down to consider, listening to the
silence of the forest and perturbed by it. That nothing moved nor
sounded, seemed ominous. He felt the lurking of danger, unseen and
unguessed. He was suspicious of the looming bulks of the trees and of
the dark shadows that might conceal all manner of perilous things.
Then it was cold. Here was no warm side of a tepee against which to
snuggle. The frost was in his feet, and he kept lifting first one fore-
foot and then the other. He curved his bushy tail around to cover them,
and at the same time he saw a vision. There was nothing strange about
it. Upon his inward sight was impressed a succession of memory-pictures.
He saw the camp again, the tepees, and the blaze of the fires. He heard
the shrill voices of the women, the gruff basses of the men, and the
snarling of the dogs. He was hungry, and he remembered pieces of meat
and fish that had been thrown him. Here was no meat, nothing but a
threatening and inedible silence.
His bondage had softened him. Irresponsibility had weakened him. He had
forgotten how to shift for himself. The night yawned about him. His
senses, accustomed to the hum and bustle of the camp, used to the
continuous impact of sights and sounds, were now left idle. There was
nothing to do, nothing to see nor hear. They strained to catch some
interruption of the silence and immobility of nature. They were appalled
by inaction and by the feel of something terrible impending.
He gave a great start of fright. A colossal and formless something was
rushing across the field of his vision. It was a tree-shadow flung by
the moon, from whose face the clouds had been brushed away. Reassured,
he whimpered softly; then he suppressed the whimper for fear that it
might attract the attention of the lurking dangers.
A tree, contracting in the cool of the night, made a loud noise. It was
directly above him. He yelped in his fright. A panic seized him, and he
ran madly toward the village. He knew an overpowering desire for the
protection and companionship of man. In his nostrils was the smell of
the camp-smoke. In his ears the camp-sounds and cries were ringing loud.
He passed out of the forest and into the moonlit open where were no
shadows nor darknesses. But no village greeted his eyes. He had
forgotten. The village had gone away.
His wild flight ceased abruptly. There was no place to which to flee. He
slunk forlornly through the deserted camp, smelling the rubbish-heaps and
the discarded rags and tags of the gods. He would have been glad for the
rattle of stones about him, flung by an angry squaw, glad for the hand of
Grey Beaver descending upon him in wrath; while he would have welcomed
with delight Lip-lip and the whole snarling, cowardly pack.
He came to where Grey Beaver's tepee had stood. In the centre of the
space it had occupied, he sat down. He pointed his nose at the moon. His
throat was afflicted by rigid spasms, his mouth opened, and in a heart-
broken cry bubbled up his loneliness and fear, his grief for Kiche, all
his past sorrows and miseries as well as his apprehension of sufferings
and dangers to come. It was the long wolf-howl, full-throated and
mournful, the first howl he had ever uttered.
The coming of daylight dispelled his fears but increased his loneliness.
The naked earth, which so shortly before had been so populous, thrust his
loneliness more forcibly upon him. It did not take him long to make up
his mind. He plunged into the forest and followed the river bank down
the stream. All day he ran. He did not rest. He seemed made to run on
forever. His iron-like body ignored fatigue. And even after fatigue
came, his heritage of endurance braced him to endless endeavour and
enabled him to drive his complaining body onward.
Where the river swung in against precipitous bluffs, he climbed the high
mountains behind. Rivers and streams that entered the main river he
forded or swam. Often he took to the rim-ice that was beginning to form,
and more than once he crashed through and struggled for life in the icy
current. Always he was on the lookout for the trail of the gods where it
might leave the river and proceed inland.
White Fang was intelligent beyond the average of his kind; yet his mental
vision was not wide enough to embrace the other bank of the Mackenzie.
What if the trail of the gods led out on that side? It never entered his
head. Later on, when he had travelled more and grown older and wiser and
come to know more of trails and rivers, it might be that he could grasp
and apprehend such a possibility. But that mental power was yet in the
future. Just now he ran blindly, his own bank of the Mackenzie alone
entering into his calculations.
All night he ran, blundering in the darkness into mishaps and obstacles
that delayed but did not daunt. By the middle of the second day he had
been running continuously for thirty hours, and the iron of his flesh was
giving out. It was the endurance of his mind that kept him going. He
had not eaten in forty hours, and he was weak with hunger. The repeated
drenchings in the icy water had likewise had their effect on him. His
handsome coat was draggled. The broad pads of his feet were bruised and
bleeding. He had begun to limp, and this limp increased with the hours.
To make it worse, the light of the sky was obscured and snow began to
fall--a raw, moist, melting, clinging snow, slippery under foot, that hid
from him the landscape he traversed, and that covered over the
inequalities of the ground so that the way of his feet was more difficult
and painful.
Grey Beaver had intended camping that night on the far bank of the
Mackenzie, for it was in that direction that the hunting lay. But on the
near bank, shortly before dark, a moose coming down to drink, had been
espied by Kloo-kooch, who was Grey Beaver's squaw. Now, had not the
moose come down to drink, had not Mit-sah been steering out of the course
because of the snow, had not Kloo-kooch sighted the moose, and had not
Grey Beaver killed it with a lucky shot from his rifle, all subsequent
things would have happened differently. Grey Beaver would not have
camped on the near side of the Mackenzie, and White Fang would have
passed by and gone on, either to die or to find his way to his wild
brothers and become one of them--a wolf to the end of his days.
Night had fallen. The snow was flying more thickly, and White Fang,
whimpering softly to himself as he stumbled and limped along, came upon a
fresh trail in the snow. So fresh was it that he knew it immediately for
what it was. Whining with eagerness, he followed back from the river
bank and in among the trees. The camp-sounds came to his ears. He saw
the blaze of the fire, Kloo-kooch cooking, and Grey Beaver squatting on
his hams and mumbling a chunk of raw tallow. There was fresh meat in
camp!
White Fang expected a beating. He crouched and bristled a little at the
thought of it. Then he went forward again. He feared and disliked the
beating he knew to be waiting for him. But he knew, further, that the
comfort of the fire would be his, the protection of the gods, the
companionship of the dogs--the last, a companionship of enmity, but none
the less a companionship and satisfying to his gregarious needs.
He came cringing and crawling into the firelight. Grey Beaver saw him,
and stopped munching the tallow. White Fang crawled slowly, cringing and
grovelling in the abjectness of his abasement and submission. He crawled
straight toward Grey Beaver, every inch of his progress becoming slower
and more painful. At last he lay at the master's feet, into whose
possession he now surrendered himself, voluntarily, body and soul. Of
his own choice, he came in to sit by man's fire and to be ruled by him.
White Fang trembled, waiting for the punishment to fall upon him. There
was a movement of the hand above him. He cringed involuntarily under the
expected blow. It did not fall. He stole a glance upward. Grey Beaver
was breaking the lump of tallow in half! Grey Beaver was offering him
one piece of the tallow! Very gently and somewhat suspiciously, he first
smelled the tallow and then proceeded to eat it. Grey Beaver ordered
meat to be brought to him, and guarded him from the other dogs while he
ate. After that, grateful and content, White Fang lay at Grey Beaver's
feet, gazing at the fire that warmed him, blinking and dozing, secure in
the knowledge that the morrow would find him, not wandering forlorn
through bleak forest-stretches, but in the camp of the man-animals, with
the gods to whom he had given himself and upon whom he was now dependent.
----------CHAPTER 3---------
Lip-lip continued so to darken his days that White Fang became wickeder
and more ferocious than it was his natural right to be. Savageness was a
part of his make-up, but the savageness thus developed exceeded his make-
up. He acquired a reputation for wickedness amongst the man-animals
themselves. Wherever there was trouble and uproar in camp, fighting and
squabbling or the outcry of a squaw over a bit of stolen meat, they were
sure to find White Fang mixed up in it and usually at the bottom of it.
They did not bother to look after the causes of his conduct. They saw
only the effects, and the effects were bad. He was a sneak and a thief,
a mischief-maker, a fomenter of trouble; and irate squaws told him to his
face, the while he eyed them alert and ready to dodge any quick-flung
missile, that he was a wolf and worthless and bound to come to an evil
end.
He found himself an outcast in the midst of the populous camp. All the
young dogs followed Lip-lip's lead. There was a difference between White
Fang and them. Perhaps they sensed his wild-wood breed, and
instinctively felt for him the enmity that the domestic dog feels for the
wolf. But be that as it may, they joined with Lip-lip in the
persecution. And, once declared against him, they found good reason to
continue declared against him. One and all, from time to time, they felt
his teeth; and to his credit, he gave more than he received. Many of
them he could whip in single fight; but single fight was denied him. The
beginning of such a fight was a signal for all the young dogs in camp to
come running and pitch upon him.
Out of this pack-persecution he learned two important things: how to take
care of himself in a mass-fight against him--and how, on a single dog, to
inflict the greatest amount of damage in the briefest space of time. To
keep one's feet in the midst of the hostile mass meant life, and this he
learnt well. He became cat-like in his ability to stay on his feet. Even
grown dogs might hurtle him backward or sideways with the impact of their
heavy bodies; and backward or sideways he would go, in the air or sliding
on the ground, but always with his legs under him and his feet downward
to the mother earth.
When dogs fight, there are usually preliminaries to the actual
combat--snarlings and bristlings and stiff-legged struttings. But White
Fang learned to omit these preliminaries. Delay meant the coming against
him of all the young dogs. He must do his work quickly and get away. So
he learnt to give no warning of his intention. He rushed in and snapped
and slashed on the instant, without notice, before his foe could prepare
to meet him. Thus he learned how to inflict quick and severe damage.
Also he learned the value of surprise. A dog, taken off its guard, its
shoulder slashed open or its ear ripped in ribbons before it knew what
was happening, was a dog half whipped.
Furthermore, it was remarkably easy to overthrow a dog taken by surprise;
while a dog, thus overthrown, invariably exposed for a moment the soft
underside of its neck--the vulnerable point at which to strike for its
life. White Fang knew this point. It was a knowledge bequeathed to him
directly from the hunting generation of wolves. So it was that White
Fang's method when he took the offensive, was: first to find a young dog
alone; second, to surprise it and knock it off its feet; and third, to
drive in with his teeth at the soft throat.
Being but partly grown his jaws had not yet become large enough nor
strong enough to make his throat-attack deadly; but many a young dog went
around camp with a lacerated throat in token of White Fang's intention.
And one day, catching one of his enemies alone on the edge of the woods,
he managed, by repeatedly overthrowing him and attacking the throat, to
cut the great vein and let out the life. There was a great row that
night. He had been observed, the news had been carried to the dead dog's
master, the squaws remembered all the instances of stolen meat, and Grey
Beaver was beset by many angry voices. But he resolutely held the door
of his tepee, inside which he had placed the culprit, and refused to
permit the vengeance for which his tribespeople clamoured.
White Fang became hated by man and dog. During this period of his
development he never knew a moment's security. The tooth of every dog
was against him, the hand of every man. He was greeted with snarls by
his kind, with curses and stones by his gods. He lived tensely. He was
always keyed up, alert for attack, wary of being attacked, with an eye
for sudden and unexpected missiles, prepared to act precipitately and
coolly, to leap in with a flash of teeth, or to leap away with a menacing
snarl.
As for snarling he could snarl more terribly than any dog, young or old,
in camp. The intent of the snarl is to warn or frighten, and judgment is
required to know when it should be used. White Fang knew how to make it
and when to make it. Into his snarl he incorporated all that was
vicious, malignant, and horrible. With nose serrulated by continuous
spasms, hair bristling in recurrent waves, tongue whipping out like a red
snake and whipping back again, ears flattened down, eyes gleaming hatred,
lips wrinkled back, and fangs exposed and dripping, he could compel a
pause on the part of almost any assailant. A temporary pause, when taken
off his guard, gave him the vital moment in which to think and determine
his action. But often a pause so gained lengthened out until it evolved
into a complete cessation from the attack. And before more than one of
the grown dogs White Fang's snarl enabled him to beat an honourable
retreat.
An outcast himself from the pack of the part-grown dogs, his sanguinary
methods and remarkable efficiency made the pack pay for its persecution
of him. Not permitted himself to run with the pack, the curious state of
affairs obtained that no member of the pack could run outside the pack.
White Fang would not permit it. What of his bushwhacking and waylaying
tactics, the young dogs were afraid to run by themselves. With the
exception of Lip-lip, they were compelled to hunch together for mutual
protection against the terrible enemy they had made. A puppy alone by
the river bank meant a puppy dead or a puppy that aroused the camp with
its shrill pain and terror as it fled back from the wolf-cub that had
waylaid it.
But White Fang's reprisals did not cease, even when the young dogs had
learned thoroughly that they must stay together. He attacked them when
he caught them alone, and they attacked him when they were bunched. The
sight of him was sufficient to start them rushing after him, at which
times his swiftness usually carried him into safety. But woe the dog
that outran his fellows in such pursuit! White Fang had learned to turn
suddenly upon the pursuer that was ahead of the pack and thoroughly to
rip him up before the pack could arrive. This occurred with great
frequency, for, once in full cry, the dogs were prone to forget
themselves in the excitement of the chase, while White Fang never forgot
himself. Stealing backward glances as he ran, he was always ready to
whirl around and down the overzealous pursuer that outran his fellows.
Young dogs are bound to play, and out of the exigencies of the situation
they realised their play in this mimic warfare. Thus it was that the
hunt of White Fang became their chief game--a deadly game, withal, and at
all times a serious game. He, on the other hand, being the
fastest-footed, was unafraid to venture anywhere. During the period that
he waited vainly for his mother to come back, he led the pack many a wild
chase through the adjacent woods. But the pack invariably lost him. Its
noise and outcry warned him of its presence, while he ran alone, velvet-
footed, silently, a moving shadow among the trees after the manner of his
father and mother before him. Further he was more directly connected
with the Wild than they; and he knew more of its secrets and stratagems.
A favourite trick of his was to lose his trail in running water and then
lie quietly in a near-by thicket while their baffled cries arose around
him.
Hated by his kind and by mankind, indomitable, perpetually warred upon
and himself waging perpetual war, his development was rapid and
one-sided. This was no soil for kindliness and affection to blossom in.
Of such things he had not the faintest glimmering. The code he learned
was to obey the strong and to oppress the weak. Grey Beaver was a god,
and strong. Therefore White Fang obeyed him. But the dog younger or
smaller than himself was weak, a thing to be destroyed. His development
was in the direction of power. In order to face the constant danger of
hurt and even of destruction, his predatory and protective faculties were
unduly developed. He became quicker of movement than the other dogs,
swifter of foot, craftier, deadlier, more lithe, more lean with ironlike
muscle and sinew, more enduring, more cruel, more ferocious, and more
intelligent. He had to become all these things, else he would not have
held his own nor survive the hostile environment in which he found
himself.
|
White Fang.part 4.chapter | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of part 4, chapter 3 the reign of hate using the context provided. | part 4, chapter 3 the reign of hate|part 4, chapter 5 the indomitable | Beauty Smith treats White Fang with such cruelty that the dog becomes the enemy not only of his own kind but also "of all things." Smith treats White Fang so cruelly in order that he can win money by pitting White Fang against other dogs in fights. White Fang becomes known as "The Fighting Wolf." He defeats all other dogs due to his agility, his ferocity, and his experience. After he defeats a lynx, he faces no more fights-until a man named Tim Keenan comes to the camp and pits White Fang against his bulldog, Cherokee. |
----------PART 4, CHAPTER 3 THE REIGN OF HATE---------
Under the tutelage of the mad god, White Fang became a fiend. He was
kept chained in a pen at the rear of the fort, and here Beauty Smith
teased and irritated and drove him wild with petty torments. The man
early discovered White Fang's susceptibility to laughter, and made it a
point after painfully tricking him, to laugh at him. This laughter was
uproarious and scornful, and at the same time the god pointed his finger
derisively at White Fang. At such times reason fled from White Fang, and
in his transports of rage he was even more mad than Beauty Smith.
Formerly, White Fang had been merely the enemy of his kind, withal a
ferocious enemy. He now became the enemy of all things, and more
ferocious than ever. To such an extent was he tormented, that he hated
blindly and without the faintest spark of reason. He hated the chain
that bound him, the men who peered in at him through the slats of the
pen, the dogs that accompanied the men and that snarled malignantly at
him in his helplessness. He hated the very wood of the pen that confined
him. And, first, last, and most of all, he hated Beauty Smith.
But Beauty Smith had a purpose in all that he did to White Fang. One day
a number of men gathered about the pen. Beauty Smith entered, club in
hand, and took the chain off from White Fang's neck. When his master had
gone out, White Fang turned loose and tore around the pen, trying to get
at the men outside. He was magnificently terrible. Fully five feet in
length, and standing two and one-half feet at the shoulder, he far
outweighed a wolf of corresponding size. From his mother he had
inherited the heavier proportions of the dog, so that he weighed, without
any fat and without an ounce of superfluous flesh, over ninety pounds. It
was all muscle, bone, and sinew-fighting flesh in the finest condition.
The door of the pen was being opened again. White Fang paused. Something
unusual was happening. He waited. The door was opened wider. Then a
huge dog was thrust inside, and the door was slammed shut behind him.
White Fang had never seen such a dog (it was a mastiff); but the size and
fierce aspect of the intruder did not deter him. Here was some thing,
not wood nor iron, upon which to wreak his hate. He leaped in with a
flash of fangs that ripped down the side of the mastiff's neck. The
mastiff shook his head, growled hoarsely, and plunged at White Fang. But
White Fang was here, there, and everywhere, always evading and eluding,
and always leaping in and slashing with his fangs and leaping out again
in time to escape punishment.
The men outside shouted and applauded, while Beauty Smith, in an ecstasy
of delight, gloated over the ripping and mangling performed by White
Fang. There was no hope for the mastiff from the first. He was too
ponderous and slow. In the end, while Beauty Smith beat White Fang back
with a club, the mastiff was dragged out by its owner. Then there was a
payment of bets, and money clinked in Beauty Smith's hand.
White Fang came to look forward eagerly to the gathering of the men
around his pen. It meant a fight; and this was the only way that was now
vouchsafed him of expressing the life that was in him. Tormented,
incited to hate, he was kept a prisoner so that there was no way of
satisfying that hate except at the times his master saw fit to put
another dog against him. Beauty Smith had estimated his powers well, for
he was invariably the victor. One day, three dogs were turned in upon
him in succession. Another day a full-grown wolf, fresh-caught from the
Wild, was shoved in through the door of the pen. And on still another
day two dogs were set against him at the same time. This was his
severest fight, and though in the end he killed them both he was himself
half killed in doing it.
In the fall of the year, when the first snows were falling and mush-ice
was running in the river, Beauty Smith took passage for himself and White
Fang on a steamboat bound up the Yukon to Dawson. White Fang had now
achieved a reputation in the land. As "the Fighting Wolf" he was known
far and wide, and the cage in which he was kept on the steam-boat's deck
was usually surrounded by curious men. He raged and snarled at them, or
lay quietly and studied them with cold hatred. Why should he not hate
them? He never asked himself the question. He knew only hate and lost
himself in the passion of it. Life had become a hell to him. He had not
been made for the close confinement wild beasts endure at the hands of
men. And yet it was in precisely this way that he was treated. Men
stared at him, poked sticks between the bars to make him snarl, and then
laughed at him.
They were his environment, these men, and they were moulding the clay of
him into a more ferocious thing than had been intended by Nature.
Nevertheless, Nature had given him plasticity. Where many another animal
would have died or had its spirit broken, he adjusted himself and lived,
and at no expense of the spirit. Possibly Beauty Smith, arch-fiend and
tormentor, was capable of breaking White Fang's spirit, but as yet there
were no signs of his succeeding.
If Beauty Smith had in him a devil, White Fang had another; and the two
of them raged against each other unceasingly. In the days before, White
Fang had had the wisdom to cower down and submit to a man with a club in
his hand; but this wisdom now left him. The mere sight of Beauty Smith
was sufficient to send him into transports of fury. And when they came
to close quarters, and he had been beaten back by the club, he went on
growling and snarling, and showing his fangs. The last growl could never
be extracted from him. No matter how terribly he was beaten, he had
always another growl; and when Beauty Smith gave up and withdrew, the
defiant growl followed after him, or White Fang sprang at the bars of the
cage bellowing his hatred.
When the steamboat arrived at Dawson, White Fang went ashore. But he
still lived a public life, in a cage, surrounded by curious men. He was
exhibited as "the Fighting Wolf," and men paid fifty cents in gold dust
to see him. He was given no rest. Did he lie down to sleep, he was
stirred up by a sharp stick--so that the audience might get its money's
worth. In order to make the exhibition interesting, he was kept in a
rage most of the time. But worse than all this, was the atmosphere in
which he lived. He was regarded as the most fearful of wild beasts, and
this was borne in to him through the bars of the cage. Every word, every
cautious action, on the part of the men, impressed upon him his own
terrible ferocity. It was so much added fuel to the flame of his
fierceness. There could be but one result, and that was that his
ferocity fed upon itself and increased. It was another instance of the
plasticity of his clay, of his capacity for being moulded by the pressure
of environment.
In addition to being exhibited he was a professional fighting animal. At
irregular intervals, whenever a fight could be arranged, he was taken out
of his cage and led off into the woods a few miles from town. Usually
this occurred at night, so as to avoid interference from the mounted
police of the Territory. After a few hours of waiting, when daylight had
come, the audience and the dog with which he was to fight arrived. In
this manner it came about that he fought all sizes and breeds of dogs. It
was a savage land, the men were savage, and the fights were usually to
the death.
Since White Fang continued to fight, it is obvious that it was the other
dogs that died. He never knew defeat. His early training, when he
fought with Lip-lip and the whole puppy-pack, stood him in good stead.
There was the tenacity with which he clung to the earth. No dog could
make him lose his footing. This was the favourite trick of the wolf
breeds--to rush in upon him, either directly or with an unexpected
swerve, in the hope of striking his shoulder and overthrowing him.
Mackenzie hounds, Eskimo and Labrador dogs, huskies and Malemutes--all
tried it on him, and all failed. He was never known to lose his footing.
Men told this to one another, and looked each time to see it happen; but
White Fang always disappointed them.
Then there was his lightning quickness. It gave him a tremendous
advantage over his antagonists. No matter what their fighting
experience, they had never encountered a dog that moved so swiftly as he.
Also to be reckoned with, was the immediateness of his attack. The
average dog was accustomed to the preliminaries of snarling and bristling
and growling, and the average dog was knocked off his feet and finished
before he had begun to fight or recovered from his surprise. So often
did this happen, that it became the custom to hold White Fang until the
other dog went through its preliminaries, was good and ready, and even
made the first attack.
But greatest of all the advantages in White Fang's favour, was his
experience. He knew more about fighting than did any of the dogs that
faced him. He had fought more fights, knew how to meet more tricks and
methods, and had more tricks himself, while his own method was scarcely
to be improved upon.
As the time went by, he had fewer and fewer fights. Men despaired of
matching him with an equal, and Beauty Smith was compelled to pit wolves
against him. These were trapped by the Indians for the purpose, and a
fight between White Fang and a wolf was always sure to draw a crowd.
Once, a full-grown female lynx was secured, and this time White Fang
fought for his life. Her quickness matched his; her ferocity equalled
his; while he fought with his fangs alone, and she fought with her sharp-
clawed feet as well.
But after the lynx, all fighting ceased for White Fang. There were no
more animals with which to fight--at least, there was none considered
worthy of fighting with him. So he remained on exhibition until spring,
when one Tim Keenan, a faro-dealer, arrived in the land. With him came
the first bull-dog that had ever entered the Klondike. That this dog and
White Fang should come together was inevitable, and for a week the
anticipated fight was the mainspring of conversation in certain quarters
of the town.
----------PART 4, CHAPTER 5 THE INDOMITABLE---------
"It's hopeless," Weedon Scott confessed.
He sat on the step of his cabin and stared at the dog-musher, who
responded with a shrug that was equally hopeless.
Together they looked at White Fang at the end of his stretched chain,
bristling, snarling, ferocious, straining to get at the sled-dogs. Having
received sundry lessons from Matt, said lessons being imparted by means
of a club, the sled-dogs had learned to leave White Fang alone; and even
then they were lying down at a distance, apparently oblivious of his
existence.
"It's a wolf and there's no taming it," Weedon Scott announced.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Matt objected. "Might be a lot of dog in
'm, for all you can tell. But there's one thing I know sure, an' that
there's no gettin' away from."
The dog-musher paused and nodded his head confidentially at Moosehide
Mountain.
"Well, don't be a miser with what you know," Scott said sharply, after
waiting a suitable length of time. "Spit it out. What is it?"
The dog-musher indicated White Fang with a backward thrust of his thumb.
"Wolf or dog, it's all the same--he's ben tamed 'ready."
"No!"
"I tell you yes, an' broke to harness. Look close there. D'ye see them
marks across the chest?"
"You're right, Matt. He was a sled-dog before Beauty Smith got hold of
him."
"And there's not much reason against his bein' a sled-dog again."
"What d'ye think?" Scott queried eagerly. Then the hope died down as he
added, shaking his head, "We've had him two weeks now, and if anything
he's wilder than ever at the present moment."
"Give 'm a chance," Matt counselled. "Turn 'm loose for a spell."
The other looked at him incredulously.
"Yes," Matt went on, "I know you've tried to, but you didn't take a
club."
"You try it then."
The dog-musher secured a club and went over to the chained animal. White
Fang watched the club after the manner of a caged lion watching the whip
of its trainer.
"See 'm keep his eye on that club," Matt said. "That's a good sign. He's
no fool. Don't dast tackle me so long as I got that club handy. He's
not clean crazy, sure."
As the man's hand approached his neck, White Fang bristled and snarled
and crouched down. But while he eyed the approaching hand, he at the
same time contrived to keep track of the club in the other hand,
suspended threateningly above him. Matt unsnapped the chain from the
collar and stepped back.
White Fang could scarcely realise that he was free. Many months had gone
by since he passed into the possession of Beauty Smith, and in all that
period he had never known a moment of freedom except at the times he had
been loosed to fight with other dogs. Immediately after such fights he
had always been imprisoned again.
He did not know what to make of it. Perhaps some new devilry of the gods
was about to be perpetrated on him. He walked slowly and cautiously,
prepared to be assailed at any moment. He did not know what to do, it
was all so unprecedented. He took the precaution to sheer off from the
two watching gods, and walked carefully to the corner of the cabin.
Nothing happened. He was plainly perplexed, and he came back again,
pausing a dozen feet away and regarding the two men intently.
"Won't he run away?" his new owner asked.
Matt shrugged his shoulders. "Got to take a gamble. Only way to find
out is to find out."
"Poor devil," Scott murmured pityingly. "What he needs is some show of
human kindness," he added, turning and going into the cabin.
He came out with a piece of meat, which he tossed to White Fang. He
sprang away from it, and from a distance studied it suspiciously.
"Hi-yu, Major!" Matt shouted warningly, but too late.
Major had made a spring for the meat. At the instant his jaws closed on
it, White Fang struck him. He was overthrown. Matt rushed in, but
quicker than he was White Fang. Major staggered to his feet, but the
blood spouting from his throat reddened the snow in a widening path.
"It's too bad, but it served him right," Scott said hastily.
But Matt's foot had already started on its way to kick White Fang. There
was a leap, a flash of teeth, a sharp exclamation. White Fang, snarling
fiercely, scrambled backward for several yards, while Matt stooped and
investigated his leg.
"He got me all right," he announced, pointing to the torn trousers and
undercloths, and the growing stain of red.
"I told you it was hopeless, Matt," Scott said in a discouraged voice.
"I've thought about it off and on, while not wanting to think of it. But
we've come to it now. It's the only thing to do."
As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew his revolver, threw open
the cylinder, and assured himself of its contents.
"Look here, Mr. Scott," Matt objected; "that dog's ben through hell. You
can't expect 'm to come out a white an' shinin' angel. Give 'm time."
"Look at Major," the other rejoined.
The dog-musher surveyed the stricken dog. He had sunk down on the snow
in the circle of his blood and was plainly in the last gasp.
"Served 'm right. You said so yourself, Mr. Scott. He tried to take
White Fang's meat, an' he's dead-O. That was to be expected. I wouldn't
give two whoops in hell for a dog that wouldn't fight for his own meat."
"But look at yourself, Matt. It's all right about the dogs, but we must
draw the line somewhere."
"Served me right," Matt argued stubbornly. "What'd I want to kick 'm
for? You said yourself that he'd done right. Then I had no right to
kick 'm."
"It would be a mercy to kill him," Scott insisted. "He's untamable."
"Now look here, Mr. Scott, give the poor devil a fightin' chance. He
ain't had no chance yet. He's just come through hell, an' this is the
first time he's ben loose. Give 'm a fair chance, an' if he don't
deliver the goods, I'll kill 'm myself. There!"
"God knows I don't want to kill him or have him killed," Scott answered,
putting away the revolver. "We'll let him run loose and see what
kindness can do for him. And here's a try at it."
He walked over to White Fang and began talking to him gently and
soothingly.
"Better have a club handy," Matt warned.
Scott shook his head and went on trying to win White Fang's confidence.
White Fang was suspicious. Something was impending. He had killed this
god's dog, bitten his companion god, and what else was to be expected
than some terrible punishment? But in the face of it he was indomitable.
He bristled and showed his teeth, his eyes vigilant, his whole body wary
and prepared for anything. The god had no club, so he suffered him to
approach quite near. The god's hand had come out and was descending upon
his head. White Fang shrank together and grew tense as he crouched under
it. Here was danger, some treachery or something. He knew the hands of
the gods, their proved mastery, their cunning to hurt. Besides, there
was his old antipathy to being touched. He snarled more menacingly,
crouched still lower, and still the hand descended. He did not want to
bite the hand, and he endured the peril of it until his instinct surged
up in him, mastering him with its insatiable yearning for life.
Weedon Scott had believed that he was quick enough to avoid any snap or
slash. But he had yet to learn the remarkable quickness of White Fang,
who struck with the certainty and swiftness of a coiled snake.
Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching his torn hand and holding
it tightly in his other hand. Matt uttered a great oath and sprang to
his side. White Fang crouched down, and backed away, bristling, showing
his fangs, his eyes malignant with menace. Now he could expect a beating
as fearful as any he had received from Beauty Smith.
"Here! What are you doing?" Scott cried suddenly.
Matt had dashed into the cabin and come out with a rifle.
"Nothin'," he said slowly, with a careless calmness that was assumed,
"only goin' to keep that promise I made. I reckon it's up to me to kill
'm as I said I'd do."
"No you don't!"
"Yes I do. Watch me."
As Matt had pleaded for White Fang when he had been bitten, it was now
Weedon Scott's turn to plead.
"You said to give him a chance. Well, give it to him. We've only just
started, and we can't quit at the beginning. It served me right, this
time. And--look at him!"
White Fang, near the corner of the cabin and forty feet away, was
snarling with blood-curdling viciousness, not at Scott, but at the dog-
musher.
"Well, I'll be everlastingly gosh-swoggled!" was the dog-musher's
expression of astonishment.
"Look at the intelligence of him," Scott went on hastily. "He knows the
meaning of firearms as well as you do. He's got intelligence and we've
got to give that intelligence a chance. Put up the gun."
"All right, I'm willin'," Matt agreed, leaning the rifle against the
woodpile.
"But will you look at that!" he exclaimed the next moment.
White Fang had quieted down and ceased snarling. "This is worth
investigatin'. Watch."
Matt, reached for the rifle, and at the same moment White Fang snarled.
He stepped away from the rifle, and White Fang's lifted lips descended,
covering his teeth.
"Now, just for fun."
Matt took the rifle and began slowly to raise it to his shoulder. White
Fang's snarling began with the movement, and increased as the movement
approached its culmination. But the moment before the rifle came to a
level on him, he leaped sidewise behind the corner of the cabin. Matt
stood staring along the sights at the empty space of snow which had been
occupied by White Fang.
The dog-musher put the rifle down solemnly, then turned and looked at his
employer.
"I agree with you, Mr. Scott. That dog's too intelligent to kill."
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 5, utilizing the provided context. | null | Scott, White Fangs new owner, and Matt, the dog-musher, repeatedly try to gain the trust of the wolf-dog, who constantly snarls at them and bristles at the end of his stretched chain. Scott reluctantly considers killing the ferocious White Fang, but Matt wants to give him a chance. He correctly guesses that White Fang has been a sled dog and suggests that he could again be used in a dog team. After two weeks White Fang is still as wild as ever, so Matt sets him free. Scott then throws him a piece of meat, which is grabbed by Major, one of Scotts other dogs. White Fang fatally wounds Major and bites Matt, who has tried to kick him. Scott tries to subdue the wolf-dog but is likewise bitten. Finally, Matt gets a gun to shoot White Fang. Just as he raises it to his shoulder, White Fang jumps out of the way to the side of the cabin. The men decide against killing White Fang. |
----------CHAPTER 3---------
Under the tutelage of the mad god, White Fang became a fiend. He was
kept chained in a pen at the rear of the fort, and here Beauty Smith
teased and irritated and drove him wild with petty torments. The man
early discovered White Fang's susceptibility to laughter, and made it a
point after painfully tricking him, to laugh at him. This laughter was
uproarious and scornful, and at the same time the god pointed his finger
derisively at White Fang. At such times reason fled from White Fang, and
in his transports of rage he was even more mad than Beauty Smith.
Formerly, White Fang had been merely the enemy of his kind, withal a
ferocious enemy. He now became the enemy of all things, and more
ferocious than ever. To such an extent was he tormented, that he hated
blindly and without the faintest spark of reason. He hated the chain
that bound him, the men who peered in at him through the slats of the
pen, the dogs that accompanied the men and that snarled malignantly at
him in his helplessness. He hated the very wood of the pen that confined
him. And, first, last, and most of all, he hated Beauty Smith.
But Beauty Smith had a purpose in all that he did to White Fang. One day
a number of men gathered about the pen. Beauty Smith entered, club in
hand, and took the chain off from White Fang's neck. When his master had
gone out, White Fang turned loose and tore around the pen, trying to get
at the men outside. He was magnificently terrible. Fully five feet in
length, and standing two and one-half feet at the shoulder, he far
outweighed a wolf of corresponding size. From his mother he had
inherited the heavier proportions of the dog, so that he weighed, without
any fat and without an ounce of superfluous flesh, over ninety pounds. It
was all muscle, bone, and sinew-fighting flesh in the finest condition.
The door of the pen was being opened again. White Fang paused. Something
unusual was happening. He waited. The door was opened wider. Then a
huge dog was thrust inside, and the door was slammed shut behind him.
White Fang had never seen such a dog (it was a mastiff); but the size and
fierce aspect of the intruder did not deter him. Here was some thing,
not wood nor iron, upon which to wreak his hate. He leaped in with a
flash of fangs that ripped down the side of the mastiff's neck. The
mastiff shook his head, growled hoarsely, and plunged at White Fang. But
White Fang was here, there, and everywhere, always evading and eluding,
and always leaping in and slashing with his fangs and leaping out again
in time to escape punishment.
The men outside shouted and applauded, while Beauty Smith, in an ecstasy
of delight, gloated over the ripping and mangling performed by White
Fang. There was no hope for the mastiff from the first. He was too
ponderous and slow. In the end, while Beauty Smith beat White Fang back
with a club, the mastiff was dragged out by its owner. Then there was a
payment of bets, and money clinked in Beauty Smith's hand.
White Fang came to look forward eagerly to the gathering of the men
around his pen. It meant a fight; and this was the only way that was now
vouchsafed him of expressing the life that was in him. Tormented,
incited to hate, he was kept a prisoner so that there was no way of
satisfying that hate except at the times his master saw fit to put
another dog against him. Beauty Smith had estimated his powers well, for
he was invariably the victor. One day, three dogs were turned in upon
him in succession. Another day a full-grown wolf, fresh-caught from the
Wild, was shoved in through the door of the pen. And on still another
day two dogs were set against him at the same time. This was his
severest fight, and though in the end he killed them both he was himself
half killed in doing it.
In the fall of the year, when the first snows were falling and mush-ice
was running in the river, Beauty Smith took passage for himself and White
Fang on a steamboat bound up the Yukon to Dawson. White Fang had now
achieved a reputation in the land. As "the Fighting Wolf" he was known
far and wide, and the cage in which he was kept on the steam-boat's deck
was usually surrounded by curious men. He raged and snarled at them, or
lay quietly and studied them with cold hatred. Why should he not hate
them? He never asked himself the question. He knew only hate and lost
himself in the passion of it. Life had become a hell to him. He had not
been made for the close confinement wild beasts endure at the hands of
men. And yet it was in precisely this way that he was treated. Men
stared at him, poked sticks between the bars to make him snarl, and then
laughed at him.
They were his environment, these men, and they were moulding the clay of
him into a more ferocious thing than had been intended by Nature.
Nevertheless, Nature had given him plasticity. Where many another animal
would have died or had its spirit broken, he adjusted himself and lived,
and at no expense of the spirit. Possibly Beauty Smith, arch-fiend and
tormentor, was capable of breaking White Fang's spirit, but as yet there
were no signs of his succeeding.
If Beauty Smith had in him a devil, White Fang had another; and the two
of them raged against each other unceasingly. In the days before, White
Fang had had the wisdom to cower down and submit to a man with a club in
his hand; but this wisdom now left him. The mere sight of Beauty Smith
was sufficient to send him into transports of fury. And when they came
to close quarters, and he had been beaten back by the club, he went on
growling and snarling, and showing his fangs. The last growl could never
be extracted from him. No matter how terribly he was beaten, he had
always another growl; and when Beauty Smith gave up and withdrew, the
defiant growl followed after him, or White Fang sprang at the bars of the
cage bellowing his hatred.
When the steamboat arrived at Dawson, White Fang went ashore. But he
still lived a public life, in a cage, surrounded by curious men. He was
exhibited as "the Fighting Wolf," and men paid fifty cents in gold dust
to see him. He was given no rest. Did he lie down to sleep, he was
stirred up by a sharp stick--so that the audience might get its money's
worth. In order to make the exhibition interesting, he was kept in a
rage most of the time. But worse than all this, was the atmosphere in
which he lived. He was regarded as the most fearful of wild beasts, and
this was borne in to him through the bars of the cage. Every word, every
cautious action, on the part of the men, impressed upon him his own
terrible ferocity. It was so much added fuel to the flame of his
fierceness. There could be but one result, and that was that his
ferocity fed upon itself and increased. It was another instance of the
plasticity of his clay, of his capacity for being moulded by the pressure
of environment.
In addition to being exhibited he was a professional fighting animal. At
irregular intervals, whenever a fight could be arranged, he was taken out
of his cage and led off into the woods a few miles from town. Usually
this occurred at night, so as to avoid interference from the mounted
police of the Territory. After a few hours of waiting, when daylight had
come, the audience and the dog with which he was to fight arrived. In
this manner it came about that he fought all sizes and breeds of dogs. It
was a savage land, the men were savage, and the fights were usually to
the death.
Since White Fang continued to fight, it is obvious that it was the other
dogs that died. He never knew defeat. His early training, when he
fought with Lip-lip and the whole puppy-pack, stood him in good stead.
There was the tenacity with which he clung to the earth. No dog could
make him lose his footing. This was the favourite trick of the wolf
breeds--to rush in upon him, either directly or with an unexpected
swerve, in the hope of striking his shoulder and overthrowing him.
Mackenzie hounds, Eskimo and Labrador dogs, huskies and Malemutes--all
tried it on him, and all failed. He was never known to lose his footing.
Men told this to one another, and looked each time to see it happen; but
White Fang always disappointed them.
Then there was his lightning quickness. It gave him a tremendous
advantage over his antagonists. No matter what their fighting
experience, they had never encountered a dog that moved so swiftly as he.
Also to be reckoned with, was the immediateness of his attack. The
average dog was accustomed to the preliminaries of snarling and bristling
and growling, and the average dog was knocked off his feet and finished
before he had begun to fight or recovered from his surprise. So often
did this happen, that it became the custom to hold White Fang until the
other dog went through its preliminaries, was good and ready, and even
made the first attack.
But greatest of all the advantages in White Fang's favour, was his
experience. He knew more about fighting than did any of the dogs that
faced him. He had fought more fights, knew how to meet more tricks and
methods, and had more tricks himself, while his own method was scarcely
to be improved upon.
As the time went by, he had fewer and fewer fights. Men despaired of
matching him with an equal, and Beauty Smith was compelled to pit wolves
against him. These were trapped by the Indians for the purpose, and a
fight between White Fang and a wolf was always sure to draw a crowd.
Once, a full-grown female lynx was secured, and this time White Fang
fought for his life. Her quickness matched his; her ferocity equalled
his; while he fought with his fangs alone, and she fought with her sharp-
clawed feet as well.
But after the lynx, all fighting ceased for White Fang. There were no
more animals with which to fight--at least, there was none considered
worthy of fighting with him. So he remained on exhibition until spring,
when one Tim Keenan, a faro-dealer, arrived in the land. With him came
the first bull-dog that had ever entered the Klondike. That this dog and
White Fang should come together was inevitable, and for a week the
anticipated fight was the mainspring of conversation in certain quarters
of the town.
----------CHAPTER 5---------
"It's hopeless," Weedon Scott confessed.
He sat on the step of his cabin and stared at the dog-musher, who
responded with a shrug that was equally hopeless.
Together they looked at White Fang at the end of his stretched chain,
bristling, snarling, ferocious, straining to get at the sled-dogs. Having
received sundry lessons from Matt, said lessons being imparted by means
of a club, the sled-dogs had learned to leave White Fang alone; and even
then they were lying down at a distance, apparently oblivious of his
existence.
"It's a wolf and there's no taming it," Weedon Scott announced.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Matt objected. "Might be a lot of dog in
'm, for all you can tell. But there's one thing I know sure, an' that
there's no gettin' away from."
The dog-musher paused and nodded his head confidentially at Moosehide
Mountain.
"Well, don't be a miser with what you know," Scott said sharply, after
waiting a suitable length of time. "Spit it out. What is it?"
The dog-musher indicated White Fang with a backward thrust of his thumb.
"Wolf or dog, it's all the same--he's ben tamed 'ready."
"No!"
"I tell you yes, an' broke to harness. Look close there. D'ye see them
marks across the chest?"
"You're right, Matt. He was a sled-dog before Beauty Smith got hold of
him."
"And there's not much reason against his bein' a sled-dog again."
"What d'ye think?" Scott queried eagerly. Then the hope died down as he
added, shaking his head, "We've had him two weeks now, and if anything
he's wilder than ever at the present moment."
"Give 'm a chance," Matt counselled. "Turn 'm loose for a spell."
The other looked at him incredulously.
"Yes," Matt went on, "I know you've tried to, but you didn't take a
club."
"You try it then."
The dog-musher secured a club and went over to the chained animal. White
Fang watched the club after the manner of a caged lion watching the whip
of its trainer.
"See 'm keep his eye on that club," Matt said. "That's a good sign. He's
no fool. Don't dast tackle me so long as I got that club handy. He's
not clean crazy, sure."
As the man's hand approached his neck, White Fang bristled and snarled
and crouched down. But while he eyed the approaching hand, he at the
same time contrived to keep track of the club in the other hand,
suspended threateningly above him. Matt unsnapped the chain from the
collar and stepped back.
White Fang could scarcely realise that he was free. Many months had gone
by since he passed into the possession of Beauty Smith, and in all that
period he had never known a moment of freedom except at the times he had
been loosed to fight with other dogs. Immediately after such fights he
had always been imprisoned again.
He did not know what to make of it. Perhaps some new devilry of the gods
was about to be perpetrated on him. He walked slowly and cautiously,
prepared to be assailed at any moment. He did not know what to do, it
was all so unprecedented. He took the precaution to sheer off from the
two watching gods, and walked carefully to the corner of the cabin.
Nothing happened. He was plainly perplexed, and he came back again,
pausing a dozen feet away and regarding the two men intently.
"Won't he run away?" his new owner asked.
Matt shrugged his shoulders. "Got to take a gamble. Only way to find
out is to find out."
"Poor devil," Scott murmured pityingly. "What he needs is some show of
human kindness," he added, turning and going into the cabin.
He came out with a piece of meat, which he tossed to White Fang. He
sprang away from it, and from a distance studied it suspiciously.
"Hi-yu, Major!" Matt shouted warningly, but too late.
Major had made a spring for the meat. At the instant his jaws closed on
it, White Fang struck him. He was overthrown. Matt rushed in, but
quicker than he was White Fang. Major staggered to his feet, but the
blood spouting from his throat reddened the snow in a widening path.
"It's too bad, but it served him right," Scott said hastily.
But Matt's foot had already started on its way to kick White Fang. There
was a leap, a flash of teeth, a sharp exclamation. White Fang, snarling
fiercely, scrambled backward for several yards, while Matt stooped and
investigated his leg.
"He got me all right," he announced, pointing to the torn trousers and
undercloths, and the growing stain of red.
"I told you it was hopeless, Matt," Scott said in a discouraged voice.
"I've thought about it off and on, while not wanting to think of it. But
we've come to it now. It's the only thing to do."
As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew his revolver, threw open
the cylinder, and assured himself of its contents.
"Look here, Mr. Scott," Matt objected; "that dog's ben through hell. You
can't expect 'm to come out a white an' shinin' angel. Give 'm time."
"Look at Major," the other rejoined.
The dog-musher surveyed the stricken dog. He had sunk down on the snow
in the circle of his blood and was plainly in the last gasp.
"Served 'm right. You said so yourself, Mr. Scott. He tried to take
White Fang's meat, an' he's dead-O. That was to be expected. I wouldn't
give two whoops in hell for a dog that wouldn't fight for his own meat."
"But look at yourself, Matt. It's all right about the dogs, but we must
draw the line somewhere."
"Served me right," Matt argued stubbornly. "What'd I want to kick 'm
for? You said yourself that he'd done right. Then I had no right to
kick 'm."
"It would be a mercy to kill him," Scott insisted. "He's untamable."
"Now look here, Mr. Scott, give the poor devil a fightin' chance. He
ain't had no chance yet. He's just come through hell, an' this is the
first time he's ben loose. Give 'm a fair chance, an' if he don't
deliver the goods, I'll kill 'm myself. There!"
"God knows I don't want to kill him or have him killed," Scott answered,
putting away the revolver. "We'll let him run loose and see what
kindness can do for him. And here's a try at it."
He walked over to White Fang and began talking to him gently and
soothingly.
"Better have a club handy," Matt warned.
Scott shook his head and went on trying to win White Fang's confidence.
White Fang was suspicious. Something was impending. He had killed this
god's dog, bitten his companion god, and what else was to be expected
than some terrible punishment? But in the face of it he was indomitable.
He bristled and showed his teeth, his eyes vigilant, his whole body wary
and prepared for anything. The god had no club, so he suffered him to
approach quite near. The god's hand had come out and was descending upon
his head. White Fang shrank together and grew tense as he crouched under
it. Here was danger, some treachery or something. He knew the hands of
the gods, their proved mastery, their cunning to hurt. Besides, there
was his old antipathy to being touched. He snarled more menacingly,
crouched still lower, and still the hand descended. He did not want to
bite the hand, and he endured the peril of it until his instinct surged
up in him, mastering him with its insatiable yearning for life.
Weedon Scott had believed that he was quick enough to avoid any snap or
slash. But he had yet to learn the remarkable quickness of White Fang,
who struck with the certainty and swiftness of a coiled snake.
Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching his torn hand and holding
it tightly in his other hand. Matt uttered a great oath and sprang to
his side. White Fang crouched down, and backed away, bristling, showing
his fangs, his eyes malignant with menace. Now he could expect a beating
as fearful as any he had received from Beauty Smith.
"Here! What are you doing?" Scott cried suddenly.
Matt had dashed into the cabin and come out with a rifle.
"Nothin'," he said slowly, with a careless calmness that was assumed,
"only goin' to keep that promise I made. I reckon it's up to me to kill
'm as I said I'd do."
"No you don't!"
"Yes I do. Watch me."
As Matt had pleaded for White Fang when he had been bitten, it was now
Weedon Scott's turn to plead.
"You said to give him a chance. Well, give it to him. We've only just
started, and we can't quit at the beginning. It served me right, this
time. And--look at him!"
White Fang, near the corner of the cabin and forty feet away, was
snarling with blood-curdling viciousness, not at Scott, but at the dog-
musher.
"Well, I'll be everlastingly gosh-swoggled!" was the dog-musher's
expression of astonishment.
"Look at the intelligence of him," Scott went on hastily. "He knows the
meaning of firearms as well as you do. He's got intelligence and we've
got to give that intelligence a chance. Put up the gun."
"All right, I'm willin'," Matt agreed, leaning the rifle against the
woodpile.
"But will you look at that!" he exclaimed the next moment.
White Fang had quieted down and ceased snarling. "This is worth
investigatin'. Watch."
Matt, reached for the rifle, and at the same moment White Fang snarled.
He stepped away from the rifle, and White Fang's lifted lips descended,
covering his teeth.
"Now, just for fun."
Matt took the rifle and began slowly to raise it to his shoulder. White
Fang's snarling began with the movement, and increased as the movement
approached its culmination. But the moment before the rifle came to a
level on him, he leaped sidewise behind the corner of the cabin. Matt
stood staring along the sights at the empty space of snow which had been
occupied by White Fang.
The dog-musher put the rifle down solemnly, then turned and looked at his
employer.
"I agree with you, Mr. Scott. That dog's too intelligent to kill."
|
White Fang.part 5.chapter | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for part 5, chapter 1 the long trail with the given context. | part 5, chapter 1 the long trail|part 5, chapter 2 the southland | With the turn of the year, the gold-rushers are "as mad to get to the Outside as they had been originally to get to the Inside," and Weedon Scott is among those planning to leave. He intends, reluctantly, to leave White Fang behind, believing that the wolf-dog will never be able to adapt to life in civilized California. White Fang, however, can sense his master's intentions, and returns to his grief-stricken behavior of refusing to eat. Finally, Scott relents, and takes White Fang home with him. |
----------PART 5, CHAPTER 1 THE LONG TRAIL---------
It was in the air. White Fang sensed the coming calamity, even before
there was tangible evidence of it. In vague ways it was borne in upon
him that a change was impending. He knew not how nor why, yet he got his
feel of the oncoming event from the gods themselves. In ways subtler
than they knew, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog that
haunted the cabin-stoop, and that, though he never came inside the cabin,
knew what went on inside their brains.
"Listen to that, will you!" the dog-musher exclaimed at supper one night.
Weedon Scott listened. Through the door came a low, anxious whine, like
a sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible. Then came the
long sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still inside
and had not yet taken himself off in mysterious and solitary flight.
"I do believe that wolf's on to you," the dog-musher said.
Weedon Scott looked across at his companion with eyes that almost
pleaded, though this was given the lie by his words.
"What the devil can I do with a wolf in California?" he demanded.
"That's what I say," Matt answered. "What the devil can you do with a
wolf in California?"
But this did not satisfy Weedon Scott. The other seemed to be judging
him in a non-committal sort of way.
"White man's dogs would have no show against him," Scott went on. "He'd
kill them on sight. If he didn't bankrupt me with damage suits, the
authorities would take him away from me and electrocute him."
"He's a downright murderer, I know," was the dog-musher's comment.
Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously.
"It would never do," he said decisively.
"It would never do!" Matt concurred. "Why you'd have to hire a man
'specially to take care of 'm."
The other's suspicion was allayed. He nodded cheerfully. In the silence
that followed, the low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and then
the long, questing sniff.
"There's no denyin' he thinks a hell of a lot of you," Matt said.
The other glared at him in sudden wrath. "Damn it all, man! I know my
own mind and what's best!"
"I'm agreein' with you, only . . . "
"Only what?" Scott snapped out.
"Only . . . " the dog-musher began softly, then changed his mind and
betrayed a rising anger of his own. "Well, you needn't get so all-fired
het up about it. Judgin' by your actions one'd think you didn't know
your own mind."
Weedon Scott debated with himself for a while, and then said more gently:
"You are right, Matt. I don't know my own mind, and that's what's the
trouble."
"Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along," he
broke out after another pause.
"I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's answer, and again his employer was
not quite satisfied with him.
"But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're goin' is
what gets me," the dog-musher continued innocently.
"It's beyond me, Matt," Scott answered, with a mournful shake of the
head.
Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw the
fatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into it. Also,
there were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphere of the
cabin was vexed with strange perturbations and unrest. Here was
indubitable evidence. White Fang had already scented it. He now
reasoned it. His god was preparing for another flight. And since he had
not taken him with him before, so, now, he could look to be left behind.
That night he lifted the long wolf-howl. As he had howled, in his puppy
days, when he fled back from the Wild to the village to find it vanished
and naught but a rubbish-heap to mark the site of Grey Beaver's tepee, so
now he pointed his muzzle to the cold stars and told to them his woe.
Inside the cabin the two men had just gone to bed.
"He's gone off his food again," Matt remarked from his bunk.
There was a grunt from Weedon Scott's bunk, and a stir of blankets.
"From the way he cut up the other time you went away, I wouldn't wonder
this time but what he died."
The blankets in the other bunk stirred irritably.
"Oh, shut up!" Scott cried out through the darkness. "You nag worse than
a woman."
"I'm agreein' with you," the dog-musher answered, and Weedon Scott was
not quite sure whether or not the other had snickered.
The next day White Fang's anxiety and restlessness were even more
pronounced. He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin, and
haunted the front stoop when he remained inside. Through the open door
he could catch glimpses of the luggage on the floor. The grip had been
joined by two large canvas bags and a box. Matt was rolling the master's
blankets and fur robe inside a small tarpaulin. White Fang whined as he
watched the operation.
Later on two Indians arrived. He watched them closely as they shouldered
the luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, who carried the
bedding and the grip. But White Fang did not follow them. The master
was still in the cabin. After a time, Matt returned. The master came to
the door and called White Fang inside.
"You poor devil," he said gently, rubbing White Fang's ears and tapping
his spine. "I'm hitting the long trail, old man, where you cannot
follow. Now give me a growl--the last, good, good-bye growl."
But White Fang refused to growl. Instead, and after a wistful, searching
look, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between the
master's arm and body.
"There she blows!" Matt cried. From the Yukon arose the hoarse bellowing
of a river steamboat. "You've got to cut it short. Be sure and lock the
front door. I'll go out the back. Get a move on!"
The two doors slammed at the same moment, and Weedon Scott waited for
Matt to come around to the front. From inside the door came a low
whining and sobbing. Then there were long, deep-drawn sniffs.
"You must take good care of him, Matt," Scott said, as they started down
the hill. "Write and let me know how he gets along."
"Sure," the dog-musher answered. "But listen to that, will you!"
Both men stopped. White Fang was howling as dogs howl when their masters
lie dead. He was voicing an utter woe, his cry bursting upward in great
heart-breaking rushes, dying down into quavering misery, and bursting
upward again with a rush upon rush of grief.
The _Aurora_ was the first steamboat of the year for the Outside, and her
decks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken gold seekers,
all equally as mad to get to the Outside as they had been originally to
get to the Inside. Near the gang-plank, Scott was shaking hands with
Matt, who was preparing to go ashore. But Matt's hand went limp in the
other's grasp as his gaze shot past and remained fixed on something
behind him. Scott turned to see. Sitting on the deck several feet away
and watching wistfully was White Fang.
The dog-musher swore softly, in awe-stricken accents. Scott could only
look in wonder.
"Did you lock the front door?" Matt demanded. The other nodded, and
asked, "How about the back?"
"You just bet I did," was the fervent reply.
White Fang flattened his ears ingratiatingly, but remained where he was,
making no attempt to approach.
"I'll have to take 'm ashore with me."
Matt made a couple of steps toward White Fang, but the latter slid away
from him. The dog-musher made a rush of it, and White Fang dodged
between the legs of a group of men. Ducking, turning, doubling, he slid
about the deck, eluding the other's efforts to capture him.
But when the love-master spoke, White Fang came to him with prompt
obedience.
"Won't come to the hand that's fed 'm all these months," the dog-musher
muttered resentfully. "And you--you ain't never fed 'm after them first
days of gettin' acquainted. I'm blamed if I can see how he works it out
that you're the boss."
Scott, who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and pointed
out fresh-made cuts on his muzzle, and a gash between the eyes.
Matt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang's belly.
"We plumb forgot the window. He's all cut an' gouged underneath. Must
'a' butted clean through it, b'gosh!"
But Weedon Scott was not listening. He was thinking rapidly. The
_Aurora's_ whistle hooted a final announcement of departure. Men were
scurrying down the gang-plank to the shore. Matt loosened the bandana
from his own neck and started to put it around White Fang's. Scott
grasped the dog-musher's hand.
"Good-bye, Matt, old man. About the wolf--you needn't write. You see,
I've . . . !"
"What!" the dog-musher exploded. "You don't mean to say . . .?"
"The very thing I mean. Here's your bandana. I'll write to you about
him."
Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank.
"He'll never stand the climate!" he shouted back. "Unless you clip 'm in
warm weather!"
The gang-plank was hauled in, and the _Aurora_ swung out from the bank.
Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye. Then he turned and bent over White
Fang, standing by his side.
"Now growl, damn you, growl," he said, as he patted the responsive head
and rubbed the flattening ears.
----------PART 5, CHAPTER 2 THE SOUTHLAND---------
White Fang landed from the steamer in San Francisco. He was appalled.
Deep in him, below any reasoning process or act of consciousness, he had
associated power with godhead. And never had the white men seemed such
marvellous gods as now, when he trod the slimy pavement of San Francisco.
The log cabins he had known were replaced by towering buildings. The
streets were crowded with perils--waggons, carts, automobiles; great,
straining horses pulling huge trucks; and monstrous cable and electric
cars hooting and clanging through the midst, screeching their insistent
menace after the manner of the lynxes he had known in the northern woods.
All this was the manifestation of power. Through it all, behind it all,
was man, governing and controlling, expressing himself, as of old, by his
mastery over matter. It was colossal, stunning. White Fang was awed.
Fear sat upon him. As in his cubhood he had been made to feel his
smallness and puniness on the day he first came in from the Wild to the
village of Grey Beaver, so now, in his full-grown stature and pride of
strength, he was made to feel small and puny. And there were so many
gods! He was made dizzy by the swarming of them. The thunder of the
streets smote upon his ears. He was bewildered by the tremendous and
endless rush and movement of things. As never before, he felt his
dependence on the love-master, close at whose heels he followed, no
matter what happened never losing sight of him.
But White Fang was to have no more than a nightmare vision of the city--an
experience that was like a bad dream, unreal and terrible, that haunted
him for long after in his dreams. He was put into a baggage-car by the
master, chained in a corner in the midst of heaped trunks and valises.
Here a squat and brawny god held sway, with much noise, hurling trunks
and boxes about, dragging them in through the door and tossing them into
the piles, or flinging them out of the door, smashing and crashing, to
other gods who awaited them.
And here, in this inferno of luggage, was White Fang deserted by the
master. Or at least White Fang thought he was deserted, until he smelled
out the master's canvas clothes-bags alongside of him, and proceeded to
mount guard over them.
"'Bout time you come," growled the god of the car, an hour later, when
Weedon Scott appeared at the door. "That dog of yourn won't let me lay a
finger on your stuff."
White Fang emerged from the car. He was astonished. The nightmare city
was gone. The car had been to him no more than a room in a house, and
when he had entered it the city had been all around him. In the interval
the city had disappeared. The roar of it no longer dinned upon his ears.
Before him was smiling country, streaming with sunshine, lazy with
quietude. But he had little time to marvel at the transformation. He
accepted it as he accepted all the unaccountable doings and
manifestations of the gods. It was their way.
There was a carriage waiting. A man and a woman approached the master.
The woman's arms went out and clutched the master around the neck--a
hostile act! The next moment Weedon Scott had torn loose from the
embrace and closed with White Fang, who had become a snarling, raging
demon.
"It's all right, mother," Scott was saying as he kept tight hold of White
Fang and placated him. "He thought you were going to injure me, and he
wouldn't stand for it. It's all right. It's all right. He'll learn
soon enough."
"And in the meantime I may be permitted to love my son when his dog is
not around," she laughed, though she was pale and weak from the fright.
She looked at White Fang, who snarled and bristled and glared
malevolently.
"He'll have to learn, and he shall, without postponement," Scott said.
He spoke softly to White Fang until he had quieted him, then his voice
became firm.
"Down, sir! Down with you!"
This had been one of the things taught him by the master, and White Fang
obeyed, though he lay down reluctantly and sullenly.
"Now, mother."
Scott opened his arms to her, but kept his eyes on White Fang.
"Down!" he warned. "Down!"
White Fang, bristling silently, half-crouching as he rose, sank back and
watched the hostile act repeated. But no harm came of it, nor of the
embrace from the strange man-god that followed. Then the clothes-bags
were taken into the carriage, the strange gods and the love-master
followed, and White Fang pursued, now running vigilantly behind, now
bristling up to the running horses and warning them that he was there to
see that no harm befell the god they dragged so swiftly across the earth.
At the end of fifteen minutes, the carriage swung in through a stone
gateway and on between a double row of arched and interlacing walnut
trees. On either side stretched lawns, their broad sweep broken here and
there by great sturdy-limbed oaks. In the near distance, in contrast
with the young-green of the tended grass, sunburnt hay-fields showed tan
and gold; while beyond were the tawny hills and upland pastures. From
the head of the lawn, on the first soft swell from the valley-level,
looked down the deep-porched, many-windowed house.
Little opportunity was given White Fang to see all this. Hardly had the
carriage entered the grounds, when he was set upon by a sheep-dog, bright-
eyed, sharp-muzzled, righteously indignant and angry. It was between him
and the master, cutting him off. White Fang snarled no warning, but his
hair bristled as he made his silent and deadly rush. This rush was never
completed. He halted with awkward abruptness, with stiff fore-legs
bracing himself against his momentum, almost sitting down on his
haunches, so desirous was he of avoiding contact with the dog he was in
the act of attacking. It was a female, and the law of his kind thrust a
barrier between. For him to attack her would require nothing less than a
violation of his instinct.
But with the sheep-dog it was otherwise. Being a female, she possessed
no such instinct. On the other hand, being a sheep-dog, her instinctive
fear of the Wild, and especially of the wolf, was unusually keen. White
Fang was to her a wolf, the hereditary marauder who had preyed upon her
flocks from the time sheep were first herded and guarded by some dim
ancestor of hers. And so, as he abandoned his rush at her and braced
himself to avoid the contact, she sprang upon him. He snarled
involuntarily as he felt her teeth in his shoulder, but beyond this made
no offer to hurt her. He backed away, stiff-legged with
self-consciousness, and tried to go around her. He dodged this way and
that, and curved and turned, but to no purpose. She remained always
between him and the way he wanted to go.
"Here, Collie!" called the strange man in the carriage.
Weedon Scott laughed.
"Never mind, father. It is good discipline. White Fang will have to
learn many things, and it's just as well that he begins now. He'll
adjust himself all right."
The carriage drove on, and still Collie blocked White Fang's way. He
tried to outrun her by leaving the drive and circling across the lawn but
she ran on the inner and smaller circle, and was always there, facing him
with her two rows of gleaming teeth. Back he circled, across the drive
to the other lawn, and again she headed him off.
The carriage was bearing the master away. White Fang caught glimpses of
it disappearing amongst the trees. The situation was desperate. He
essayed another circle. She followed, running swiftly. And then,
suddenly, he turned upon her. It was his old fighting trick. Shoulder
to shoulder, he struck her squarely. Not only was she overthrown. So
fast had she been running that she rolled along, now on her back, now on
her side, as she struggled to stop, clawing gravel with her feet and
crying shrilly her hurt pride and indignation.
White Fang did not wait. The way was clear, and that was all he had
wanted. She took after him, never ceasing her outcry. It was the
straightaway now, and when it came to real running, White Fang could
teach her things. She ran frantically, hysterically, straining to the
utmost, advertising the effort she was making with every leap: and all
the time White Fang slid smoothly away from her silently, without effort,
gliding like a ghost over the ground.
As he rounded the house to the _porte-cochere_, he came upon the
carriage. It had stopped, and the master was alighting. At this moment,
still running at top speed, White Fang became suddenly aware of an attack
from the side. It was a deer-hound rushing upon him. White Fang tried
to face it. But he was going too fast, and the hound was too close. It
struck him on the side; and such was his forward momentum and the
unexpectedness of it, White Fang was hurled to the ground and rolled
clear over. He came out of the tangle a spectacle of malignancy, ears
flattened back, lips writhing, nose wrinkling, his teeth clipping
together as the fangs barely missed the hound's soft throat.
The master was running up, but was too far away; and it was Collie that
saved the hound's life. Before White Fang could spring in and deliver
the fatal stroke, and just as he was in the act of springing in, Collie
arrived. She had been out-manoeuvred and out-run, to say nothing of her
having been unceremoniously tumbled in the gravel, and her arrival was
like that of a tornado--made up of offended dignity, justifiable wrath,
and instinctive hatred for this marauder from the Wild. She struck White
Fang at right angles in the midst of his spring, and again he was knocked
off his feet and rolled over.
The next moment the master arrived, and with one hand held White Fang,
while the father called off the dogs.
"I say, this is a pretty warm reception for a poor lone wolf from the
Arctic," the master said, while White Fang calmed down under his
caressing hand. "In all his life he's only been known once to go off his
feet, and here he's been rolled twice in thirty seconds."
The carriage had driven away, and other strange gods had appeared from
out the house. Some of these stood respectfully at a distance; but two
of them, women, perpetrated the hostile act of clutching the master
around the neck. White Fang, however, was beginning to tolerate this
act. No harm seemed to come of it, while the noises the gods made were
certainly not threatening. These gods also made overtures to White Fang,
but he warned them off with a snarl, and the master did likewise with
word of mouth. At such times White Fang leaned in close against the
master's legs and received reassuring pats on the head.
The hound, under the command, "Dick! Lie down, sir!" had gone up the
steps and lain down to one side of the porch, still growling and keeping
a sullen watch on the intruder. Collie had been taken in charge by one
of the woman-gods, who held arms around her neck and petted and caressed
her; but Collie was very much perplexed and worried, whining and
restless, outraged by the permitted presence of this wolf and confident
that the gods were making a mistake.
All the gods started up the steps to enter the house. White Fang
followed closely at the master's heels. Dick, on the porch, growled, and
White Fang, on the steps, bristled and growled back.
"Take Collie inside and leave the two of them to fight it out," suggested
Scott's father. "After that they'll be friends."
"Then White Fang, to show his friendship, will have to be chief mourner
at the funeral," laughed the master.
The elder Scott looked incredulously, first at White Fang, then at Dick,
and finally at his son.
"You mean . . .?"
Weedon nodded his head. "I mean just that. You'd have a dead Dick
inside one minute--two minutes at the farthest."
He turned to White Fang. "Come on, you wolf. It's you that'll have to
come inside."
White Fang walked stiff-legged up the steps and across the porch, with
tail rigidly erect, keeping his eyes on Dick to guard against a flank
attack, and at the same time prepared for whatever fierce manifestation
of the unknown that might pounce out upon him from the interior of the
house. But no thing of fear pounced out, and when he had gained the
inside he scouted carefully around, looking at it and finding it not.
Then he lay down with a contented grunt at the master's feet, observing
all that went on, ever ready to spring to his feet and fight for life
with the terrors he felt must lurk under the trap-roof of the dwelling.
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 1 based on the provided context. | part 5, chapter 4 the call of kind|chapter 1 | In this chapter, Weedon Scott prepares to leave for California, his home, knowing he must leave White Fang behind. White Fang senses the impending separation and refuses to eat again. Scott is concerned about the wolf-dog, but he is afraid he will never be tame enough to live in California. The day Scott is to leave, White Fang is at his heels all the time. Two Indians come and pick up the luggage and take it to the steamboat, Aurora, which is packed with adventurers and gold seekers. Scott then departs, locking White Fang in the cabin until he has safely sailed away. White Fang, however, breaks free through the window and later appears on board the ship. Scott, seeing such devotion, finally decides to take him along, despite Matt's warning that the California climate will not suit White Fang. |
----------PART 5, CHAPTER 4 THE CALL OF KIND---------
The months came and went. There was plenty of food and no work in the
Southland, and White Fang lived fat and prosperous and happy. Not alone
was he in the geographical Southland, for he was in the Southland of
life. Human kindness was like a sun shining upon him, and he flourished
like a flower planted in good soil.
And yet he remained somehow different from other dogs. He knew the law
even better than did the dogs that had known no other life, and he
observed the law more punctiliously; but still there was about him a
suggestion of lurking ferocity, as though the Wild still lingered in him
and the wolf in him merely slept.
He never chummed with other dogs. Lonely he had lived, so far as his
kind was concerned, and lonely he would continue to live. In his
puppyhood, under the persecution of Lip-lip and the puppy-pack, and in
his fighting days with Beauty Smith, he had acquired a fixed aversion for
dogs. The natural course of his life had been diverted, and, recoiling
from his kind, he had clung to the human.
Besides, all Southland dogs looked upon him with suspicion. He aroused
in them their instinctive fear of the Wild, and they greeted him always
with snarl and growl and belligerent hatred. He, on the other hand,
learned that it was not necessary to use his teeth upon them. His naked
fangs and writhing lips were uniformly efficacious, rarely failing to
send a bellowing on-rushing dog back on its haunches.
But there was one trial in White Fang's life--Collie. She never gave him
a moment's peace. She was not so amenable to the law as he. She defied
all efforts of the master to make her become friends with White Fang.
Ever in his ears was sounding her sharp and nervous snarl. She had never
forgiven him the chicken-killing episode, and persistently held to the
belief that his intentions were bad. She found him guilty before the
act, and treated him accordingly. She became a pest to him, like a
policeman following him around the stable and the hounds, and, if he even
so much as glanced curiously at a pigeon or chicken, bursting into an
outcry of indignation and wrath. His favourite way of ignoring her was
to lie down, with his head on his fore-paws, and pretend sleep. This
always dumfounded and silenced her.
With the exception of Collie, all things went well with White Fang. He
had learned control and poise, and he knew the law. He achieved a
staidness, and calmness, and philosophic tolerance. He no longer lived
in a hostile environment. Danger and hurt and death did not lurk
everywhere about him. In time, the unknown, as a thing of terror and
menace ever impending, faded away. Life was soft and easy. It flowed
along smoothly, and neither fear nor foe lurked by the way.
He missed the snow without being aware of it. "An unduly long summer,"
would have been his thought had he thought about it; as it was, he merely
missed the snow in a vague, subconscious way. In the same fashion,
especially in the heat of summer when he suffered from the sun, he
experienced faint longings for the Northland. Their only effect upon
him, however, was to make him uneasy and restless without his knowing
what was the matter.
White Fang had never been very demonstrative. Beyond his snuggling and
the throwing of a crooning note into his love-growl, he had no way of
expressing his love. Yet it was given him to discover a third way. He
had always been susceptible to the laughter of the gods. Laughter had
affected him with madness, made him frantic with rage. But he did not
have it in him to be angry with the love-master, and when that god
elected to laugh at him in a good-natured, bantering way, he was
nonplussed. He could feel the pricking and stinging of the old anger as
it strove to rise up in him, but it strove against love. He could not be
angry; yet he had to do something. At first he was dignified, and the
master laughed the harder. Then he tried to be more dignified, and the
master laughed harder than before. In the end, the master laughed him
out of his dignity. His jaws slightly parted, his lips lifted a little,
and a quizzical expression that was more love than humour came into his
eyes. He had learned to laugh.
Likewise he learned to romp with the master, to be tumbled down and
rolled over, and be the victim of innumerable rough tricks. In return he
feigned anger, bristling and growling ferociously, and clipping his teeth
together in snaps that had all the seeming of deadly intention. But he
never forgot himself. Those snaps were always delivered on the empty
air. At the end of such a romp, when blow and cuff and snap and snarl
were fast and furious, they would break off suddenly and stand several
feet apart, glaring at each other. And then, just as suddenly, like the
sun rising on a stormy sea, they would begin to laugh. This would always
culminate with the master's arms going around White Fang's neck and
shoulders while the latter crooned and growled his love-song.
But nobody else ever romped with White Fang. He did not permit it. He
stood on his dignity, and when they attempted it, his warning snarl and
bristling mane were anything but playful. That he allowed the master
these liberties was no reason that he should be a common dog, loving here
and loving there, everybody's property for a romp and good time. He
loved with single heart and refused to cheapen himself or his love.
The master went out on horseback a great deal, and to accompany him was
one of White Fang's chief duties in life. In the Northland he had
evidenced his fealty by toiling in the harness; but there were no sleds
in the Southland, nor did dogs pack burdens on their backs. So he
rendered fealty in the new way, by running with the master's horse. The
longest day never played White Fang out. His was the gait of the wolf,
smooth, tireless and effortless, and at the end of fifty miles he would
come in jauntily ahead of the horse.
It was in connection with the riding, that White Fang achieved one other
mode of expression--remarkable in that he did it but twice in all his
life. The first time occurred when the master was trying to teach a
spirited thoroughbred the method of opening and closing gates without the
rider's dismounting. Time and again and many times he ranged the horse
up to the gate in the effort to close it and each time the horse became
frightened and backed and plunged away. It grew more nervous and excited
every moment. When it reared, the master put the spurs to it and made it
drop its fore-legs back to earth, whereupon it would begin kicking with
its hind-legs. White Fang watched the performance with increasing
anxiety until he could contain himself no longer, when he sprang in front
of the horse and barked savagely and warningly.
Though he often tried to bark thereafter, and the master encouraged him,
he succeeded only once, and then it was not in the master's presence. A
scamper across the pasture, a jackrabbit rising suddenly under the
horse's feet, a violent sheer, a stumble, a fall to earth, and a broken
leg for the master, was the cause of it. White Fang sprang in a rage at
the throat of the offending horse, but was checked by the master's voice.
"Home! Go home!" the master commanded when he had ascertained his
injury.
White Fang was disinclined to desert him. The master thought of writing
a note, but searched his pockets vainly for pencil and paper. Again he
commanded White Fang to go home.
The latter regarded him wistfully, started away, then returned and whined
softly. The master talked to him gently but seriously, and he cocked his
ears, and listened with painful intentness.
"That's all right, old fellow, you just run along home," ran the talk.
"Go on home and tell them what's happened to me. Home with you, you
wolf. Get along home!"
White Fang knew the meaning of "home," and though he did not understand
the remainder of the master's language, he knew it was his will that he
should go home. He turned and trotted reluctantly away. Then he
stopped, undecided, and looked back over his shoulder.
"Go home!" came the sharp command, and this time he obeyed.
The family was on the porch, taking the cool of the afternoon, when White
Fang arrived. He came in among them, panting, covered with dust.
"Weedon's back," Weedon's mother announced.
The children welcomed White Fang with glad cries and ran to meet him. He
avoided them and passed down the porch, but they cornered him against a
rocking-chair and the railing. He growled and tried to push by them.
Their mother looked apprehensively in their direction.
"I confess, he makes me nervous around the children," she said. "I have
a dread that he will turn upon them unexpectedly some day."
Growling savagely, White Fang sprang out of the corner, overturning the
boy and the girl. The mother called them to her and comforted them,
telling them not to bother White Fang.
"A wolf is a wolf!" commented Judge Scott. "There is no trusting one."
"But he is not all wolf," interposed Beth, standing for her brother in
his absence.
"You have only Weedon's opinion for that," rejoined the judge. "He
merely surmises that there is some strain of dog in White Fang; but as he
will tell you himself, he knows nothing about it. As for his
appearance--"
He did not finish his sentence. White Fang stood before him, growling
fiercely.
"Go away! Lie down, sir!" Judge Scott commanded.
White Fang turned to the love-master's wife. She screamed with fright as
he seized her dress in his teeth and dragged on it till the frail fabric
tore away. By this time he had become the centre of interest.
He had ceased from his growling and stood, head up, looking into their
faces. His throat worked spasmodically, but made no sound, while he
struggled with all his body, convulsed with the effort to rid himself of
the incommunicable something that strained for utterance.
"I hope he is not going mad," said Weedon's mother. "I told Weedon that
I was afraid the warm climate would not agree with an Arctic animal."
"He's trying to speak, I do believe," Beth announced.
At this moment speech came to White Fang, rushing up in a great burst of
barking.
"Something has happened to Weedon," his wife said decisively.
They were all on their feet now, and White Fang ran down the steps,
looking back for them to follow. For the second and last time in his
life he had barked and made himself understood.
After this event he found a warmer place in the hearts of the Sierra
Vista people, and even the groom whose arm he had slashed admitted that
he was a wise dog even if he was a wolf. Judge Scott still held to the
same opinion, and proved it to everybody's dissatisfaction by
measurements and descriptions taken from the encyclopaedia and various
works on natural history.
The days came and went, streaming their unbroken sunshine over the Santa
Clara Valley. But as they grew shorter and White Fang's second winter in
the Southland came on, he made a strange discovery. Collie's teeth were
no longer sharp. There was a playfulness about her nips and a gentleness
that prevented them from really hurting him. He forgot that she had made
life a burden to him, and when she disported herself around him he
responded solemnly, striving to be playful and becoming no more than
ridiculous.
One day she led him off on a long chase through the back-pasture land
into the woods. It was the afternoon that the master was to ride, and
White Fang knew it. The horse stood saddled and waiting at the door.
White Fang hesitated. But there was that in him deeper than all the law
he had learned, than the customs that had moulded him, than his love for
the master, than the very will to live of himself; and when, in the
moment of his indecision, Collie nipped him and scampered off, he turned
and followed after. The master rode alone that day; and in the woods,
side by side, White Fang ran with Collie, as his mother, Kiche, and old
One Eye had run long years before in the silent Northland forest.
----------CHAPTER 1---------
It was in the air. White Fang sensed the coming calamity, even before
there was tangible evidence of it. In vague ways it was borne in upon
him that a change was impending. He knew not how nor why, yet he got his
feel of the oncoming event from the gods themselves. In ways subtler
than they knew, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog that
haunted the cabin-stoop, and that, though he never came inside the cabin,
knew what went on inside their brains.
"Listen to that, will you!" the dog-musher exclaimed at supper one night.
Weedon Scott listened. Through the door came a low, anxious whine, like
a sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible. Then came the
long sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still inside
and had not yet taken himself off in mysterious and solitary flight.
"I do believe that wolf's on to you," the dog-musher said.
Weedon Scott looked across at his companion with eyes that almost
pleaded, though this was given the lie by his words.
"What the devil can I do with a wolf in California?" he demanded.
"That's what I say," Matt answered. "What the devil can you do with a
wolf in California?"
But this did not satisfy Weedon Scott. The other seemed to be judging
him in a non-committal sort of way.
"White man's dogs would have no show against him," Scott went on. "He'd
kill them on sight. If he didn't bankrupt me with damage suits, the
authorities would take him away from me and electrocute him."
"He's a downright murderer, I know," was the dog-musher's comment.
Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously.
"It would never do," he said decisively.
"It would never do!" Matt concurred. "Why you'd have to hire a man
'specially to take care of 'm."
The other's suspicion was allayed. He nodded cheerfully. In the silence
that followed, the low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and then
the long, questing sniff.
"There's no denyin' he thinks a hell of a lot of you," Matt said.
The other glared at him in sudden wrath. "Damn it all, man! I know my
own mind and what's best!"
"I'm agreein' with you, only . . . "
"Only what?" Scott snapped out.
"Only . . . " the dog-musher began softly, then changed his mind and
betrayed a rising anger of his own. "Well, you needn't get so all-fired
het up about it. Judgin' by your actions one'd think you didn't know
your own mind."
Weedon Scott debated with himself for a while, and then said more gently:
"You are right, Matt. I don't know my own mind, and that's what's the
trouble."
"Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along," he
broke out after another pause.
"I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's answer, and again his employer was
not quite satisfied with him.
"But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're goin' is
what gets me," the dog-musher continued innocently.
"It's beyond me, Matt," Scott answered, with a mournful shake of the
head.
Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw the
fatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into it. Also,
there were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphere of the
cabin was vexed with strange perturbations and unrest. Here was
indubitable evidence. White Fang had already scented it. He now
reasoned it. His god was preparing for another flight. And since he had
not taken him with him before, so, now, he could look to be left behind.
That night he lifted the long wolf-howl. As he had howled, in his puppy
days, when he fled back from the Wild to the village to find it vanished
and naught but a rubbish-heap to mark the site of Grey Beaver's tepee, so
now he pointed his muzzle to the cold stars and told to them his woe.
Inside the cabin the two men had just gone to bed.
"He's gone off his food again," Matt remarked from his bunk.
There was a grunt from Weedon Scott's bunk, and a stir of blankets.
"From the way he cut up the other time you went away, I wouldn't wonder
this time but what he died."
The blankets in the other bunk stirred irritably.
"Oh, shut up!" Scott cried out through the darkness. "You nag worse than
a woman."
"I'm agreein' with you," the dog-musher answered, and Weedon Scott was
not quite sure whether or not the other had snickered.
The next day White Fang's anxiety and restlessness were even more
pronounced. He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin, and
haunted the front stoop when he remained inside. Through the open door
he could catch glimpses of the luggage on the floor. The grip had been
joined by two large canvas bags and a box. Matt was rolling the master's
blankets and fur robe inside a small tarpaulin. White Fang whined as he
watched the operation.
Later on two Indians arrived. He watched them closely as they shouldered
the luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, who carried the
bedding and the grip. But White Fang did not follow them. The master
was still in the cabin. After a time, Matt returned. The master came to
the door and called White Fang inside.
"You poor devil," he said gently, rubbing White Fang's ears and tapping
his spine. "I'm hitting the long trail, old man, where you cannot
follow. Now give me a growl--the last, good, good-bye growl."
But White Fang refused to growl. Instead, and after a wistful, searching
look, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between the
master's arm and body.
"There she blows!" Matt cried. From the Yukon arose the hoarse bellowing
of a river steamboat. "You've got to cut it short. Be sure and lock the
front door. I'll go out the back. Get a move on!"
The two doors slammed at the same moment, and Weedon Scott waited for
Matt to come around to the front. From inside the door came a low
whining and sobbing. Then there were long, deep-drawn sniffs.
"You must take good care of him, Matt," Scott said, as they started down
the hill. "Write and let me know how he gets along."
"Sure," the dog-musher answered. "But listen to that, will you!"
Both men stopped. White Fang was howling as dogs howl when their masters
lie dead. He was voicing an utter woe, his cry bursting upward in great
heart-breaking rushes, dying down into quavering misery, and bursting
upward again with a rush upon rush of grief.
The _Aurora_ was the first steamboat of the year for the Outside, and her
decks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken gold seekers,
all equally as mad to get to the Outside as they had been originally to
get to the Inside. Near the gang-plank, Scott was shaking hands with
Matt, who was preparing to go ashore. But Matt's hand went limp in the
other's grasp as his gaze shot past and remained fixed on something
behind him. Scott turned to see. Sitting on the deck several feet away
and watching wistfully was White Fang.
The dog-musher swore softly, in awe-stricken accents. Scott could only
look in wonder.
"Did you lock the front door?" Matt demanded. The other nodded, and
asked, "How about the back?"
"You just bet I did," was the fervent reply.
White Fang flattened his ears ingratiatingly, but remained where he was,
making no attempt to approach.
"I'll have to take 'm ashore with me."
Matt made a couple of steps toward White Fang, but the latter slid away
from him. The dog-musher made a rush of it, and White Fang dodged
between the legs of a group of men. Ducking, turning, doubling, he slid
about the deck, eluding the other's efforts to capture him.
But when the love-master spoke, White Fang came to him with prompt
obedience.
"Won't come to the hand that's fed 'm all these months," the dog-musher
muttered resentfully. "And you--you ain't never fed 'm after them first
days of gettin' acquainted. I'm blamed if I can see how he works it out
that you're the boss."
Scott, who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and pointed
out fresh-made cuts on his muzzle, and a gash between the eyes.
Matt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang's belly.
"We plumb forgot the window. He's all cut an' gouged underneath. Must
'a' butted clean through it, b'gosh!"
But Weedon Scott was not listening. He was thinking rapidly. The
_Aurora's_ whistle hooted a final announcement of departure. Men were
scurrying down the gang-plank to the shore. Matt loosened the bandana
from his own neck and started to put it around White Fang's. Scott
grasped the dog-musher's hand.
"Good-bye, Matt, old man. About the wolf--you needn't write. You see,
I've . . . !"
"What!" the dog-musher exploded. "You don't mean to say . . .?"
"The very thing I mean. Here's your bandana. I'll write to you about
him."
Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank.
"He'll never stand the climate!" he shouted back. "Unless you clip 'm in
warm weather!"
The gang-plank was hauled in, and the _Aurora_ swung out from the bank.
Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye. Then he turned and bent over White
Fang, standing by his side.
"Now growl, damn you, growl," he said, as he patted the responsive head
and rubbed the flattening ears.
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter 2 with the given context. | null | When White Fang reaches San Francisco, he is chained in a cage and put on a baggage cart; he is amazed at the sight of the tall buildings, crowded streets, and horse carts. When they arrive at Scott's country home, they are greeted by Scott's mother, who warmly embraces her son. White Fang sees this as a hostile act and starts to snarl at Scott's mother. Scott has to control the wolf-dog. When White Fang finally goes off to explore his new home, he encounters Collie, the indignant sheepdog, and is attacked by the deerhound, Dick. These animals have no reason to fear White Fang. |
----------CHAPTER 2---------
White Fang landed from the steamer in San Francisco. He was appalled.
Deep in him, below any reasoning process or act of consciousness, he had
associated power with godhead. And never had the white men seemed such
marvellous gods as now, when he trod the slimy pavement of San Francisco.
The log cabins he had known were replaced by towering buildings. The
streets were crowded with perils--waggons, carts, automobiles; great,
straining horses pulling huge trucks; and monstrous cable and electric
cars hooting and clanging through the midst, screeching their insistent
menace after the manner of the lynxes he had known in the northern woods.
All this was the manifestation of power. Through it all, behind it all,
was man, governing and controlling, expressing himself, as of old, by his
mastery over matter. It was colossal, stunning. White Fang was awed.
Fear sat upon him. As in his cubhood he had been made to feel his
smallness and puniness on the day he first came in from the Wild to the
village of Grey Beaver, so now, in his full-grown stature and pride of
strength, he was made to feel small and puny. And there were so many
gods! He was made dizzy by the swarming of them. The thunder of the
streets smote upon his ears. He was bewildered by the tremendous and
endless rush and movement of things. As never before, he felt his
dependence on the love-master, close at whose heels he followed, no
matter what happened never losing sight of him.
But White Fang was to have no more than a nightmare vision of the city--an
experience that was like a bad dream, unreal and terrible, that haunted
him for long after in his dreams. He was put into a baggage-car by the
master, chained in a corner in the midst of heaped trunks and valises.
Here a squat and brawny god held sway, with much noise, hurling trunks
and boxes about, dragging them in through the door and tossing them into
the piles, or flinging them out of the door, smashing and crashing, to
other gods who awaited them.
And here, in this inferno of luggage, was White Fang deserted by the
master. Or at least White Fang thought he was deserted, until he smelled
out the master's canvas clothes-bags alongside of him, and proceeded to
mount guard over them.
"'Bout time you come," growled the god of the car, an hour later, when
Weedon Scott appeared at the door. "That dog of yourn won't let me lay a
finger on your stuff."
White Fang emerged from the car. He was astonished. The nightmare city
was gone. The car had been to him no more than a room in a house, and
when he had entered it the city had been all around him. In the interval
the city had disappeared. The roar of it no longer dinned upon his ears.
Before him was smiling country, streaming with sunshine, lazy with
quietude. But he had little time to marvel at the transformation. He
accepted it as he accepted all the unaccountable doings and
manifestations of the gods. It was their way.
There was a carriage waiting. A man and a woman approached the master.
The woman's arms went out and clutched the master around the neck--a
hostile act! The next moment Weedon Scott had torn loose from the
embrace and closed with White Fang, who had become a snarling, raging
demon.
"It's all right, mother," Scott was saying as he kept tight hold of White
Fang and placated him. "He thought you were going to injure me, and he
wouldn't stand for it. It's all right. It's all right. He'll learn
soon enough."
"And in the meantime I may be permitted to love my son when his dog is
not around," she laughed, though she was pale and weak from the fright.
She looked at White Fang, who snarled and bristled and glared
malevolently.
"He'll have to learn, and he shall, without postponement," Scott said.
He spoke softly to White Fang until he had quieted him, then his voice
became firm.
"Down, sir! Down with you!"
This had been one of the things taught him by the master, and White Fang
obeyed, though he lay down reluctantly and sullenly.
"Now, mother."
Scott opened his arms to her, but kept his eyes on White Fang.
"Down!" he warned. "Down!"
White Fang, bristling silently, half-crouching as he rose, sank back and
watched the hostile act repeated. But no harm came of it, nor of the
embrace from the strange man-god that followed. Then the clothes-bags
were taken into the carriage, the strange gods and the love-master
followed, and White Fang pursued, now running vigilantly behind, now
bristling up to the running horses and warning them that he was there to
see that no harm befell the god they dragged so swiftly across the earth.
At the end of fifteen minutes, the carriage swung in through a stone
gateway and on between a double row of arched and interlacing walnut
trees. On either side stretched lawns, their broad sweep broken here and
there by great sturdy-limbed oaks. In the near distance, in contrast
with the young-green of the tended grass, sunburnt hay-fields showed tan
and gold; while beyond were the tawny hills and upland pastures. From
the head of the lawn, on the first soft swell from the valley-level,
looked down the deep-porched, many-windowed house.
Little opportunity was given White Fang to see all this. Hardly had the
carriage entered the grounds, when he was set upon by a sheep-dog, bright-
eyed, sharp-muzzled, righteously indignant and angry. It was between him
and the master, cutting him off. White Fang snarled no warning, but his
hair bristled as he made his silent and deadly rush. This rush was never
completed. He halted with awkward abruptness, with stiff fore-legs
bracing himself against his momentum, almost sitting down on his
haunches, so desirous was he of avoiding contact with the dog he was in
the act of attacking. It was a female, and the law of his kind thrust a
barrier between. For him to attack her would require nothing less than a
violation of his instinct.
But with the sheep-dog it was otherwise. Being a female, she possessed
no such instinct. On the other hand, being a sheep-dog, her instinctive
fear of the Wild, and especially of the wolf, was unusually keen. White
Fang was to her a wolf, the hereditary marauder who had preyed upon her
flocks from the time sheep were first herded and guarded by some dim
ancestor of hers. And so, as he abandoned his rush at her and braced
himself to avoid the contact, she sprang upon him. He snarled
involuntarily as he felt her teeth in his shoulder, but beyond this made
no offer to hurt her. He backed away, stiff-legged with
self-consciousness, and tried to go around her. He dodged this way and
that, and curved and turned, but to no purpose. She remained always
between him and the way he wanted to go.
"Here, Collie!" called the strange man in the carriage.
Weedon Scott laughed.
"Never mind, father. It is good discipline. White Fang will have to
learn many things, and it's just as well that he begins now. He'll
adjust himself all right."
The carriage drove on, and still Collie blocked White Fang's way. He
tried to outrun her by leaving the drive and circling across the lawn but
she ran on the inner and smaller circle, and was always there, facing him
with her two rows of gleaming teeth. Back he circled, across the drive
to the other lawn, and again she headed him off.
The carriage was bearing the master away. White Fang caught glimpses of
it disappearing amongst the trees. The situation was desperate. He
essayed another circle. She followed, running swiftly. And then,
suddenly, he turned upon her. It was his old fighting trick. Shoulder
to shoulder, he struck her squarely. Not only was she overthrown. So
fast had she been running that she rolled along, now on her back, now on
her side, as she struggled to stop, clawing gravel with her feet and
crying shrilly her hurt pride and indignation.
White Fang did not wait. The way was clear, and that was all he had
wanted. She took after him, never ceasing her outcry. It was the
straightaway now, and when it came to real running, White Fang could
teach her things. She ran frantically, hysterically, straining to the
utmost, advertising the effort she was making with every leap: and all
the time White Fang slid smoothly away from her silently, without effort,
gliding like a ghost over the ground.
As he rounded the house to the _porte-cochere_, he came upon the
carriage. It had stopped, and the master was alighting. At this moment,
still running at top speed, White Fang became suddenly aware of an attack
from the side. It was a deer-hound rushing upon him. White Fang tried
to face it. But he was going too fast, and the hound was too close. It
struck him on the side; and such was his forward momentum and the
unexpectedness of it, White Fang was hurled to the ground and rolled
clear over. He came out of the tangle a spectacle of malignancy, ears
flattened back, lips writhing, nose wrinkling, his teeth clipping
together as the fangs barely missed the hound's soft throat.
The master was running up, but was too far away; and it was Collie that
saved the hound's life. Before White Fang could spring in and deliver
the fatal stroke, and just as he was in the act of springing in, Collie
arrived. She had been out-manoeuvred and out-run, to say nothing of her
having been unceremoniously tumbled in the gravel, and her arrival was
like that of a tornado--made up of offended dignity, justifiable wrath,
and instinctive hatred for this marauder from the Wild. She struck White
Fang at right angles in the midst of his spring, and again he was knocked
off his feet and rolled over.
The next moment the master arrived, and with one hand held White Fang,
while the father called off the dogs.
"I say, this is a pretty warm reception for a poor lone wolf from the
Arctic," the master said, while White Fang calmed down under his
caressing hand. "In all his life he's only been known once to go off his
feet, and here he's been rolled twice in thirty seconds."
The carriage had driven away, and other strange gods had appeared from
out the house. Some of these stood respectfully at a distance; but two
of them, women, perpetrated the hostile act of clutching the master
around the neck. White Fang, however, was beginning to tolerate this
act. No harm seemed to come of it, while the noises the gods made were
certainly not threatening. These gods also made overtures to White Fang,
but he warned them off with a snarl, and the master did likewise with
word of mouth. At such times White Fang leaned in close against the
master's legs and received reassuring pats on the head.
The hound, under the command, "Dick! Lie down, sir!" had gone up the
steps and lain down to one side of the porch, still growling and keeping
a sullen watch on the intruder. Collie had been taken in charge by one
of the woman-gods, who held arms around her neck and petted and caressed
her; but Collie was very much perplexed and worried, whining and
restless, outraged by the permitted presence of this wolf and confident
that the gods were making a mistake.
All the gods started up the steps to enter the house. White Fang
followed closely at the master's heels. Dick, on the porch, growled, and
White Fang, on the steps, bristled and growled back.
"Take Collie inside and leave the two of them to fight it out," suggested
Scott's father. "After that they'll be friends."
"Then White Fang, to show his friendship, will have to be chief mourner
at the funeral," laughed the master.
The elder Scott looked incredulously, first at White Fang, then at Dick,
and finally at his son.
"You mean . . .?"
Weedon nodded his head. "I mean just that. You'd have a dead Dick
inside one minute--two minutes at the farthest."
He turned to White Fang. "Come on, you wolf. It's you that'll have to
come inside."
White Fang walked stiff-legged up the steps and across the porch, with
tail rigidly erect, keeping his eyes on Dick to guard against a flank
attack, and at the same time prepared for whatever fierce manifestation
of the unknown that might pounce out upon him from the interior of the
house. But no thing of fear pounced out, and when he had gained the
inside he scouted carefully around, looking at it and finding it not.
Then he lay down with a contented grunt at the master's feet, observing
all that went on, ever ready to spring to his feet and fight for life
with the terrors he felt must lurk under the trap-roof of the dwelling.
----------CHAPTER 4---------
The months came and went. There was plenty of food and no work in the
Southland, and White Fang lived fat and prosperous and happy. Not alone
was he in the geographical Southland, for he was in the Southland of
life. Human kindness was like a sun shining upon him, and he flourished
like a flower planted in good soil.
And yet he remained somehow different from other dogs. He knew the law
even better than did the dogs that had known no other life, and he
observed the law more punctiliously; but still there was about him a
suggestion of lurking ferocity, as though the Wild still lingered in him
and the wolf in him merely slept.
He never chummed with other dogs. Lonely he had lived, so far as his
kind was concerned, and lonely he would continue to live. In his
puppyhood, under the persecution of Lip-lip and the puppy-pack, and in
his fighting days with Beauty Smith, he had acquired a fixed aversion for
dogs. The natural course of his life had been diverted, and, recoiling
from his kind, he had clung to the human.
Besides, all Southland dogs looked upon him with suspicion. He aroused
in them their instinctive fear of the Wild, and they greeted him always
with snarl and growl and belligerent hatred. He, on the other hand,
learned that it was not necessary to use his teeth upon them. His naked
fangs and writhing lips were uniformly efficacious, rarely failing to
send a bellowing on-rushing dog back on its haunches.
But there was one trial in White Fang's life--Collie. She never gave him
a moment's peace. She was not so amenable to the law as he. She defied
all efforts of the master to make her become friends with White Fang.
Ever in his ears was sounding her sharp and nervous snarl. She had never
forgiven him the chicken-killing episode, and persistently held to the
belief that his intentions were bad. She found him guilty before the
act, and treated him accordingly. She became a pest to him, like a
policeman following him around the stable and the hounds, and, if he even
so much as glanced curiously at a pigeon or chicken, bursting into an
outcry of indignation and wrath. His favourite way of ignoring her was
to lie down, with his head on his fore-paws, and pretend sleep. This
always dumfounded and silenced her.
With the exception of Collie, all things went well with White Fang. He
had learned control and poise, and he knew the law. He achieved a
staidness, and calmness, and philosophic tolerance. He no longer lived
in a hostile environment. Danger and hurt and death did not lurk
everywhere about him. In time, the unknown, as a thing of terror and
menace ever impending, faded away. Life was soft and easy. It flowed
along smoothly, and neither fear nor foe lurked by the way.
He missed the snow without being aware of it. "An unduly long summer,"
would have been his thought had he thought about it; as it was, he merely
missed the snow in a vague, subconscious way. In the same fashion,
especially in the heat of summer when he suffered from the sun, he
experienced faint longings for the Northland. Their only effect upon
him, however, was to make him uneasy and restless without his knowing
what was the matter.
White Fang had never been very demonstrative. Beyond his snuggling and
the throwing of a crooning note into his love-growl, he had no way of
expressing his love. Yet it was given him to discover a third way. He
had always been susceptible to the laughter of the gods. Laughter had
affected him with madness, made him frantic with rage. But he did not
have it in him to be angry with the love-master, and when that god
elected to laugh at him in a good-natured, bantering way, he was
nonplussed. He could feel the pricking and stinging of the old anger as
it strove to rise up in him, but it strove against love. He could not be
angry; yet he had to do something. At first he was dignified, and the
master laughed the harder. Then he tried to be more dignified, and the
master laughed harder than before. In the end, the master laughed him
out of his dignity. His jaws slightly parted, his lips lifted a little,
and a quizzical expression that was more love than humour came into his
eyes. He had learned to laugh.
Likewise he learned to romp with the master, to be tumbled down and
rolled over, and be the victim of innumerable rough tricks. In return he
feigned anger, bristling and growling ferociously, and clipping his teeth
together in snaps that had all the seeming of deadly intention. But he
never forgot himself. Those snaps were always delivered on the empty
air. At the end of such a romp, when blow and cuff and snap and snarl
were fast and furious, they would break off suddenly and stand several
feet apart, glaring at each other. And then, just as suddenly, like the
sun rising on a stormy sea, they would begin to laugh. This would always
culminate with the master's arms going around White Fang's neck and
shoulders while the latter crooned and growled his love-song.
But nobody else ever romped with White Fang. He did not permit it. He
stood on his dignity, and when they attempted it, his warning snarl and
bristling mane were anything but playful. That he allowed the master
these liberties was no reason that he should be a common dog, loving here
and loving there, everybody's property for a romp and good time. He
loved with single heart and refused to cheapen himself or his love.
The master went out on horseback a great deal, and to accompany him was
one of White Fang's chief duties in life. In the Northland he had
evidenced his fealty by toiling in the harness; but there were no sleds
in the Southland, nor did dogs pack burdens on their backs. So he
rendered fealty in the new way, by running with the master's horse. The
longest day never played White Fang out. His was the gait of the wolf,
smooth, tireless and effortless, and at the end of fifty miles he would
come in jauntily ahead of the horse.
It was in connection with the riding, that White Fang achieved one other
mode of expression--remarkable in that he did it but twice in all his
life. The first time occurred when the master was trying to teach a
spirited thoroughbred the method of opening and closing gates without the
rider's dismounting. Time and again and many times he ranged the horse
up to the gate in the effort to close it and each time the horse became
frightened and backed and plunged away. It grew more nervous and excited
every moment. When it reared, the master put the spurs to it and made it
drop its fore-legs back to earth, whereupon it would begin kicking with
its hind-legs. White Fang watched the performance with increasing
anxiety until he could contain himself no longer, when he sprang in front
of the horse and barked savagely and warningly.
Though he often tried to bark thereafter, and the master encouraged him,
he succeeded only once, and then it was not in the master's presence. A
scamper across the pasture, a jackrabbit rising suddenly under the
horse's feet, a violent sheer, a stumble, a fall to earth, and a broken
leg for the master, was the cause of it. White Fang sprang in a rage at
the throat of the offending horse, but was checked by the master's voice.
"Home! Go home!" the master commanded when he had ascertained his
injury.
White Fang was disinclined to desert him. The master thought of writing
a note, but searched his pockets vainly for pencil and paper. Again he
commanded White Fang to go home.
The latter regarded him wistfully, started away, then returned and whined
softly. The master talked to him gently but seriously, and he cocked his
ears, and listened with painful intentness.
"That's all right, old fellow, you just run along home," ran the talk.
"Go on home and tell them what's happened to me. Home with you, you
wolf. Get along home!"
White Fang knew the meaning of "home," and though he did not understand
the remainder of the master's language, he knew it was his will that he
should go home. He turned and trotted reluctantly away. Then he
stopped, undecided, and looked back over his shoulder.
"Go home!" came the sharp command, and this time he obeyed.
The family was on the porch, taking the cool of the afternoon, when White
Fang arrived. He came in among them, panting, covered with dust.
"Weedon's back," Weedon's mother announced.
The children welcomed White Fang with glad cries and ran to meet him. He
avoided them and passed down the porch, but they cornered him against a
rocking-chair and the railing. He growled and tried to push by them.
Their mother looked apprehensively in their direction.
"I confess, he makes me nervous around the children," she said. "I have
a dread that he will turn upon them unexpectedly some day."
Growling savagely, White Fang sprang out of the corner, overturning the
boy and the girl. The mother called them to her and comforted them,
telling them not to bother White Fang.
"A wolf is a wolf!" commented Judge Scott. "There is no trusting one."
"But he is not all wolf," interposed Beth, standing for her brother in
his absence.
"You have only Weedon's opinion for that," rejoined the judge. "He
merely surmises that there is some strain of dog in White Fang; but as he
will tell you himself, he knows nothing about it. As for his
appearance--"
He did not finish his sentence. White Fang stood before him, growling
fiercely.
"Go away! Lie down, sir!" Judge Scott commanded.
White Fang turned to the love-master's wife. She screamed with fright as
he seized her dress in his teeth and dragged on it till the frail fabric
tore away. By this time he had become the centre of interest.
He had ceased from his growling and stood, head up, looking into their
faces. His throat worked spasmodically, but made no sound, while he
struggled with all his body, convulsed with the effort to rid himself of
the incommunicable something that strained for utterance.
"I hope he is not going mad," said Weedon's mother. "I told Weedon that
I was afraid the warm climate would not agree with an Arctic animal."
"He's trying to speak, I do believe," Beth announced.
At this moment speech came to White Fang, rushing up in a great burst of
barking.
"Something has happened to Weedon," his wife said decisively.
They were all on their feet now, and White Fang ran down the steps,
looking back for them to follow. For the second and last time in his
life he had barked and made himself understood.
After this event he found a warmer place in the hearts of the Sierra
Vista people, and even the groom whose arm he had slashed admitted that
he was a wise dog even if he was a wolf. Judge Scott still held to the
same opinion, and proved it to everybody's dissatisfaction by
measurements and descriptions taken from the encyclopaedia and various
works on natural history.
The days came and went, streaming their unbroken sunshine over the Santa
Clara Valley. But as they grew shorter and White Fang's second winter in
the Southland came on, he made a strange discovery. Collie's teeth were
no longer sharp. There was a playfulness about her nips and a gentleness
that prevented them from really hurting him. He forgot that she had made
life a burden to him, and when she disported herself around him he
responded solemnly, striving to be playful and becoming no more than
ridiculous.
One day she led him off on a long chase through the back-pasture land
into the woods. It was the afternoon that the master was to ride, and
White Fang knew it. The horse stood saddled and waiting at the door.
White Fang hesitated. But there was that in him deeper than all the law
he had learned, than the customs that had moulded him, than his love for
the master, than the very will to live of himself; and when, in the
moment of his indecision, Collie nipped him and scampered off, he turned
and followed after. The master rode alone that day; and in the woods,
side by side, White Fang ran with Collie, as his mother, Kiche, and old
One Eye had run long years before in the silent Northland forest.
|
Winesburg, Ohio.chapter 1 | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter 10 respectability using the context provided. | chapter 1 the book of the grotesque|chapter 10 respectability|chapter 12 tandy | In Winesburg, Wash Williams works as a telegraph operator, he is the ugliest man to be seen in the town. He is immense, with thin legs and neck, and is extremely filthy. His hands, however, though fat, are shapely and look sensitive. The townsfolk avoid any contact with him and so does he. Any complaints about his filth are ignored, as he is a very competent telegraph operator. It is George Willard who manages to extricate Wash's life story out. Once on seeing George and a young girl embracing and kissing while taking a night walk, Wash, the next day, accompanies George, and tells his whole story. It turns out that he had once been married to a very beautiful girl, whom he was madly in love with. He had bought a house for her, and catered to her every need. But he finally realized that she used to bring her lovers to his own house, in his absence. In anger and humiliation he and Wash Williams packed her off to her mother's house with all the money from his bank account. Much later, the girl's mother had sent for him. The girl's house turned out to be a stylish, respectable house. Wash, while waiting for her, began feeling that perhaps he has wronged her and has decided to take her back. But when the girl entered, she was naked. Her mother had apparently removed all her clothes and sent her to him, in the hope that he would be mesmerized by her and would make love to her. Wash, in his anger, slapped the mother and walked out. Wash has told his story to George, wishing him to understand the vile nature of women. He considered all women to be hateful, convincing creatures, who should be best avoided and he wanted George to remember this. |
----------CHAPTER 1 THE BOOK OF THE GROTESQUE---------
THE BOOK OF THE GROTESQUE
The writer, an old man with a white mustache, had some
difficulty in getting into bed. The windows of the
house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look
at the trees when he awoke in the morning. A carpenter
came to fix the bed so that it would be on a level with
the window.
Quite a fuss was made about the matter. The carpenter,
who had been a soldier in the Civil War, came into the
writer's room and sat down to talk of building a
platform for the purpose of raising the bed. The writer
had cigars lying about and the carpenter smoked.
For a time the two men talked of the raising of the bed
and then they talked of other things. The soldier got
on the subject of the war. The writer, in fact, led him
to that subject. The carpenter had once been a prisoner
in Andersonville prison and had lost a brother. The
brother had died of starvation, and whenever the
carpenter got upon that subject he cried. He, like the
old writer, had a white mustache, and when he cried he
puckered up his lips and the mustache bobbed up and
down. The weeping old man with the cigar in his mouth
was ludicrous. The plan the writer had for the raising
of his bed was forgotten and later the carpenter did it
in his own way and the writer, who was past sixty, had
to help himself with a chair when he went to bed at
night.
In his bed the writer rolled over on his side and lay
quite still. For years he had been beset with notions
concerning his heart. He was a hard smoker and his
heart fluttered. The idea had got into his mind that he
would some time die unexpectedly and always when he got
into bed he thought of that. It did not alarm him. The
effect in fact was quite a special thing and not easily
explained. It made him more alive, there in bed, than
at any other time. Perfectly still he lay and his body
was old and not of much use any more, but something
inside him was altogether young. He was like a pregnant
woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby
but a youth. No, it wasn't a youth, it was a woman,
young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. It is
absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the old
writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to the
fluttering of his heart. The thing to get at is what
the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was
thinking about.
The old writer, like all of the people in the world,
had got, during his long life, a great many notions in
his head. He had once been quite handsome and a number
of women had been in love with him. And then, of
course, he had known people, many people, known them in
a peculiarly intimate way that was different from the
way in which you and I know people. At least that is
what the writer thought and the thought pleased him.
Why quarrel with an old man concerning his thoughts?
In the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream.
As he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious,
figures began to appear before his eyes. He imagined
the young indescribable thing within himself was
driving a long procession of figures before his eyes.
You see the interest in all this lies in the figures
that went before the eyes of the writer. They were all
grotesques. All of the men and women the writer had
ever known had become grotesques.
The grotesques were not all horrible. Some were
amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all
drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her
grotesqueness. When she passed he made a noise like a
small dog whimpering. Had you come into the room you
might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams
or perhaps indigestion.
For an hour the procession of grotesques passed before
the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a
painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to
write. Some one of the grotesques had made a deep
impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it.
At his desk the writer worked for an hour. In the end
he wrote a book which he called "The Book of the
Grotesque." It was never published, but I saw it once
and it made an indelible impression on my mind. The
book had one central thought that is very strange and
has always remained with me. By remembering it I have
been able to understand many people and things that I
was never able to understand before. The thought was
involved but a simple statement of it would be
something like this:
That in the beginning when the world was young there
were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a
truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a
composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in
the world were the truths and they were all beautiful.
The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his
book. I will not try to tell you of all of them. There
was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion,
the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of
profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. Hundreds and
hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful.
And then the people came along. Each as he appeared
snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite
strong snatched up a dozen of them.
It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The
old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the
matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the
people took one of the truths to himself, called it his
truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a
grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood.
You can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent
all of his life writing and was filled with words,
would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter.
The subject would become so big in his mind that he
himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. He
didn't, I suppose, for the same reason that he never
published the book. It was the young thing inside him
that saved the old man.
Concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed for the
writer, I only mentioned him because he, like many of
what are called very common people, became the nearest
thing to what is understandable and lovable of all the
grotesques in the writer's book.
----------CHAPTER 10 RESPECTABILITY---------
RESPECTABILITY
If you have lived in cities and have walked in the park
on a summer afternoon, you have perhaps seen, blinking
in a corner of his iron cage, a huge, grotesque kind of
monkey, a creature with ugly, sagging, hairless skin
below his eyes and a bright purple underbody. This
monkey is a true monster. In the completeness of his
ugliness he achieved a kind of perverted beauty.
Children stopping before the cage are fascinated, men
turn away with an air of disgust, and women linger for
a moment, trying perhaps to remember which one of their
male acquaintances the thing in some faint way
resembles.
Had you been in the earlier years of your life a
citizen of the village of Winesburg, Ohio, there would
have been for you no mystery in regard to the beast in
his cage. "It is like Wash Williams," you would have
said. "As he sits in the corner there, the beast is
exactly like old Wash sitting on the grass in the
station yard on a summer evening after he has closed
his office for the night."
Wash Williams, the telegraph operator of Winesburg, was
the ugliest thing in town. His girth was immense, his
neck thin, his legs feeble. He was dirty. Everything
about him was unclean. Even the whites of his eyes
looked soiled.
I go too fast. Not everything about Wash was unclean.
He took care of his hands. His fingers were fat, but
there was something sensitive and shapely in the hand
that lay on the table by the instrument in the
telegraph office. In his youth Wash Williams had been
called the best telegraph operator in the state, and in
spite of his degradement to the obscure office at
Winesburg, he was still proud of his ability.
Wash Williams did not associate with the men of the
town in which he lived. "I'll have nothing to do with
them," he said, looking with bleary eyes at the men who
walked along the station platform past the telegraph
office. Up along Main Street he went in the evening to
Ed Griffith's saloon, and after drinking unbelievable
quantities of beer staggered off to his room in the New
Willard House and to his bed for the night.
Wash Williams was a man of courage. A thing had
happened to him that made him hate life, and he hated
it wholeheartedly, with the abandon of a poet. First of
all, he hated women. "Bitches," he called them. His
feeling toward men was somewhat different. He pitied
them. "Does not every man let his life be managed for
him by some bitch or another?" he asked.
In Winesburg no attention was paid to Wash Williams and
his hatred of his fellows. Once Mrs. White, the
banker's wife, complained to the telegraph company,
saying that the office in Winesburg was dirty and
smelled abominably, but nothing came of her complaint.
Here and there a man respected the operator.
Instinctively the man felt in him a glowing resentment
of something he had not the courage to resent. When
Wash walked through the streets such a one had an
instinct to pay him homage, to raise his hat or to bow
before him. The superintendent who had supervision over
the telegraph operators on the railroad that went
through Winesburg felt that way. He had put Wash into
the obscure office at Winesburg to avoid discharging
him, and he meant to keep him there. When he received
the letter of complaint from the banker's wife, he tore
it up and laughed unpleasantly. For some reason he
thought of his own wife as he tore up the letter.
Wash Williams once had a wife. When he was still a
young man he married a woman at Dayton, Ohio. The woman
was tall and slender and had blue eyes and yellow hair.
Wash was himself a comely youth. He loved the woman
with a love as absorbing as the hatred he later felt
for all women.
In all of Winesburg there was but one person who knew
the story of the thing that had made ugly the person
and the character of Wash Williams. He once told the
story to George Willard and the telling of the tale
came about in this way:
George Willard went one evening to walk with Belle
Carpenter, a trimmer of women's hats who worked in a
millinery shop kept by Mrs. Kate McHugh. The young man
was not in love with the woman, who, in fact, had a
suitor who worked as bartender in Ed Griffith's saloon,
but as they walked about under the trees they
occasionally embraced. The night and their own thoughts
had aroused something in them. As they were returning
to Main Street they passed the little lawn beside the
railroad station and saw Wash Williams apparently
asleep on the grass beneath a tree. On the next evening
the operator and George Willard walked out together.
Down the railroad they went and sat on a pile of
decaying railroad ties beside the tracks. It was then
that the operator told the young reporter his story of
hate.
Perhaps a dozen times George Willard and the strange,
shapeless man who lived at his father's hotel had been
on the point of talking. The young man looked at the
hideous, leering face staring about the hotel dining
room and was consumed with curiosity. Something he saw
lurking in the staring eyes told him that the man who
had nothing to say to others had nevertheless something
to say to him. On the pile of railroad ties on the
summer evening, he waited expectantly. When the
operator remained silent and seemed to have changed his
mind about talking, he tried to make conversation.
"Were you ever married, Mr. Williams?" he began. "I
suppose you were and your wife is dead, is that it?"
Wash Williams spat forth a succession of vile oaths.
"Yes, she is dead," he agreed. "She is dead as all
women are dead. She is a living-dead thing, walking in
the sight of men and making the earth foul by her
presence." Staring into the boy's eyes, the man became
purple with rage. "Don't have fool notions in your
head," he commanded. "My wife, she is dead; yes,
surely. I tell you, all women are dead, my mother, your
mother, that tall dark woman who works in the millinery
store and with whom I saw you walking about
yesterday--all of them, they are all dead. I tell you
there is something rotten about them. I was married,
sure. My wife was dead before she married me, she was a
foul thing come out a woman more foul. She was a thing
sent to make life unbearable to me. I was a fool, do
you see, as you are now, and so I married this woman. I
would like to see men a little begin to understand
women. They are sent to prevent men making the world
worth while. It is a trick in Nature. Ugh! They are
creeping, crawling, squirming things, they with their
soft hands and their blue eyes. The sight of a woman
sickens me. Why I don't kill every woman I see I don't
know."
Half frightened and yet fascinated by the light burning
in the eyes of the hideous old man, George Willard
listened, afire with curiosity. Darkness came on and he
leaned forward trying to see the face of the man who
talked. When, in the gathering darkness, he could no
longer see the purple, bloated face and the burning
eyes, a curious fancy came to him. Wash Williams talked
in low even tones that made his words seem the more
terrible. In the darkness the young reporter found
himself imagining that he sat on the railroad ties
beside a comely young man with black hair and black
shining eyes. There was something almost beautiful in
the voice of Wash Williams, the hideous, telling his
story of hate.
The telegraph operator of Winesburg, sitting in the
darkness on the railroad ties, had become a poet.
Hatred had raised him to that elevation. "It is because
I saw you kissing the lips of that Belle Carpenter that
I tell you my story," he said. "What happened to me may
next happen to you. I want to put you on your guard.
Already you may be having dreams in your head. I want
to destroy them."
Wash Williams began telling the story of his married
life with the tall blonde girl with the blue eyes whom
he had met when he was a young operator at Dayton,
Ohio. Here and there his story was touched with moments
of beauty intermingled with strings of vile curses. The
operator had married the daughter of a dentist who was
the youngest of three sisters. On his marriage day,
because of his ability, he was promoted to a position
as dispatcher at an increased salary and sent to an
office at Columbus, Ohio. There he settled down with
his young wife and began buying a house on the
installment plan.
The young telegraph operator was madly in love. With a
kind of religious fervor he had managed to go through
the pitfalls of his youth and to remain virginal until
after his marriage. He made for George Willard a
picture of his life in the house at Columbus, Ohio,
with the young wife. "In the garden back of our house
we planted vegetables," he said, "you know, peas and
corn and such things. We went to Columbus in early
March and as soon as the days became warm I went to
work in the garden. With a spade I turned up the black
ground while she ran about laughing and pretending to
be afraid of the worms I uncovered. Late in April came
the planting. In the little paths among the seed beds
she stood holding a paper bag in her hand. The bag was
filled with seeds. A few at a time she handed me the
seeds that I might thrust them into the warm, soft
ground."
For a moment there was a catch in the voice of the man
talking in the darkness. "I loved her," he said. "I
don't claim not to be a fool. I love her yet. There in
the dusk in the spring evening I crawled along the
black ground to her feet and groveled before her. I
kissed her shoes and the ankles above her shoes. When
the hem of her garment touched my face I trembled. When
after two years of that life I found she had managed to
acquire three other lovers who came regularly to our
house when I was away at work, I didn't want to touch
them or her. I just sent her home to her mother and
said nothing. There was nothing to say. I had four
hundred dollars in the bank and I gave her that. I
didn't ask her reasons. I didn't say anything. When she
had gone I cried like a silly boy. Pretty soon I had a
chance to sell the house and I sent that money to her."
Wash Williams and George Willard arose from the pile of
railroad ties and walked along the tracks toward town.
The operator finished his tale quickly, breathlessly.
"Her mother sent for me," he said. "She wrote me a
letter and asked me to come to their house at Dayton.
When I got there it was evening about this time."
Wash Williams' voice rose to a half scream. "I sat in
the parlor of that house two hours. Her mother took me
in there and left me. Their house was stylish. They
were what is called respectable people. There were
plush chairs and a couch in the room. I was trembling
all over. I hated the men I thought had wronged her. I
was sick of living alone and wanted her back. The
longer I waited the more raw and tender I became. I
thought that if she came in and just touched me with
her hand I would perhaps faint away. I ached to forgive
and forget."
Wash Williams stopped and stood staring at George
Willard. The boy's body shook as from a chill. Again
the man's voice became soft and low. "She came into the
room naked," he went on. "Her mother did that. While I
sat there she was taking the girl's clothes off,
perhaps coaxing her to do it. First I heard voices at
the door that led into a little hallway and then it
opened softly. The girl was ashamed and stood perfectly
still staring at the floor. The mother didn't come into
the room. When she had pushed the girl in through the
door she stood in the hallway waiting, hoping we
would--well, you see--waiting."
George Willard and the telegraph operator came into the
main street of Winesburg. The lights from the store
windows lay bright and shining on the sidewalks. People
moved about laughing and talking. The young reporter
felt ill and weak. In imagination, he also became old
and shapeless. "I didn't get the mother killed," said
Wash Williams, staring up and down the street. "I
struck her once with a chair and then the neighbors
came in and took it away. She screamed so loud you see.
I won't ever have a chance to kill her now. She died of
a fever a month after that happened."
----------CHAPTER 12 TANDY---------
TANDY
Until she was seven years old she lived in an old
unpainted house on an unused road that led off Trunion
Pike. Her father gave her but little attention and her
mother was dead. The father spent his time talking and
thinking of religion. He proclaimed himself an agnostic
and was so absorbed in destroying the ideas of God that
had crept into the minds of his neighbors that he never
saw God manifesting himself in the little child that,
half forgotten, lived here and there on the bounty of
her dead mother's relatives.
A stranger came to Winesburg and saw in the child what
the father did not see. He was a tall, redhaired young
man who was almost always drunk. Sometimes he sat in a
chair before the New Willard House with Tom Hard, the
father. As Tom talked, declaring there could be no God,
the stranger smiled and winked at the bystanders. He
and Tom became friends and were much together.
The stranger was the son of a rich merchant of
Cleveland and had come to Winesburg on a mission. He
wanted to cure himself of the habit of drink, and
thought that by escaping from his city associates and
living in a rural community he would have a better
chance in the struggle with the appetite that was
destroying him.
His sojourn in Winesburg was not a success. The
dullness of the passing hours led to his drinking
harder than ever. But he did succeed in doing
something. He gave a name rich with meaning to Tom
Hard's daughter.
One evening when he was recovering from a long debauch
the stranger came reeling along the main street of the
town. Tom Hard sat in a chair before the New Willard
House with his daughter, then a child of five, on his
knees. Beside him on the board sidewalk sat young
George Willard. The stranger dropped into a chair
beside them. His body shook and when he tried to talk
his voice trembled.
It was late evening and darkness lay over the town and
over the railroad that ran along the foot of a little
incline before the hotel. Somewhere in the distance,
off to the west, there was a prolonged blast from the
whistle of a passenger engine. A dog that had been
sleeping in the roadway arose and barked. The stranger
began to babble and made a prophecy concerning the
child that lay in the arms of the agnostic.
"I came here to quit drinking," he said, and tears
began to run down his cheeks. He did not look at Tom
Hard, but leaned forward and stared into the darkness
as though seeing a vision. "I ran away to the country
to be cured, but I am not cured. There is a reason." He
turned to look at the child who sat up very straight on
her father's knee and returned the look.
The stranger touched Tom Hard on the arm. "Drink is not
the only thing to which I am addicted," he said. "There
is something else. I am a lover and have not found my
thing to love. That is a big point if you know enough
to realize what I mean. It makes my destruction
inevitable, you see. There are few who understand
that."
The stranger became silent and seemed overcome with
sadness, but another blast from the whistle of the
passenger engine aroused him. "I have not lost faith. I
proclaim that. I have only been brought to the place
where I know my faith will not be realized," he
declared hoarsely. He looked hard at the child and
began to address her, paying no more attention to the
father. "There is a woman coming," he said, and his
voice was now sharp and earnest. "I have missed her,
you see. She did not come in my time. You may be the
woman. It would be like fate to let me stand in her
presence once, on such an evening as this, when I have
destroyed myself with drink and she is as yet only a
child."
The shoulders of the stranger shook violently, and when
he tried to roll a cigarette the paper fell from his
trembling fingers. He grew angry and scolded. "They
think it's easy to be a woman, to be loved, but I know
better," he declared. Again he turned to the child. "I
understand," he cried. "Perhaps of all men I alone
understand."
His glance again wandered away to the darkened street.
"I know about her, although she has never crossed my
path," he said softly. "I know about her struggles and
her defeats. It is because of her defeats that she is
to me the lovely one. Out of her defeats has been born
a new quality in woman. I have a name for it. I call it
Tandy. I made up the name when I was a true dreamer and
before my body became vile. It is the quality of being
strong to be loved. It is something men need from women
and that they do not get."
The stranger arose and stood before Tom Hard. His body
rocked back and forth and he seemed about to fall, but
instead he dropped to his knees on the sidewalk and
raised the hands of the little girl to his drunken
lips. He kissed them ecstatically. "Be Tandy, little
one," he pleaded. "Dare to be strong and courageous.
That is the road. Venture anything. Be brave enough to
dare to be loved. Be something more than man or woman.
Be Tandy."
The stranger arose and staggered off down the street.
A day or two later he got aboard a train and returned
to his home in Cleveland. On the summer evening, after
the talk before the hotel, Tom Hard took the girl child
to the house of a relative where she had been invited
to spend the night. As he went along in the darkness
under the trees he forgot the babbling voice of the
stranger and his mind returned to the making of
arguments by which he might destroy men's faith in God.
He spoke his daughter's name and she began to weep.
"I don't want to be called that," she declared. "I
want to be called Tandy--Tandy Hard." The child wept so
bitterly that Tom Hard was touched and tried to comfort
her. He stopped beneath a tree and, taking her into his
arms, began to caress her. "Be good, now," he said
sharply; but she would not be quieted. With childish
abandon she gave herself over to grief, her voice
breaking the evening stillness of the street. "I want
to be Tandy. I want to be Tandy. I want to be Tandy
Hard," she cried, shaking her head and sobbing as
though her young strength were not enough to bear the
vision the words of the drunkard had brought to her.
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for the book of the grotesque with the given context. | chapter 18 the untold lie|the book of the grotesque | An old writer has a bed that his carpenter raised up so the writer can see out the window. Unfortunately, it is now difficult for him to get in and out of the bed. From this bed, he dreams "a dream that was not a dream" in which all the people has had ever known pass before his eyes. These figures are grotesques. From this parade of figures, he creates the stories in this book. |
----------CHAPTER 18 THE UNTOLD LIE---------
THE UNTOLD LIE
Ray Pearson and Hal Winters were farm hands employed on
a farm three miles north of Winesburg. On Saturday
afternoons they came into town and wandered about
through the streets with other fellows from the
country.
Ray was a quiet, rather nervous man of perhaps fifty
with a brown beard and shoulders rounded by too much
and too hard labor. In his nature he was as unlike Hal
Winters as two men can be unlike.
Ray was an altogether serious man and had a little
sharp-featured wife who had also a sharp voice. The
two, with half a dozen thin-legged children, lived in a
tumble-down frame house beside a creek at the back end
of the Wills farm where Ray was employed.
Hal Winters, his fellow employee, was a young fellow.
He was not of the Ned Winters family, who were very
respectable people in Winesburg, but was one of the
three sons of the old man called Windpeter Winters who
had a sawmill near Unionville, six miles away, and who
was looked upon by everyone in Winesburg as a confirmed
old reprobate.
People from the part of Northern Ohio in which
Winesburg lies will remember old Windpeter by his
unusual and tragic death. He got drunk one evening in
town and started to drive home to Unionville along the
railroad tracks. Henry Brattenburg, the butcher, who
lived out that way, stopped him at the edge of the town
and told him he was sure to meet the down train but
Windpeter slashed at him with his whip and drove on.
When the train struck and killed him and his two horses
a farmer and his wife who were driving home along a
nearby road saw the accident. They said that old
Windpeter stood up on the seat of his wagon, raving and
swearing at the onrushing locomotive, and that he
fairly screamed with delight when the team, maddened by
his incessant slashing at them, rushed straight ahead
to certain death. Boys like young George Willard and
Seth Richmond will remember the incident quite vividly
because, although everyone in our town said that the
old man would go straight to hell and that the
community was better off without him, they had a secret
conviction that he knew what he was doing and admired
his foolish courage. Most boys have seasons of wishing
they could die gloriously instead of just being grocery
clerks and going on with their humdrum lives.
But this is not the story of Windpeter Winters nor yet
of his son Hal who worked on the Wills farm with Ray
Pearson. It is Ray's story. It will, however, be
necessary to talk a little of young Hal so that you
will get into the spirit of it.
Hal was a bad one. Everyone said that. There were
three of the Winters boys in that family, John, Hal,
and Edward, all broad-shouldered big fellows like old
Windpeter himself and all fighters and woman-chasers
and generally all-around bad ones.
Hal was the worst of the lot and always up to some
devilment. He once stole a load of boards from his
father's mill and sold them in Winesburg. With the
money he bought himself a suit of cheap, flashy
clothes. Then he got drunk and when his father came
raving into town to find him, they met and fought with
their fists on Main Street and were arrested and put
into jail together.
Hal went to work on the Wills farm because there was a
country school teacher out that way who had taken his
fancy. He was only twenty-two then but had already been
in two or three of what were spoken of in Winesburg as
"women scrapes." Everyone who heard of his infatuation
for the school teacher was sure it would turn out
badly. "He'll only get her into trouble, you'll see,"
was the word that went around.
And so these two men, Ray and Hal, were at work in a
field on a day in the late October. They were husking
corn and occasionally something was said and they
laughed. Then came silence. Ray, who was the more
sensitive and always minded things more, had chapped
hands and they hurt. He put them into his coat pockets
and looked away across the fields. He was in a sad,
distracted mood and was affected by the beauty of the
country. If you knew the Winesburg country in the fall
and how the low hills are all splashed with yellows and
reds you would understand his feeling. He began to
think of the time, long ago when he was a young fellow
living with his father, then a baker in Winesburg, and
how on such days he had wandered away into the woods to
gather nuts, hunt rabbits, or just to loaf about and
smoke his pipe. His marriage had come about through one
of his days of wandering. He had induced a girl who
waited on trade in his father's shop to go with him and
something had happened. He was thinking of that
afternoon and how it had affected his whole life when a
spirit of protest awoke in him. He had forgotten about
Hal and muttered words. "Tricked by Gad, that's what I
was, tricked by life and made a fool of," he said in a
low voice.
As though understanding his thoughts, Hal Winters spoke
up. "Well, has it been worth while? What about it, eh?
What about marriage and all that?" he asked and then
laughed. Hal tried to keep on laughing but he too was
in an earnest mood. He began to talk earnestly. "Has a
fellow got to do it?" he asked. "Has he got to be
harnessed up and driven through life like a horse?"
Hal didn't wait for an answer but sprang to his feet
and began to walk back and forth between the corn
shocks. He was getting more and more excited. Bending
down suddenly he picked up an ear of the yellow corn
and threw it at the fence. "I've got Nell Gunther in
trouble," he said. "I'm telling you, but you keep your
mouth shut."
Ray Pearson arose and stood staring. He was almost a
foot shorter than Hal, and when the younger man came
and put his two hands on the older man's shoulders they
made a picture. There they stood in the big empty field
with the quiet corn shocks standing in rows behind them
and the red and yellow hills in the distance, and from
being just two indifferent workmen they had become all
alive to each other. Hal sensed it and because that was
his way he laughed. "Well, old daddy," he said
awkwardly, "come on, advise me. I've got Nell in
trouble. Perhaps you've been in the same fix yourself.
I know what everyone would say is the right thing to
do, but what do you say? Shall I marry and settle down?
Shall I put myself into the harness to be worn out like
an old horse? You know me, Ray. There can't anyone
break me but I can break myself. Shall I do it or shall
I tell Nell to go to the devil? Come on, you tell me.
Whatever you say, Ray, I'll do."
Ray couldn't answer. He shook Hal's hands loose and
turning walked straight away toward the barn. He was a
sensitive man and there were tears in his eyes. He knew
there was only one thing to say to Hal Winters, son of
old Windpeter Winters, only one thing that all his own
training and all the beliefs of the people he knew
would approve, but for his life he couldn't say what he
knew he should say.
At half-past four that afternoon Ray was puttering
about the barnyard when his wife came up the lane along
the creek and called him. After the talk with Hal he
hadn't returned to the cornfield but worked about the
barn. He had already done the evening chores and had
seen Hal, dressed and ready for a roistering night in
town, come out of the farmhouse and go into the road.
Along the path to his own house he trudged behind his
wife, looking at the ground and thinking. He couldn't
make out what was wrong. Every time he raised his eyes
and saw the beauty of the country in the failing light
he wanted to do something he had never done before,
shout or scream or hit his wife with his fists or
something equally unexpected and terrifying. Along the
path he went scratching his head and trying to make it
out. He looked hard at his wife's back but she seemed
all right.
She only wanted him to go into town for groceries and
as soon as she had told him what she wanted began to
scold. "You're always puttering," she said. "Now I want
you to hustle. There isn't anything in the house for
supper and you've got to get to town and back in a
hurry."
Ray went into his own house and took an overcoat from a
hook back of the door. It was torn about the pockets
and the collar was shiny. His wife went into the
bedroom and presently came out with a soiled cloth in
one hand and three silver dollars in the other.
Somewhere in the house a child wept bitterly and a dog
that had been sleeping by the stove arose and yawned.
Again the wife scolded. "The children will cry and cry.
Why are you always puttering?" she asked.
Ray went out of the house and climbed the fence into a
field. It was just growing dark and the scene that lay
before him was lovely. All the low hills were washed
with color and even the little clusters of bushes in
the corners of the fences were alive with beauty. The
whole world seemed to Ray Pearson to have become alive
with something just as he and Hal had suddenly become
alive when they stood in the corn field staring into
each other's eyes.
The beauty of the country about Winesburg was too much
for Ray on that fall evening. That is all there was to
it. He could not stand it. Of a sudden he forgot all
about being a quiet old farm hand and throwing off the
torn overcoat began to run across the field. As he ran
he shouted a protest against his life, against all
life, against everything that makes life ugly. "There
was no promise made," he cried into the empty spaces
that lay about him. "I didn't promise my Minnie
anything and Hal hasn't made any promise to Nell. I
know he hasn't. She went into the woods with him
because she wanted to go. What he wanted she wanted.
Why should I pay? Why should Hal pay? Why should anyone
pay? I don't want Hal to become old and worn out. I'll
tell him. I won't let it go on. I'll catch Hal before
he gets to town and I'll tell him."
Ray ran clumsily and once he stumbled and fell down.
"I must catch Hal and tell him," he kept thinking, and
although his breath came in gasps he kept running
harder and harder. As he ran he thought of things that
hadn't come into his mind for years--how at the time he
married he had planned to go west to his uncle in
Portland, Oregon--how he hadn't wanted to be a farm
hand, but had thought when he got out West he would go
to sea and be a sailor or get a job on a ranch and ride
a horse into Western towns, shouting and laughing and
waking the people in the houses with his wild cries.
Then as he ran he remembered his children and in fancy
felt their hands clutching at him. All of his thoughts
of himself were involved with the thoughts of Hal and
he thought the children were clutching at the younger
man also. "They are the accidents of life, Hal," he
cried. "They are not mine or yours. I had nothing to do
with them."
Darkness began to spread over the fields as Ray Pearson
ran on and on. His breath came in little sobs. When he
came to the fence at the edge of the road and
confronted Hal Winters, all dressed up and smoking a
pipe as he walked jauntily along, he could not have
told what he thought or what he wanted.
Ray Pearson lost his nerve and this is really the end
of the story of what happened to him. It was almost
dark when he got to the fence and he put his hands on
the top bar and stood staring. Hal Winters jumped a
ditch and coming up close to Ray put his hands into his
pockets and laughed. He seemed to have lost his own
sense of what had happened in the corn field and when
he put up a strong hand and took hold of the lapel of
Ray's coat he shook the old man as he might have shaken
a dog that had misbehaved.
"You came to tell me, eh?" he said. "Well, never mind
telling me anything. I'm not a coward and I've already
made up my mind." He laughed again and jumped back
across the ditch. "Nell ain't no fool," he said. "She
didn't ask me to marry her. I want to marry her. I want
to settle down and have kids."
Ray Pearson also laughed. He felt like laughing at
himself and all the world.
As the form of Hal Winters disappeared in the dusk that
lay over the road that led to Winesburg, he turned and
walked slowly back across the fields to where he had
left his torn overcoat. As he went some memory of
pleasant evenings spent with the thin-legged children
in the tumble-down house by the creek must have come
into his mind, for he muttered words. "It's just as
well. Whatever I told him would have been a lie," he
said softly, and then his form also disappeared into
the darkness of the fields.
----------THE BOOK OF THE GROTESQUE---------
THE BOOK OF THE GROTESQUE
The writer, an old man with a white mustache, had some
difficulty in getting into bed. The windows of the
house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look
at the trees when he awoke in the morning. A carpenter
came to fix the bed so that it would be on a level with
the window.
Quite a fuss was made about the matter. The carpenter,
who had been a soldier in the Civil War, came into the
writer's room and sat down to talk of building a
platform for the purpose of raising the bed. The writer
had cigars lying about and the carpenter smoked.
For a time the two men talked of the raising of the bed
and then they talked of other things. The soldier got
on the subject of the war. The writer, in fact, led him
to that subject. The carpenter had once been a prisoner
in Andersonville prison and had lost a brother. The
brother had died of starvation, and whenever the
carpenter got upon that subject he cried. He, like the
old writer, had a white mustache, and when he cried he
puckered up his lips and the mustache bobbed up and
down. The weeping old man with the cigar in his mouth
was ludicrous. The plan the writer had for the raising
of his bed was forgotten and later the carpenter did it
in his own way and the writer, who was past sixty, had
to help himself with a chair when he went to bed at
night.
In his bed the writer rolled over on his side and lay
quite still. For years he had been beset with notions
concerning his heart. He was a hard smoker and his
heart fluttered. The idea had got into his mind that he
would some time die unexpectedly and always when he got
into bed he thought of that. It did not alarm him. The
effect in fact was quite a special thing and not easily
explained. It made him more alive, there in bed, than
at any other time. Perfectly still he lay and his body
was old and not of much use any more, but something
inside him was altogether young. He was like a pregnant
woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby
but a youth. No, it wasn't a youth, it was a woman,
young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. It is
absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the old
writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to the
fluttering of his heart. The thing to get at is what
the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was
thinking about.
The old writer, like all of the people in the world,
had got, during his long life, a great many notions in
his head. He had once been quite handsome and a number
of women had been in love with him. And then, of
course, he had known people, many people, known them in
a peculiarly intimate way that was different from the
way in which you and I know people. At least that is
what the writer thought and the thought pleased him.
Why quarrel with an old man concerning his thoughts?
In the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream.
As he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious,
figures began to appear before his eyes. He imagined
the young indescribable thing within himself was
driving a long procession of figures before his eyes.
You see the interest in all this lies in the figures
that went before the eyes of the writer. They were all
grotesques. All of the men and women the writer had
ever known had become grotesques.
The grotesques were not all horrible. Some were
amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all
drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her
grotesqueness. When she passed he made a noise like a
small dog whimpering. Had you come into the room you
might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams
or perhaps indigestion.
For an hour the procession of grotesques passed before
the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a
painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to
write. Some one of the grotesques had made a deep
impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it.
At his desk the writer worked for an hour. In the end
he wrote a book which he called "The Book of the
Grotesque." It was never published, but I saw it once
and it made an indelible impression on my mind. The
book had one central thought that is very strange and
has always remained with me. By remembering it I have
been able to understand many people and things that I
was never able to understand before. The thought was
involved but a simple statement of it would be
something like this:
That in the beginning when the world was young there
were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a
truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a
composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in
the world were the truths and they were all beautiful.
The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his
book. I will not try to tell you of all of them. There
was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion,
the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of
profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. Hundreds and
hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful.
And then the people came along. Each as he appeared
snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite
strong snatched up a dozen of them.
It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The
old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the
matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the
people took one of the truths to himself, called it his
truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a
grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood.
You can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent
all of his life writing and was filled with words,
would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter.
The subject would become so big in his mind that he
himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. He
didn't, I suppose, for the same reason that he never
published the book. It was the young thing inside him
that saved the old man.
Concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed for the
writer, I only mentioned him because he, like many of
what are called very common people, became the nearest
thing to what is understandable and lovable of all the
grotesques in the writer's book.
|
Winesburg, Ohio.chapter 2 | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for departure based on the provided context. | chapter 2 hands|chapter 22 departure|departure | George Willard leaves Winesburg to go make his way in the big city. Several people see him off at the station, but Helen White is too late to wish him farewell. He thinks of mundane things as he waits for the train to pull out of the station. The conductor, who has seen many young men starting off on this journey, says nothing to George about what an important day this is. |
----------CHAPTER 2 HANDS---------
HANDS
Upon the half decayed veranda of a small frame house
that stood near the edge of a ravine near the town of
Winesburg, Ohio, a fat little old man walked nervously
up and down. Across a long field that had been seeded
for clover but that had produced only a dense crop of
yellow mustard weeds, he could see the public highway
along which went a wagon filled with berry pickers
returning from the fields. The berry pickers, youths
and maidens, laughed and shouted boisterously. A boy
clad in a blue shirt leaped from the wagon and
attempted to drag after him one of the maidens, who
screamed and protested shrilly. The feet of the boy in
the road kicked up a cloud of dust that floated across
the face of the departing sun. Over the long field came
a thin girlish voice. "Oh, you Wing Biddlebaum, comb
your hair, it's falling into your eyes," commanded the
voice to the man, who was bald and whose nervous little
hands fiddled about the bare white forehead as though
arranging a mass of tangled locks.
Wing Biddlebaum, forever frightened and beset by a
ghostly band of doubts, did not think of himself as in
any way a part of the life of the town where he had
lived for twenty years. Among all the people of
Winesburg but one had come close to him. With George
Willard, son of Tom Willard, the proprietor of the New
Willard House, he had formed something like a
friendship. George Willard was the reporter on the
Winesburg Eagle and sometimes in the evenings he walked
out along the highway to Wing Biddlebaum's house. Now
as the old man walked up and down on the veranda, his
hands moving nervously about, he was hoping that George
Willard would come and spend the evening with him.
After the wagon containing the berry pickers had
passed, he went across the field through the tall
mustard weeds and climbing a rail fence peered
anxiously along the road to the town. For a moment he
stood thus, rubbing his hands together and looking up
and down the road, and then, fear overcoming him, ran
back to walk again upon the porch on his own house.
In the presence of George Willard, Wing Biddlebaum, who
for twenty years had been the town mystery, lost
something of his timidity, and his shadowy personality,
submerged in a sea of doubts, came forth to look at the
world. With the young reporter at his side, he ventured
in the light of day into Main Street or strode up and
down on the rickety front porch of his own house,
talking excitedly. The voice that had been low and
trembling became shrill and loud. The bent figure
straightened. With a kind of wriggle, like a fish
returned to the brook by the fisherman, Biddlebaum the
silent began to talk, striving to put into words the
ideas that had been accumulated by his mind during long
years of silence.
Wing Biddlebaum talked much with his hands. The slender
expressive fingers, forever active, forever striving to
conceal themselves in his pockets or behind his back,
came forth and became the piston rods of his machinery
of expression.
The story of Wing Biddlebaum is a story of hands. Their
restless activity, like unto the beating of the wings
of an imprisoned bird, had given him his name. Some
obscure poet of the town had thought of it. The hands
alarmed their owner. He wanted to keep them hidden away
and looked with amazement at the quiet inexpressive
hands of other men who worked beside him in the fields,
or passed, driving sleepy teams on country roads.
When he talked to George Willard, Wing Biddlebaum
closed his fists and beat with them upon a table or on
the walls of his house. The action made him more
comfortable. If the desire to talk came to him when the
two were walking in the fields, he sought out a stump
or the top board of a fence and with his hands pounding
busily talked with renewed ease.
The story of Wing Biddlebaum's hands is worth a book in
itself. Sympathetically set forth it would tap many
strange, beautiful qualities in obscure men. It is a
job for a poet. In Winesburg the hands had attracted
attention merely because of their activity. With them
Wing Biddlebaum had picked as high as a hundred and
forty quarts of strawberries in a day. They became his
distinguishing feature, the source of his fame. Also
they made more grotesque an already grotesque and
elusive individuality. Winesburg was proud of the hands
of Wing Biddlebaum in the same spirit in which it was
proud of Banker White's new stone house and Wesley
Moyer's bay stallion, Tony Tip, that had won the
two-fifteen trot at the fall races in Cleveland.
As for George Willard, he had many times wanted to ask
about the hands. At times an almost overwhelming
curiosity had taken hold of him. He felt that there
must be a reason for their strange activity and their
inclination to keep hidden away and only a growing
respect for Wing Biddlebaum kept him from blurting out
the questions that were often in his mind.
Once he had been on the point of asking. The two were
walking in the fields on a summer afternoon and had
stopped to sit upon a grassy bank. All afternoon Wing
Biddlebaum had talked as one inspired. By a fence he
had stopped and beating like a giant woodpecker upon
the top board had shouted at George Willard, condemning
his tendency to be too much influenced by the people
about him, "You are destroying yourself," he cried.
"You have the inclination to be alone and to dream and
you are afraid of dreams. You want to be like others in
town here. You hear them talk and you try to imitate
them."
On the grassy bank Wing Biddlebaum had tried again to
drive his point home. His voice became soft and
reminiscent, and with a sigh of contentment he launched
into a long rambling talk, speaking as one lost in a
dream.
Out of the dream Wing Biddlebaum made a picture for
George Willard. In the picture men lived again in a
kind of pastoral golden age. Across a green open
country came clean-limbed young men, some afoot, some
mounted upon horses. In crowds the young men came to
gather about the feet of an old man who sat beneath a
tree in a tiny garden and who talked to them.
Wing Biddlebaum became wholly inspired. For once he
forgot the hands. Slowly they stole forth and lay upon
George Willard's shoulders. Something new and bold came
into the voice that talked. "You must try to forget all
you have learned," said the old man. "You must begin to
dream. From this time on you must shut your ears to the
roaring of the voices."
Pausing in his speech, Wing Biddlebaum looked long and
earnestly at George Willard. His eyes glowed. Again he
raised the hands to caress the boy and then a look of
horror swept over his face.
With a convulsive movement of his body, Wing Biddlebaum
sprang to his feet and thrust his hands deep into his
trousers pockets. Tears came to his eyes. "I must be
getting along home. I can talk no more with you," he
said nervously.
Without looking back, the old man had hurried down the
hillside and across a meadow, leaving George Willard
perplexed and frightened upon the grassy slope. With a
shiver of dread the boy arose and went along the road
toward town. "I'll not ask him about his hands," he
thought, touched by the memory of the terror he had
seen in the man's eyes. "There's something wrong, but I
don't want to know what it is. His hands have something
to do with his fear of me and of everyone."
And George Willard was right. Let us look briefly into
the story of the hands. Perhaps our talking of them
will arouse the poet who will tell the hidden wonder
story of the influence for which the hands were but
fluttering pennants of promise.
In his youth Wing Biddlebaum had been a school teacher
in a town in Pennsylvania. He was not then known as
Wing Biddlebaum, but went by the less euphonic name of
Adolph Myers. As Adolph Myers he was much loved by the
boys of his school.
Adolph Myers was meant by nature to be a teacher of
youth. He was one of those rare, little-understood men
who rule by a power so gentle that it passes as a
lovable weakness. In their feeling for the boys under
their charge such men are not unlike the finer sort of
women in their love of men.
And yet that is but crudely stated. It needs the poet
there. With the boys of his school, Adolph Myers had
walked in the evening or had sat talking until dusk
upon the schoolhouse steps lost in a kind of dream.
Here and there went his hands, caressing the shoulders
of the boys, playing about the tousled heads. As he
talked his voice became soft and musical. There was a
caress in that also. In a way the voice and the hands,
the stroking of the shoulders and the touching of the
hair were a part of the schoolmaster's effort to carry
a dream into the young minds. By the caress that was in
his fingers he expressed himself. He was one of those
men in whom the force that creates life is diffused,
not centralized. Under the caress of his hands doubt
and disbelief went out of the minds of the boys and
they began also to dream.
And then the tragedy. A half-witted boy of the school
became enamored of the young master. In his bed at
night he imagined unspeakable things and in the morning
went forth to tell his dreams as facts. Strange,
hideous accusations fell from his loosehung lips.
Through the Pennsylvania town went a shiver. Hidden,
shadowy doubts that had been in men's minds concerning
Adolph Myers were galvanized into beliefs.
The tragedy did not linger. Trembling lads were jerked
out of bed and questioned. "He put his arms about me,"
said one. "His fingers were always playing in my hair,"
said another.
One afternoon a man of the town, Henry Bradford, who
kept a saloon, came to the schoolhouse door. Calling
Adolph Myers into the school yard he began to beat him
with his fists. As his hard knuckles beat down into the
frightened face of the school-master, his wrath became
more and more terrible. Screaming with dismay, the
children ran here and there like disturbed insects.
"I'll teach you to put your hands on my boy, you
beast," roared the saloon keeper, who, tired of beating
the master, had begun to kick him about the yard.
Adolph Myers was driven from the Pennsylvania town in
the night. With lanterns in their hands a dozen men
came to the door of the house where he lived alone and
commanded that he dress and come forth. It was raining
and one of the men had a rope in his hands. They had
intended to hang the school-master, but something in his
figure, so small, white, and pitiful, touched their
hearts and they let him escape. As he ran away into the
darkness they repented of their weakness and ran after
him, swearing and throwing sticks and great balls of
soft mud at the figure that screamed and ran faster and
faster into the darkness.
For twenty years Adolph Myers had lived alone in
Winesburg. He was but forty but looked sixty-five. The
name of Biddlebaum he got from a box of goods seen at a
freight station as he hurried through an eastern Ohio
town. He had an aunt in Winesburg, a black-toothed old
woman who raised chickens, and with her he lived until
she died. He had been ill for a year after the
experience in Pennsylvania, and after his recovery
worked as a day laborer in the fields, going timidly
about and striving to conceal his hands. Although he
did not understand what had happened he felt that the
hands must be to blame. Again and again the fathers of
the boys had talked of the hands. "Keep your hands to
yourself," the saloon keeper had roared, dancing, with
fury in the schoolhouse yard.
Upon the veranda of his house by the ravine, Wing
Biddlebaum continued to walk up and down until the sun
had disappeared and the road beyond the field was lost
in the grey shadows. Going into his house he cut slices
of bread and spread honey upon them. When the rumble of
the evening train that took away the express cars
loaded with the day's harvest of berries had passed and
restored the silence of the summer night, he went again
to walk upon the veranda. In the darkness he could not
see the hands and they became quiet. Although he still
hungered for the presence of the boy, who was the
medium through which he expressed his love of man, the
hunger became again a part of his loneliness and his
waiting. Lighting a lamp, Wing Biddlebaum washed the
few dishes soiled by his simple meal and, setting up a
folding cot by the screen door that led to the porch,
prepared to undress for the night. A few stray white
bread crumbs lay on the cleanly washed floor by the
table; putting the lamp upon a low stool he began to
pick up the crumbs, carrying them to his mouth one by
one with unbelievable rapidity. In the dense blotch of
light beneath the table, the kneeling figure looked
like a priest engaged in some service of his church.
The nervous expressive fingers, flashing in and out of
the light, might well have been mistaken for the
fingers of the devotee going swiftly through decade
after decade of his rosary.
----------CHAPTER 22 DEPARTURE---------
DEPARTURE
Young George Willard got out of bed at four in the
morning. It was April and the young tree leaves were
just coming out of their buds. The trees along the
residence streets in Winesburg are maple and the seeds
are winged. When the wind blows they whirl crazily
about, filling the air and making a carpet underfoot.
George came downstairs into the hotel office carrying a
brown leather bag. His trunk was packed for departure.
Since two o'clock he had been awake thinking of the
journey he was about to take and wondering what he
would find at the end of his journey. The boy who slept
in the hotel office lay on a cot by the door. His mouth
was open and he snored lustily. George crept past the
cot and went out into the silent deserted main street.
The east was pink with the dawn and long streaks of
light climbed into the sky where a few stars still
shone.
Beyond the last house on Trunion Pike in Winesburg
there is a great stretch of open fields. The fields are
owned by farmers who live in town and drive homeward at
evening along Trunion Pike in light creaking wagons. In
the fields are planted berries and small fruits. In the
late afternoon in the hot summers when the road and the
fields are covered with dust, a smoky haze lies over
the great flat basin of land. To look across it is like
looking out across the sea. In the spring when the land
is green the effect is somewhat different. The land
becomes a wide green billiard table on which tiny human
insects toil up and down.
All through his boyhood and young manhood George
Willard had been in the habit of walking on Trunion
Pike. He had been in the midst of the great open place
on winter nights when it was covered with snow and only
the moon looked down at him; he had been there in the
fall when bleak winds blew and on summer evenings when
the air vibrated with the song of insects. On the April
morning he wanted to go there again, to walk again in
the silence. He did walk to where the road dipped down
by a little stream two miles from town and then turned
and walked silently back again. When he got to Main
Street clerks were sweeping the sidewalks before the
stores. "Hey, you George. How does it feel to be going
away?" they asked.
The westbound train leaves Winesburg at seven
forty-five in the morning. Tom Little is conductor. His
train runs from Cleveland to where it connects with a
great trunk line railroad with terminals in Chicago and
New York. Tom has what in railroad circles is called an
"easy run." Every evening he returns to his family. In
the fall and spring he spends his Sundays fishing in
Lake Erie. He has a round red face and small blue eyes.
He knows the people in the towns along his railroad
better than a city man knows the people who live in his
apartment building.
George came down the little incline from the New
Willard House at seven o'clock. Tom Willard carried his
bag. The son had become taller than the father.
On the station platform everyone shook the young man's
hand. More than a dozen people waited about. Then they
talked of their own affairs. Even Will Henderson, who
was lazy and often slept until nine, had got out of
bed. George was embarrassed. Gertrude Wilmot, a tall
thin woman of fifty who worked in the Winesburg post
office, came along the station platform. She had never
before paid any attention to George. Now she stopped
and put out her hand. In two words she voiced what
everyone felt. "Good luck," she said sharply and then
turning went on her way.
When the train came into the station George felt
relieved. He scampered hurriedly aboard. Helen White
came running along Main Street hoping to have a parting
word with him, but he had found a seat and did not see
her. When the train started Tom Little punched his
ticket, grinned and, although he knew George well and
knew on what adventure he was just setting out, made no
comment. Tom had seen a thousand George Willards go out
of their towns to the city. It was a commonplace enough
incident with him. In the smoking car there was a man
who had just invited Tom to go on a fishing trip to
Sandusky Bay. He wanted to accept the invitation and
talk over details.
George glanced up and down the car to be sure no one
was looking, then took out his pocket-book and counted
his money. His mind was occupied with a desire not to
appear green. Almost the last words his father had said
to him concerned the matter of his behavior when he got
to the city. "Be a sharp one," Tom Willard had said.
"Keep your eyes on your money. Be awake. That's the
ticket. Don't let anyone think you're a greenhorn."
After George counted his money he looked out of the
window and was surprised to see that the train was
still in Winesburg.
The young man, going out of his town to meet the
adventure of life, began to think but he did not think
of anything very big or dramatic. Things like his
mother's death, his departure from Winesburg, the
uncertainty of his future life in the city, the serious
and larger aspects of his life did not come into his
mind.
He thought of little things--Turk Smollet wheeling
boards through the main street of his town in the
morning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned, who had once
stayed overnight at his father's hotel, Butch Wheeler
the lamp lighter of Winesburg hurrying through the
streets on a summer evening and holding a torch in his
hand, Helen White standing by a window in the Winesburg
post office and putting a stamp on an envelope.
The young man's mind was carried away by his growing
passion for dreams. One looking at him would not have
thought him particularly sharp. With the recollection
of little things occupying his mind he closed his eyes
and leaned back in the car seat. He stayed that way for
a long time and when he aroused himself and again
looked out of the car window the town of Winesburg had
disappeared and his life there had become but a
background on which to paint the dreams of his manhood.
----------DEPARTURE---------
DEPARTURE
Young George Willard got out of bed at four in the
morning. It was April and the young tree leaves were
just coming out of their buds. The trees along the
residence streets in Winesburg are maple and the seeds
are winged. When the wind blows they whirl crazily
about, filling the air and making a carpet underfoot.
George came downstairs into the hotel office carrying a
brown leather bag. His trunk was packed for departure.
Since two o'clock he had been awake thinking of the
journey he was about to take and wondering what he
would find at the end of his journey. The boy who slept
in the hotel office lay on a cot by the door. His mouth
was open and he snored lustily. George crept past the
cot and went out into the silent deserted main street.
The east was pink with the dawn and long streaks of
light climbed into the sky where a few stars still
shone.
Beyond the last house on Trunion Pike in Winesburg
there is a great stretch of open fields. The fields are
owned by farmers who live in town and drive homeward at
evening along Trunion Pike in light creaking wagons. In
the fields are planted berries and small fruits. In the
late afternoon in the hot summers when the road and the
fields are covered with dust, a smoky haze lies over
the great flat basin of land. To look across it is like
looking out across the sea. In the spring when the land
is green the effect is somewhat different. The land
becomes a wide green billiard table on which tiny human
insects toil up and down.
All through his boyhood and young manhood George
Willard had been in the habit of walking on Trunion
Pike. He had been in the midst of the great open place
on winter nights when it was covered with snow and only
the moon looked down at him; he had been there in the
fall when bleak winds blew and on summer evenings when
the air vibrated with the song of insects. On the April
morning he wanted to go there again, to walk again in
the silence. He did walk to where the road dipped down
by a little stream two miles from town and then turned
and walked silently back again. When he got to Main
Street clerks were sweeping the sidewalks before the
stores. "Hey, you George. How does it feel to be going
away?" they asked.
The westbound train leaves Winesburg at seven
forty-five in the morning. Tom Little is conductor. His
train runs from Cleveland to where it connects with a
great trunk line railroad with terminals in Chicago and
New York. Tom has what in railroad circles is called an
"easy run." Every evening he returns to his family. In
the fall and spring he spends his Sundays fishing in
Lake Erie. He has a round red face and small blue eyes.
He knows the people in the towns along his railroad
better than a city man knows the people who live in his
apartment building.
George came down the little incline from the New
Willard House at seven o'clock. Tom Willard carried his
bag. The son had become taller than the father.
On the station platform everyone shook the young man's
hand. More than a dozen people waited about. Then they
talked of their own affairs. Even Will Henderson, who
was lazy and often slept until nine, had got out of
bed. George was embarrassed. Gertrude Wilmot, a tall
thin woman of fifty who worked in the Winesburg post
office, came along the station platform. She had never
before paid any attention to George. Now she stopped
and put out her hand. In two words she voiced what
everyone felt. "Good luck," she said sharply and then
turning went on her way.
When the train came into the station George felt
relieved. He scampered hurriedly aboard. Helen White
came running along Main Street hoping to have a parting
word with him, but he had found a seat and did not see
her. When the train started Tom Little punched his
ticket, grinned and, although he knew George well and
knew on what adventure he was just setting out, made no
comment. Tom had seen a thousand George Willards go out
of their towns to the city. It was a commonplace enough
incident with him. In the smoking car there was a man
who had just invited Tom to go on a fishing trip to
Sandusky Bay. He wanted to accept the invitation and
talk over details.
George glanced up and down the car to be sure no one
was looking, then took out his pocket-book and counted
his money. His mind was occupied with a desire not to
appear green. Almost the last words his father had said
to him concerned the matter of his behavior when he got
to the city. "Be a sharp one," Tom Willard had said.
"Keep your eyes on your money. Be awake. That's the
ticket. Don't let anyone think you're a greenhorn."
After George counted his money he looked out of the
window and was surprised to see that the train was
still in Winesburg.
The young man, going out of his town to meet the
adventure of life, began to think but he did not think
of anything very big or dramatic. Things like his
mother's death, his departure from Winesburg, the
uncertainty of his future life in the city, the serious
and larger aspects of his life did not come into his
mind.
He thought of little things--Turk Smollet wheeling
boards through the main street of his town in the
morning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned, who had once
stayed overnight at his father's hotel, Butch Wheeler
the lamp lighter of Winesburg hurrying through the
streets on a summer evening and holding a torch in his
hand, Helen White standing by a window in the Winesburg
post office and putting a stamp on an envelope.
The young man's mind was carried away by his growing
passion for dreams. One looking at him would not have
thought him particularly sharp. With the recollection
of little things occupying his mind he closed his eyes
and leaned back in the car seat. He stayed that way for
a long time and when he aroused himself and again
looked out of the car window the town of Winesburg had
disappeared and his life there had become but a
background on which to paint the dreams of his manhood.
|
Winesburg, Ohio.chapter 3 | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 3 paper pills, utilizing the provided context. | The old man, with the white beard, was a doctor, married to a girl with money. Within a year of their marriage, she had died and left him all her money. This old man's knuckles were unnaturally large and looked like unpainted wooden balls. Doctor Reefy had a strange habit of writing his thoughts on paper and then crumpling the paper into balls. These papers contained his written thoughts. Out of many of these thoughts he would form a truth when this truth grew and clouded the world he would throw it away and begin new with little thoughts. Doctor Reefy's courtship with the wealthy girl was quite curious. After her parent's death she began to view suitors for marriage and had sorted down to two suitors. These suitors were totally unlike each other. One, a son of a jeweler who only spoke of virginity, while the other said nothing at all but always managed to corner her for a kiss in the darkness. For a time she thought that she would marry the one who spoke on virginity. But after a while she began detecting a greater lust in him beneath the clothing of his talks. In the meanwhile she got pregnant by the second one. She went to Doctor Reefy for help, and from then onwards, never left him. She lost her unborn baby in an illness, and later on in the fall, she married Doctor Reefy. The doctor used to read to her all this thoughts which were written on those bits of paper which he rolled. She died in the following spring. |
----------CHAPTER 3 PAPER PILLS---------
PAPER PILLS
He was an old man with a white beard and huge nose and
hands. Long before the time during which we will know
him, he was a doctor and drove a jaded white horse from
house to house through the streets of Winesburg. Later
he married a girl who had money. She had been left a
large fertile farm when her father died. The girl was
quiet, tall, and dark, and to many people she seemed
very beautiful. Everyone in Winesburg wondered why she
married the doctor. Within a year after the marriage
she died.
The knuckles of the doctor's hands were extraordinarily
large. When the hands were closed they looked like
clusters of unpainted wooden balls as large as walnuts
fastened together by steel rods. He smoked a cob pipe
and after his wife's death sat all day in his empty
office close by a window that was covered with cobwebs.
He never opened the window. Once on a hot day in August
he tried but found it stuck fast and after that he
forgot all about it.
Winesburg had forgotten the old man, but in Doctor
Reefy there were the seeds of something very fine.
Alone in his musty office in the Heffner Block above
the Paris Dry Goods Company's store, he worked
ceaselessly, building up something that he himself
destroyed. Little pyramids of truth he erected and
after erecting knocked them down again that he might
have the truths to erect other pyramids.
Doctor Reefy was a tall man who had worn one suit of
clothes for ten years. It was frayed at the sleeves and
little holes had appeared at the knees and elbows. In
the office he wore also a linen duster with huge
pockets into which he continually stuffed scraps of
paper. After some weeks the scraps of paper became
little hard round balls, and when the pockets were
filled he dumped them out upon the floor. For ten years
he had but one friend, another old man named John
Spaniard who owned a tree nursery. Sometimes, in a
playful mood, old Doctor Reefy took from his pockets a
handful of the paper balls and threw them at the
nursery man. "That is to confound you, you blathering
old sentimentalist," he cried, shaking with laughter.
The story of Doctor Reefy and his courtship of the tall
dark girl who became his wife and left her money to him
is a very curious story. It is delicious, like the
twisted little apples that grow in the orchards of
Winesburg. In the fall one walks in the orchards and
the ground is hard with frost underfoot. The apples
have been taken from the trees by the pickers. They
have been put in barrels and shipped to the cities
where they will be eaten in apartments that are filled
with books, magazines, furniture, and people. On the
trees are only a few gnarled apples that the pickers
have rejected. They look like the knuckles of Doctor
Reefy's hands. One nibbles at them and they are
delicious. Into a little round place at the side of the
apple has been gathered all of its sweetness. One runs
from tree to tree over the frosted ground picking the
gnarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with
them. Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted
apples.
The girl and Doctor Reefy began their courtship on a
summer afternoon. He was forty-five then and already he
had begun the practice of filling his pockets with the
scraps of paper that became hard balls and were thrown
away. The habit had been formed as he sat in his buggy
behind the jaded white horse and went slowly along
country roads. On the papers were written thoughts,
ends of thoughts, beginnings of thoughts.
One by one the mind of Doctor Reefy had made the
thoughts. Out of many of them he formed a truth that
arose gigantic in his mind. The truth clouded the
world. It became terrible and then faded away and the
little thoughts began again.
The tall dark girl came to see Doctor Reefy because she
was in the family way and had become frightened. She
was in that condition because of a series of
circumstances also curious.
The death of her father and mother and the rich acres
of land that had come down to her had set a train of
suitors on her heels. For two years she saw suitors
almost every evening. Except two they were all alike.
They talked to her of passion and there was a strained
eager quality in their voices and in their eyes when
they looked at her. The two who were different were
much unlike each other. One of them, a slender young
man with white hands, the son of a jeweler in
Winesburg, talked continually of virginity. When he was
with her he was never off the subject. The other, a
black-haired boy with large ears, said nothing at all
but always managed to get her into the darkness, where
he began to kiss her.
For a time the tall dark girl thought she would marry
the jeweler's son. For hours she sat in silence
listening as he talked to her and then she began to be
afraid of something. Beneath his talk of virginity she
began to think there was a lust greater than in all the
others. At times it seemed to her that as he talked he
was holding her body in his hands. She imagined him
turning it slowly about in the white hands and staring
at it. At night she dreamed that he had bitten into her
body and that his jaws were dripping. She had the dream
three times, then she became in the family way to the
one who said nothing at all but who in the moment of
his passion actually did bite her shoulder so that for
days the marks of his teeth showed.
After the tall dark girl came to know Doctor Reefy it
seemed to her that she never wanted to leave him again.
She went into his office one morning and without her
saying anything he seemed to know what had happened to
her.
In the office of the doctor there was a woman, the wife
of the man who kept the bookstore in Winesburg. Like
all old-fashioned country practitioners, Doctor Reefy
pulled teeth, and the woman who waited held a
handkerchief to her teeth and groaned. Her husband was
with her and when the tooth was taken out they both
screamed and blood ran down on the woman's white dress.
The tall dark girl did not pay any attention. When the
woman and the man had gone the doctor smiled. "I will
take you driving into the country with me," he said.
For several weeks the tall dark girl and the doctor
were together almost every day. The condition that had
brought her to him passed in an illness, but she was
like one who has discovered the sweetness of the
twisted apples, she could not get her mind fixed again
upon the round perfect fruit that is eaten in the city
apartments. In the fall after the beginning of her
acquaintanceship with him she married Doctor Reefy and
in the following spring she died. During the winter he
read to her all of the odds and ends of thoughts he had
scribbled on the bits of paper. After he had read them
he laughed and stuffed them away in his pockets to
become round hard balls.
----------PAPER PILLS---------
PAPER PILLS
He was an old man with a white beard and huge nose and
hands. Long before the time during which we will know
him, he was a doctor and drove a jaded white horse from
house to house through the streets of Winesburg. Later
he married a girl who had money. She had been left a
large fertile farm when her father died. The girl was
quiet, tall, and dark, and to many people she seemed
very beautiful. Everyone in Winesburg wondered why she
married the doctor. Within a year after the marriage
she died.
The knuckles of the doctor's hands were extraordinarily
large. When the hands were closed they looked like
clusters of unpainted wooden balls as large as walnuts
fastened together by steel rods. He smoked a cob pipe
and after his wife's death sat all day in his empty
office close by a window that was covered with cobwebs.
He never opened the window. Once on a hot day in August
he tried but found it stuck fast and after that he
forgot all about it.
Winesburg had forgotten the old man, but in Doctor
Reefy there were the seeds of something very fine.
Alone in his musty office in the Heffner Block above
the Paris Dry Goods Company's store, he worked
ceaselessly, building up something that he himself
destroyed. Little pyramids of truth he erected and
after erecting knocked them down again that he might
have the truths to erect other pyramids.
Doctor Reefy was a tall man who had worn one suit of
clothes for ten years. It was frayed at the sleeves and
little holes had appeared at the knees and elbows. In
the office he wore also a linen duster with huge
pockets into which he continually stuffed scraps of
paper. After some weeks the scraps of paper became
little hard round balls, and when the pockets were
filled he dumped them out upon the floor. For ten years
he had but one friend, another old man named John
Spaniard who owned a tree nursery. Sometimes, in a
playful mood, old Doctor Reefy took from his pockets a
handful of the paper balls and threw them at the
nursery man. "That is to confound you, you blathering
old sentimentalist," he cried, shaking with laughter.
The story of Doctor Reefy and his courtship of the tall
dark girl who became his wife and left her money to him
is a very curious story. It is delicious, like the
twisted little apples that grow in the orchards of
Winesburg. In the fall one walks in the orchards and
the ground is hard with frost underfoot. The apples
have been taken from the trees by the pickers. They
have been put in barrels and shipped to the cities
where they will be eaten in apartments that are filled
with books, magazines, furniture, and people. On the
trees are only a few gnarled apples that the pickers
have rejected. They look like the knuckles of Doctor
Reefy's hands. One nibbles at them and they are
delicious. Into a little round place at the side of the
apple has been gathered all of its sweetness. One runs
from tree to tree over the frosted ground picking the
gnarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with
them. Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted
apples.
The girl and Doctor Reefy began their courtship on a
summer afternoon. He was forty-five then and already he
had begun the practice of filling his pockets with the
scraps of paper that became hard balls and were thrown
away. The habit had been formed as he sat in his buggy
behind the jaded white horse and went slowly along
country roads. On the papers were written thoughts,
ends of thoughts, beginnings of thoughts.
One by one the mind of Doctor Reefy had made the
thoughts. Out of many of them he formed a truth that
arose gigantic in his mind. The truth clouded the
world. It became terrible and then faded away and the
little thoughts began again.
The tall dark girl came to see Doctor Reefy because she
was in the family way and had become frightened. She
was in that condition because of a series of
circumstances also curious.
The death of her father and mother and the rich acres
of land that had come down to her had set a train of
suitors on her heels. For two years she saw suitors
almost every evening. Except two they were all alike.
They talked to her of passion and there was a strained
eager quality in their voices and in their eyes when
they looked at her. The two who were different were
much unlike each other. One of them, a slender young
man with white hands, the son of a jeweler in
Winesburg, talked continually of virginity. When he was
with her he was never off the subject. The other, a
black-haired boy with large ears, said nothing at all
but always managed to get her into the darkness, where
he began to kiss her.
For a time the tall dark girl thought she would marry
the jeweler's son. For hours she sat in silence
listening as he talked to her and then she began to be
afraid of something. Beneath his talk of virginity she
began to think there was a lust greater than in all the
others. At times it seemed to her that as he talked he
was holding her body in his hands. She imagined him
turning it slowly about in the white hands and staring
at it. At night she dreamed that he had bitten into her
body and that his jaws were dripping. She had the dream
three times, then she became in the family way to the
one who said nothing at all but who in the moment of
his passion actually did bite her shoulder so that for
days the marks of his teeth showed.
After the tall dark girl came to know Doctor Reefy it
seemed to her that she never wanted to leave him again.
She went into his office one morning and without her
saying anything he seemed to know what had happened to
her.
In the office of the doctor there was a woman, the wife
of the man who kept the bookstore in Winesburg. Like
all old-fashioned country practitioners, Doctor Reefy
pulled teeth, and the woman who waited held a
handkerchief to her teeth and groaned. Her husband was
with her and when the tooth was taken out they both
screamed and blood ran down on the woman's white dress.
The tall dark girl did not pay any attention. When the
woman and the man had gone the doctor smiled. "I will
take you driving into the country with me," he said.
For several weeks the tall dark girl and the doctor
were together almost every day. The condition that had
brought her to him passed in an illness, but she was
like one who has discovered the sweetness of the
twisted apples, she could not get her mind fixed again
upon the round perfect fruit that is eaten in the city
apartments. In the fall after the beginning of her
acquaintanceship with him she married Doctor Reefy and
in the following spring she died. During the winter he
read to her all of the odds and ends of thoughts he had
scribbled on the bits of paper. After he had read them
he laughed and stuffed them away in his pockets to
become round hard balls.
|
|
Winesburg, Ohio.chapter 9 | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for adventure with the given context. | Twenty-seven-year-old Alice Hindman has lived in Winesburg all her life. She works as a clerk in the dry goods store. When she was a young woman of sixteen, she had a romance with Ned Currie. Just before he went away to the city to make his career, they had sexual relations. When he first got to the city, Ned wrote to Alice regularly, but eventually he forgot about her. For a long time, Alice waited for him. Even when she acknowledged he was not coming, she could not give herself to another man. Now, realizing that she is becoming a hermit, and desperately needing love, Alice tries to reach out to people, but she becomes restless. One night, she runs out in the rain naked as an attempt to feel alive. She accosts an old, deaf man on the sidewalk, but then she is appalled with what she has done and crawls home. |
----------CHAPTER 9 ADVENTURE---------
ADVENTURE
Alice Hindman, a woman of twenty-seven when George
Willard was a mere boy, had lived in Winesburg all her
life. She clerked in Winney's Dry Goods Store and lived
with her mother, who had married a second husband.
Alice's step-father was a carriage painter, and given
to drink. His story is an odd one. It will be worth
telling some day.
At twenty-seven Alice was tall and somewhat slight.
Her head was large and overshadowed her body. Her
shoulders were a little stooped and her hair and eyes
brown. She was very quiet but beneath a placid exterior
a continual ferment went on.
When she was a girl of sixteen and before she began to
work in the store, Alice had an affair with a young
man. The young man, named Ned Currie, was older than
Alice. He, like George Willard, was employed on the
Winesburg Eagle and for a long time he went to see
Alice almost every evening. Together the two walked
under the trees through the streets of the town and
talked of what they would do with their lives. Alice
was then a very pretty girl and Ned Currie took her
into his arms and kissed her. He became excited and
said things he did not intend to say and Alice,
betrayed by her desire to have something beautiful come
into her rather narrow life, also grew excited. She
also talked. The outer crust of her life, all of her
natural diffidence and reserve, was torn away and she
gave herself over to the emotions of love. When, late
in the fall of her sixteenth year, Ned Currie went away
to Cleveland where he hoped to get a place on a city
newspaper and rise in the world, she wanted to go with
him. With a trembling voice she told him what was in
her mind. "I will work and you can work," she said. "I
do not want to harness you to a needless expense that
will prevent your making progress. Don't marry me now.
We will get along without that and we can be together.
Even though we live in the same house no one will say
anything. In the city we will be unknown and people
will pay no attention to us."
Ned Currie was puzzled by the determination and abandon
of his sweetheart and was also deeply touched. He had
wanted the girl to become his mistress but changed his
mind. He wanted to protect and care for her. "You don't
know what you're talking about," he said sharply; "you
may be sure I'll let you do no such thing. As soon as I
get a good job I'll come back. For the present you'll
have to stay here. It's the only thing we can do."
On the evening before he left Winesburg to take up his
new life in the city, Ned Currie went to call on Alice.
They walked about through the streets for an hour and
then got a rig from Wesley Moyer's livery and went for
a drive in the country. The moon came up and they found
themselves unable to talk. In his sadness the young man
forgot the resolutions he had made regarding his
conduct with the girl.
They got out of the buggy at a place where a long
meadow ran down to the bank of Wine Creek and there in
the dim light became lovers. When at midnight they
returned to town they were both glad. It did not seem
to them that anything that could happen in the future
could blot out the wonder and beauty of the thing that
had happened. "Now we will have to stick to each other,
whatever happens we will have to do that," Ned Currie
said as he left the girl at her father's door.
The young newspaper man did not succeed in getting a
place on a Cleveland paper and went west to Chicago.
For a time he was lonely and wrote to Alice almost
every day. Then he was caught up by the life of the
city; he began to make friends and found new interests
in life. In Chicago he boarded at a house where there
were several women. One of them attracted his attention
and he forgot Alice in Winesburg. At the end of a year
he had stopped writing letters, and only once in a long
time, when he was lonely or when he went into one of
the city parks and saw the moon shining on the grass as
it had shone that night on the meadow by Wine Creek,
did he think of her at all.
In Winesburg the girl who had been loved grew to be a
woman. When she was twenty-two years old her father,
who owned a harness repair shop, died suddenly. The
harness maker was an old soldier, and after a few
months his wife received a widow's pension. She used
the first money she got to buy a loom and became a
weaver of carpets, and Alice got a place in Winney's
store. For a number of years nothing could have induced
her to believe that Ned Currie would not in the end
return to her.
She was glad to be employed because the daily round of
toil in the store made the time of waiting seem less
long and uninteresting. She began to save money,
thinking that when she had saved two or three hundred
dollars she would follow her lover to the city and try
if her presence would not win back his affections.
Alice did not blame Ned Currie for what had happened in
the moonlight in the field, but felt that she could
never marry another man. To her the thought of giving
to another what she still felt could belong only to Ned
seemed monstrous. When other young men tried to attract
her attention she would have nothing to do with them.
"I am his wife and shall remain his wife whether he
comes back or not," she whispered to herself, and for
all of her willingness to support herself could not
have understood the growing modern idea of a woman's
owning herself and giving and taking for her own ends
in life.
Alice worked in the dry goods store from eight in the
morning until six at night and on three evenings a week
went back to the store to stay from seven until nine.
As time passed and she became more and more lonely she
began to practice the devices common to lonely people.
When at night she went upstairs into her own room she
knelt on the floor to pray and in her prayers whispered
things she wanted to say to her lover. She became
attached to inanimate objects, and because it was her
own, could not bare to have anyone touch the furniture
of her room. The trick of saving money, begun for a
purpose, was carried on after the scheme of going to
the city to find Ned Currie had been given up. It
became a fixed habit, and when she needed new clothes
she did not get them. Sometimes on rainy afternoons in
the store she got out her bank book and, letting it lie
open before her, spent hours dreaming impossible dreams
of saving money enough so that the interest would
support both herself and her future husband.
"Ned always liked to travel about," she thought. "I'll
give him the chance. Some day when we are married and I
can save both his money and my own, we will be rich.
Then we can travel together all over the world."
In the dry goods store weeks ran into months and months
into years as Alice waited and dreamed of her lover's
return. Her employer, a grey old man with false teeth
and a thin grey mustache that drooped down over his
mouth, was not given to conversation, and sometimes, on
rainy days and in the winter when a storm raged in Main
Street, long hours passed when no customers came in.
Alice arranged and rearranged the stock. She stood near
the front window where she could look down the deserted
street and thought of the evenings when she had walked
with Ned Currie and of what he had said. "We will have
to stick to each other now." The words echoed and
re-echoed through the mind of the maturing woman. Tears
came into her eyes. Sometimes when her employer had
gone out and she was alone in the store she put her
head on the counter and wept. "Oh, Ned, I am waiting,"
she whispered over and over, and all the time the
creeping fear that he would never come back grew
stronger within her.
In the spring when the rains have passed and before the
long hot days of summer have come, the country about
Winesburg is delightful. The town lies in the midst of
open fields, but beyond the fields are pleasant patches
of woodlands. In the wooded places are many little
cloistered nooks, quiet places where lovers go to sit
on Sunday afternoons. Through the trees they look out
across the fields and see farmers at work about the
barns or people driving up and down on the roads. In
the town bells ring and occasionally a train passes,
looking like a toy thing in the distance.
For several years after Ned Currie went away Alice did
not go into the wood with the other young people on
Sunday, but one day after he had been gone for two or
three years and when her loneliness seemed unbearable,
she put on her best dress and set out. Finding a little
sheltered place from which she could see the town and a
long stretch of the fields, she sat down. Fear of age
and ineffectuality took possession of her. She could
not sit still, and arose. As she stood looking out over
the land something, perhaps the thought of never
ceasing life as it expresses itself in the flow of the
seasons, fixed her mind on the passing years. With a
shiver of dread, she realized that for her the beauty
and freshness of youth had passed. For the first time
she felt that she had been cheated. She did not blame
Ned Currie and did not know what to blame. Sadness
swept over her. Dropping to her knees, she tried to
pray, but instead of prayers words of protest came to
her lips. "It is not going to come to me. I will never
find happiness. Why do I tell myself lies?" she cried,
and an odd sense of relief came with this, her first
bold attempt to face the fear that had become a part of
her everyday life.
In the year when Alice Hindman became twenty-five two
things happened to disturb the dull uneventfulness of
her days. Her mother married Bush Milton, the carriage
painter of Winesburg, and she herself became a member
of the Winesburg Methodist Church. Alice joined the
church because she had become frightened by the
loneliness of her position in life. Her mother's second
marriage had emphasized her isolation. "I am becoming
old and queer. If Ned comes he will not want me. In the
city where he is living men are perpetually young.
There is so much going on that they do not have time to
grow old," she told herself with a grim little smile,
and went resolutely about the business of becoming
acquainted with people. Every Thursday evening when the
store had closed she went to a prayer meeting in the
basement of the church and on Sunday evening attended a
meeting of an organization called The Epworth League.
When Will Hurley, a middle-aged man who clerked in a
drug store and who also belonged to the church, offered
to walk home with her she did not protest. "Of course I
will not let him make a practice of being with me, but
if he comes to see me once in a long time there can be
no harm in that," she told herself, still determined in
her loyalty to Ned Currie.
Without realizing what was happening, Alice was trying
feebly at first, but with growing determination, to get
a new hold upon life. Beside the drug clerk she walked
in silence, but sometimes in the darkness as they went
stolidly along she put out her hand and touched softly
the folds of his coat. When he left her at the gate
before her mother's house she did not go indoors, but
stood for a moment by the door. She wanted to call to
the drug clerk, to ask him to sit with her in the
darkness on the porch before the house, but was afraid
he would not understand. "It is not him that I want,"
she told herself; "I want to avoid being so much alone.
If I am not careful I will grow unaccustomed to being
with people."
* * *
During the early fall of her twenty-seventh year a
passionate restlessness took possession of Alice. She
could not bear to be in the company of the drug clerk,
and when, in the evening, he came to walk with her she
sent him away. Her mind became intensely active and
when, weary from the long hours of standing behind the
counter in the store, she went home and crawled into
bed, she could not sleep. With staring eyes she looked
into the darkness. Her imagination, like a child
awakened from long sleep, played about the room. Deep
within her there was something that would not be
cheated by phantasies and that demanded some definite
answer from life.
Alice took a pillow into her arms and held it tightly
against her breasts. Getting out of bed, she arranged a
blanket so that in the darkness it looked like a form
lying between the sheets and, kneeling beside the bed,
she caressed it, whispering words over and over, like a
refrain. "Why doesn't something happen? Why am I left
here alone?" she muttered. Although she sometimes
thought of Ned Currie, she no longer depended on him.
Her desire had grown vague. She did not want Ned Currie
or any other man. She wanted to be loved, to have
something answer the call that was growing louder and
louder within her.
And then one night when it rained Alice had an
adventure. It frightened and confused her. She had come
home from the store at nine and found the house empty.
Bush Milton had gone off to town and her mother to the
house of a neighbor. Alice went upstairs to her room
and undressed in the darkness. For a moment she stood
by the window hearing the rain beat against the glass
and then a strange desire took possession of her.
Without stopping to think of what she intended to do,
she ran downstairs through the dark house and out into
the rain. As she stood on the little grass plot before
the house and felt the cold rain on her body a mad
desire to run naked through the streets took possession
of her.
She thought that the rain would have some creative and
wonderful effect on her body. Not for years had she
felt so full of youth and courage. She wanted to leap
and run, to cry out, to find some other lonely human
and embrace him. On the brick sidewalk before the house
a man stumbled homeward. Alice started to run. A wild,
desperate mood took possession of her. "What do I care
who it is. He is alone, and I will go to him," she
thought; and then without stopping to consider the
possible result of her madness, called softly. "Wait!"
she cried. "Don't go away. Whoever you are, you must
wait."
The man on the sidewalk stopped and stood listening.
He was an old man and somewhat deaf. Putting his hand
to his mouth, he shouted. "What? What say?" he called.
Alice dropped to the ground and lay trembling. She was
so frightened at the thought of what she had done that
when the man had gone on his way she did not dare get
to her feet, but crawled on hands and knees through the
grass to the house. When she got to her own room she
bolted the door and drew her dressing table across the
doorway. Her body shook as with a chill and her hands
trembled so that she had difficulty getting into her
nightdress. When she got into bed she buried her face
in the pillow and wept brokenheartedly. "What is the
matter with me? I will do something dreadful if I am
not careful," she thought, and turning her face to the
wall, began trying to force herself to face bravely the
fact that many people must live and die alone, even in
Winesburg.
----------ADVENTURE---------
ADVENTURE
Alice Hindman, a woman of twenty-seven when George
Willard was a mere boy, had lived in Winesburg all her
life. She clerked in Winney's Dry Goods Store and lived
with her mother, who had married a second husband.
Alice's step-father was a carriage painter, and given
to drink. His story is an odd one. It will be worth
telling some day.
At twenty-seven Alice was tall and somewhat slight.
Her head was large and overshadowed her body. Her
shoulders were a little stooped and her hair and eyes
brown. She was very quiet but beneath a placid exterior
a continual ferment went on.
When she was a girl of sixteen and before she began to
work in the store, Alice had an affair with a young
man. The young man, named Ned Currie, was older than
Alice. He, like George Willard, was employed on the
Winesburg Eagle and for a long time he went to see
Alice almost every evening. Together the two walked
under the trees through the streets of the town and
talked of what they would do with their lives. Alice
was then a very pretty girl and Ned Currie took her
into his arms and kissed her. He became excited and
said things he did not intend to say and Alice,
betrayed by her desire to have something beautiful come
into her rather narrow life, also grew excited. She
also talked. The outer crust of her life, all of her
natural diffidence and reserve, was torn away and she
gave herself over to the emotions of love. When, late
in the fall of her sixteenth year, Ned Currie went away
to Cleveland where he hoped to get a place on a city
newspaper and rise in the world, she wanted to go with
him. With a trembling voice she told him what was in
her mind. "I will work and you can work," she said. "I
do not want to harness you to a needless expense that
will prevent your making progress. Don't marry me now.
We will get along without that and we can be together.
Even though we live in the same house no one will say
anything. In the city we will be unknown and people
will pay no attention to us."
Ned Currie was puzzled by the determination and abandon
of his sweetheart and was also deeply touched. He had
wanted the girl to become his mistress but changed his
mind. He wanted to protect and care for her. "You don't
know what you're talking about," he said sharply; "you
may be sure I'll let you do no such thing. As soon as I
get a good job I'll come back. For the present you'll
have to stay here. It's the only thing we can do."
On the evening before he left Winesburg to take up his
new life in the city, Ned Currie went to call on Alice.
They walked about through the streets for an hour and
then got a rig from Wesley Moyer's livery and went for
a drive in the country. The moon came up and they found
themselves unable to talk. In his sadness the young man
forgot the resolutions he had made regarding his
conduct with the girl.
They got out of the buggy at a place where a long
meadow ran down to the bank of Wine Creek and there in
the dim light became lovers. When at midnight they
returned to town they were both glad. It did not seem
to them that anything that could happen in the future
could blot out the wonder and beauty of the thing that
had happened. "Now we will have to stick to each other,
whatever happens we will have to do that," Ned Currie
said as he left the girl at her father's door.
The young newspaper man did not succeed in getting a
place on a Cleveland paper and went west to Chicago.
For a time he was lonely and wrote to Alice almost
every day. Then he was caught up by the life of the
city; he began to make friends and found new interests
in life. In Chicago he boarded at a house where there
were several women. One of them attracted his attention
and he forgot Alice in Winesburg. At the end of a year
he had stopped writing letters, and only once in a long
time, when he was lonely or when he went into one of
the city parks and saw the moon shining on the grass as
it had shone that night on the meadow by Wine Creek,
did he think of her at all.
In Winesburg the girl who had been loved grew to be a
woman. When she was twenty-two years old her father,
who owned a harness repair shop, died suddenly. The
harness maker was an old soldier, and after a few
months his wife received a widow's pension. She used
the first money she got to buy a loom and became a
weaver of carpets, and Alice got a place in Winney's
store. For a number of years nothing could have induced
her to believe that Ned Currie would not in the end
return to her.
She was glad to be employed because the daily round of
toil in the store made the time of waiting seem less
long and uninteresting. She began to save money,
thinking that when she had saved two or three hundred
dollars she would follow her lover to the city and try
if her presence would not win back his affections.
Alice did not blame Ned Currie for what had happened in
the moonlight in the field, but felt that she could
never marry another man. To her the thought of giving
to another what she still felt could belong only to Ned
seemed monstrous. When other young men tried to attract
her attention she would have nothing to do with them.
"I am his wife and shall remain his wife whether he
comes back or not," she whispered to herself, and for
all of her willingness to support herself could not
have understood the growing modern idea of a woman's
owning herself and giving and taking for her own ends
in life.
Alice worked in the dry goods store from eight in the
morning until six at night and on three evenings a week
went back to the store to stay from seven until nine.
As time passed and she became more and more lonely she
began to practice the devices common to lonely people.
When at night she went upstairs into her own room she
knelt on the floor to pray and in her prayers whispered
things she wanted to say to her lover. She became
attached to inanimate objects, and because it was her
own, could not bare to have anyone touch the furniture
of her room. The trick of saving money, begun for a
purpose, was carried on after the scheme of going to
the city to find Ned Currie had been given up. It
became a fixed habit, and when she needed new clothes
she did not get them. Sometimes on rainy afternoons in
the store she got out her bank book and, letting it lie
open before her, spent hours dreaming impossible dreams
of saving money enough so that the interest would
support both herself and her future husband.
"Ned always liked to travel about," she thought. "I'll
give him the chance. Some day when we are married and I
can save both his money and my own, we will be rich.
Then we can travel together all over the world."
In the dry goods store weeks ran into months and months
into years as Alice waited and dreamed of her lover's
return. Her employer, a grey old man with false teeth
and a thin grey mustache that drooped down over his
mouth, was not given to conversation, and sometimes, on
rainy days and in the winter when a storm raged in Main
Street, long hours passed when no customers came in.
Alice arranged and rearranged the stock. She stood near
the front window where she could look down the deserted
street and thought of the evenings when she had walked
with Ned Currie and of what he had said. "We will have
to stick to each other now." The words echoed and
re-echoed through the mind of the maturing woman. Tears
came into her eyes. Sometimes when her employer had
gone out and she was alone in the store she put her
head on the counter and wept. "Oh, Ned, I am waiting,"
she whispered over and over, and all the time the
creeping fear that he would never come back grew
stronger within her.
In the spring when the rains have passed and before the
long hot days of summer have come, the country about
Winesburg is delightful. The town lies in the midst of
open fields, but beyond the fields are pleasant patches
of woodlands. In the wooded places are many little
cloistered nooks, quiet places where lovers go to sit
on Sunday afternoons. Through the trees they look out
across the fields and see farmers at work about the
barns or people driving up and down on the roads. In
the town bells ring and occasionally a train passes,
looking like a toy thing in the distance.
For several years after Ned Currie went away Alice did
not go into the wood with the other young people on
Sunday, but one day after he had been gone for two or
three years and when her loneliness seemed unbearable,
she put on her best dress and set out. Finding a little
sheltered place from which she could see the town and a
long stretch of the fields, she sat down. Fear of age
and ineffectuality took possession of her. She could
not sit still, and arose. As she stood looking out over
the land something, perhaps the thought of never
ceasing life as it expresses itself in the flow of the
seasons, fixed her mind on the passing years. With a
shiver of dread, she realized that for her the beauty
and freshness of youth had passed. For the first time
she felt that she had been cheated. She did not blame
Ned Currie and did not know what to blame. Sadness
swept over her. Dropping to her knees, she tried to
pray, but instead of prayers words of protest came to
her lips. "It is not going to come to me. I will never
find happiness. Why do I tell myself lies?" she cried,
and an odd sense of relief came with this, her first
bold attempt to face the fear that had become a part of
her everyday life.
In the year when Alice Hindman became twenty-five two
things happened to disturb the dull uneventfulness of
her days. Her mother married Bush Milton, the carriage
painter of Winesburg, and she herself became a member
of the Winesburg Methodist Church. Alice joined the
church because she had become frightened by the
loneliness of her position in life. Her mother's second
marriage had emphasized her isolation. "I am becoming
old and queer. If Ned comes he will not want me. In the
city where he is living men are perpetually young.
There is so much going on that they do not have time to
grow old," she told herself with a grim little smile,
and went resolutely about the business of becoming
acquainted with people. Every Thursday evening when the
store had closed she went to a prayer meeting in the
basement of the church and on Sunday evening attended a
meeting of an organization called The Epworth League.
When Will Hurley, a middle-aged man who clerked in a
drug store and who also belonged to the church, offered
to walk home with her she did not protest. "Of course I
will not let him make a practice of being with me, but
if he comes to see me once in a long time there can be
no harm in that," she told herself, still determined in
her loyalty to Ned Currie.
Without realizing what was happening, Alice was trying
feebly at first, but with growing determination, to get
a new hold upon life. Beside the drug clerk she walked
in silence, but sometimes in the darkness as they went
stolidly along she put out her hand and touched softly
the folds of his coat. When he left her at the gate
before her mother's house she did not go indoors, but
stood for a moment by the door. She wanted to call to
the drug clerk, to ask him to sit with her in the
darkness on the porch before the house, but was afraid
he would not understand. "It is not him that I want,"
she told herself; "I want to avoid being so much alone.
If I am not careful I will grow unaccustomed to being
with people."
* * *
During the early fall of her twenty-seventh year a
passionate restlessness took possession of Alice. She
could not bear to be in the company of the drug clerk,
and when, in the evening, he came to walk with her she
sent him away. Her mind became intensely active and
when, weary from the long hours of standing behind the
counter in the store, she went home and crawled into
bed, she could not sleep. With staring eyes she looked
into the darkness. Her imagination, like a child
awakened from long sleep, played about the room. Deep
within her there was something that would not be
cheated by phantasies and that demanded some definite
answer from life.
Alice took a pillow into her arms and held it tightly
against her breasts. Getting out of bed, she arranged a
blanket so that in the darkness it looked like a form
lying between the sheets and, kneeling beside the bed,
she caressed it, whispering words over and over, like a
refrain. "Why doesn't something happen? Why am I left
here alone?" she muttered. Although she sometimes
thought of Ned Currie, she no longer depended on him.
Her desire had grown vague. She did not want Ned Currie
or any other man. She wanted to be loved, to have
something answer the call that was growing louder and
louder within her.
And then one night when it rained Alice had an
adventure. It frightened and confused her. She had come
home from the store at nine and found the house empty.
Bush Milton had gone off to town and her mother to the
house of a neighbor. Alice went upstairs to her room
and undressed in the darkness. For a moment she stood
by the window hearing the rain beat against the glass
and then a strange desire took possession of her.
Without stopping to think of what she intended to do,
she ran downstairs through the dark house and out into
the rain. As she stood on the little grass plot before
the house and felt the cold rain on her body a mad
desire to run naked through the streets took possession
of her.
She thought that the rain would have some creative and
wonderful effect on her body. Not for years had she
felt so full of youth and courage. She wanted to leap
and run, to cry out, to find some other lonely human
and embrace him. On the brick sidewalk before the house
a man stumbled homeward. Alice started to run. A wild,
desperate mood took possession of her. "What do I care
who it is. He is alone, and I will go to him," she
thought; and then without stopping to consider the
possible result of her madness, called softly. "Wait!"
she cried. "Don't go away. Whoever you are, you must
wait."
The man on the sidewalk stopped and stood listening.
He was an old man and somewhat deaf. Putting his hand
to his mouth, he shouted. "What? What say?" he called.
Alice dropped to the ground and lay trembling. She was
so frightened at the thought of what she had done that
when the man had gone on his way she did not dare get
to her feet, but crawled on hands and knees through the
grass to the house. When she got to her own room she
bolted the door and drew her dressing table across the
doorway. Her body shook as with a chill and her hands
trembled so that she had difficulty getting into her
nightdress. When she got into bed she buried her face
in the pillow and wept brokenheartedly. "What is the
matter with me? I will do something dreadful if I am
not careful," she thought, and turning her face to the
wall, began trying to force herself to face bravely the
fact that many people must live and die alone, even in
Winesburg.
|
|
Wuthering Heights.chapter | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 1 based on the provided context. | chapter 1|chapter 4 | It is 1801, and the narrator, Mr. Lockwood, relates how he has just returned from a visit to his new landlord, Mr. Heathcliff. Lockwood, a self-described misanthropist, is renting Thrushcross Grange in an effort to get away from society following a failure at love. He had fallen in love with a "real goddess" , but when she returned his affection he acted so coldly she "persuaded her mamma to decamp. He finds that relative to Heathcliff, however, he is extremely sociable. Heathcliff, "a dark skinned gypsy, in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman" treats his visitor with a minimum of friendliness, and Wuthering Heights, the farm where Heathcliff lives, is just as foreign and unfriendly. Wuthering' means stormy and windy in the local dialect. As Lockwood enters, he sees a name carved near the door: Hareton Earnshaw. Dangerous-looking dogs inhabit the bare and old-fashioned rooms, and threaten to attack Lockwood: when he calls for help Heathcliff implies that Lockwood had tried to steal something. The only other inhabitants of Wuthering Heights are an old servant named Joseph and a cook--neither of whom are much friendlier than Heathcliff. Despite his rudeness, Lockwood finds himself drawn to Heathcliff: he describes him as intelligent, proud and morose--an unlikely farmer. Heathcliff gives Lockwood some wine and invites him to come again. Although Lockwood suspects this invitation is insincere, he decides he will return because he is so intrigued by the landlord |
----------CHAPTER 1---------
1801.--I have just returned from a visit to my landlord--the solitary
neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful
country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a
situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect
misanthropist's heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair
to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! He little
imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes
withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his
fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in
his waistcoat, as I announced my name.
'Mr. Heathcliff?' I said.
A nod was the answer.
'Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour of calling
as soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have not
inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of
Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts--'
'Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,' he interrupted, wincing. 'I should
not allow any one to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it--walk in!'
The 'walk in' was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment,
'Go to the Deuce:' even the gate over which he leant manifested no
sympathising movement to the words; and I think that circumstance
determined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested in a man who
seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.
When he saw my horse's breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put out
his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up the causeway,
calling, as we entered the court,--'Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood's horse;
and bring up some wine.'
'Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose,' was the
reflection suggested by this compound order. 'No wonder the grass grows
up between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters.'
Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale
and sinewy. 'The Lord help us!' he soliloquised in an undertone of
peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime,
in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of
divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no
reference to my unexpected advent.
Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling. 'Wuthering'
being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric
tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing
ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess
the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant
of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt
thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun.
Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow
windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large
jutting stones.
Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque
carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door;
above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless
little boys, I detected the date '1500,' and the name 'Hareton Earnshaw.'
I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the
place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to
demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to
aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium.
One stop brought us into the family sitting-room, without any
introductory lobby or passage: they call it here 'the house'
pre-eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I believe
at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into
another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues, and a
clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no signs of
roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fireplace; nor any glitter
of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed,
reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter
dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after
row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been
under-drawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, except
where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef,
mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above the chimney were sundry villainous
old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three
gaudily-painted canisters disposed along its ledge. The floor was of
smooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures,
painted green: one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an
arch under the dresser reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer,
surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other
recesses.
The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as
belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance, and
stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-breeches and gaiters. Such
an individual seated in his arm-chair, his mug of ale frothing on the
round table before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles
among these hills, if you go at the right time after dinner. But Mr.
Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He
is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that
is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly,
perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an
erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people
might suspect him of a degree of under-bred pride; I have a sympathetic
chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by
instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of
feeling--to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He'll love and hate
equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved
or hated again. No, I'm running on too fast: I bestow my own attributes
over-liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar
reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would-be
acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution is
almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a
comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy
of one.
While enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown
into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my
eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I 'never told my love'
vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have
guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a
return--the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I
confess it with shame--shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every
glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led
to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed
mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp. By this curious turn of
disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how
undeserved, I alone can appreciate.
I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards which
my landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by attempting
to caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking
wolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, and her white teeth
watering for a snatch. My caress provoked a long, guttural gnarl.
'You'd better let the dog alone,' growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison,
checking fiercer demonstrations with a punch of his foot. 'She's not
accustomed to be spoiled--not kept for a pet.' Then, striding to a side
door, he shouted again, 'Joseph!'
Joseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no
intimation of ascending; so his master dived down to him, leaving me
_vis-a-vis_ the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep-dogs,
who shared with her a jealous guardianship over all my movements. Not
anxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; but, imagining
they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately indulged
in winking and making faces at the trio, and some turn of my physiognomy
so irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into a fury and leapt on my
knees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the table between us.
This proceeding aroused the whole hive: half-a-dozen four-footed fiends,
of various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens to the common centre.
I felt my heels and coat-laps peculiar subjects of assault; and parrying
off the larger combatants as effectually as I could with the poker, I
was constrained to demand, aloud, assistance from some of the household
in re-establishing peace.
Mr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious
phlegm: I don't think they moved one second faster than usual, though
the hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. Happily, an
inhabitant of the kitchen made more despatch: a lusty dame, with
tucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, rushed into the
midst of us flourishing a frying-pan: and used that weapon, and her
tongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided magically, and she only
remained, heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master entered
on the scene.
'What the devil is the matter?' he asked, eyeing me in a manner that I
could ill endure, after this inhospitable treatment.
'What the devil, indeed!' I muttered. 'The herd of possessed swine could
have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours, sir. You
might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!'
'They won't meddle with persons who touch nothing,' he remarked, putting
the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. 'The dogs do
right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine?'
'No, thank you.'
'Not bitten, are you?'
'If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter.' Heathcliff's
countenance relaxed into a grin.
'Come, come,' he said, 'you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a
little wine. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my
dogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them. Your health,
sir?'
I bowed and returned the pledge; beginning to perceive that it would be
foolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs; besides, I
felt loth to yield the fellow further amusement at my expense; since his
humour took that turn. He--probably swayed by prudential consideration
of the folly of offending a good tenant--relaxed a little in the laconic
style of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary verbs, and introduced
what he supposed would be a subject of interest to me,--a discourse on
the advantages and disadvantages of my present place of retirement. I
found him very intelligent on the topics we touched; and before I went
home, I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another visit to-morrow. He
evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. I shall go,
notwithstanding. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared
with him.
----------CHAPTER 4---------
What vain weathercocks we are! I, who had determined to hold myself
independent of all social intercourse, and thanked my stars that, at
length, I had lighted on a spot where it was next to impracticable--I,
weak wretch, after maintaining till dusk a struggle with low spirits and
solitude, was finally compelled to strike my colours; and under pretence
of gaining information concerning the necessities of my establishment, I
desired Mrs. Dean, when she brought in supper, to sit down while I ate
it; hoping sincerely she would prove a regular gossip, and either rouse
me to animation or lull me to sleep by her talk.
'You have lived here a considerable time,' I commenced; 'did you not say
sixteen years?'
'Eighteen, sir: I came when the mistress was married, to wait on her;
after she died, the master retained me for his housekeeper.'
'Indeed.'
There ensued a pause. She was not a gossip, I feared; unless about her
own affairs, and those could hardly interest me. However, having studied
for an interval, with a fist on either knee, and a cloud of meditation
over her ruddy countenance, she ejaculated--'Ah, times are greatly
changed since then!'
'Yes,' I remarked, 'you've seen a good many alterations, I suppose?'
'I have: and troubles too,' she said.
'Oh, I'll turn the talk on my landlord's family!' I thought to myself. 'A
good subject to start! And that pretty girl-widow, I should like to know
her history: whether she be a native of the country, or, as is more
probable, an exotic that the surly _indigenae_ will not recognise for
kin.' With this intention I asked Mrs. Dean why Heathcliff let
Thrushcross Grange, and preferred living in a situation and residence so
much inferior. 'Is he not rich enough to keep the estate in good order?'
I inquired.
'Rich, sir!' she returned. 'He has nobody knows what money, and every
year it increases. Yes, yes, he's rich enough to live in a finer house
than this: but he's very near--close-handed; and, if he had meant to flit
to Thrushcross Grange, as soon as he heard of a good tenant he could not
have borne to miss the chance of getting a few hundreds more. It is
strange people should be so greedy, when they are alone in the world!'
'He had a son, it seems?'
'Yes, he had one--he is dead.'
'And that young lady, Mrs. Heathcliff, is his widow?'
'Yes.'
'Where did she come from originally?'
'Why, sir, she is my late master's daughter: Catherine Linton was her
maiden name. I nursed her, poor thing! I did wish Mr. Heathcliff would
remove here, and then we might have been together again.'
'What! Catherine Linton?' I exclaimed, astonished. But a minute's
reflection convinced me it was not my ghostly Catherine. 'Then,' I
continued, 'my predecessor's name was Linton?'
'It was.'
'And who is that Earnshaw: Hareton Earnshaw, who lives with Mr.
Heathcliff? Are they relations?'
'No; he is the late Mrs. Linton's nephew.'
'The young lady's cousin, then?'
'Yes; and her husband was her cousin also: one on the mother's, the other
on the father's side: Heathcliff married Mr. Linton's sister.'
'I see the house at Wuthering Heights has "Earnshaw" carved over the
front door. Are they an old family?'
'Very old, sir; and Hareton is the last of them, as our Miss Cathy is of
us--I mean, of the Lintons. Have you been to Wuthering Heights? I beg
pardon for asking; but I should like to hear how she is!'
'Mrs. Heathcliff? she looked very well, and very handsome; yet, I think,
not very happy.'
'Oh dear, I don't wonder! And how did you like the master?'
'A rough fellow, rather, Mrs. Dean. Is not that his character?
'Rough as a saw-edge, and hard as whinstone! The less you meddle with
him the better.'
'He must have had some ups and downs in life to make him such a churl. Do
you know anything of his history?'
'It's a cuckoo's, sir--I know all about it: except where he was born, and
who were his parents, and how he got his money at first. And Hareton has
been cast out like an unfledged dunnock! The unfortunate lad is the only
one in all this parish that does not guess how he has been cheated.'
'Well, Mrs. Dean, it will be a charitable deed to tell me something of my
neighbours: I feel I shall not rest if I go to bed; so be good enough to
sit and chat an hour.'
'Oh, certainly, sir! I'll just fetch a little sewing, and then I'll sit
as long as you please. But you've caught cold: I saw you shivering, and
you must have some gruel to drive it out.'
The worthy woman bustled off, and I crouched nearer the fire; my head
felt hot, and the rest of me chill: moreover, I was excited, almost to a
pitch of foolishness, through my nerves and brain. This caused me to
feel, not uncomfortable, but rather fearful (as I am still) of serious
effects from the incidents of to-day and yesterday. She returned
presently, bringing a smoking basin and a basket of work; and, having
placed the former on the hob, drew in her seat, evidently pleased to find
me so companionable.
Before I came to live here, she commenced--waiting no farther invitation
to her story--I was almost always at Wuthering Heights; because my mother
had nursed Mr. Hindley Earnshaw, that was Hareton's father, and I got
used to playing with the children: I ran errands too, and helped to make
hay, and hung about the farm ready for anything that anybody would set me
to. One fine summer morning--it was the beginning of harvest, I
remember--Mr. Earnshaw, the old master, came down-stairs, dressed for a
journey; and, after he had told Joseph what was to be done during the
day, he turned to Hindley, and Cathy, and me--for I sat eating my
porridge with them--and he said, speaking to his son, 'Now, my bonny man,
I'm going to Liverpool to-day, what shall I bring you? You may choose
what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk there and back:
sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!' Hindley named a fiddle, and
then he asked Miss Cathy; she was hardly six years old, but she could
ride any horse in the stable, and she chose a whip. He did not forget
me; for he had a kind heart, though he was rather severe sometimes. He
promised to bring me a pocketful of apples and pears, and then he kissed
his children, said good-bye, and set off.
It seemed a long while to us all--the three days of his absence--and
often did little Cathy ask when he would be home. Mrs. Earnshaw expected
him by supper-time on the third evening, and she put the meal off hour
after hour; there were no signs of his coming, however, and at last the
children got tired of running down to the gate to look. Then it grew
dark; she would have had them to bed, but they begged sadly to be allowed
to stay up; and, just about eleven o'clock, the door-latch was raised
quietly, and in stepped the master. He threw himself into a chair,
laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was nearly
killed--he would not have such another walk for the three kingdoms.
'And at the end of it to be flighted to death!' he said, opening his
great-coat, which he held bundled up in his arms. 'See here, wife! I
was never so beaten with anything in my life: but you must e'en take it
as a gift of God; though it's as dark almost as if it came from the
devil.'
We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy's head I had a peep at a dirty,
ragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed, its
face looked older than Catherine's; yet when it was set on its feet, it
only stared round, and repeated over and over again some gibberish that
nobody could understand. I was frightened, and Mrs. Earnshaw was ready
to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to
bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to
feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad?
The master tried to explain the matter; but he was really half dead with
fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale
of his seeing it starving, and houseless, and as good as dumb, in the
streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and inquired for its owner.
Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his money and time
being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at
once, than run into vain expenses there: because he was determined he
would not leave it as he found it. Well, the conclusion was, that my
mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr. Earnshaw told me to wash it, and
give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children.
Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till
peace was restored: then, both began searching their father's pockets
for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of fourteen,
but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, crushed to morsels in the
great-coat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she learned the master
had lost her whip in attending on the stranger, showed her humour by
grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing; earning for her pains
a sound blow from her father, to teach her cleaner manners. They
entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room; and
I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hoping it
might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his
voice, it crept to Mr. Earnshaw's door, and there he found it on
quitting his chamber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there; I was
obliged to confess, and in recompense for my cowardice and inhumanity
was sent out of the house.
This was Heathcliff's first introduction to the family. On coming back a
few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual), I
found they had christened him 'Heathcliff': it was the name of a son who
died in childhood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian
and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but Hindley hated
him: and to say the truth I did the same; and we plagued and went on with
him shamefully: for I wasn't reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and
the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged.
He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment:
he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my
pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he
had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance
made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the
poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff
strangely, believing all he said (for that matter, he said precious
little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above Cathy, who
was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite.
So, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; and at
Mrs. Earnshaw's death, which happened in less than two years after, the
young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather than
a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his parent's affections and his
privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries. I
sympathised a while; but when the children fell ill of the measles, and I
had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at once, I changed
my idea. Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he lay at the worst
he would have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose he felt I did a good
deal for him, and he hadn't wit to guess that I was compelled to do it.
However, I will say this, he was the quietest child that ever nurse
watched over. The difference between him and the others forced me to be
less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me terribly: he was as
uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, not gentleness, made him give
little trouble.
He got through, and the doctor affirmed it was in a great measure owing
to me, and praised me for my care. I was vain of his commendations, and
softened towards the being by whose means I earned them, and thus Hindley
lost his last ally: still I couldn't dote on Heathcliff, and I wondered
often what my master saw to admire so much in the sullen boy; who never,
to my recollection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He
was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply insensible; though
knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and conscious he had only
to speak and all the house would be obliged to bend to his wishes. As an
instance, I remember Mr. Earnshaw once bought a couple of colts at the
parish fair, and gave the lads each one. Heathcliff took the handsomest,
but it soon fell lame, and when he discovered it, he said to Hindley--
'You must exchange horses with me: I don't like mine; and if you won't I
shall tell your father of the three thrashings you've given me this week,
and show him my arm, which is black to the shoulder.' Hindley put out
his tongue, and cuffed him over the ears. 'You'd better do it at once,'
he persisted, escaping to the porch (they were in the stable): 'you will
have to: and if I speak of these blows, you'll get them again with
interest.' 'Off, dog!' cried Hindley, threatening him with an iron
weight used for weighing potatoes and hay. 'Throw it,' he replied,
standing still, 'and then I'll tell how you boasted that you would turn
me out of doors as soon as he died, and see whether he will not turn you
out directly.' Hindley threw it, hitting him on the breast, and down he
fell, but staggered up immediately, breathless and white; and, had not I
prevented it, he would have gone just so to the master, and got full
revenge by letting his condition plead for him, intimating who had caused
it. 'Take my colt, Gipsy, then!' said young Earnshaw. 'And I pray that
he may break your neck: take him, and be damned, you beggarly interloper!
and wheedle my father out of all he has: only afterwards show him what
you are, imp of Satan.--And take that, I hope he'll kick out your
brains!'
Heathcliff had gone to loose the beast, and shift it to his own stall; he
was passing behind it, when Hindley finished his speech by knocking him
under its feet, and without stopping to examine whether his hopes were
fulfilled, ran away as fast as he could. I was surprised to witness how
coolly the child gathered himself up, and went on with his intention;
exchanging saddles and all, and then sitting down on a bundle of hay to
overcome the qualm which the violent blow occasioned, before he entered
the house. I persuaded him easily to let me lay the blame of his bruises
on the horse: he minded little what tale was told since he had what he
wanted. He complained so seldom, indeed, of such stirs as these, that I
really thought him not vindictive: I was deceived completely, as you will
hear.
|
null | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter 6 using the context provided. | chapter 5|chapter 6 | Hindley returns home, unexpectedly bringing his wife, a flighty woman with a strange fear of death and symptoms of consumption. Hindley also brought home new manners and rules, and informed the servants that they would have to live in inferior quarters. Most importantly, he treated Heathcliff as a servant, stopping his education and making him work in the fields like any farm boy. Heathcliff did not mind too much at first because Cathy taught him what she learned, and worked and played with him in the fields. They stayed away from Hindley as much as possible and grew up uncivilized and free. It was one of their chief amusements," Ellen recalls, "to run away to the moors in the morning and remain there all day, and after punishment grew a mere thing to laugh at". One day they ran off after being punished, and at night Heathcliff returned. He told Ellen what had happened. He and Cathy ran to the Grange to see how people lived there, and they saw the Linton children Edgar and Isabella in a beautiful room, crying after an argument over who could hold the pet dog. Amused and scornful, Heathcliff and Cathy laughed; the Lintons heard them and called for their parents. After making frightening noises, Cathy and Heathcliff tried to escape, but a bulldog bit Cathy's leg and refused to let go. She told Heathcliff to escape but he would not leave her, and tried to pry the animal's jaws open. Mr. and Mrs. Linton mistook them for thieves and brought them inside. When Edgar Linton recognized Cathy as Miss Earnshaw, the Lintons expressed their disgust at the children's wild manners and especially at Heathcliff's being allowed to keep Cathy company. They coddled Cathy and drove Heathcliff out; he went back to Wuthering Heights on foot after assuring himself that Cathy was all right. When Hindley found out, he welcomed the chance to separate Cathy and Heathcliff, so Cathy was to stay for a prolonged visit with the Lintons while her leg healed and Heathcliff was forbidden to speak to her |
----------CHAPTER 5---------
In the course of time Mr. Earnshaw began to fail. He had been active and
healthy, yet his strength left him suddenly; and when he was confined to
the chimney-corner he grew grievously irritable. A nothing vexed him;
and suspected slights of his authority nearly threw him into fits. This
was especially to be remarked if any one attempted to impose upon, or
domineer over, his favourite: he was painfully jealous lest a word
should be spoken amiss to him; seeming to have got into his head the
notion that, because he liked Heathcliff, all hated, and longed to do
him an ill-turn. It was a disadvantage to the lad; for the kinder among
us did not wish to fret the master, so we humoured his partiality; and
that humouring was rich nourishment to the child's pride and black
tempers. Still it became in a manner necessary; twice, or thrice,
Hindley's manifestation of scorn, while his father was near, roused the
old man to a fury: he seized his stick to strike him, and shook with
rage that he could not do it.
At last, our curate (we had a curate then who made the living answer by
teaching the little Lintons and Earnshaws, and farming his bit of land
himself) advised that the young man should be sent to college; and Mr.
Earnshaw agreed, though with a heavy spirit, for he said--'Hindley was
nought, and would never thrive as where he wandered.'
I hoped heartily we should have peace now. It hurt me to think the
master should be made uncomfortable by his own good deed. I fancied the
discontent of age and disease arose from his family disagreements; as he
would have it that it did: really, you know, sir, it was in his sinking
frame. We might have got on tolerably, notwithstanding, but for two
people--Miss Cathy, and Joseph, the servant: you saw him, I daresay, up
yonder. He was, and is yet most likely, the wearisomest self-righteous
Pharisee that ever ransacked a Bible to rake the promises to himself and
fling the curses to his neighbours. By his knack of sermonising and
pious discoursing, he contrived to make a great impression on Mr.
Earnshaw; and the more feeble the master became, the more influence he
gained. He was relentless in worrying him about his soul's concerns, and
about ruling his children rigidly. He encouraged him to regard Hindley
as a reprobate; and, night after night, he regularly grumbled out a long
string of tales against Heathcliff and Catherine: always minding to
flatter Earnshaw's weakness by heaping the heaviest blame on the latter.
Certainly she had ways with her such as I never saw a child take up
before; and she put all of us past our patience fifty times and oftener
in a day: from the hour she came down-stairs till the hour she went to
bed, we had not a minute's security that she wouldn't be in mischief. Her
spirits were always at high-water mark, her tongue always going--singing,
laughing, and plaguing everybody who would not do the same. A wild,
wicked slip she was--but she had the bonniest eye, the sweetest smile,
and lightest foot in the parish: and, after all, I believe she meant no
harm; for when once she made you cry in good earnest, it seldom happened
that she would not keep you company, and oblige you to be quiet that you
might comfort her. She was much too fond of Heathcliff. The greatest
punishment we could invent for her was to keep her separate from him: yet
she got chided more than any of us on his account. In play, she liked
exceedingly to act the little mistress; using her hands freely, and
commanding her companions: she did so to me, but I would not bear
slapping and ordering; and so I let her know.
Now, Mr. Earnshaw did not understand jokes from his children: he had
always been strict and grave with them; and Catherine, on her part, had
no idea why her father should be crosser and less patient in his ailing
condition than he was in his prime. His peevish reproofs wakened in her
a naughty delight to provoke him: she was never so happy as when we were
all scolding her at once, and she defying us with her bold, saucy look,
and her ready words; turning Joseph's religious curses into ridicule,
baiting me, and doing just what her father hated most--showing how her
pretended insolence, which he thought real, had more power over
Heathcliff than his kindness: how the boy would do _her_ bidding in
anything, and _his_ only when it suited his own inclination. After
behaving as badly as possible all day, she sometimes came fondling to
make it up at night. 'Nay, Cathy,' the old man would say, 'I cannot love
thee, thou'rt worse than thy brother. Go, say thy prayers, child, and
ask God's pardon. I doubt thy mother and I must rue that we ever reared
thee!' That made her cry, at first; and then being repulsed continually
hardened her, and she laughed if I told her to say she was sorry for her
faults, and beg to be forgiven.
But the hour came, at last, that ended Mr. Earnshaw's troubles on earth.
He died quietly in his chair one October evening, seated by the
fire-side. A high wind blustered round the house, and roared in the
chimney: it sounded wild and stormy, yet it was not cold, and we were all
together--I, a little removed from the hearth, busy at my knitting, and
Joseph reading his Bible near the table (for the servants generally sat
in the house then, after their work was done). Miss Cathy had been sick,
and that made her still; she leant against her father's knee, and
Heathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap. I remember
the master, before he fell into a doze, stroking her bonny hair--it
pleased him rarely to see her gentle--and saying, 'Why canst thou not
always be a good lass, Cathy?' And she turned her face up to his, and
laughed, and answered, 'Why cannot you always be a good man, father?' But
as soon as she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said she
would sing him to sleep. She began singing very low, till his fingers
dropped from hers, and his head sank on his breast. Then I told her to
hush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him. We all kept as mute as
mice a full half-hour, and should have done so longer, only Joseph,
having finished his chapter, got up and said that he must rouse the
master for prayers and bed. He stepped forward, and called him by name,
and touched his shoulder; but he would not move: so he took the candle
and looked at him. I thought there was something wrong as he set down
the light; and seizing the children each by an arm, whispered them to
'frame up-stairs, and make little din--they might pray alone that
evening--he had summut to do.'
'I shall bid father good-night first,' said Catherine, putting her arms
round his neck, before we could hinder her. The poor thing discovered
her loss directly--she screamed out--'Oh, he's dead, Heathcliff! he's
dead!' And they both set up a heart-breaking cry.
I joined my wail to theirs, loud and bitter; but Joseph asked what we
could be thinking of to roar in that way over a saint in heaven. He told
me to put on my cloak and run to Gimmerton for the doctor and the parson.
I could not guess the use that either would be of, then. However, I
went, through wind and rain, and brought one, the doctor, back with me;
the other said he would come in the morning. Leaving Joseph to explain
matters, I ran to the children's room: their door was ajar, I saw they
had never lain down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer,
and did not need me to console them. The little souls were comforting
each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on: no parson in
the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their
innocent talk; and, while I sobbed and listened, I could not help wishing
we were all there safe together.
----------CHAPTER 6---------
Mr. Hindley came home to the funeral; and--a thing that amazed us, and
set the neighbours gossiping right and left--he brought a wife with him.
What she was, and where she was born, he never informed us: probably, she
had neither money nor name to recommend her, or he would scarcely have
kept the union from his father.
She was not one that would have disturbed the house much on her own
account. Every object she saw, the moment she crossed the threshold,
appeared to delight her; and every circumstance that took place about
her: except the preparing for the burial, and the presence of the
mourners. I thought she was half silly, from her behaviour while that
went on: she ran into her chamber, and made me come with her, though I
should have been dressing the children: and there she sat shivering and
clasping her hands, and asking repeatedly--'Are they gone yet?' Then she
began describing with hysterical emotion the effect it produced on her to
see black; and started, and trembled, and, at last, fell a-weeping--and
when I asked what was the matter, answered, she didn't know; but she felt
so afraid of dying! I imagined her as little likely to die as myself.
She was rather thin, but young, and fresh-complexioned, and her eyes
sparkled as bright as diamonds. I did remark, to be sure, that mounting
the stairs made her breathe very quick; that the least sudden noise set
her all in a quiver, and that she coughed troublesomely sometimes: but I
knew nothing of what these symptoms portended, and had no impulse to
sympathise with her. We don't in general take to foreigners here, Mr.
Lockwood, unless they take to us first.
Young Earnshaw was altered considerably in the three years of his
absence. He had grown sparer, and lost his colour, and spoke and dressed
quite differently; and, on the very day of his return, he told Joseph
and me we must thenceforth quarter ourselves in the back-kitchen, and
leave the house for him. Indeed, he would have carpeted and papered a
small spare room for a parlour; but his wife expressed such pleasure at
the white floor and huge glowing fireplace, at the pewter dishes and
delf-case, and dog-kennel, and the wide space there was to move about in
where they usually sat, that he thought it unnecessary to her comfort,
and so dropped the intention.
She expressed pleasure, too, at finding a sister among her new
acquaintance; and she prattled to Catherine, and kissed her, and ran
about with her, and gave her quantities of presents, at the beginning.
Her affection tired very soon, however, and when she grew peevish,
Hindley became tyrannical. A few words from her, evincing a dislike to
Heathcliff, were enough to rouse in him all his old hatred of the boy. He
drove him from their company to the servants, deprived him of the
instructions of the curate, and insisted that he should labour out of
doors instead; compelling him to do so as hard as any other lad on the
farm.
Heathcliff bore his degradation pretty well at first, because Cathy
taught him what she learnt, and worked or played with him in the fields.
They both promised fair to grow up as rude as savages; the young master
being entirely negligent how they behaved, and what they did, so they
kept clear of him. He would not even have seen after their going to
church on Sundays, only Joseph and the curate reprimanded his
carelessness when they absented themselves; and that reminded him to
order Heathcliff a flogging, and Catherine a fast from dinner or supper.
But it was one of their chief amusements to run away to the moors in the
morning and remain there all day, and the after punishment grew a mere
thing to laugh at. The curate might set as many chapters as he pleased
for Catherine to get by heart, and Joseph might thrash Heathcliff till
his arm ached; they forgot everything the minute they were together
again: at least the minute they had contrived some naughty plan of
revenge; and many a time I've cried to myself to watch them growing more
reckless daily, and I not daring to speak a syllable, for fear of losing
the small power I still retained over the unfriended creatures. One
Sunday evening, it chanced that they were banished from the sitting-room,
for making a noise, or a light offence of the kind; and when I went to
call them to supper, I could discover them nowhere. We searched the
house, above and below, and the yard and stables; they were invisible:
and, at last, Hindley in a passion told us to bolt the doors, and swore
nobody should let them in that night. The household went to bed; and I,
too, anxious to lie down, opened my lattice and put my head out to
hearken, though it rained: determined to admit them in spite of the
prohibition, should they return. In a while, I distinguished steps
coming up the road, and the light of a lantern glimmered through the
gate. I threw a shawl over my head and ran to prevent them from waking
Mr. Earnshaw by knocking. There was Heathcliff, by himself: it gave me a
start to see him alone.
'Where is Miss Catherine?' I cried hurriedly. 'No accident, I hope?' 'At
Thrushcross Grange,' he answered; 'and I would have been there too, but
they had not the manners to ask me to stay.' 'Well, you will catch it!'
I said: 'you'll never be content till you're sent about your business.
What in the world led you wandering to Thrushcross Grange?' 'Let me get
off my wet clothes, and I'll tell you all about it, Nelly,' he replied.
I bid him beware of rousing the master, and while he undressed and I
waited to put out the candle, he continued--'Cathy and I escaped from
the wash-house to have a ramble at liberty, and getting a glimpse of the
Grange lights, we thought we would just go and see whether the Lintons
passed their Sunday evenings standing shivering in corners, while their
father and mother sat eating and drinking, and singing and laughing, and
burning their eyes out before the fire. Do you think they do? Or reading
sermons, and being catechised by their manservant, and set to learn a
column of Scripture names, if they don't answer properly?' 'Probably
not,' I responded. 'They are good children, no doubt, and don't deserve
the treatment you receive, for your bad conduct.' 'Don't cant, Nelly,'
he said: 'nonsense! We ran from the top of the Heights to the park,
without stopping--Catherine completely beaten in the race, because she
was barefoot. You'll have to seek for her shoes in the bog to-morrow. We
crept through a broken hedge, groped our way up the path, and planted
ourselves on a flower-plot under the drawing-room window. The light came
from thence; they had not put up the shutters, and the curtains were
only half closed. Both of us were able to look in by standing on the
basement, and clinging to the ledge, and we saw--ah! it was beautiful--a
splendid place carpeted with crimson, and crimson-covered chairs and
tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered by gold, a shower of
glass-drops hanging in silver chains from the centre, and shimmering
with little soft tapers. Old Mr. and Mrs. Linton were not there; Edgar
and his sisters had it entirely to themselves. Shouldn't they have been
happy? We should have thought ourselves in heaven! And now, guess what
your good children were doing? Isabella--I believe she is eleven, a year
younger than Cathy--lay screaming at the farther end of the room,
shrieking as if witches were running red-hot needles into her. Edgar
stood on the hearth weeping silently, and in the middle of the table sat
a little dog, shaking its paw and yelping; which, from their mutual
accusations, we understood they had nearly pulled in two between them.
The idiots! That was their pleasure! to quarrel who should hold a heap
of warm hair, and each begin to cry because both, after struggling to
get it, refused to take it. We laughed outright at the petted things; we
did despise them! When would you catch me wishing to have what Catherine
wanted? or find us by ourselves, seeking entertainment in yelling, and
sobbing, and rolling on the ground, divided by the whole room? I'd not
exchange, for a thousand lives, my condition here, for Edgar Linton's at
Thrushcross Grange--not if I might have the privilege of flinging Joseph
off the highest gable, and painting the house-front with Hindley's
blood!'
'Hush, hush!' I interrupted. 'Still you have not told me, Heathcliff,
how Catherine is left behind?'
'I told you we laughed,' he answered. 'The Lintons heard us, and with
one accord they shot like arrows to the door; there was silence, and
then a cry, "Oh, mamma, mamma! Oh, papa! Oh, mamma, come here. Oh, papa,
oh!" They really did howl out something in that way. We made frightful
noises to terrify them still more, and then we dropped off the ledge,
because somebody was drawing the bars, and we felt we had better flee. I
had Cathy by the hand, and was urging her on, when all at once she fell
down. "Run, Heathcliff, run!" she whispered. "They have let the bull-dog
loose, and he holds me!" The devil had seized her ankle, Nelly: I heard
his abominable snorting. She did not yell out--no! she would have
scorned to do it, if she had been spitted on the horns of a mad cow. I
did, though: I vociferated curses enough to annihilate any fiend in
Christendom; and I got a stone and thrust it between his jaws, and tried
with all my might to cram it down his throat. A beast of a servant came
up with a lantern, at last, shouting--"Keep fast, Skulker, keep fast!"
He changed his note, however, when he saw Skulker's game. The dog was
throttled off; his huge, purple tongue hanging half a foot out of his
mouth, and his pendent lips streaming with bloody slaver. The man took
Cathy up; she was sick: not from fear, I'm certain, but from pain. He
carried her in; I followed, grumbling execrations and vengeance. "What
prey, Robert?" hallooed Linton from the entrance. "Skulker has caught a
little girl, sir," he replied; "and there's a lad here," he added,
making a clutch at me, "who looks an out-and-outer! Very like the
robbers were for putting them through the window to open the doors to
the gang after all were asleep, that they might murder us at their ease.
Hold your tongue, you foul-mouthed thief, you! you shall go to the
gallows for this. Mr. Linton, sir, don't lay by your gun." "No, no,
Robert," said the old fool. "The rascals knew that yesterday was my
rent-day: they thought to have me cleverly. Come in; I'll furnish them a
reception. There, John, fasten the chain. Give Skulker some water,
Jenny. To beard a magistrate in his stronghold, and on the Sabbath, too!
Where will their insolence stop? Oh, my dear Mary, look here! Don't be
afraid, it is but a boy--yet the villain scowls so plainly in his face;
would it not be a kindness to the country to hang him at once, before he
shows his nature in acts as well as features?" He pulled me under the
chandelier, and Mrs. Linton placed her spectacles on her nose and raised
her hands in horror. The cowardly children crept nearer also, Isabella
lisping--"Frightful thing! Put him in the cellar, papa. He's exactly
like the son of the fortune-teller that stole my tame pheasant. Isn't
he, Edgar?"
'While they examined me, Cathy came round; she heard the last speech, and
laughed. Edgar Linton, after an inquisitive stare, collected sufficient
wit to recognise her. They see us at church, you know, though we seldom
meet them elsewhere. "That's Miss Earnshaw?" he whispered to his mother,
"and look how Skulker has bitten her--how her foot bleeds!"
'"Miss Earnshaw? Nonsense!" cried the dame; "Miss Earnshaw scouring the
country with a gipsy! And yet, my dear, the child is in mourning--surely
it is--and she may be lamed for life!"
'"What culpable carelessness in her brother!" exclaimed Mr. Linton,
turning from me to Catherine. "I've understood from Shielders"' (that
was the curate, sir) '"that he lets her grow up in absolute heathenism.
But who is this? Where did she pick up this companion? Oho! I declare
he is that strange acquisition my late neighbour made, in his journey to
Liverpool--a little Lascar, or an American or Spanish castaway."
'"A wicked boy, at all events," remarked the old lady, "and quite unfit
for a decent house! Did you notice his language, Linton? I'm shocked
that my children should have heard it."
'I recommenced cursing--don't be angry, Nelly--and so Robert was ordered
to take me off. I refused to go without Cathy; he dragged me into the
garden, pushed the lantern into my hand, assured me that Mr. Earnshaw
should be informed of my behaviour, and, bidding me march directly,
secured the door again. The curtains were still looped up at one corner,
and I resumed my station as spy; because, if Catherine had wished to
return, I intended shattering their great glass panes to a million of
fragments, unless they let her out. She sat on the sofa quietly. Mrs.
Linton took off the grey cloak of the dairy-maid which we had borrowed
for our excursion, shaking her head and expostulating with her, I
suppose: she was a young lady, and they made a distinction between her
treatment and mine. Then the woman-servant brought a basin of warm
water, and washed her feet; and Mr. Linton mixed a tumbler of negus, and
Isabella emptied a plateful of cakes into her lap, and Edgar stood gaping
at a distance. Afterwards, they dried and combed her beautiful hair, and
gave her a pair of enormous slippers, and wheeled her to the fire; and I
left her, as merry as she could be, dividing her food between the little
dog and Skulker, whose nose she pinched as he ate; and kindling a spark
of spirit in the vacant blue eyes of the Lintons--a dim reflection from
her own enchanting face. I saw they were full of stupid admiration; she
is so immeasurably superior to them--to everybody on earth, is she not,
Nelly?'
'There will more come of this business than you reckon on,' I answered,
covering him up and extinguishing the light. 'You are incurable,
Heathcliff; and Mr. Hindley will have to proceed to extremities, see if
he won't.' My words came truer than I desired. The luckless adventure
made Earnshaw furious. And then Mr. Linton, to mend matters, paid us a
visit himself on the morrow, and read the young master such a lecture on
the road he guided his family, that he was stirred to look about him, in
earnest. Heathcliff received no flogging, but he was told that the first
word he spoke to Miss Catherine should ensure a dismissal; and Mrs.
Earnshaw undertook to keep her sister-in-law in due restraint when she
returned home; employing art, not force: with force she would have found
it impossible.
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter 19 with the given context. | chapter 16|chapter 19 | Isabella died, and Edgar returned home with his half-orphaned nephew, Linton, a "pale, delicate, effeminate boy" with a "sickly peevishness" in his appearance. Cathy was excited to see her cousin, and took to babying him when she saw that he was sickly and childish. That very evening, Joseph came to demand the child on Heathcliff's behalf--Linton was, after all, Heathcliff's son. Ellen told him Edgar was asleep, but Joseph went into Edgar's room and insisted on taking Linton. Edgar wished to keep Linton at the Grange, but could not legally claim him, so he could only put it off until the next morning |
----------CHAPTER 16---------
About twelve o'clock that night was born the Catherine you saw at
Wuthering Heights: a puny, seven-months' child; and two hours after the
mother died, having never recovered sufficient consciousness to miss
Heathcliff, or know Edgar. The latter's distraction at his bereavement
is a subject too painful to be dwelt on; its after-effects showed how
deep the sorrow sunk. A great addition, in my eyes, was his being left
without an heir. I bemoaned that, as I gazed on the feeble orphan; and I
mentally abused old Linton for (what was only natural partiality) the
securing his estate to his own daughter, instead of his son's. An
unwelcomed infant it was, poor thing! It might have wailed out of life,
and nobody cared a morsel, during those first hours of existence. We
redeemed the neglect afterwards; but its beginning was as friendless as
its end is likely to be.
Next morning--bright and cheerful out of doors--stole softened in through
the blinds of the silent room, and suffused the couch and its occupant
with a mellow, tender glow. Edgar Linton had his head laid on the
pillow, and his eyes shut. His young and fair features were almost as
deathlike as those of the form beside him, and almost as fixed: but _his_
was the hush of exhausted anguish, and _hers_ of perfect peace. Her brow
smooth, her lids closed, her lips wearing the expression of a smile; no
angel in heaven could be more beautiful than she appeared. And I partook
of the infinite calm in which she lay: my mind was never in a holier
frame than while I gazed on that untroubled image of Divine rest. I
instinctively echoed the words she had uttered a few hours before:
'Incomparably beyond and above us all! Whether still on earth or now in
heaven, her spirit is at home with God!'
I don't know if it be a peculiarity in me, but I am seldom otherwise than
happy while watching in the chamber of death, should no frenzied or
despairing mourner share the duty with me. I see a repose that neither
earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the endless and
shadowless hereafter--the Eternity they have entered--where life is
boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in its
fulness. I noticed on that occasion how much selfishness there is even
in a love like Mr. Linton's, when he so regretted Catherine's blessed
release! To be sure, one might have doubted, after the wayward and
impatient existence she had led, whether she merited a haven of peace at
last. One might doubt in seasons of cold reflection; but not then, in
the presence of her corpse. It asserted its own tranquillity, which
seemed a pledge of equal quiet to its former inhabitant.
Do you believe such people are happy in the other world, sir? I'd give a
great deal to know.
I declined answering Mrs. Dean's question, which struck me as something
heterodox. She proceeded:
Retracing the course of Catherine Linton, I fear we have no right to
think she is; but we'll leave her with her Maker.
The master looked asleep, and I ventured soon after sunrise to quit the
room and steal out to the pure refreshing air. The servants thought me
gone to shake off the drowsiness of my protracted watch; in reality, my
chief motive was seeing Mr. Heathcliff. If he had remained among the
larches all night, he would have heard nothing of the stir at the Grange;
unless, perhaps, he might catch the gallop of the messenger going to
Gimmerton. If he had come nearer, he would probably be aware, from the
lights flitting to and fro, and the opening and shutting of the outer
doors, that all was not right within. I wished, yet feared, to find him.
I felt the terrible news must be told, and I longed to get it over; but
how to do it I did not know. He was there--at least, a few yards further
in the park; leant against an old ash-tree, his hat off, and his hair
soaked with the dew that had gathered on the budded branches, and fell
pattering round him. He had been standing a long time in that position,
for I saw a pair of ousels passing and repassing scarcely three feet from
him, busy in building their nest, and regarding his proximity no more
than that of a piece of timber. They flew off at my approach, and he
raised his eyes and spoke:--'She's dead!' he said; 'I've not waited for
you to learn that. Put your handkerchief away--don't snivel before me.
Damn you all! she wants none of your tears!'
I was weeping as much for him as her: we do sometimes pity creatures that
have none of the feeling either for themselves or others. When I first
looked into his face, I perceived that he had got intelligence of the
catastrophe; and a foolish notion struck me that his heart was quelled
and he prayed, because his lips moved and his gaze was bent on the
ground.
'Yes, she's dead!' I answered, checking my sobs and drying my cheeks.
'Gone to heaven, I hope; where we may, every one, join her, if we take
due warning and leave our evil ways to follow good!'
'Did _she_ take due warning, then?' asked Heathcliff, attempting a sneer.
'Did she die like a saint? Come, give me a true history of the event.
How did--?'
He endeavoured to pronounce the name, but could not manage it; and
compressing his mouth he held a silent combat with his inward agony,
defying, meanwhile, my sympathy with an unflinching, ferocious stare.
'How did she die?' he resumed, at last--fain, notwithstanding his
hardihood, to have a support behind him; for, after the struggle, he
trembled, in spite of himself, to his very finger-ends.
'Poor wretch!' I thought; 'you have a heart and nerves the same as your
brother men! Why should you be anxious to conceal them? Your pride
cannot blind God! You tempt him to wring them, till he forces a cry of
humiliation.'
'Quietly as a lamb!' I answered, aloud. 'She drew a sigh, and stretched
herself, like a child reviving, and sinking again to sleep; and five
minutes after I felt one little pulse at her heart, and nothing more!'
'And--did she ever mention me?' he asked, hesitating, as if he dreaded
the answer to his question would introduce details that he could not bear
to hear.
'Her senses never returned: she recognised nobody from the time you left
her,' I said. 'She lies with a sweet smile on her face; and her latest
ideas wandered back to pleasant early days. Her life closed in a gentle
dream--may she wake as kindly in the other world!'
'May she wake in torment!' he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping
his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion.
'Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not _there_--not in
heaven--not perished--where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my
sufferings! And I pray one prayer--I repeat it till my tongue
stiffens--Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living;
you said I killed you--haunt me, then! The murdered _do_ haunt their
murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts _have_ wandered on earth. Be
with me always--take any form--drive me mad! only _do_ not leave me in
this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I
_cannot_ live without my life! I _cannot_ live without my soul!'
He dashed his head against the knotted trunk; and, lifting up his eyes,
howled, not like a man, but like a savage beast being goaded to death
with knives and spears. I observed several splashes of blood about the
bark of the tree, and his hand and forehead were both stained; probably
the scene I witnessed was a repetition of others acted during the night.
It hardly moved my compassion--it appalled me: still, I felt reluctant to
quit him so. But the moment he recollected himself enough to notice me
watching, he thundered a command for me to go, and I obeyed. He was
beyond my skill to quiet or console!
Mrs. Linton's funeral was appointed to take place on the Friday following
her decease; and till then her coffin remained uncovered, and strewn with
flowers and scented leaves, in the great drawing-room. Linton spent his
days and nights there, a sleepless guardian; and--a circumstance
concealed from all but me--Heathcliff spent his nights, at least,
outside, equally a stranger to repose. I held no communication with him:
still, I was conscious of his design to enter, if he could; and on the
Tuesday, a little after dark, when my master, from sheer fatigue, had
been compelled to retire a couple of hours, I went and opened one of the
windows; moved by his perseverance to give him a chance of bestowing on
the faded image of his idol one final adieu. He did not omit to avail
himself of the opportunity, cautiously and briefly; too cautiously to
betray his presence by the slightest noise. Indeed, I shouldn't have
discovered that he had been there, except for the disarrangement of the
drapery about the corpse's face, and for observing on the floor a curl of
light hair, fastened with a silver thread; which, on examination, I
ascertained to have been taken from a locket hung round Catherine's neck.
Heathcliff had opened the trinket and cast out its contents, replacing
them by a black lock of his own. I twisted the two, and enclosed them
together.
Mr. Earnshaw was, of course, invited to attend the remains of his sister
to the grave; he sent no excuse, but he never came; so that, besides her
husband, the mourners were wholly composed of tenants and servants.
Isabella was not asked.
The place of Catherine's interment, to the surprise of the villagers, was
neither in the chapel under the carved monument of the Lintons, nor yet
by the tombs of her own relations, outside. It was dug on a green slope
in a corner of the kirk-yard, where the wall is so low that heath and
bilberry-plants have climbed over it from the moor; and peat-mould almost
buries it. Her husband lies in the same spot now; and they have each a
simple headstone above, and a plain grey block at their feet, to mark the
graves.
----------CHAPTER 19---------
A letter, edged with black, announced the day of my master's return.
Isabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me get mourning for his daughter,
and arrange a room, and other accommodations, for his youthful nephew.
Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming her father back; and
indulged most sanguine anticipations of the innumerable excellencies of
her 'real' cousin. The evening of their expected arrival came. Since
early morning she had been busy ordering her own small affairs; and now
attired in her new black frock--poor thing! her aunt's death impressed
her with no definite sorrow--she obliged me, by constant worrying, to
walk with her down through the grounds to meet them.
'Linton is just six months younger than I am,' she chattered, as we
strolled leisurely over the swells and hollows of mossy turf, under
shadow of the trees. 'How delightful it will be to have him for a
playfellow! Aunt Isabella sent papa a beautiful lock of his hair; it was
lighter than mine--more flaxen, and quite as fine. I have it carefully
preserved in a little glass box; and I've often thought what a pleasure
it would be to see its owner. Oh! I am happy--and papa, dear, dear papa!
Come, Ellen, let us run! come, run.'
She ran, and returned and ran again, many times before my sober footsteps
reached the gate, and then she seated herself on the grassy bank beside
the path, and tried to wait patiently; but that was impossible: she
couldn't be still a minute.
'How long they are!' she exclaimed. 'Ah, I see, some dust on the
road--they are coming! No! When will they be here? May we not go a
little way--half a mile, Ellen, only just half a mile? Do say Yes: to
that clump of birches at the turn!'
I refused staunchly. At length her suspense was ended: the travelling
carriage rolled in sight. Miss Cathy shrieked and stretched out her arms
as soon as she caught her father's face looking from the window. He
descended, nearly as eager as herself; and a considerable interval
elapsed ere they had a thought to spare for any but themselves. While
they exchanged caresses I took a peep in to see after Linton. He was
asleep in a corner, wrapped in a warm, fur-lined cloak, as if it had been
winter. A pale, delicate, effeminate boy, who might have been taken for
my master's younger brother, so strong was the resemblance: but there was
a sickly peevishness in his aspect that Edgar Linton never had. The
latter saw me looking; and having shaken hands, advised me to close the
door, and leave him undisturbed; for the journey had fatigued him. Cathy
would fain have taken one glance, but her father told her to come, and
they walked together up the park, while I hastened before to prepare the
servants.
'Now, darling,' said Mr. Linton, addressing his daughter, as they halted
at the bottom of the front steps: 'your cousin is not so strong or so
merry as you are, and he has lost his mother, remember, a very short time
since; therefore, don't expect him to play and run about with you
directly. And don't harass him much by talking: let him be quiet this
evening, at least, will you?'
'Yes, yes, papa,' answered Catherine: 'but I do want to see him; and he
hasn't once looked out.'
The carriage stopped; and the sleeper being roused, was lifted to the
ground by his uncle.
'This is your cousin Cathy, Linton,' he said, putting their little hands
together. 'She's fond of you already; and mind you don't grieve her by
crying to-night. Try to be cheerful now; the travelling is at an end,
and you have nothing to do but rest and amuse yourself as you please.'
'Let me go to bed, then,' answered the boy, shrinking from Catherine's
salute; and he put his fingers to remove incipient tears.
'Come, come, there's a good child,' I whispered, leading him in. 'You'll
make her weep too--see how sorry she is for you!'
I do not know whether it was sorrow for him, but his cousin put on as sad
a countenance as himself, and returned to her father. All three entered,
and mounted to the library, where tea was laid ready. I proceeded to
remove Linton's cap and mantle, and placed him on a chair by the table;
but he was no sooner seated than he began to cry afresh. My master
inquired what was the matter.
'I can't sit on a chair,' sobbed the boy.
'Go to the sofa, then, and Ellen shall bring you some tea,' answered his
uncle patiently.
He had been greatly tried, during the journey, I felt convinced, by his
fretful ailing charge. Linton slowly trailed himself off, and lay down.
Cathy carried a footstool and her cup to his side. At first she sat
silent; but that could not last: she had resolved to make a pet of her
little cousin, as she would have him to be; and she commenced stroking
his curls, and kissing his cheek, and offering him tea in her saucer,
like a baby. This pleased him, for he was not much better: he dried his
eyes, and lightened into a faint smile.
'Oh, he'll do very well,' said the master to me, after watching them a
minute. 'Very well, if we can keep him, Ellen. The company of a child
of his own age will instil new spirit into him soon, and by wishing for
strength he'll gain it.'
'Ay, if we can keep him!' I mused to myself; and sore misgivings came
over me that there was slight hope of that. And then, I thought, how
ever will that weakling live at Wuthering Heights? Between his father
and Hareton, what playmates and instructors they'll be. Our doubts were
presently decided--even earlier than I expected. I had just taken the
children up-stairs, after tea was finished, and seen Linton asleep--he
would not suffer me to leave him till that was the case--I had come down,
and was standing by the table in the hall, lighting a bedroom candle for
Mr. Edgar, when a maid stepped out of the kitchen and informed me that
Mr. Heathcliff's servant Joseph was at the door, and wished to speak with
the master.
'I shall ask him what he wants first,' I said, in considerable
trepidation. 'A very unlikely hour to be troubling people, and the
instant they have returned from a long journey. I don't think the master
can see him.'
Joseph had advanced through the kitchen as I uttered these words, and now
presented himself in the hall. He was donned in his Sunday garments,
with his most sanctimonious and sourest face, and, holding his hat in one
hand, and his stick in the other, he proceeded to clean his shoes on the
mat.
'Good-evening, Joseph,' I said, coldly. 'What business brings you here
to-night?'
'It's Maister Linton I mun spake to,' he answered, waving me disdainfully
aside.
'Mr. Linton is going to bed; unless you have something particular to say,
I'm sure he won't hear it now,' I continued. 'You had better sit down in
there, and entrust your message to me.'
'Which is his rahm?' pursued the fellow, surveying the range of closed
doors.
I perceived he was bent on refusing my mediation, so very reluctantly I
went up to the library, and announced the unseasonable visitor, advising
that he should be dismissed till next day. Mr. Linton had no time to
empower me to do so, for Joseph mounted close at my heels, and, pushing
into the apartment, planted himself at the far side of the table, with
his two fists clapped on the head of his stick, and began in an elevated
tone, as if anticipating opposition--
'Hathecliff has sent me for his lad, and I munn't goa back 'bout him.'
Edgar Linton was silent a minute; an expression of exceeding sorrow
overcast his features: he would have pitied the child on his own account;
but, recalling Isabella's hopes and fears, and anxious wishes for her
son, and her commendations of him to his care, he grieved bitterly at the
prospect of yielding him up, and searched in his heart how it might be
avoided. No plan offered itself: the very exhibition of any desire to
keep him would have rendered the claimant more peremptory: there was
nothing left but to resign him. However, he was not going to rouse him
from his sleep.
'Tell Mr. Heathcliff,' he answered calmly, 'that his son shall come to
Wuthering Heights to-morrow. He is in bed, and too tired to go the
distance now. You may also tell him that the mother of Linton desired
him to remain under my guardianship; and, at present, his health is very
precarious.'
'Noa!' said Joseph, giving a thud with his prop on the floor, and
assuming an authoritative air. 'Noa! that means naught. Hathecliff maks
noa 'count o' t' mother, nor ye norther; but he'll heu' his lad; und I
mun tak' him--soa now ye knaw!'
'You shall not to-night!' answered Linton decisively. 'Walk down stairs
at once, and repeat to your master what I have said. Ellen, show him
down. Go--'
And, aiding the indignant elder with a lift by the arm, he rid the room
of him and closed the door.
'Varrah weell!' shouted Joseph, as he slowly drew off. 'To-morn, he's
come hisseln, and thrust _him_ out, if ye darr!'
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter 20 with the given context. | chapter 20|chapter 22 | The next morning, Ellen woke Linton early and took him over to Wuthering Heights, promising dishonestly that it was only for a little while. Linton was surprised to hear he had a father, since Isabella had never spoken of Heathcliff. When they arrived, Heathcliff and Joseph expressed their contempt for the delicate boy. Heathcliff told Linton that his mother was a "wicked slut" because she did not tell Linton about his father. Ellen asked Heathcliff to be kind to the boy, and he said that he would indeed have him carefully tended, mostly because Linton was heir to the Grange, so he wanted him to live at least until Edgar was dead and he inherited. So when Linton refused to eat the homely oatmeal Joseph offered him, Heathcliff ordered that his son be given tea and boiled milk instead. When Ellen left, Linton begged her not to leave him there |
----------CHAPTER 20---------
To obviate the danger of this threat being fulfilled, Mr. Linton
commissioned me to take the boy home early, on Catherine's pony; and,
said he--'As we shall now have no influence over his destiny, good or
bad, you must say nothing of where he is gone to my daughter: she cannot
associate with him hereafter, and it is better for her to remain in
ignorance of his proximity; lest she should be restless, and anxious to
visit the Heights. Merely tell her his father sent for him suddenly, and
he has been obliged to leave us.'
Linton was very reluctant to be roused from his bed at five o'clock, and
astonished to be informed that he must prepare for further travelling;
but I softened off the matter by stating that he was going to spend some
time with his father, Mr. Heathcliff, who wished to see him so much, he
did not like to defer the pleasure till he should recover from his late
journey.
'My father!' he cried, in strange perplexity. 'Mamma never told me I had
a father. Where does he live? I'd rather stay with uncle.'
'He lives a little distance from the Grange,' I replied; 'just beyond
those hills: not so far, but you may walk over here when you get hearty.
And you should be glad to go home, and to see him. You must try to love
him, as you did your mother, and then he will love you.'
'But why have I not heard of him before?' asked Linton. 'Why didn't
mamma and he live together, as other people do?'
'He had business to keep him in the north,' I answered, 'and your
mother's health required her to reside in the south.'
'And why didn't mamma speak to me about him?' persevered the child. 'She
often talked of uncle, and I learnt to love him long ago. How am I to
love papa? I don't know him.'
'Oh, all children love their parents,' I said. 'Your mother, perhaps,
thought you would want to be with him if she mentioned him often to you.
Let us make haste. An early ride on such a beautiful morning is much
preferable to an hour's more sleep.'
'Is _she_ to go with us,' he demanded, 'the little girl I saw yesterday?'
'Not now,' replied I.
'Is uncle?' he continued.
'No, I shall be your companion there,' I said.
Linton sank back on his pillow and fell into a brown study.
'I won't go without uncle,' he cried at length: 'I can't tell where you
mean to take me.'
I attempted to persuade him of the naughtiness of showing reluctance to
meet his father; still he obstinately resisted any progress towards
dressing, and I had to call for my master's assistance in coaxing him out
of bed. The poor thing was finally got off, with several delusive
assurances that his absence should be short: that Mr. Edgar and Cathy
would visit him, and other promises, equally ill-founded, which I
invented and reiterated at intervals throughout the way. The pure
heather-scented air, the bright sunshine, and the gentle canter of Minny,
relieved his despondency after a while. He began to put questions
concerning his new home, and its inhabitants, with greater interest and
liveliness.
'Is Wuthering Heights as pleasant a place as Thrushcross Grange?' he
inquired, turning to take a last glance into the valley, whence a light
mist mounted and formed a fleecy cloud on the skirts of the blue.
'It is not so buried in trees,' I replied, 'and it is not quite so large,
but you can see the country beautifully all round; and the air is
healthier for you--fresher and drier. You will, perhaps, think the
building old and dark at first; though it is a respectable house: the
next best in the neighbourhood. And you will have such nice rambles on
the moors. Hareton Earnshaw--that is, Miss Cathy's other cousin, and so
yours in a manner--will show you all the sweetest spots; and you can
bring a book in fine weather, and make a green hollow your study; and,
now and then, your uncle may join you in a walk: he does, frequently,
walk out on the hills.'
'And what is my father like?' he asked. 'Is he as young and handsome as
uncle?'
'He's as young,' said I; 'but he has black hair and eyes, and looks
sterner; and he is taller and bigger altogether. He'll not seem to you
so gentle and kind at first, perhaps, because it is not his way: still,
mind you, be frank and cordial with him; and naturally he'll be fonder of
you than any uncle, for you are his own.'
'Black hair and eyes!' mused Linton. 'I can't fancy him. Then I am not
like him, am I?'
'Not much,' I answered: not a morsel, I thought, surveying with regret
the white complexion and slim frame of my companion, and his large
languid eyes--his mother's eyes, save that, unless a morbid touchiness
kindled them a moment, they had not a vestige of her sparkling spirit.
'How strange that he should never come to see mamma and me!' he murmured.
'Has he ever seen me? If he has, I must have been a baby. I remember
not a single thing about him!'
'Why, Master Linton,' said I, 'three hundred miles is a great distance;
and ten years seem very different in length to a grown-up person compared
with what they do to you. It is probable Mr. Heathcliff proposed going
from summer to summer, but never found a convenient opportunity; and now
it is too late. Don't trouble him with questions on the subject: it will
disturb him, for no good.'
The boy was fully occupied with his own cogitations for the remainder of
the ride, till we halted before the farmhouse garden-gate. I watched to
catch his impressions in his countenance. He surveyed the carved front
and low-browed lattices, the straggling gooseberry-bushes and crooked
firs, with solemn intentness, and then shook his head: his private
feelings entirely disapproved of the exterior of his new abode. But he
had sense to postpone complaining: there might be compensation within.
Before he dismounted, I went and opened the door. It was half-past six;
the family had just finished breakfast: the servant was clearing and
wiping down the table. Joseph stood by his master's chair telling some
tale concerning a lame horse; and Hareton was preparing for the hayfield.
'Hallo, Nelly!' said Mr. Heathcliff, when he saw me. 'I feared I should
have to come down and fetch my property myself. You've brought it, have
you? Let us see what we can make of it.'
He got up and strode to the door: Hareton and Joseph followed in gaping
curiosity. Poor Linton ran a frightened eye over the faces of the three.
'Sure-ly,' said Joseph after a grave inspection, 'he's swopped wi' ye,
Maister, an' yon's his lass!'
Heathcliff, having stared his son into an ague of confusion, uttered a
scornful laugh.
'God! what a beauty! what a lovely, charming thing!' he exclaimed.
'Hav'n't they reared it on snails and sour milk, Nelly? Oh, damn my
soul! but that's worse than I expected--and the devil knows I was not
sanguine!'
I bid the trembling and bewildered child get down, and enter. He did not
thoroughly comprehend the meaning of his father's speech, or whether it
were intended for him: indeed, he was not yet certain that the grim,
sneering stranger was his father. But he clung to me with growing
trepidation; and on Mr. Heathcliff's taking a seat and bidding him 'come
hither' he hid his face on my shoulder and wept.
'Tut, tut!' said Heathcliff, stretching out a hand and dragging him
roughly between his knees, and then holding up his head by the chin.
'None of that nonsense! We're not going to hurt thee, Linton--isn't that
thy name? Thou art thy mother's child, entirely! Where is my share in
thee, puling chicken?'
He took off the boy's cap and pushed back his thick flaxen curls, felt
his slender arms and his small fingers; during which examination Linton
ceased crying, and lifted his great blue eyes to inspect the inspector.
'Do you know me?' asked Heathcliff, having satisfied himself that the
limbs were all equally frail and feeble.
'No,' said Linton, with a gaze of vacant fear.
'You've heard of me, I daresay?'
'No,' he replied again.
'No! What a shame of your mother, never to waken your filial regard for
me! You are my son, then, I'll tell you; and your mother was a wicked
slut to leave you in ignorance of the sort of father you possessed. Now,
don't wince, and colour up! Though it is something to see you have not
white blood. Be a good lad; and I'll do for you. Nelly, if you be tired
you may sit down; if not, get home again. I guess you'll report what you
hear and see to the cipher at the Grange; and this thing won't be settled
while you linger about it.'
'Well,' replied I, 'I hope you'll be kind to the boy, Mr. Heathcliff, or
you'll not keep him long; and he's all you have akin in the wide world,
that you will ever know--remember.'
'I'll be very kind to him, you needn't fear,' he said, laughing. 'Only
nobody else must be kind to him: I'm jealous of monopolising his
affection. And, to begin my kindness, Joseph, bring the lad some
breakfast. Hareton, you infernal calf, begone to your work. Yes, Nell,'
he added, when they had departed, 'my son is prospective owner of your
place, and I should not wish him to die till I was certain of being his
successor. Besides, he's _mine_, and I want the triumph of seeing _my_
descendant fairly lord of their estates; my child hiring their children
to till their fathers' lands for wages. That is the sole consideration
which can make me endure the whelp: I despise him for himself, and hate
him for the memories he revives! But that consideration is sufficient:
he's as safe with me, and shall be tended as carefully as your master
tends his own. I have a room up-stairs, furnished for him in handsome
style; I've engaged a tutor, also, to come three times a week, from
twenty miles' distance, to teach him what he pleases to learn. I've
ordered Hareton to obey him: and in fact I've arranged everything with a
view to preserve the superior and the gentleman in him, above his
associates. I do regret, however, that he so little deserves the
trouble: if I wished any blessing in the world, it was to find him a
worthy object of pride; and I'm bitterly disappointed with the
whey-faced, whining wretch!'
While he was speaking, Joseph returned bearing a basin of milk-porridge,
and placed it before Linton: who stirred round the homely mess with a
look of aversion, and affirmed he could not eat it. I saw the old
man-servant shared largely in his master's scorn of the child; though he
was compelled to retain the sentiment in his heart, because Heathcliff
plainly meant his underlings to hold him in honour.
'Cannot ate it?' repeated he, peering in Linton's face, and subduing his
voice to a whisper, for fear of being overheard. 'But Maister Hareton
nivir ate naught else, when he wer a little 'un; and what wer gooid
enough for him's gooid enough for ye, I's rayther think!'
'I _sha'n't_ eat it!' answered Linton, snappishly. 'Take it away.'
Joseph snatched up the food indignantly, and brought it to us.
'Is there aught ails th' victuals?' he asked, thrusting the tray under
Heathcliff's nose.
'What should ail them?' he said.
'Wah!' answered Joseph, 'yon dainty chap says he cannut ate 'em. But I
guess it's raight! His mother wer just soa--we wer a'most too mucky to
sow t' corn for makking her breead.'
'Don't mention his mother to me,' said the master, angrily. 'Get him
something that he can eat, that's all. What is his usual food, Nelly?'
I suggested boiled milk or tea; and the housekeeper received instructions
to prepare some. Come, I reflected, his father's selfishness may
contribute to his comfort. He perceives his delicate constitution, and
the necessity of treating him tolerably. I'll console Mr. Edgar by
acquainting him with the turn Heathcliff's humour has taken. Having no
excuse for lingering longer, I slipped out, while Linton was engaged in
timidly rebuffing the advances of a friendly sheep-dog. But he was too
much on the alert to be cheated: as I closed the door, I heard a cry, and
a frantic repetition of the words--
'Don't leave me! I'll not stay here! I'll not stay here!'
Then the latch was raised and fell: they did not suffer him to come
forth. I mounted Minny, and urged her to a trot; and so my brief
guardianship ended.
----------CHAPTER 22---------
Summer drew to an end, and early autumn: it was past Michaelmas, but the
harvest was late that year, and a few of our fields were still uncleared.
Mr. Linton and his daughter would frequently walk out among the reapers;
at the carrying of the last sheaves they stayed till dusk, and the
evening happening to be chill and damp, my master caught a bad cold, that
settled obstinately on his lungs, and confined him indoors throughout the
whole of the winter, nearly without intermission.
Poor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been considerably
sadder and duller since its abandonment; and her father insisted on her
reading less, and taking more exercise. She had his companionship no
longer; I esteemed it a duty to supply its lack, as much as possible,
with mine: an inefficient substitute; for I could only spare two or three
hours, from my numerous diurnal occupations, to follow her footsteps, and
then my society was obviously less desirable than his.
On an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November--a fresh watery
afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with moist, withered
leaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds--dark grey
streamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and boding abundant rain--I
requested my young lady to forego her ramble, because I was certain of
showers. She refused; and I unwillingly donned a cloak, and took my
umbrella to accompany her on a stroll to the bottom of the park: a formal
walk which she generally affected if low-spirited--and that she
invariably was when Mr. Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing never
known from his confession, but guessed both by her and me from his
increased silence and the melancholy of his countenance. She went sadly
on: there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind might
well have tempted her to race. And often, from the side of my eye, I
could detect her raising a hand, and brushing something off her cheek. I
gazed round for a means of diverting her thoughts. On one side of the
road rose a high, rough bank, where hazels and stunted oaks, with their
roots half exposed, held uncertain tenure: the soil was too loose for the
latter; and strong winds had blown some nearly horizontal. In summer
Miss Catherine delighted to climb along these trunks, and sit in the
branches, swinging twenty feet above the ground; and I, pleased with her
agility and her light, childish heart, still considered it proper to
scold every time I caught her at such an elevation, but so that she knew
there was no necessity for descending. From dinner to tea she would lie
in her breeze-rocked cradle, doing nothing except singing old songs--my
nursery lore--to herself, or watching the birds, joint tenants, feed and
entice their young ones to fly: or nestling with closed lids, half
thinking, half dreaming, happier than words can express.
'Look, Miss!' I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of one
twisted tree. 'Winter is not here yet. There's a little flower up
yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those
turf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you clamber up, and pluck it
to show to papa?' Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom
trembling in its earthy shelter, and replied, at length--'No, I'll not
touch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen?'
'Yes,' I observed, 'about as starved and suckless as you: your cheeks are
bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You're so low, I daresay I
shall keep up with you.'
'No,' she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals to
muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus
spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever
and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.
'Catherine, why are you crying, love?' I asked, approaching and putting
my arm over her shoulder. 'You mustn't cry because papa has a cold; be
thankful it is nothing worse.'
She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled by
sobs.
'Oh, it will be something worse,' she said. 'And what shall I do when
papa and you leave me, and I am by myself? I can't forget your words,
Ellen; they are always in my ear. How life will be changed, how dreary
the world will be, when papa and you are dead.'
'None can tell whether you won't die before us,' I replied. 'It's wrong
to anticipate evil. We'll hope there are years and years to come before
any of us go: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty-five. My
mother lived till eighty, a canty dame to the last. And suppose Mr.
Linton were spared till he saw sixty, that would be more years than you
have counted, Miss. And would it not be foolish to mourn a calamity
above twenty years beforehand?'
'But Aunt Isabella was younger than papa,' she remarked, gazing up with
timid hope to seek further consolation.
'Aunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her,' I replied. 'She wasn't
as happy as Master: she hadn't as much to live for. All you need do, is
to wait well on your father, and cheer him by letting him see you
cheerful; and avoid giving him anxiety on any subject: mind that, Cathy!
I'll not disguise but you might kill him if you were wild and reckless,
and cherished a foolish, fanciful affection for the son of a person who
would be glad to have him in his grave; and allowed him to discover that
you fretted over the separation he has judged it expedient to make.'
'I fret about nothing on earth except papa's illness,' answered my
companion. 'I care for nothing in comparison with papa. And I'll
never--never--oh, never, while I have my senses, do an act or say a word
to vex him. I love him better than myself, Ellen; and I know it by this:
I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be
miserable than that he should be: that proves I love him better than
myself.'
'Good words,' I replied. 'But deeds must prove it also; and after he is
well, remember you don't forget resolutions formed in the hour of fear.'
As we talked, we neared a door that opened on the road; and my young
lady, lightening into sunshine again, climbed up and seated herself on
the top of the wall, reaching over to gather some hips that bloomed
scarlet on the summit branches of the wild-rose trees shadowing the
highway side: the lower fruit had disappeared, but only birds could touch
the upper, except from Cathy's present station. In stretching to pull
them, her hat fell off; and as the door was locked, she proposed
scrambling down to recover it. I bid her be cautious lest she got a
fall, and she nimbly disappeared. But the return was no such easy
matter: the stones were smooth and neatly cemented, and the rose-bushes
and black-berry stragglers could yield no assistance in re-ascending. I,
like a fool, didn't recollect that, till I heard her laughing and
exclaiming--'Ellen! you'll have to fetch the key, or else I must run
round to the porter's lodge. I can't scale the ramparts on this side!'
'Stay where you are,' I answered; 'I have my bundle of keys in my pocket:
perhaps I may manage to open it; if not, I'll go.'
Catherine amused herself with dancing to and fro before the door, while I
tried all the large keys in succession. I had applied the last, and
found that none would do; so, repeating my desire that she would remain
there, I was about to hurry home as fast as I could, when an approaching
sound arrested me. It was the trot of a horse; Cathy's dance stopped
also.
'Who is that?' I whispered.
'Ellen, I wish you could open the door,' whispered back my companion,
anxiously.
'Ho, Miss Linton!' cried a deep voice (the rider's), 'I'm glad to meet
you. Don't be in haste to enter, for I have an explanation to ask and
obtain.'
'I sha'n't speak to you, Mr. Heathcliff,' answered Catherine. 'Papa says
you are a wicked man, and you hate both him and me; and Ellen says the
same.'
'That is nothing to the purpose,' said Heathcliff. (He it was.) 'I
don't hate my son, I suppose; and it is concerning him that I demand your
attention. Yes; you have cause to blush. Two or three months since,
were you not in the habit of writing to Linton? making love in play, eh?
You deserved, both of you, flogging for that! You especially, the elder;
and less sensitive, as it turns out. I've got your letters, and if you
give me any pertness I'll send them to your father. I presume you grew
weary of the amusement and dropped it, didn't you? Well, you dropped
Linton with it into a Slough of Despond. He was in earnest: in love,
really. As true as I live, he's dying for you; breaking his heart at
your fickleness: not figuratively, but actually. Though Hareton has made
him a standing jest for six weeks, and I have used more serious measures,
and attempted to frighten him out of his idiotcy, he gets worse daily;
and he'll be under the sod before summer, unless you restore him!'
'How can you lie so glaringly to the poor child?' I called from the
inside. 'Pray ride on! How can you deliberately get up such paltry
falsehoods? Miss Cathy, I'll knock the lock off with a stone: you won't
believe that vile nonsense. You can feel in yourself it is impossible
that a person should die for love of a stranger.'
'I was not aware there were eavesdroppers,' muttered the detected
villain. 'Worthy Mrs. Dean, I like you, but I don't like your
double-dealing,' he added aloud. 'How could _you_ lie so glaringly as to
affirm I hated the "poor child"? and invent bugbear stories to terrify
her from my door-stones? Catherine Linton (the very name warms me), my
bonny lass, I shall be from home all this week; go and see if have not
spoken truth: do, there's a darling! Just imagine your father in my
place, and Linton in yours; then think how you would value your careless
lover if he refused to stir a step to comfort you, when your father
himself entreated him; and don't, from pure stupidity, fall into the
same error. I swear, on my salvation, he's going to his grave, and none
but you can save him!'
The lock gave way and I issued out.
'I swear Linton is dying,' repeated Heathcliff, looking hard at me. 'And
grief and disappointment are hastening his death. Nelly, if you won't
let her go, you can walk over yourself. But I shall not return till this
time next week; and I think your master himself would scarcely object to
her visiting her cousin.'
'Come in,' said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half forcing her to
re-enter; for she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features of
the speaker, too stern to express his inward deceit.
He pushed his horse close, and, bending down, observed--'Miss Catherine,
I'll own to you that I have little patience with Linton; and Hareton and
Joseph have less. I'll own that he's with a harsh set. He pines for
kindness, as well as love; and a kind word from you would be his best
medicine. Don't mind Mrs. Dean's cruel cautions; but be generous, and
contrive to see him. He dreams of you day and night, and cannot be
persuaded that you don't hate him, since you neither write nor call.'
I closed the door, and rolled a stone to assist the loosened lock in
holding it; and spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge underneath: for
the rain began to drive through the moaning branches of the trees, and
warned us to avoid delay. Our hurry prevented any comment on the
encounter with Heathcliff, as we stretched towards home; but I divined
instinctively that Catherine's heart was clouded now in double darkness.
Her features were so sad, they did not seem hers: she evidently regarded
what she had heard as every syllable true.
The master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole to his
room to inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She returned, and
asked me to sit with her in the library. We took our tea together; and
afterwards she lay down on the rug, and told me not to talk, for she was
weary. I got a book, and pretended to read. As soon as she supposed me
absorbed in my occupation, she recommenced her silent weeping: it
appeared, at present, her favourite diversion. I suffered her to enjoy
it a while; then I expostulated: deriding and ridiculing all Mr.
Heathcliff's assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would
coincide. Alas! I hadn't skill to counteract the effect his account had
produced: it was just what he intended.
'You may be right, Ellen,' she answered; 'but I shall never feel at ease
till I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I don't
write, and convince him that I shall not change.'
What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We
parted that night--hostile; but next day beheld me on the road to
Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress's pony. I
couldn't bear to witness her sorrow: to see her pale, dejected
countenance, and heavy eyes: and I yielded, in the faint hope that Linton
himself might prove, by his reception of us, how little of the tale was
founded on fact.
|
null | cliffnotes | Craft a concise overview of chapter 25 using the context provided. | chapter 25|chapter 26 | Chapter 25 |
----------CHAPTER 25---------
'These things happened last winter, sir,' said Mrs. Dean; 'hardly more
than a year ago. Last winter, I did not think, at another twelve months'
end, I should be amusing a stranger to the family with relating them!
Yet, who knows how long you'll be a stranger? You're too young to rest
always contented, living by yourself; and I some way fancy no one could
see Catherine Linton and not love her. You smile; but why do you look so
lively and interested when I talk about her? and why have you asked me to
hang her picture over your fireplace? and why--?'
'Stop, my good friend!' I cried. 'It may be very possible that _I_
should love her; but would she love me? I doubt it too much to venture
my tranquillity by running into temptation: and then my home is not here.
I'm of the busy world, and to its arms I must return. Go on. Was
Catherine obedient to her father's commands?'
'She was,' continued the housekeeper. 'Her affection for him was still
the chief sentiment in her heart; and he spoke without anger: he spoke in
the deep tenderness of one about to leave his treasure amid perils and
foes, where his remembered words would be the only aid that he could
bequeath to guide her. He said to me, a few days afterwards, "I wish my
nephew would write, Ellen, or call. Tell me, sincerely, what you think
of him: is he changed for the better, or is there a prospect of
improvement, as he grows a man?"
'"He's very delicate, sir," I replied; "and scarcely likely to reach
manhood: but this I can say, he does not resemble his father; and if Miss
Catherine had the misfortune to marry him, he would not be beyond her
control: unless she were extremely and foolishly indulgent. However,
master, you'll have plenty of time to get acquainted with him and see
whether he would suit her: it wants four years and more to his being of
age."'
Edgar sighed; and, walking to the window, looked out towards Gimmerton
Kirk. It was a misty afternoon, but the February sun shone dimly, and we
could just distinguish the two fir-trees in the yard, and the
sparely-scattered gravestones.
'I've prayed often,' he half soliloquised, 'for the approach of what is
coming; and now I begin to shrink, and fear it. I thought the memory of
the hour I came down that glen a bridegroom would be less sweet than the
anticipation that I was soon, in a few months, or, possibly, weeks, to be
carried up, and laid in its lonely hollow! Ellen, I've been very happy
with my little Cathy: through winter nights and summer days she was a
living hope at my side. But I've been as happy musing by myself among
those stones, under that old church: lying, through the long June
evenings, on the green mound of her mother's grave, and wishing--yearning
for the time when I might lie beneath it. What can I do for Cathy? How
must I quit her? I'd not care one moment for Linton being Heathcliff's
son; nor for his taking her from me, if he could console her for my loss.
I'd not care that Heathcliff gained his ends, and triumphed in robbing me
of my last blessing! But should Linton be unworthy--only a feeble tool
to his father--I cannot abandon her to him! And, hard though it be to
crush her buoyant spirit, I must persevere in making her sad while I
live, and leaving her solitary when I die. Darling! I'd rather resign
her to God, and lay her in the earth before me.'
'Resign her to God as it is, sir,' I answered, 'and if we should lose
you--which may He forbid--under His providence, I'll stand her friend and
counsellor to the last. Miss Catherine is a good girl: I don't fear that
she will go wilfully wrong; and people who do their duty are always
finally rewarded.'
Spring advanced; yet my master gathered no real strength, though he
resumed his walks in the grounds with his daughter. To her inexperienced
notions, this itself was a sign of convalescence; and then his cheek was
often flushed, and his eyes were bright; she felt sure of his recovering.
On her seventeenth birthday, he did not visit the churchyard: it was
raining, and I observed--'You'll surely not go out to-night, sir?'
He answered,--'No, I'll defer it this year a little longer.' He wrote
again to Linton, expressing his great desire to see him; and, had the
invalid been presentable, I've no doubt his father would have permitted
him to come. As it was, being instructed, he returned an answer,
intimating that Mr. Heathcliff objected to his calling at the Grange; but
his uncle's kind remembrance delighted him, and he hoped to meet him
sometimes in his rambles, and personally to petition that his cousin and
he might not remain long so utterly divided.
That part of his letter was simple, and probably his own. Heathcliff
knew he could plead eloquently for Catherine's company, then.
'I do not ask,' he said, 'that she may visit here; but am I never to see
her, because my father forbids me to go to her home, and you forbid her
to come to mine? Do, now and then, ride with her towards the Heights;
and let us exchange a few words, in your presence! We have done nothing
to deserve this separation; and you are not angry with me: you have no
reason to dislike me, you allow, yourself. Dear uncle! send me a kind
note to-morrow, and leave to join you anywhere you please, except at
Thrushcross Grange. I believe an interview would convince you that my
father's character is not mine: he affirms I am more your nephew than his
son; and though I have faults which render me unworthy of Catherine, she
has excused them, and for her sake, you should also. You inquire after
my health--it is better; but while I remain cut off from all hope, and
doomed to solitude, or the society of those who never did and never will
like me, how can I be cheerful and well?'
Edgar, though he felt for the boy, could not consent to grant his
request; because he could not accompany Catherine. He said, in summer,
perhaps, they might meet: meantime, he wished him to continue writing at
intervals, and engaged to give him what advice and comfort he was able by
letter; being well aware of his hard position in his family. Linton
complied; and had he been unrestrained, would probably have spoiled all
by filling his epistles with complaints and lamentations: but his father
kept a sharp watch over him; and, of course, insisted on every line that
my master sent being shown; so, instead of penning his peculiar personal
sufferings and distresses, the themes constantly uppermost in his
thoughts, he harped on the cruel obligation of being held asunder from
his friend and love; and gently intimated that Mr. Linton must allow an
interview soon, or he should fear he was purposely deceiving him with
empty promises.
Cathy was a powerful ally at home; and between them they at length
persuaded my master to acquiesce in their having a ride or a walk
together about once a week, under my guardianship, and on the moors
nearest the Grange: for June found him still declining. Though he had
set aside yearly a portion of his income for my young lady's fortune, he
had a natural desire that she might retain--or at least return in a short
time to--the house of her ancestors; and he considered her only prospect
of doing that was by a union with his heir; he had no idea that the
latter was failing almost as fast as himself; nor had any one, I believe:
no doctor visited the Heights, and no one saw Master Heathcliff to make
report of his condition among us. I, for my part, began to fancy my
forebodings were false, and that he must be actually rallying, when he
mentioned riding and walking on the moors, and seemed so earnest in
pursuing his object. I could not picture a father treating a dying child
as tyrannically and wickedly as I afterwards learned Heathcliff had
treated him, to compel this apparent eagerness: his efforts redoubling
the more imminently his avaricious and unfeeling plans were threatened
with defeat by death.
----------CHAPTER 26---------
Summer was already past its prime, when Edgar reluctantly yielded his
assent to their entreaties, and Catherine and I set out on our first ride
to join her cousin. It was a close, sultry day: devoid of sunshine, but
with a sky too dappled and hazy to threaten rain: and our place of
meeting had been fixed at the guide-stone, by the cross-roads. On
arriving there, however, a little herd-boy, despatched as a messenger,
told us that,--'Maister Linton wer just o' this side th' Heights: and
he'd be mitch obleeged to us to gang on a bit further.'
'Then Master Linton has forgot the first injunction of his uncle,' I
observed: 'he bid us keep on the Grange land, and here we are off at
once.'
'Well, we'll turn our horses' heads round when we reach him,' answered my
companion; 'our excursion shall lie towards home.'
But when we reached him, and that was scarcely a quarter of a mile from
his own door, we found he had no horse; and we were forced to dismount,
and leave ours to graze. He lay on the heath, awaiting our approach, and
did not rise till we came within a few yards. Then he walked so feebly,
and looked so pale, that I immediately exclaimed,--'Why, Master
Heathcliff, you are not fit for enjoying a ramble this morning. How ill
you do look!'
Catherine surveyed him with grief and astonishment: she changed the
ejaculation of joy on her lips to one of alarm; and the congratulation on
their long-postponed meeting to an anxious inquiry, whether he were worse
than usual?
'No--better--better!' he panted, trembling, and retaining her hand as if
he needed its support, while his large blue eyes wandered timidly over
her; the hollowness round them transforming to haggard wildness the
languid expression they once possessed.
'But you have been worse,' persisted his cousin; 'worse than when I saw
you last; you are thinner, and--'
'I'm tired,' he interrupted, hurriedly. 'It is too hot for walking, let
us rest here. And, in the morning, I often feel sick--papa says I grow
so fast.'
Badly satisfied, Cathy sat down, and he reclined beside her.
'This is something like your paradise,' said she, making an effort at
cheerfulness. 'You recollect the two days we agreed to spend in the
place and way each thought pleasantest? This is nearly yours, only there
are clouds; but then they are so soft and mellow: it is nicer than
sunshine. Next week, if you can, we'll ride down to the Grange Park, and
try mine.'
Linton did not appear to remember what she talked of and he had evidently
great difficulty in sustaining any kind of conversation. His lack of
interest in the subjects she started, and his equal incapacity to
contribute to her entertainment, were so obvious that she could not
conceal her disappointment. An indefinite alteration had come over his
whole person and manner. The pettishness that might be caressed into
fondness, had yielded to a listless apathy; there was less of the peevish
temper of a child which frets and teases on purpose to be soothed, and
more of the self-absorbed moroseness of a confirmed invalid, repelling
consolation, and ready to regard the good-humoured mirth of others as an
insult. Catherine perceived, as well as I did, that he held it rather a
punishment, than a gratification, to endure our company; and she made no
scruple of proposing, presently, to depart. That proposal, unexpectedly,
roused Linton from his lethargy, and threw him into a strange state of
agitation. He glanced fearfully towards the Heights, begging she would
remain another half-hour, at least.
'But I think,' said Cathy, 'you'd be more comfortable at home than
sitting here; and I cannot amuse you to-day, I see, by my tales, and
songs, and chatter: you have grown wiser than I, in these six months; you
have little taste for my diversions now: or else, if I could amuse you,
I'd willingly stay.'
'Stay to rest yourself,' he replied. 'And, Catherine, don't think or say
that I'm _very_ unwell: it is the heavy weather and heat that make me
dull; and I walked about, before you came, a great deal for me. Tell
uncle I'm in tolerable health, will you?'
'I'll tell him that _you_ say so, Linton. I couldn't affirm that you
are,' observed my young lady, wondering at his pertinacious assertion of
what was evidently an untruth.
'And be here again next Thursday,' continued he, shunning her puzzled
gaze. 'And give him my thanks for permitting you to come--my best
thanks, Catherine. And--and, if you _did_ meet my father, and he asked
you about me, don't lead him to suppose that I've been extremely silent
and stupid: don't look sad and downcast, as you are doing--he'll be
angry.'
'I care nothing for his anger,' exclaimed Cathy, imagining she would be
its object.
'But I do,' said her cousin, shuddering. '_Don't_ provoke him against
me, Catherine, for he is very hard.'
'Is he severe to you, Master Heathcliff?' I inquired. 'Has he grown
weary of indulgence, and passed from passive to active hatred?'
Linton looked at me, but did not answer; and, after keeping her seat by
his side another ten minutes, during which his head fell drowsily on his
breast, and he uttered nothing except suppressed moans of exhaustion or
pain, Cathy began to seek solace in looking for bilberries, and sharing
the produce of her researches with me: she did not offer them to him, for
she saw further notice would only weary and annoy.
'Is it half-an-hour now, Ellen?' she whispered in my ear, at last. 'I
can't tell why we should stay. He's asleep, and papa will be wanting us
back.'
'Well, we must not leave him asleep,' I answered; 'wait till he wakes,
and be patient. You were mighty eager to set off, but your longing to
see poor Linton has soon evaporated!'
'Why did _he_ wish to see me?' returned Catherine. 'In his crossest
humours, formerly, I liked him better than I do in his present curious
mood. It's just as if it were a task he was compelled to perform--this
interview--for fear his father should scold him. But I'm hardly going to
come to give Mr. Heathcliff pleasure; whatever reason he may have for
ordering Linton to undergo this penance. And, though I'm glad he's
better in health, I'm sorry he's so much less pleasant, and so much less
affectionate to me.'
'You think _he is_ better in health, then?' I said.
'Yes,' she answered; 'because he always made such a great deal of his
sufferings, you know. He is not tolerably well, as he told me to tell
papa; but he's better, very likely.'
'There you differ with me, Miss Cathy,' I remarked; 'I should conjecture
him to be far worse.'
Linton here started from his slumber in bewildered terror, and asked if
any one had called his name.
'No,' said Catherine; 'unless in dreams. I cannot conceive how you
manage to doze out of doors, in the morning.'
'I thought I heard my father,' he gasped, glancing up to the frowning nab
above us. 'You are sure nobody spoke?'
'Quite sure,' replied his cousin. 'Only Ellen and I were disputing
concerning your health. Are you truly stronger, Linton, than when we
separated in winter? If you be, I'm certain one thing is not
stronger--your regard for me: speak,--are you?'
The tears gushed from Linton's eyes as he answered, 'Yes, yes, I am!'
And, still under the spell of the imaginary voice, his gaze wandered up
and down to detect its owner.
Cathy rose. 'For to-day we must part,' she said. 'And I won't conceal
that I have been sadly disappointed with our meeting; though I'll mention
it to nobody but you: not that I stand in awe of Mr. Heathcliff.'
'Hush,' murmured Linton; 'for God's sake, hush! He's coming.' And he
clung to Catherine's arm, striving to detain her; but at that
announcement she hastily disengaged herself, and whistled to Minny, who
obeyed her like a dog.
'I'll be here next Thursday,' she cried, springing to the saddle.
'Good-bye. Quick, Ellen!'
And so we left him, scarcely conscious of our departure, so absorbed was
he in anticipating his father's approach.
Before we reached home, Catherine's displeasure softened into a perplexed
sensation of pity and regret, largely blended with vague, uneasy doubts
about Linton's actual circumstances, physical and social: in which I
partook, though I counselled her not to say much; for a second journey
would make us better judges. My master requested an account of our
ongoings. His nephew's offering of thanks was duly delivered, Miss Cathy
gently touching on the rest: I also threw little light on his inquiries,
for I hardly knew what to hide and what to reveal.
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 28 based on the provided context. | chapter 28|chapter 29 | On the fifth afternoon of the captivity, Zillah released Ellen, explaining that Heathcliff said she could go home and that Cathy would follow in time to attend her father's funeral. Edgar was not dead yet, but soon would be. Ellen asked Linton where Catherine was, and he answered that she was shut upstairs, that they were married, and that he was glad she was being treated harshly. Apparently he resented that she hadn't wished to marry him. He was annoyed by her crying, and was glad when Heathcliff struck her as punishment. Ellen rebuked Linton for his selfishness and unkindness, and went to the Grange to get help. Edgar was glad to hear his daughter was safe and would be home soon: he was almost dead, at the age of 39. Upon hearing of Heathcliff's plot to take control of his estate, Edgar sent for Mr. Green, the local attorney, to change his will so that his money would be held in a trust for Cathy. However, Heathcliff bought off Mr. Green and the lawyer did not arrive until it was too late to change the will. The men sent to Wuthering Heights to rescue Cathy returned without her, having believed Heathcliff's tale that she was too sick to travel. Very early the next morning, however, Catherine came back by herself, joyful to hear that her father was still alive. She had convinced Linton to help her escape. Ellen asked her to tell Edgar that she would be content with Linton so that he could die happy, to which she agreed. Edgar died "blissfully". Catherine was stony-eyed with grief. Mr. Green, now employed by Heathcliff, gave all the servants but Ellen notice to quit, and hurried the funeral |
----------CHAPTER 28---------
On the fifth morning, or rather afternoon, a different step
approached--lighter and shorter; and, this time, the person entered the
room. It was Zillah; donned in her scarlet shawl, with a black silk
bonnet on her head, and a willow-basket swung to her arm.
'Eh, dear! Mrs. Dean!' she exclaimed. 'Well! there is a talk about you
at Gimmerton. I never thought but you were sunk in the Blackhorse marsh,
and missy with you, till master told me you'd been found, and he'd lodged
you here! What! and you must have got on an island, sure? And how long
were you in the hole? Did master save you, Mrs. Dean? But you're not so
thin--you've not been so poorly, have you?'
'Your master is a true scoundrel!' I replied. 'But he shall answer for
it. He needn't have raised that tale: it shall all be laid bare!'
'What do you mean?' asked Zillah. 'It's not his tale: they tell that in
the village--about your being lost in the marsh; and I calls to Earnshaw,
when I come in--"Eh, they's queer things, Mr. Hareton, happened since I
went off. It's a sad pity of that likely young lass, and cant Nelly
Dean." He stared. I thought he had not heard aught, so I told him the
rumour. The master listened, and he just smiled to himself, and said,
"If they have been in the marsh, they are out now, Zillah. Nelly Dean is
lodged, at this minute, in your room. You can tell her to flit, when you
go up; here is the key. The bog-water got into her head, and she would
have run home quite flighty; but I fixed her till she came round to her
senses. You can bid her go to the Grange at once, if she be able, and
carry a message from me, that her young lady will follow in time to
attend the squire's funeral."'
'Mr. Edgar is not dead?' I gasped. 'Oh! Zillah, Zillah!'
'No, no; sit you down, my good mistress,' she replied; 'you're right
sickly yet. He's not dead; Doctor Kenneth thinks he may last another
day. I met him on the road and asked.'
Instead of sitting down, I snatched my outdoor things, and hastened
below, for the way was free. On entering the house, I looked about for
some one to give information of Catherine. The place was filled with
sunshine, and the door stood wide open; but nobody seemed at hand. As I
hesitated whether to go off at once, or return and seek my mistress, a
slight cough drew my attention to the hearth. Linton lay on the settle,
sole tenant, sucking a stick of sugar-candy, and pursuing my movements
with apathetic eyes. 'Where is Miss Catherine?' I demanded sternly,
supposing I could frighten him into giving intelligence, by catching him
thus, alone. He sucked on like an innocent.
'Is she gone?' I said.
'No,' he replied; 'she's upstairs: she's not to go; we won't let her.'
'You won't let her, little idiot!' I exclaimed. 'Direct me to her room
immediately, or I'll make you sing out sharply.'
'Papa would make you sing out, if you attempted to get there,' he
answered. 'He says I'm not to be soft with Catherine: she's my wife, and
it's shameful that she should wish to leave me. He says she hates me and
wants me to die, that she may have my money; but she shan't have it: and
she shan't go home! She never shall!--she may cry, and be sick as much
as she pleases!'
He resumed his former occupation, closing his lids, as if he meant to
drop asleep.
'Master Heathcliff,' I resumed, 'have you forgotten all Catherine's
kindness to you last winter, when you affirmed you loved her, and when
she brought you books and sung you songs, and came many a time through
wind and snow to see you? She wept to miss one evening, because you
would be disappointed; and you felt then that she was a hundred times too
good to you: and now you believe the lies your father tells, though you
know he detests you both. And you join him against her. That's fine
gratitude, is it not?'
The corner of Linton's mouth fell, and he took the sugar-candy from his
lips.
'Did she come to Wuthering Heights because she hated you?' I continued.
'Think for yourself! As to your money, she does not even know that you
will have any. And you say she's sick; and yet you leave her alone, up
there in a strange house! You who have felt what it is to be so
neglected! You could pity your own sufferings; and she pitied them, too;
but you won't pity hers! I shed tears, Master Heathcliff, you see--an
elderly woman, and a servant merely--and you, after pretending such
affection, and having reason to worship her almost, store every tear you
have for yourself, and lie there quite at ease. Ah! you're a heartless,
selfish boy!'
'I can't stay with her,' he answered crossly. 'I'll not stay by myself.
She cries so I can't bear it. And she won't give over, though I say I'll
call my father. I did call him once, and he threatened to strangle her
if she was not quiet; but she began again the instant he left the room,
moaning and grieving all night long, though I screamed for vexation that
I couldn't sleep.'
'Is Mr. Heathcliff out?' I inquired, perceiving that the wretched
creature had no power to sympathize with his cousin's mental tortures.
'He's in the court,' he replied, 'talking to Doctor Kenneth; who says
uncle is dying, truly, at last. I'm glad, for I shall be master of the
Grange after him. Catherine always spoke of it as her house. It isn't
hers! It's mine: papa says everything she has is mine. All her nice
books are mine; she offered to give me them, and her pretty birds, and
her pony Minny, if I would get the key of our room, and let her out; but
I told her she had nothing to give, they were all, all mine. And then
she cried, and took a little picture from her neck, and said I should
have that; two pictures in a gold case, on one side her mother, and on
the other uncle, when they were young. That was yesterday--I said they
were mine, too; and tried to get them from her. The spiteful thing
wouldn't let me: she pushed me off, and hurt me. I shrieked out--that
frightens her--she heard papa coming, and she broke the hinges and
divided the case, and gave me her mother's portrait; the other she
attempted to hide: but papa asked what was the matter, and I explained
it. He took the one I had away, and ordered her to resign hers to me;
she refused, and he--he struck her down, and wrenched it off the chain,
and crushed it with his foot.'
'And were you pleased to see her struck?' I asked: having my designs in
encouraging his talk.
'I winked,' he answered: 'I wink to see my father strike a dog or a
horse, he does it so hard. Yet I was glad at first--she deserved
punishing for pushing me: but when papa was gone, she made me come to the
window and showed me her cheek cut on the inside, against her teeth, and
her mouth filling with blood; and then she gathered up the bits of the
picture, and went and sat down with her face to the wall, and she has
never spoken to me since: and I sometimes think she can't speak for pain.
I don't like to think so; but she's a naughty thing for crying
continually; and she looks so pale and wild, I'm afraid of her.'
'And you can get the key if you choose?' I said.
'Yes, when I am up-stairs,' he answered; 'but I can't walk up-stairs
now.'
'In what apartment is it?' I asked.
'Oh,' he cried, 'I shan't tell _you_ where it is. It is our secret.
Nobody, neither Hareton nor Zillah, is to know. There! you've tired
me--go away, go away!' And he turned his face on to his arm, and shut
his eyes again.
I considered it best to depart without seeing Mr. Heathcliff, and bring a
rescue for my young lady from the Grange. On reaching it, the
astonishment of my fellow-servants to see me, and their joy also, was
intense; and when they heard that their little mistress was safe, two or
three were about to hurry up and shout the news at Mr. Edgar's door: but
I bespoke the announcement of it myself. How changed I found him, even
in those few days! He lay an image of sadness and resignation awaiting
his death. Very young he looked: though his actual age was thirty-nine,
one would have called him ten years younger, at least. He thought of
Catherine; for he murmured her name. I touched his hand, and spoke.
'Catherine is coming, dear master!' I whispered; 'she is alive and well;
and will be here, I hope, to-night.'
I trembled at the first effects of this intelligence: he half rose up,
looked eagerly round the apartment, and then sank back in a swoon. As
soon as he recovered, I related our compulsory visit, and detention at
the Heights. I said Heathcliff forced me to go in: which was not quite
true. I uttered as little as possible against Linton; nor did I describe
all his father's brutal conduct--my intentions being to add no
bitterness, if I could help it, to his already over-flowing cup.
He divined that one of his enemy's purposes was to secure the personal
property, as well as the estate, to his son: or rather himself; yet why
he did not wait till his decease was a puzzle to my master, because
ignorant how nearly he and his nephew would quit the world together.
However, he felt that his will had better be altered: instead of leaving
Catherine's fortune at her own disposal, he determined to put it in the
hands of trustees for her use during life, and for her children, if she
had any, after her. By that means, it could not fall to Mr. Heathcliff
should Linton die.
Having received his orders, I despatched a man to fetch the attorney, and
four more, provided with serviceable weapons, to demand my young lady of
her jailor. Both parties were delayed very late. The single servant
returned first. He said Mr. Green, the lawyer, was out when he arrived
at his house, and he had to wait two hours for his re-entrance; and then
Mr. Green told him he had a little business in the village that must be
done; but he would be at Thrushcross Grange before morning. The four men
came back unaccompanied also. They brought word that Catherine was ill:
too ill to quit her room; and Heathcliff would not suffer them to see
her. I scolded the stupid fellows well for listening to that tale, which
I would not carry to my master; resolving to take a whole bevy up to the
Heights, at day-light, and storm it literally, unless the prisoner were
quietly surrendered to us. Her father _shall_ see her, I vowed, and
vowed again, if that devil be killed on his own doorstones in trying to
prevent it!
Happily, I was spared the journey and the trouble. I had gone
down-stairs at three o'clock to fetch a jug of water; and was passing
through the hall with it in my hand, when a sharp knock at the front door
made me jump. 'Oh! it is Green,' I said, recollecting myself--'only
Green,' and I went on, intending to send somebody else to open it; but
the knock was repeated: not loud, and still importunately. I put the jug
on the banister and hastened to admit him myself. The harvest moon shone
clear outside. It was not the attorney. My own sweet little mistress
sprang on my neck sobbing, 'Ellen, Ellen! Is papa alive?'
'Yes,' I cried: 'yes, my angel, he is, God be thanked, you are safe with
us again!'
She wanted to run, breathless as she was, up-stairs to Mr. Linton's room;
but I compelled her to sit down on a chair, and made her drink, and
washed her pale face, chafing it into a faint colour with my apron. Then
I said I must go first, and tell of her arrival; imploring her to say,
she should be happy with young Heathcliff. She stared, but soon
comprehending why I counselled her to utter the falsehood, she assured me
she would not complain.
I couldn't abide to be present at their meeting. I stood outside the
chamber-door a quarter of an hour, and hardly ventured near the bed,
then. All was composed, however: Catherine's despair was as silent as
her father's joy. She supported him calmly, in appearance; and he fixed
on her features his raised eyes that seemed dilating with ecstasy.
He died blissfully, Mr. Lockwood: he died so. Kissing her cheek, he
murmured,--'I am going to her; and you, darling child, shall come to us!'
and never stirred or spoke again; but continued that rapt, radiant gaze,
till his pulse imperceptibly stopped and his soul departed. None could
have noticed the exact minute of his death, it was so entirely without a
struggle.
Whether Catherine had spent her tears, or whether the grief were too
weighty to let them flow, she sat there dry-eyed till the sun rose: she
sat till noon, and would still have remained brooding over that deathbed,
but I insisted on her coming away and taking some repose. It was well I
succeeded in removing her, for at dinner-time appeared the lawyer, having
called at Wuthering Heights to get his instructions how to behave. He
had sold himself to Mr. Heathcliff: that was the cause of his delay in
obeying my master's summons. Fortunately, no thought of worldly affairs
crossed the latter's mind, to disturb him, after his daughter's arrival.
Mr. Green took upon himself to order everything and everybody about the
place. He gave all the servants but me, notice to quit. He would have
carried his delegated authority to the point of insisting that Edgar
Linton should not be buried beside his wife, but in the chapel, with his
family. There was the will, however, to hinder that, and my loud
protestations against any infringement of its directions. The funeral
was hurried over; Catherine, Mrs. Linton Heathcliff now, was suffered to
stay at the Grange till her father's corpse had quitted it.
She told me that her anguish had at last spurred Linton to incur the risk
of liberating her. She heard the men I sent disputing at the door, and
she gathered the sense of Heathcliff's answer. It drove her desperate.
Linton who had been conveyed up to the little parlour soon after I left,
was terrified into fetching the key before his father re-ascended. He
had the cunning to unlock and re-lock the door, without shutting it; and
when he should have gone to bed, he begged to sleep with Hareton, and his
petition was granted for once. Catherine stole out before break of day.
She dared not try the doors lest the dogs should raise an alarm; she
visited the empty chambers and examined their windows; and, luckily,
lighting on her mother's, she got easily out of its lattice, and on to
the ground, by means of the fir-tree close by. Her accomplice suffered
for his share in the escape, notwithstanding his timid contrivances.
----------CHAPTER 29---------
The evening after the funeral, my young lady and I were seated in the
library; now musing mournfully--one of us despairingly--on our loss, now
venturing conjectures as to the gloomy future.
We had just agreed the best destiny which could await Catherine would be
a permission to continue resident at the Grange; at least during Linton's
life: he being allowed to join her there, and I to remain as housekeeper.
That seemed rather too favourable an arrangement to be hoped for; and yet
I did hope, and began to cheer up under the prospect of retaining my home
and my employment, and, above all, my beloved young mistress; when a
servant--one of the discarded ones, not yet departed--rushed hastily in,
and said 'that devil Heathcliff' was coming through the court: should he
fasten the door in his face?
If we had been mad enough to order that proceeding, we had not time. He
made no ceremony of knocking or announcing his name: he was master, and
availed himself of the master's privilege to walk straight in, without
saying a word. The sound of our informant's voice directed him to the
library; he entered and motioning him out, shut the door.
It was the same room into which he had been ushered, as a guest, eighteen
years before: the same moon shone through the window; and the same autumn
landscape lay outside. We had not yet lighted a candle, but all the
apartment was visible, even to the portraits on the wall: the splendid
head of Mrs. Linton, and the graceful one of her husband. Heathcliff
advanced to the hearth. Time had little altered his person either. There
was the same man: his dark face rather sallower and more composed, his
frame a stone or two heavier, perhaps, and no other difference. Catherine
had risen with an impulse to dash out, when she saw him.
'Stop!' he said, arresting her by the arm. 'No more runnings away! Where
would you go? I'm come to fetch you home; and I hope you'll be a dutiful
daughter and not encourage my son to further disobedience. I was
embarrassed how to punish him when I discovered his part in the business:
he's such a cobweb, a pinch would annihilate him; but you'll see by his
look that he has received his due! I brought him down one evening, the
day before yesterday, and just set him in a chair, and never touched him
afterwards. I sent Hareton out, and we had the room to ourselves. In
two hours, I called Joseph to carry him up again; and since then my
presence is as potent on his nerves as a ghost; and I fancy he sees me
often, though I am not near. Hareton says he wakes and shrieks in the
night by the hour together, and calls you to protect him from me; and,
whether you like your precious mate, or not, you must come: he's your
concern now; I yield all my interest in him to you.'
'Why not let Catherine continue here,' I pleaded, 'and send Master Linton
to her? As you hate them both, you'd not miss them: they can only be a
daily plague to your unnatural heart.'
'I'm seeking a tenant for the Grange,' he answered; 'and I want my
children about me, to be sure. Besides, that lass owes me her services
for her bread. I'm not going to nurture her in luxury and idleness after
Linton is gone. Make haste and get ready, now; and don't oblige me to
compel you.'
'I shall,' said Catherine. 'Linton is all I have to love in the world,
and though you have done what you could to make him hateful to me, and me
to him, you cannot make us hate each other. And I defy you to hurt him
when I am by, and I defy you to frighten me!'
'You are a boastful champion,' replied Heathcliff; 'but I don't like you
well enough to hurt him: you shall get the full benefit of the torment,
as long as it lasts. It is not I who will make him hateful to you--it is
his own sweet spirit. He's as bitter as gall at your desertion and its
consequences: don't expect thanks for this noble devotion. I heard him
draw a pleasant picture to Zillah of what he would do if he were as
strong as I: the inclination is there, and his very weakness will sharpen
his wits to find a substitute for strength.'
'I know he has a bad nature,' said Catherine: 'he's your son. But I'm
glad I've a better, to forgive it; and I know he loves me, and for that
reason I love him. Mr. Heathcliff _you_ have _nobody_ to love you; and,
however miserable you make us, we shall still have the revenge of
thinking that your cruelty arises from your greater misery. You _are_
miserable, are you not? Lonely, like the devil, and envious like him?
_Nobody_ loves you--_nobody_ will cry for you when you die! I wouldn't
be you!'
Catherine spoke with a kind of dreary triumph: she seemed to have made up
her mind to enter into the spirit of her future family, and draw pleasure
from the griefs of her enemies.
'You shall be sorry to be yourself presently,' said her father-in-law,
'if you stand there another minute. Begone, witch, and get your things!'
She scornfully withdrew. In her absence I began to beg for Zillah's
place at the Heights, offering to resign mine to her; but he would suffer
it on no account. He bid me be silent; and then, for the first time,
allowed himself a glance round the room and a look at the pictures.
Having studied Mrs. Linton's, he said--'I shall have that home. Not
because I need it, but--' He turned abruptly to the fire, and continued,
with what, for lack of a better word, I must call a smile--'I'll tell you
what I did yesterday! I got the sexton, who was digging Linton's grave,
to remove the earth off her coffin lid, and I opened it. I thought,
once, I would have stayed there: when I saw her face again--it is hers
yet!--he had hard work to stir me; but he said it would change if the air
blew on it, and so I struck one side of the coffin loose, and covered it
up: not Linton's side, damn him! I wish he'd been soldered in lead. And
I bribed the sexton to pull it away when I'm laid there, and slide mine
out too; I'll have it made so: and then by the time Linton gets to us
he'll not know which is which!'
'You were very wicked, Mr. Heathcliff!' I exclaimed; 'were you not
ashamed to disturb the dead?'
'I disturbed nobody, Nelly,' he replied; 'and I gave some ease to myself.
I shall be a great deal more comfortable now; and you'll have a better
chance of keeping me underground, when I get there. Disturbed her? No!
she has disturbed me, night and day, through eighteen
years--incessantly--remorselessly--till yesternight; and yesternight I
was tranquil. I dreamt I was sleeping the last sleep by that sleeper,
with my heart stopped and my cheek frozen against hers.'
'And if she had been dissolved into earth, or worse, what would you have
dreamt of then?' I said.
'Of dissolving with her, and being more happy still!' he answered. 'Do
you suppose I dread any change of that sort? I expected such a
transformation on raising the lid--but I'm better pleased that it should
not commence till I share it. Besides, unless I had received a distinct
impression of her passionless features, that strange feeling would hardly
have been removed. It began oddly. You know I was wild after she died;
and eternally, from dawn to dawn, praying her to return to me her spirit!
I have a strong faith in ghosts: I have a conviction that they can, and
do, exist among us! The day she was buried, there came a fall of snow.
In the evening I went to the churchyard. It blew bleak as winter--all
round was solitary. I didn't fear that her fool of a husband would
wander up the glen so late; and no one else had business to bring them
there. Being alone, and conscious two yards of loose earth was the sole
barrier between us, I said to myself--"I'll have her in my arms again! If
she be cold, I'll think it is this north wind that chills _me_; and if
she be motionless, it is sleep." I got a spade from the tool-house, and
began to delve with all my might--it scraped the coffin; I fell to work
with my hands; the wood commenced cracking about the screws; I was on the
point of attaining my object, when it seemed that I heard a sigh from
some one above, close at the edge of the grave, and bending down. "If I
can only get this off," I muttered, "I wish they may shovel in the earth
over us both!" and I wrenched at it more desperately still. There was
another sigh, close at my ear. I appeared to feel the warm breath of it
displacing the sleet-laden wind. I knew no living thing in flesh and
blood was by; but, as certainly as you perceive the approach to some
substantial body in the dark, though it cannot be discerned, so certainly
I felt that Cathy was there: not under me, but on the earth. A sudden
sense of relief flowed from my heart through every limb. I relinquished
my labour of agony, and turned consoled at once: unspeakably consoled.
Her presence was with me: it remained while I re-filled the grave, and
led me home. You may laugh, if you will; but I was sure I should see her
there. I was sure she was with me, and I could not help talking to her.
Having reached the Heights, I rushed eagerly to the door. It was
fastened; and, I remember, that accursed Earnshaw and my wife opposed my
entrance. I remember stopping to kick the breath out of him, and then
hurrying up-stairs, to my room and hers. I looked round impatiently--I
felt her by me--I could _almost_ see her, and yet I _could not_! I ought
to have sweat blood then, from the anguish of my yearning--from the
fervour of my supplications to have but one glimpse! I had not one. She
showed herself, as she often was in life, a devil to me! And, since
then, sometimes more and sometimes less, I've been the sport of that
intolerable torture! Infernal! keeping my nerves at such a stretch that,
if they had not resembled catgut, they would long ago have relaxed to the
feebleness of Linton's. When I sat in the house with Hareton, it seemed
that on going out I should meet her; when I walked on the moors I should
meet her coming in. When I went from home I hastened to return; she
_must_ be somewhere at the Heights, I was certain! And when I slept in
her chamber--I was beaten out of that. I couldn't lie there; for the
moment I closed my eyes, she was either outside the window, or sliding
back the panels, or entering the room, or even resting her darling head
on the same pillow as she did when a child; and I must open my lids to
see. And so I opened and closed them a hundred times a night--to be
always disappointed! It racked me! I've often groaned aloud, till that
old rascal Joseph no doubt believed that my conscience was playing the
fiend inside of me. Now, since I've seen her, I'm pacified--a little. It
was a strange way of killing: not by inches, but by fractions of
hairbreadths, to beguile me with the spectre of a hope through eighteen
years!'
Mr. Heathcliff paused and wiped his forehead; his hair clung to it, wet
with perspiration; his eyes were fixed on the red embers of the fire, the
brows not contracted, but raised next the temples; diminishing the grim
aspect of his countenance, but imparting a peculiar look of trouble, and
a painful appearance of mental tension towards one absorbing subject. He
only half addressed me, and I maintained silence. I didn't like to hear
him talk! After a short period he resumed his meditation on the picture,
took it down and leant it against the sofa to contemplate it at better
advantage; and while so occupied Catherine entered, announcing that she
was ready, when her pony should be saddled.
'Send that over to-morrow,' said Heathcliff to me; then turning to her,
he added: 'You may do without your pony: it is a fine evening, and you'll
need no ponies at Wuthering Heights; for what journeys you take, your own
feet will serve you. Come along.'
'Good-bye, Ellen!' whispered my dear little mistress.
As she kissed me, her lips felt like ice. 'Come and see me, Ellen; don't
forget.'
'Take care you do no such thing, Mrs. Dean!' said her new father. 'When
I wish to speak to you I'll come here. I want none of your prying at my
house!'
He signed her to precede him; and casting back a look that cut my heart,
she obeyed. I watched them, from the window, walk down the garden.
Heathcliff fixed Catherine's arm under his: though she disputed the act
at first evidently; and with rapid strides he hurried her into the alley,
whose trees concealed them.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 30, utilizing the provided context. | chapter 30|chapter 31 | Ellen has now more or less reached the present time in her narrative, and tells Lockwood what Zillah told her about Cathy's reception at Wuthering Heights. Cathy spent all her time in Linton's room, and when she came out she asked Heathcliff to call a doctor, because Linton was very sick. Heathcliff replied: "We know that. But his life is not worth a farthing". Cathy was thus left to care for her dying cousin all by herself--Zillah, Hareton and Joseph would not help her--and became haggard and bewildered from lack of sleep. Finally Linton died, and when Heathcliff asked Cathy how she felt, she said: "He's safe and I'm free. I should feel very well but you have left me so long to struggle against death, alone, that I feel and see only death. I feel like death. Hareton was sorry for her. Cathy was ill for the next two weeks. Heathcliff informed her that Linton had left all of his and his wife's property to himself. One day when Heathcliff was out, Cathy came downstairs. Hareton made shy, friendly advances, which she angrily rejected. He asked Zillah to ask Cathy to read for them but she refused on the grounds that she had been forsaken during Linton's illness, and had no reason to care for Hareton or Zillah. Hareton said that he had in fact asked Heathcliff to be allowed to relieve her of some of her duties, but was denied. Cathy was in no mood to forgive, however, and thus became the unfriendly young woman whom Lockwood had seen at Wuthering Heights. According to Zillah: "She'll snap at the master himself, and as good dares him to thrash her; and the more hurt she gets, the more venomous she grows". Ellen wanted to get a cottage and live there with Cathy, but Heathcliff would not permit it. Ellen now believes that the only way Cathy might escape from Wuthering Heights is to marry a second time |
----------CHAPTER 30---------
I have paid a visit to the Heights, but I have not seen her since she
left: Joseph held the door in his hand when I called to ask after her,
and wouldn't let me pass. He said Mrs. Linton was 'thrang,' and the
master was not in. Zillah has told me something of the way they go on,
otherwise I should hardly know who was dead and who living. She thinks
Catherine haughty, and does not like her, I can guess by her talk. My
young lady asked some aid of her when she first came; but Mr. Heathcliff
told her to follow her own business, and let his daughter-in-law look
after herself; and Zillah willingly acquiesced, being a narrow-minded,
selfish woman. Catherine evinced a child's annoyance at this neglect;
repaid it with contempt, and thus enlisted my informant among her
enemies, as securely as if she had done her some great wrong. I had a
long talk with Zillah about six weeks ago, a little before you came, one
day when we foregathered on the moor; and this is what she told me.
'The first thing Mrs. Linton did,' she said, 'on her arrival at the
Heights, was to run up-stairs, without even wishing good-evening to me
and Joseph; she shut herself into Linton's room, and remained till
morning. Then, while the master and Earnshaw were at breakfast, she
entered the house, and asked all in a quiver if the doctor might be sent
for? her cousin was very ill.
'"We know that!" answered Heathcliff; "but his life is not worth a
farthing, and I won't spend a farthing on him."
'"But I cannot tell how to do," she said; "and if nobody will help me,
he'll die!"
'"Walk out of the room," cried the master, "and let me never hear a word
more about him! None here care what becomes of him; if you do, act the
nurse; if you do not, lock him up and leave him."
'Then she began to bother me, and I said I'd had enough plague with the
tiresome thing; we each had our tasks, and hers was to wait on Linton:
Mr. Heathcliff bid me leave that labour to her.
'How they managed together, I can't tell. I fancy he fretted a great
deal, and moaned hisseln night and day; and she had precious little rest:
one could guess by her white face and heavy eyes. She sometimes came
into the kitchen all wildered like, and looked as if she would fain beg
assistance; but I was not going to disobey the master: I never dare
disobey him, Mrs. Dean; and, though I thought it wrong that Kenneth
should not be sent for, it was no concern of mine either to advise or
complain, and I always refused to meddle. Once or twice, after we had
gone to bed, I've happened to open my door again and seen her sitting
crying on the stairs'-top; and then I've shut myself in quick, for fear
of being moved to interfere. I did pity her then, I'm sure: still I
didn't wish to lose my place, you know.
'At last, one night she came boldly into my chamber, and frightened me
out of my wits, by saying, "Tell Mr. Heathcliff that his son is dying--I'm
sure he is, this time. Get up, instantly, and tell him."
'Having uttered this speech, she vanished again. I lay a quarter of an
hour listening and trembling. Nothing stirred--the house was quiet.
'She's mistaken, I said to myself. He's got over it. I needn't disturb
them; and I began to doze. But my sleep was marred a second time by a
sharp ringing of the bell--the only bell we have, put up on purpose for
Linton; and the master called to me to see what was the matter, and
inform them that he wouldn't have that noise repeated.
'I delivered Catherine's message. He cursed to himself, and in a few
minutes came out with a lighted candle, and proceeded to their room. I
followed. Mrs. Heathcliff was seated by the bedside, with her hands
folded on her knees. Her father-in-law went up, held the light to
Linton's face, looked at him, and touched him; afterwards he turned to
her.
'"Now--Catherine," he said, "how do you feel?"
'She was dumb.
'"How do you feel, Catherine?" he repeated.
'"He's safe, and I'm free," she answered: "I should feel well--but," she
continued, with a bitterness she couldn't conceal, "you have left me so
long to struggle against death alone, that I feel and see only death! I
feel like death!"
'And she looked like it, too! I gave her a little wine. Hareton and
Joseph, who had been wakened by the ringing and the sound of feet, and
heard our talk from outside, now entered. Joseph was fain, I believe, of
the lad's removal; Hareton seemed a thought bothered: though he was more
taken up with staring at Catherine than thinking of Linton. But the
master bid him get off to bed again: we didn't want his help. He
afterwards made Joseph remove the body to his chamber, and told me to
return to mine, and Mrs. Heathcliff remained by herself.
'In the morning, he sent me to tell her she must come down to breakfast:
she had undressed, and appeared going to sleep, and said she was ill; at
which I hardly wondered. I informed Mr. Heathcliff, and he
replied,--"Well, let her be till after the funeral; and go up now and
then to get her what is needful; and, as soon as she seems better, tell
me."'
Cathy stayed upstairs a fortnight, according to Zillah; who visited her
twice a day, and would have been rather more friendly, but her attempts
at increasing kindness were proudly and promptly repelled.
Heathcliff went up once, to show her Linton's will. He had bequeathed
the whole of his, and what had been her, moveable property, to his
father: the poor creature was threatened, or coaxed, into that act during
her week's absence, when his uncle died. The lands, being a minor, he
could not meddle with. However, Mr. Heathcliff has claimed and kept them
in his wife's right and his also: I suppose legally; at any rate,
Catherine, destitute of cash and friends, cannot disturb his possession.
'Nobody,' said Zillah, 'ever approached her door, except that once, but
I; and nobody asked anything about her. The first occasion of her coming
down into the house was on a Sunday afternoon. She had cried out, when I
carried up her dinner, that she couldn't bear any longer being in the
cold; and I told her the master was going to Thrushcross Grange, and
Earnshaw and I needn't hinder her from descending; so, as soon as she
heard Heathcliff's horse trot off, she made her appearance, donned in
black, and her yellow curls combed back behind her ears as plain as a
Quaker: she couldn't comb them out.
'Joseph and I generally go to chapel on Sundays:' the kirk, you know, has
no minister now, explained Mrs. Dean; and they call the Methodists' or
Baptists' place (I can't say which it is) at Gimmerton, a chapel. 'Joseph
had gone,' she continued, 'but I thought proper to bide at home. Young
folks are always the better for an elder's over-looking; and Hareton,
with all his bashfulness, isn't a model of nice behaviour. I let him
know that his cousin would very likely sit with us, and she had been
always used to see the Sabbath respected; so he had as good leave his
guns and bits of indoor work alone, while she stayed. He coloured up at
the news, and cast his eyes over his hands and clothes. The train-oil
and gunpowder were shoved out of sight in a minute. I saw he meant to
give her his company; and I guessed, by his way, he wanted to be
presentable; so, laughing, as I durst not laugh when the master is by, I
offered to help him, if he would, and joked at his confusion. He grew
sullen, and began to swear.
'Now, Mrs. Dean,' Zillah went on, seeing me not pleased by her manner,
'you happen think your young lady too fine for Mr. Hareton; and happen
you're right: but I own I should love well to bring her pride a peg
lower. And what will all her learning and her daintiness do for her,
now? She's as poor as you or I: poorer, I'll be bound: you're saying,
and I'm doing my little all that road.'
Hareton allowed Zillah to give him her aid; and she flattered him into a
good humour; so, when Catherine came, half forgetting her former insults,
he tried to make himself agreeable, by the housekeeper's account.
'Missis walked in,' she said, 'as chill as an icicle, and as high as a
princess. I got up and offered her my seat in the arm-chair. No, she
turned up her nose at my civility. Earnshaw rose, too, and bid her come
to the settle, and sit close by the fire: he was sure she was starved.
'"I've been starved a month and more," she answered, resting on the word
as scornful as she could.
'And she got a chair for herself, and placed it at a distance from both
of us. Having sat till she was warm, she began to look round, and
discovered a number of books on the dresser; she was instantly upon her
feet again, stretching to reach them: but they were too high up. Her
cousin, after watching her endeavours a while, at last summoned courage
to help her; she held her frock, and he filled it with the first that
came to hand.
'That was a great advance for the lad. She didn't thank him; still, he
felt gratified that she had accepted his assistance, and ventured to
stand behind as she examined them, and even to stoop and point out what
struck his fancy in certain old pictures which they contained; nor was he
daunted by the saucy style in which she jerked the page from his finger:
he contented himself with going a bit farther back and looking at her
instead of the book. She continued reading, or seeking for something to
read. His attention became, by degrees, quite centred in the study of
her thick silky curls: her face he couldn't see, and she couldn't see
him. And, perhaps, not quite awake to what he did, but attracted like a
child to a candle, at last he proceeded from staring to touching; he put
out his hand and stroked one curl, as gently as if it were a bird. He
might have stuck a knife into her neck, she started round in such a
taking.
'"Get away this moment! How dare you touch me? Why are you stopping
there?" she cried, in a tone of disgust. "I can't endure you! I'll go
upstairs again, if you come near me."
'Mr. Hareton recoiled, looking as foolish as he could do: he sat down in
the settle very quiet, and she continued turning over her volumes another
half hour; finally, Earnshaw crossed over, and whispered to me.
'"Will you ask her to read to us, Zillah? I'm stalled of doing naught;
and I do like--I could like to hear her! Dunnot say I wanted it, but ask
of yourseln."
'"Mr. Hareton wishes you would read to us, ma'am," I said, immediately.
"He'd take it very kind--he'd be much obliged."
'She frowned; and looking up, answered--
'"Mr. Hareton, and the whole set of you, will be good enough to
understand that I reject any pretence at kindness you have the hypocrisy
to offer! I despise you, and will have nothing to say to any of you!
When I would have given my life for one kind word, even to see one of
your faces, you all kept off. But I won't complain to you! I'm driven
down here by the cold; not either to amuse you or enjoy your society."
'"What could I ha' done?" began Earnshaw. "How was I to blame?"
'"Oh! you are an exception," answered Mrs. Heathcliff. "I never missed
such a concern as you."
'"But I offered more than once, and asked," he said, kindling up at her
pertness, "I asked Mr. Heathcliff to let me wake for you--"
'"Be silent! I'll go out of doors, or anywhere, rather than have your
disagreeable voice in my ear!" said my lady.
'Hareton muttered she might go to hell, for him! and unslinging his gun,
restrained himself from his Sunday occupations no longer. He talked now,
freely enough; and she presently saw fit to retreat to her solitude: but
the frost had set in, and, in spite of her pride, she was forced to
condescend to our company, more and more. However, I took care there
should be no further scorning at my good nature: ever since, I've been as
stiff as herself; and she has no lover or liker among us: and she does
not deserve one; for, let them say the least word to her, and she'll curl
back without respect of any one. She'll snap at the master himself, and
as good as dares him to thrash her; and the more hurt she gets, the more
venomous she grows.'
At first, on hearing this account from Zillah, I determined to leave my
situation, take a cottage, and get Catherine to come and live with me:
but Mr. Heathcliff would as soon permit that as he would set up Hareton
in an independent house; and I can see no remedy, at present, unless she
could marry again; and that scheme it does not come within my province to
arrange.
* * * * *
Thus ended Mrs. Dean's story. Notwithstanding the doctor's prophecy, I
am rapidly recovering strength; and though it be only the second week in
January, I propose getting out on horseback in a day or two, and riding
over to Wuthering Heights, to inform my landlord that I shall spend the
next six months in London; and, if he likes, he may look out for another
tenant to take the place after October. I would not pass another winter
here for much.
----------CHAPTER 31---------
Yesterday was bright, calm, and frosty. I went to the Heights as I
proposed: my housekeeper entreated me to bear a little note from her to
her young lady, and I did not refuse, for the worthy woman was not
conscious of anything odd in her request. The front door stood open, but
the jealous gate was fastened, as at my last visit; I knocked and invoked
Earnshaw from among the garden-beds; he unchained it, and I entered. The
fellow is as handsome a rustic as need be seen. I took particular notice
of him this time; but then he does his best apparently to make the least
of his advantages.
I asked if Mr. Heathcliff were at home? He answered, No; but he would be
in at dinner-time. It was eleven o'clock, and I announced my intention
of going in and waiting for him; at which he immediately flung down his
tools and accompanied me, in the office of watchdog, not as a substitute
for the host.
We entered together; Catherine was there, making herself useful in
preparing some vegetables for the approaching meal; she looked more
sulky and less spirited than when I had seen her first. She hardly
raised her eyes to notice me, and continued her employment with the same
disregard to common forms of politeness as before; never returning my
bow and good-morning by the slightest acknowledgment.
'She does not seem so amiable,' I thought, 'as Mrs. Dean would persuade
me to believe. She's a beauty, it is true; but not an angel.'
Earnshaw surlily bid her remove her things to the kitchen. 'Remove them
yourself,' she said, pushing them from her as soon as she had done; and
retiring to a stool by the window, where she began to carve figures of
birds and beasts out of the turnip-parings in her lap. I approached her,
pretending to desire a view of the garden; and, as I fancied, adroitly
dropped Mrs. Dean's note on to her knee, unnoticed by Hareton--but she
asked aloud, 'What is that?' And chucked it off.
'A letter from your old acquaintance, the housekeeper at the Grange,' I
answered; annoyed at her exposing my kind deed, and fearful lest it
should be imagined a missive of my own. She would gladly have gathered
it up at this information, but Hareton beat her; he seized and put it in
his waistcoat, saying Mr. Heathcliff should look at it first. Thereat,
Catherine silently turned her face from us, and, very stealthily, drew
out her pocket-handkerchief and applied it to her eyes; and her cousin,
after struggling awhile to keep down his softer feelings, pulled out the
letter and flung it on the floor beside her, as ungraciously as he could.
Catherine caught and perused it eagerly; then she put a few questions to
me concerning the inmates, rational and irrational, of her former home;
and gazing towards the hills, murmured in soliloquy:
'I should like to be riding Minny down there! I should like to be
climbing up there! Oh! I'm tired--I'm _stalled_, Hareton!' And she
leant her pretty head back against the sill, with half a yawn and half a
sigh, and lapsed into an aspect of abstracted sadness: neither caring nor
knowing whether we remarked her.
'Mrs. Heathcliff,' I said, after sitting some time mute, 'you are not
aware that I am an acquaintance of yours? so intimate that I think it
strange you won't come and speak to me. My housekeeper never wearies of
talking about and praising you; and she'll be greatly disappointed if I
return with no news of or from you, except that you received her letter
and said nothing!'
She appeared to wonder at this speech, and asked,--
'Does Ellen like you?'
'Yes, very well,' I replied, hesitatingly.
'You must tell her,' she continued, 'that I would answer her letter, but
I have no materials for writing: not even a book from which I might tear
a leaf.'
'No books!' I exclaimed. 'How do you contrive to live here without them?
if I may take the liberty to inquire. Though provided with a large
library, I'm frequently very dull at the Grange; take my books away, and
I should be desperate!'
'I was always reading, when I had them,' said Catherine; 'and Mr.
Heathcliff never reads; so he took it into his head to destroy my books.
I have not had a glimpse of one for weeks. Only once, I searched through
Joseph's store of theology, to his great irritation; and once, Hareton, I
came upon a secret stock in your room--some Latin and Greek, and some
tales and poetry: all old friends. I brought the last here--and you
gathered them, as a magpie gathers silver spoons, for the mere love of
stealing! They are of no use to you; or else you concealed them in the
bad spirit that, as you cannot enjoy them, nobody else shall. Perhaps
_your_ envy counselled Mr. Heathcliff to rob me of my treasures? But
I've most of them written on my brain and printed in my heart, and you
cannot deprive me of those!'
Earnshaw blushed crimson when his cousin made this revelation of his
private literary accumulations, and stammered an indignant denial of her
accusations.
'Mr. Hareton is desirous of increasing his amount of knowledge,' I said,
coming to his rescue. 'He is not _envious_, but _emulous_ of your
attainments. He'll be a clever scholar in a few years.'
'And he wants me to sink into a dunce, meantime,' answered Catherine.
'Yes, I hear him trying to spell and read to himself, and pretty blunders
he makes! I wish you would repeat Chevy Chase as you did yesterday: it
was extremely funny. I heard you; and I heard you turning over the
dictionary to seek out the hard words, and then cursing because you
couldn't read their explanations!'
The young man evidently thought it too bad that he should be laughed at
for his ignorance, and then laughed at for trying to remove it. I had a
similar notion; and, remembering Mrs. Dean's anecdote of his first
attempt at enlightening the darkness in which he had been reared, I
observed,--'But, Mrs. Heathcliff, we have each had a commencement, and
each stumbled and tottered on the threshold; had our teachers scorned
instead of aiding us, we should stumble and totter yet.'
'Oh!' she replied, 'I don't wish to limit his acquirements: still, he has
no right to appropriate what is mine, and make it ridiculous to me with
his vile mistakes and mispronunciations! Those books, both prose and
verse, are consecrated to me by other associations; and I hate to have
them debased and profaned in his mouth! Besides, of all, he has selected
my favourite pieces that I love the most to repeat, as if out of
deliberate malice.'
Hareton's chest heaved in silence a minute: he laboured under a severe
sense of mortification and wrath, which it was no easy task to suppress.
I rose, and, from a gentlemanly idea of relieving his embarrassment, took
up my station in the doorway, surveying the external prospect as I stood.
He followed my example, and left the room; but presently reappeared,
bearing half a dozen volumes in his hands, which he threw into
Catherine's lap, exclaiming,--'Take them! I never want to hear, or read,
or think of them again!'
'I won't have them now,' she answered. 'I shall connect them with you,
and hate them.'
She opened one that had obviously been often turned over, and read a
portion in the drawling tone of a beginner; then laughed, and threw it
from her. 'And listen,' she continued, provokingly, commencing a verse
of an old ballad in the same fashion.
But his self-love would endure no further torment: I heard, and not
altogether disapprovingly, a manual check given to her saucy tongue. The
little wretch had done her utmost to hurt her cousin's sensitive though
uncultivated feelings, and a physical argument was the only mode he had
of balancing the account, and repaying its effects on the inflictor. He
afterwards gathered the books and hurled them on the fire. I read in his
countenance what anguish it was to offer that sacrifice to spleen. I
fancied that as they consumed, he recalled the pleasure they had already
imparted, and the triumph and ever-increasing pleasure he had anticipated
from them; and I fancied I guessed the incitement to his secret studies
also. He had been content with daily labour and rough animal enjoyments,
till Catherine crossed his path. Shame at her scorn, and hope of her
approval, were his first prompters to higher pursuits; and instead of
guarding him from one and winning him to the other, his endeavours to
raise himself had produced just the contrary result.
'Yes that's all the good that such a brute as you can get from them!'
cried Catherine, sucking her damaged lip, and watching the conflagration
with indignant eyes.
'You'd _better_ hold your tongue, now,' he answered fiercely.
And his agitation precluded further speech; he advanced hastily to the
entrance, where I made way for him to pass. But ere he had crossed the
door-stones, Mr. Heathcliff, coming up the causeway, encountered him, and
laying hold of his shoulder asked,--'What's to do now, my lad?'
'Naught, naught,' he said, and broke away to enjoy his grief and anger in
solitude.
Heathcliff gazed after him, and sighed.
'It will be odd if I thwart myself,' he muttered, unconscious that I was
behind him. 'But when I look for his father in his face, I find _her_
every day more! How the devil is he so like? I can hardly bear to see
him.'
He bent his eyes to the ground, and walked moodily in. There was a
restless, anxious expression in his countenance. I had never remarked
there before; and he looked sparer in person. His daughter-in-law, on
perceiving him through the window, immediately escaped to the kitchen, so
that I remained alone.
'I'm glad to see you out of doors again, Mr. Lockwood,' he said, in reply
to my greeting; 'from selfish motives partly: I don't think I could
readily supply your loss in this desolation. I've wondered more than
once what brought you here.'
'An idle whim, I fear, sir,' was my answer; 'or else an idle whim is
going to spirit me away. I shall set out for London next week; and I
must give you warning that I feel no disposition to retain Thrushcross
Grange beyond the twelve months I agreed to rent it. I believe I shall
not live there any more.'
'Oh, indeed; you're tired of being banished from the world, are you?' he
said. 'But if you be coming to plead off paying for a place you won't
occupy, your journey is useless: I never relent in exacting my due from
any one.'
'I'm coming to plead off nothing about it,' I exclaimed, considerably
irritated. 'Should you wish it, I'll settle with you now,' and I drew my
note-book from my pocket.
'No, no,' he replied, coolly; 'you'll leave sufficient behind to cover
your debts, if you fail to return: I'm not in such a hurry. Sit down and
take your dinner with us; a guest that is safe from repeating his visit
can generally be made welcome. Catherine! bring the things in: where are
you?'
Catherine reappeared, bearing a tray of knives and forks.
'You may get your dinner with Joseph,' muttered Heathcliff, aside, 'and
remain in the kitchen till he is gone.'
She obeyed his directions very punctually: perhaps she had no temptation
to transgress. Living among clowns and misanthropists, she probably
cannot appreciate a better class of people when she meets them.
With Mr. Heathcliff, grim and saturnine, on the one hand, and Hareton,
absolutely dumb, on the other, I made a somewhat cheerless meal, and bade
adieu early. I would have departed by the back way, to get a last
glimpse of Catherine and annoy old Joseph; but Hareton received orders to
lead up my horse, and my host himself escorted me to the door, so I could
not fulfil my wish.
'How dreary life gets over in that house!' I reflected, while riding down
the road. 'What a realisation of something more romantic than a fairy
tale it would have been for Mrs. Linton Heathcliff, had she and I struck
up an attachment, as her good nurse desired, and migrated together into
the stirring atmosphere of the town!'
|
null | cliffnotes | Produce a brief summary for chapter 4 based on the provided context. | chapter 1|chapter 4 | We meet Mrs. Dean, the diehard housekeeper at Thrushcross Grange. When Lockwood finds out she had been there for eighteen years, he lures her into providing gossip about Heathcliff and his bad-tempered housemates. She is only too willing to tell him the story, and she becomes our new narrator. Mrs. Dean lets us know some vital pieces of Heathcliff's story. It's important to remember that with each new narrator, we also get a new point of view. Where Lockwood is naive, Mrs. Dean is cynical, having spent so many years taking care of Thrushcross Grange. Here's what Mrs. Dean tells Lockwood about the cast of characters up at Wuthering Heights. Get ready because it's really a cluster: Heathcliff is rich and greedy, which is why he is renting out Thrushcross Grange. His wife is dead. The young lady is Catherine Linton. Her father, Edgar Linton, used to own Thrushcross Grange. Heathcliff was married to Edgar Linton's sister, Isabella. The fumbling young man is Catherine Linton's cousin, Hareton Earnshaw. He's the last of the Earnshaw family line . Strange that he doesn't seem to be master of the house. What's the story with that? So why, Lockwood wants to know, is Heathcliff such a jerk? Mrs. Dean knows Heathcliff's whole story--"except where he was born, and who his parents were, and how he got his money at first" . So now we know that Heathcliff is a big mystery--the dark-orphan-from-the-nineteenth-century-novel figure. But instead of becoming an orphan in the story , Heathcliff is adopted. So Bronte is reversing that popular Victorian motif. Anyway, back to the story: Mrs. Dean worked up at Wuthering Heights for a long time. She starts her story by recalling when Mr. Earnshaw--"the old master" --leaves and returns from a trip to Liverpool with a "dirty, ragged, black-haired child" : Heathcliff. There's not a lot of excitement or love coming from Mr. Earnshaw's two children , and even Mrs. Earnshaw doesn't want the "gipsy brat" in the house, seeing as they already have their own "bairns to feed" . Not the nicest reception for young Heathcliff, who, explains Mr. Earnshaw, was starving and homeless in the streets of Liverpool. It's all very suspicious, but Heathcliff is now in the family, for better or worse. Immediately, Heathcliff is the object of abuse from everyone but Mr. Earnshaw, whose protectiveness and favoritism just makes everyone even more jealous and ticked off. "So from the beginning bred bad feeling in the house" , Mrs. Dean ominously informs Lockwood. As a child, Heathcliff spends a lot of time threatening to tell on Hindley, and Hindley calls Heathcliff a lot of names, like "gipsy" and "imp of Satan." A lot of resentment accumulates all around. |
----------CHAPTER 1---------
1801.--I have just returned from a visit to my landlord--the solitary
neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful
country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a
situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect
misanthropist's heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair
to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! He little
imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes
withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his
fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in
his waistcoat, as I announced my name.
'Mr. Heathcliff?' I said.
A nod was the answer.
'Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour of calling
as soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have not
inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of
Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts--'
'Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,' he interrupted, wincing. 'I should
not allow any one to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it--walk in!'
The 'walk in' was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment,
'Go to the Deuce:' even the gate over which he leant manifested no
sympathising movement to the words; and I think that circumstance
determined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested in a man who
seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.
When he saw my horse's breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put out
his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up the causeway,
calling, as we entered the court,--'Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood's horse;
and bring up some wine.'
'Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose,' was the
reflection suggested by this compound order. 'No wonder the grass grows
up between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters.'
Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale
and sinewy. 'The Lord help us!' he soliloquised in an undertone of
peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime,
in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of
divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no
reference to my unexpected advent.
Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling. 'Wuthering'
being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric
tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing
ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess
the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant
of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt
thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun.
Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow
windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large
jutting stones.
Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque
carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door;
above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless
little boys, I detected the date '1500,' and the name 'Hareton Earnshaw.'
I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the
place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to
demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to
aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium.
One stop brought us into the family sitting-room, without any
introductory lobby or passage: they call it here 'the house'
pre-eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I believe
at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into
another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues, and a
clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no signs of
roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fireplace; nor any glitter
of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed,
reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter
dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after
row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been
under-drawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, except
where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef,
mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above the chimney were sundry villainous
old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three
gaudily-painted canisters disposed along its ledge. The floor was of
smooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures,
painted green: one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an
arch under the dresser reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer,
surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other
recesses.
The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as
belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance, and
stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-breeches and gaiters. Such
an individual seated in his arm-chair, his mug of ale frothing on the
round table before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles
among these hills, if you go at the right time after dinner. But Mr.
Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He
is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that
is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly,
perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an
erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people
might suspect him of a degree of under-bred pride; I have a sympathetic
chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by
instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of
feeling--to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He'll love and hate
equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved
or hated again. No, I'm running on too fast: I bestow my own attributes
over-liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar
reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would-be
acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution is
almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a
comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy
of one.
While enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown
into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my
eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I 'never told my love'
vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have
guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a
return--the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I
confess it with shame--shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every
glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led
to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed
mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp. By this curious turn of
disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how
undeserved, I alone can appreciate.
I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards which
my landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by attempting
to caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking
wolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, and her white teeth
watering for a snatch. My caress provoked a long, guttural gnarl.
'You'd better let the dog alone,' growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison,
checking fiercer demonstrations with a punch of his foot. 'She's not
accustomed to be spoiled--not kept for a pet.' Then, striding to a side
door, he shouted again, 'Joseph!'
Joseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no
intimation of ascending; so his master dived down to him, leaving me
_vis-a-vis_ the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep-dogs,
who shared with her a jealous guardianship over all my movements. Not
anxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; but, imagining
they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately indulged
in winking and making faces at the trio, and some turn of my physiognomy
so irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into a fury and leapt on my
knees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the table between us.
This proceeding aroused the whole hive: half-a-dozen four-footed fiends,
of various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens to the common centre.
I felt my heels and coat-laps peculiar subjects of assault; and parrying
off the larger combatants as effectually as I could with the poker, I
was constrained to demand, aloud, assistance from some of the household
in re-establishing peace.
Mr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious
phlegm: I don't think they moved one second faster than usual, though
the hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. Happily, an
inhabitant of the kitchen made more despatch: a lusty dame, with
tucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, rushed into the
midst of us flourishing a frying-pan: and used that weapon, and her
tongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided magically, and she only
remained, heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master entered
on the scene.
'What the devil is the matter?' he asked, eyeing me in a manner that I
could ill endure, after this inhospitable treatment.
'What the devil, indeed!' I muttered. 'The herd of possessed swine could
have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours, sir. You
might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!'
'They won't meddle with persons who touch nothing,' he remarked, putting
the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. 'The dogs do
right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine?'
'No, thank you.'
'Not bitten, are you?'
'If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter.' Heathcliff's
countenance relaxed into a grin.
'Come, come,' he said, 'you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a
little wine. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my
dogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them. Your health,
sir?'
I bowed and returned the pledge; beginning to perceive that it would be
foolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs; besides, I
felt loth to yield the fellow further amusement at my expense; since his
humour took that turn. He--probably swayed by prudential consideration
of the folly of offending a good tenant--relaxed a little in the laconic
style of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary verbs, and introduced
what he supposed would be a subject of interest to me,--a discourse on
the advantages and disadvantages of my present place of retirement. I
found him very intelligent on the topics we touched; and before I went
home, I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another visit to-morrow. He
evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. I shall go,
notwithstanding. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared
with him.
----------CHAPTER 4---------
What vain weathercocks we are! I, who had determined to hold myself
independent of all social intercourse, and thanked my stars that, at
length, I had lighted on a spot where it was next to impracticable--I,
weak wretch, after maintaining till dusk a struggle with low spirits and
solitude, was finally compelled to strike my colours; and under pretence
of gaining information concerning the necessities of my establishment, I
desired Mrs. Dean, when she brought in supper, to sit down while I ate
it; hoping sincerely she would prove a regular gossip, and either rouse
me to animation or lull me to sleep by her talk.
'You have lived here a considerable time,' I commenced; 'did you not say
sixteen years?'
'Eighteen, sir: I came when the mistress was married, to wait on her;
after she died, the master retained me for his housekeeper.'
'Indeed.'
There ensued a pause. She was not a gossip, I feared; unless about her
own affairs, and those could hardly interest me. However, having studied
for an interval, with a fist on either knee, and a cloud of meditation
over her ruddy countenance, she ejaculated--'Ah, times are greatly
changed since then!'
'Yes,' I remarked, 'you've seen a good many alterations, I suppose?'
'I have: and troubles too,' she said.
'Oh, I'll turn the talk on my landlord's family!' I thought to myself. 'A
good subject to start! And that pretty girl-widow, I should like to know
her history: whether she be a native of the country, or, as is more
probable, an exotic that the surly _indigenae_ will not recognise for
kin.' With this intention I asked Mrs. Dean why Heathcliff let
Thrushcross Grange, and preferred living in a situation and residence so
much inferior. 'Is he not rich enough to keep the estate in good order?'
I inquired.
'Rich, sir!' she returned. 'He has nobody knows what money, and every
year it increases. Yes, yes, he's rich enough to live in a finer house
than this: but he's very near--close-handed; and, if he had meant to flit
to Thrushcross Grange, as soon as he heard of a good tenant he could not
have borne to miss the chance of getting a few hundreds more. It is
strange people should be so greedy, when they are alone in the world!'
'He had a son, it seems?'
'Yes, he had one--he is dead.'
'And that young lady, Mrs. Heathcliff, is his widow?'
'Yes.'
'Where did she come from originally?'
'Why, sir, she is my late master's daughter: Catherine Linton was her
maiden name. I nursed her, poor thing! I did wish Mr. Heathcliff would
remove here, and then we might have been together again.'
'What! Catherine Linton?' I exclaimed, astonished. But a minute's
reflection convinced me it was not my ghostly Catherine. 'Then,' I
continued, 'my predecessor's name was Linton?'
'It was.'
'And who is that Earnshaw: Hareton Earnshaw, who lives with Mr.
Heathcliff? Are they relations?'
'No; he is the late Mrs. Linton's nephew.'
'The young lady's cousin, then?'
'Yes; and her husband was her cousin also: one on the mother's, the other
on the father's side: Heathcliff married Mr. Linton's sister.'
'I see the house at Wuthering Heights has "Earnshaw" carved over the
front door. Are they an old family?'
'Very old, sir; and Hareton is the last of them, as our Miss Cathy is of
us--I mean, of the Lintons. Have you been to Wuthering Heights? I beg
pardon for asking; but I should like to hear how she is!'
'Mrs. Heathcliff? she looked very well, and very handsome; yet, I think,
not very happy.'
'Oh dear, I don't wonder! And how did you like the master?'
'A rough fellow, rather, Mrs. Dean. Is not that his character?
'Rough as a saw-edge, and hard as whinstone! The less you meddle with
him the better.'
'He must have had some ups and downs in life to make him such a churl. Do
you know anything of his history?'
'It's a cuckoo's, sir--I know all about it: except where he was born, and
who were his parents, and how he got his money at first. And Hareton has
been cast out like an unfledged dunnock! The unfortunate lad is the only
one in all this parish that does not guess how he has been cheated.'
'Well, Mrs. Dean, it will be a charitable deed to tell me something of my
neighbours: I feel I shall not rest if I go to bed; so be good enough to
sit and chat an hour.'
'Oh, certainly, sir! I'll just fetch a little sewing, and then I'll sit
as long as you please. But you've caught cold: I saw you shivering, and
you must have some gruel to drive it out.'
The worthy woman bustled off, and I crouched nearer the fire; my head
felt hot, and the rest of me chill: moreover, I was excited, almost to a
pitch of foolishness, through my nerves and brain. This caused me to
feel, not uncomfortable, but rather fearful (as I am still) of serious
effects from the incidents of to-day and yesterday. She returned
presently, bringing a smoking basin and a basket of work; and, having
placed the former on the hob, drew in her seat, evidently pleased to find
me so companionable.
Before I came to live here, she commenced--waiting no farther invitation
to her story--I was almost always at Wuthering Heights; because my mother
had nursed Mr. Hindley Earnshaw, that was Hareton's father, and I got
used to playing with the children: I ran errands too, and helped to make
hay, and hung about the farm ready for anything that anybody would set me
to. One fine summer morning--it was the beginning of harvest, I
remember--Mr. Earnshaw, the old master, came down-stairs, dressed for a
journey; and, after he had told Joseph what was to be done during the
day, he turned to Hindley, and Cathy, and me--for I sat eating my
porridge with them--and he said, speaking to his son, 'Now, my bonny man,
I'm going to Liverpool to-day, what shall I bring you? You may choose
what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk there and back:
sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!' Hindley named a fiddle, and
then he asked Miss Cathy; she was hardly six years old, but she could
ride any horse in the stable, and she chose a whip. He did not forget
me; for he had a kind heart, though he was rather severe sometimes. He
promised to bring me a pocketful of apples and pears, and then he kissed
his children, said good-bye, and set off.
It seemed a long while to us all--the three days of his absence--and
often did little Cathy ask when he would be home. Mrs. Earnshaw expected
him by supper-time on the third evening, and she put the meal off hour
after hour; there were no signs of his coming, however, and at last the
children got tired of running down to the gate to look. Then it grew
dark; she would have had them to bed, but they begged sadly to be allowed
to stay up; and, just about eleven o'clock, the door-latch was raised
quietly, and in stepped the master. He threw himself into a chair,
laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was nearly
killed--he would not have such another walk for the three kingdoms.
'And at the end of it to be flighted to death!' he said, opening his
great-coat, which he held bundled up in his arms. 'See here, wife! I
was never so beaten with anything in my life: but you must e'en take it
as a gift of God; though it's as dark almost as if it came from the
devil.'
We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy's head I had a peep at a dirty,
ragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed, its
face looked older than Catherine's; yet when it was set on its feet, it
only stared round, and repeated over and over again some gibberish that
nobody could understand. I was frightened, and Mrs. Earnshaw was ready
to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to
bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to
feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad?
The master tried to explain the matter; but he was really half dead with
fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale
of his seeing it starving, and houseless, and as good as dumb, in the
streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and inquired for its owner.
Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his money and time
being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at
once, than run into vain expenses there: because he was determined he
would not leave it as he found it. Well, the conclusion was, that my
mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr. Earnshaw told me to wash it, and
give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children.
Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till
peace was restored: then, both began searching their father's pockets
for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of fourteen,
but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, crushed to morsels in the
great-coat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she learned the master
had lost her whip in attending on the stranger, showed her humour by
grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing; earning for her pains
a sound blow from her father, to teach her cleaner manners. They
entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room; and
I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hoping it
might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his
voice, it crept to Mr. Earnshaw's door, and there he found it on
quitting his chamber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there; I was
obliged to confess, and in recompense for my cowardice and inhumanity
was sent out of the house.
This was Heathcliff's first introduction to the family. On coming back a
few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual), I
found they had christened him 'Heathcliff': it was the name of a son who
died in childhood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian
and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but Hindley hated
him: and to say the truth I did the same; and we plagued and went on with
him shamefully: for I wasn't reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and
the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged.
He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment:
he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my
pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he
had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance
made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the
poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff
strangely, believing all he said (for that matter, he said precious
little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above Cathy, who
was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite.
So, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; and at
Mrs. Earnshaw's death, which happened in less than two years after, the
young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather than
a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his parent's affections and his
privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries. I
sympathised a while; but when the children fell ill of the measles, and I
had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at once, I changed
my idea. Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he lay at the worst
he would have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose he felt I did a good
deal for him, and he hadn't wit to guess that I was compelled to do it.
However, I will say this, he was the quietest child that ever nurse
watched over. The difference between him and the others forced me to be
less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me terribly: he was as
uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, not gentleness, made him give
little trouble.
He got through, and the doctor affirmed it was in a great measure owing
to me, and praised me for my care. I was vain of his commendations, and
softened towards the being by whose means I earned them, and thus Hindley
lost his last ally: still I couldn't dote on Heathcliff, and I wondered
often what my master saw to admire so much in the sullen boy; who never,
to my recollection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He
was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply insensible; though
knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and conscious he had only
to speak and all the house would be obliged to bend to his wishes. As an
instance, I remember Mr. Earnshaw once bought a couple of colts at the
parish fair, and gave the lads each one. Heathcliff took the handsomest,
but it soon fell lame, and when he discovered it, he said to Hindley--
'You must exchange horses with me: I don't like mine; and if you won't I
shall tell your father of the three thrashings you've given me this week,
and show him my arm, which is black to the shoulder.' Hindley put out
his tongue, and cuffed him over the ears. 'You'd better do it at once,'
he persisted, escaping to the porch (they were in the stable): 'you will
have to: and if I speak of these blows, you'll get them again with
interest.' 'Off, dog!' cried Hindley, threatening him with an iron
weight used for weighing potatoes and hay. 'Throw it,' he replied,
standing still, 'and then I'll tell how you boasted that you would turn
me out of doors as soon as he died, and see whether he will not turn you
out directly.' Hindley threw it, hitting him on the breast, and down he
fell, but staggered up immediately, breathless and white; and, had not I
prevented it, he would have gone just so to the master, and got full
revenge by letting his condition plead for him, intimating who had caused
it. 'Take my colt, Gipsy, then!' said young Earnshaw. 'And I pray that
he may break your neck: take him, and be damned, you beggarly interloper!
and wheedle my father out of all he has: only afterwards show him what
you are, imp of Satan.--And take that, I hope he'll kick out your
brains!'
Heathcliff had gone to loose the beast, and shift it to his own stall; he
was passing behind it, when Hindley finished his speech by knocking him
under its feet, and without stopping to examine whether his hopes were
fulfilled, ran away as fast as he could. I was surprised to witness how
coolly the child gathered himself up, and went on with his intention;
exchanging saddles and all, and then sitting down on a bundle of hay to
overcome the qualm which the violent blow occasioned, before he entered
the house. I persuaded him easily to let me lay the blame of his bruises
on the horse: he minded little what tale was told since he had what he
wanted. He complained so seldom, indeed, of such stirs as these, that I
really thought him not vindictive: I was deceived completely, as you will
hear.
|
null | cliffnotes | Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 6, utilizing the provided context. | chapter 5|chapter 6 | Hindley comes home from college for the funeral, which is bad news, because now he's master of the house. On top of that, he has a wife, Frances, who is ready to help him run the show. Mrs. Dean thinks the wife's a silly nitwit, but her suspicious coughing lets us know she probably won't be around for long anyway. Now that Hindley is boss, things are going to change around Wuthering Heights. When Frances expresses her dislike of Heathcliff, it stokes Hindley's animosity all over again. Hindley decides to start treating his adoptive brother like a servant, reducing him to a farmhand and depriving him of an education. Heathcliff consoles himself with the friendship and love of Catherine. The two of them steer clear of Hindley and spend a lot of time enjoying idyllic childhood activities like romping around on the moors. Having each other makes living with the tyrant Hindley okay. But everything changes when Heathcliff comes home late one night without Catherine. Mrs. Dean demands an explanation, and this is what Heathcliff tells her: Catherine and Heathcliff had decided it would be fun to go spy on the Linton family down at Thrushcross Grange. Peering into the house, they see that it is everything Wuthering Heights is not: colorful, bright, and well-lit . Catherine and Heathcliff see the Linton children--Edgar and Isabella--fighting over a dog. Catherine and Heathcliff can't imagine this--they are much too in love and have other things to worry about, like a drunken sot of a guardian. When the Linton children detect the intruders, Catherine and Heathcliff try to make a run for it, but another dog, Skulker, gets her. The kids are dragged into Thrushcross Grange by a servant, and Heathcliff is subjected to a round of insults based on his race and class. He's made to know he is an outsider--a "villain," the "son of fortune teller," "a gipsy," "a Spanish castaway," and so forth. Basically a lot is made of the fact that he has dark skin. Heathcliff is locked out and sent on his way. Catherine remains behind while her wound heals and she is treated like a princess. Now Heathcliff has no one. |
----------CHAPTER 5---------
In the course of time Mr. Earnshaw began to fail. He had been active and
healthy, yet his strength left him suddenly; and when he was confined to
the chimney-corner he grew grievously irritable. A nothing vexed him;
and suspected slights of his authority nearly threw him into fits. This
was especially to be remarked if any one attempted to impose upon, or
domineer over, his favourite: he was painfully jealous lest a word
should be spoken amiss to him; seeming to have got into his head the
notion that, because he liked Heathcliff, all hated, and longed to do
him an ill-turn. It was a disadvantage to the lad; for the kinder among
us did not wish to fret the master, so we humoured his partiality; and
that humouring was rich nourishment to the child's pride and black
tempers. Still it became in a manner necessary; twice, or thrice,
Hindley's manifestation of scorn, while his father was near, roused the
old man to a fury: he seized his stick to strike him, and shook with
rage that he could not do it.
At last, our curate (we had a curate then who made the living answer by
teaching the little Lintons and Earnshaws, and farming his bit of land
himself) advised that the young man should be sent to college; and Mr.
Earnshaw agreed, though with a heavy spirit, for he said--'Hindley was
nought, and would never thrive as where he wandered.'
I hoped heartily we should have peace now. It hurt me to think the
master should be made uncomfortable by his own good deed. I fancied the
discontent of age and disease arose from his family disagreements; as he
would have it that it did: really, you know, sir, it was in his sinking
frame. We might have got on tolerably, notwithstanding, but for two
people--Miss Cathy, and Joseph, the servant: you saw him, I daresay, up
yonder. He was, and is yet most likely, the wearisomest self-righteous
Pharisee that ever ransacked a Bible to rake the promises to himself and
fling the curses to his neighbours. By his knack of sermonising and
pious discoursing, he contrived to make a great impression on Mr.
Earnshaw; and the more feeble the master became, the more influence he
gained. He was relentless in worrying him about his soul's concerns, and
about ruling his children rigidly. He encouraged him to regard Hindley
as a reprobate; and, night after night, he regularly grumbled out a long
string of tales against Heathcliff and Catherine: always minding to
flatter Earnshaw's weakness by heaping the heaviest blame on the latter.
Certainly she had ways with her such as I never saw a child take up
before; and she put all of us past our patience fifty times and oftener
in a day: from the hour she came down-stairs till the hour she went to
bed, we had not a minute's security that she wouldn't be in mischief. Her
spirits were always at high-water mark, her tongue always going--singing,
laughing, and plaguing everybody who would not do the same. A wild,
wicked slip she was--but she had the bonniest eye, the sweetest smile,
and lightest foot in the parish: and, after all, I believe she meant no
harm; for when once she made you cry in good earnest, it seldom happened
that she would not keep you company, and oblige you to be quiet that you
might comfort her. She was much too fond of Heathcliff. The greatest
punishment we could invent for her was to keep her separate from him: yet
she got chided more than any of us on his account. In play, she liked
exceedingly to act the little mistress; using her hands freely, and
commanding her companions: she did so to me, but I would not bear
slapping and ordering; and so I let her know.
Now, Mr. Earnshaw did not understand jokes from his children: he had
always been strict and grave with them; and Catherine, on her part, had
no idea why her father should be crosser and less patient in his ailing
condition than he was in his prime. His peevish reproofs wakened in her
a naughty delight to provoke him: she was never so happy as when we were
all scolding her at once, and she defying us with her bold, saucy look,
and her ready words; turning Joseph's religious curses into ridicule,
baiting me, and doing just what her father hated most--showing how her
pretended insolence, which he thought real, had more power over
Heathcliff than his kindness: how the boy would do _her_ bidding in
anything, and _his_ only when it suited his own inclination. After
behaving as badly as possible all day, she sometimes came fondling to
make it up at night. 'Nay, Cathy,' the old man would say, 'I cannot love
thee, thou'rt worse than thy brother. Go, say thy prayers, child, and
ask God's pardon. I doubt thy mother and I must rue that we ever reared
thee!' That made her cry, at first; and then being repulsed continually
hardened her, and she laughed if I told her to say she was sorry for her
faults, and beg to be forgiven.
But the hour came, at last, that ended Mr. Earnshaw's troubles on earth.
He died quietly in his chair one October evening, seated by the
fire-side. A high wind blustered round the house, and roared in the
chimney: it sounded wild and stormy, yet it was not cold, and we were all
together--I, a little removed from the hearth, busy at my knitting, and
Joseph reading his Bible near the table (for the servants generally sat
in the house then, after their work was done). Miss Cathy had been sick,
and that made her still; she leant against her father's knee, and
Heathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap. I remember
the master, before he fell into a doze, stroking her bonny hair--it
pleased him rarely to see her gentle--and saying, 'Why canst thou not
always be a good lass, Cathy?' And she turned her face up to his, and
laughed, and answered, 'Why cannot you always be a good man, father?' But
as soon as she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said she
would sing him to sleep. She began singing very low, till his fingers
dropped from hers, and his head sank on his breast. Then I told her to
hush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him. We all kept as mute as
mice a full half-hour, and should have done so longer, only Joseph,
having finished his chapter, got up and said that he must rouse the
master for prayers and bed. He stepped forward, and called him by name,
and touched his shoulder; but he would not move: so he took the candle
and looked at him. I thought there was something wrong as he set down
the light; and seizing the children each by an arm, whispered them to
'frame up-stairs, and make little din--they might pray alone that
evening--he had summut to do.'
'I shall bid father good-night first,' said Catherine, putting her arms
round his neck, before we could hinder her. The poor thing discovered
her loss directly--she screamed out--'Oh, he's dead, Heathcliff! he's
dead!' And they both set up a heart-breaking cry.
I joined my wail to theirs, loud and bitter; but Joseph asked what we
could be thinking of to roar in that way over a saint in heaven. He told
me to put on my cloak and run to Gimmerton for the doctor and the parson.
I could not guess the use that either would be of, then. However, I
went, through wind and rain, and brought one, the doctor, back with me;
the other said he would come in the morning. Leaving Joseph to explain
matters, I ran to the children's room: their door was ajar, I saw they
had never lain down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer,
and did not need me to console them. The little souls were comforting
each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on: no parson in
the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their
innocent talk; and, while I sobbed and listened, I could not help wishing
we were all there safe together.
----------CHAPTER 6---------
Mr. Hindley came home to the funeral; and--a thing that amazed us, and
set the neighbours gossiping right and left--he brought a wife with him.
What she was, and where she was born, he never informed us: probably, she
had neither money nor name to recommend her, or he would scarcely have
kept the union from his father.
She was not one that would have disturbed the house much on her own
account. Every object she saw, the moment she crossed the threshold,
appeared to delight her; and every circumstance that took place about
her: except the preparing for the burial, and the presence of the
mourners. I thought she was half silly, from her behaviour while that
went on: she ran into her chamber, and made me come with her, though I
should have been dressing the children: and there she sat shivering and
clasping her hands, and asking repeatedly--'Are they gone yet?' Then she
began describing with hysterical emotion the effect it produced on her to
see black; and started, and trembled, and, at last, fell a-weeping--and
when I asked what was the matter, answered, she didn't know; but she felt
so afraid of dying! I imagined her as little likely to die as myself.
She was rather thin, but young, and fresh-complexioned, and her eyes
sparkled as bright as diamonds. I did remark, to be sure, that mounting
the stairs made her breathe very quick; that the least sudden noise set
her all in a quiver, and that she coughed troublesomely sometimes: but I
knew nothing of what these symptoms portended, and had no impulse to
sympathise with her. We don't in general take to foreigners here, Mr.
Lockwood, unless they take to us first.
Young Earnshaw was altered considerably in the three years of his
absence. He had grown sparer, and lost his colour, and spoke and dressed
quite differently; and, on the very day of his return, he told Joseph
and me we must thenceforth quarter ourselves in the back-kitchen, and
leave the house for him. Indeed, he would have carpeted and papered a
small spare room for a parlour; but his wife expressed such pleasure at
the white floor and huge glowing fireplace, at the pewter dishes and
delf-case, and dog-kennel, and the wide space there was to move about in
where they usually sat, that he thought it unnecessary to her comfort,
and so dropped the intention.
She expressed pleasure, too, at finding a sister among her new
acquaintance; and she prattled to Catherine, and kissed her, and ran
about with her, and gave her quantities of presents, at the beginning.
Her affection tired very soon, however, and when she grew peevish,
Hindley became tyrannical. A few words from her, evincing a dislike to
Heathcliff, were enough to rouse in him all his old hatred of the boy. He
drove him from their company to the servants, deprived him of the
instructions of the curate, and insisted that he should labour out of
doors instead; compelling him to do so as hard as any other lad on the
farm.
Heathcliff bore his degradation pretty well at first, because Cathy
taught him what she learnt, and worked or played with him in the fields.
They both promised fair to grow up as rude as savages; the young master
being entirely negligent how they behaved, and what they did, so they
kept clear of him. He would not even have seen after their going to
church on Sundays, only Joseph and the curate reprimanded his
carelessness when they absented themselves; and that reminded him to
order Heathcliff a flogging, and Catherine a fast from dinner or supper.
But it was one of their chief amusements to run away to the moors in the
morning and remain there all day, and the after punishment grew a mere
thing to laugh at. The curate might set as many chapters as he pleased
for Catherine to get by heart, and Joseph might thrash Heathcliff till
his arm ached; they forgot everything the minute they were together
again: at least the minute they had contrived some naughty plan of
revenge; and many a time I've cried to myself to watch them growing more
reckless daily, and I not daring to speak a syllable, for fear of losing
the small power I still retained over the unfriended creatures. One
Sunday evening, it chanced that they were banished from the sitting-room,
for making a noise, or a light offence of the kind; and when I went to
call them to supper, I could discover them nowhere. We searched the
house, above and below, and the yard and stables; they were invisible:
and, at last, Hindley in a passion told us to bolt the doors, and swore
nobody should let them in that night. The household went to bed; and I,
too, anxious to lie down, opened my lattice and put my head out to
hearken, though it rained: determined to admit them in spite of the
prohibition, should they return. In a while, I distinguished steps
coming up the road, and the light of a lantern glimmered through the
gate. I threw a shawl over my head and ran to prevent them from waking
Mr. Earnshaw by knocking. There was Heathcliff, by himself: it gave me a
start to see him alone.
'Where is Miss Catherine?' I cried hurriedly. 'No accident, I hope?' 'At
Thrushcross Grange,' he answered; 'and I would have been there too, but
they had not the manners to ask me to stay.' 'Well, you will catch it!'
I said: 'you'll never be content till you're sent about your business.
What in the world led you wandering to Thrushcross Grange?' 'Let me get
off my wet clothes, and I'll tell you all about it, Nelly,' he replied.
I bid him beware of rousing the master, and while he undressed and I
waited to put out the candle, he continued--'Cathy and I escaped from
the wash-house to have a ramble at liberty, and getting a glimpse of the
Grange lights, we thought we would just go and see whether the Lintons
passed their Sunday evenings standing shivering in corners, while their
father and mother sat eating and drinking, and singing and laughing, and
burning their eyes out before the fire. Do you think they do? Or reading
sermons, and being catechised by their manservant, and set to learn a
column of Scripture names, if they don't answer properly?' 'Probably
not,' I responded. 'They are good children, no doubt, and don't deserve
the treatment you receive, for your bad conduct.' 'Don't cant, Nelly,'
he said: 'nonsense! We ran from the top of the Heights to the park,
without stopping--Catherine completely beaten in the race, because she
was barefoot. You'll have to seek for her shoes in the bog to-morrow. We
crept through a broken hedge, groped our way up the path, and planted
ourselves on a flower-plot under the drawing-room window. The light came
from thence; they had not put up the shutters, and the curtains were
only half closed. Both of us were able to look in by standing on the
basement, and clinging to the ledge, and we saw--ah! it was beautiful--a
splendid place carpeted with crimson, and crimson-covered chairs and
tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered by gold, a shower of
glass-drops hanging in silver chains from the centre, and shimmering
with little soft tapers. Old Mr. and Mrs. Linton were not there; Edgar
and his sisters had it entirely to themselves. Shouldn't they have been
happy? We should have thought ourselves in heaven! And now, guess what
your good children were doing? Isabella--I believe she is eleven, a year
younger than Cathy--lay screaming at the farther end of the room,
shrieking as if witches were running red-hot needles into her. Edgar
stood on the hearth weeping silently, and in the middle of the table sat
a little dog, shaking its paw and yelping; which, from their mutual
accusations, we understood they had nearly pulled in two between them.
The idiots! That was their pleasure! to quarrel who should hold a heap
of warm hair, and each begin to cry because both, after struggling to
get it, refused to take it. We laughed outright at the petted things; we
did despise them! When would you catch me wishing to have what Catherine
wanted? or find us by ourselves, seeking entertainment in yelling, and
sobbing, and rolling on the ground, divided by the whole room? I'd not
exchange, for a thousand lives, my condition here, for Edgar Linton's at
Thrushcross Grange--not if I might have the privilege of flinging Joseph
off the highest gable, and painting the house-front with Hindley's
blood!'
'Hush, hush!' I interrupted. 'Still you have not told me, Heathcliff,
how Catherine is left behind?'
'I told you we laughed,' he answered. 'The Lintons heard us, and with
one accord they shot like arrows to the door; there was silence, and
then a cry, "Oh, mamma, mamma! Oh, papa! Oh, mamma, come here. Oh, papa,
oh!" They really did howl out something in that way. We made frightful
noises to terrify them still more, and then we dropped off the ledge,
because somebody was drawing the bars, and we felt we had better flee. I
had Cathy by the hand, and was urging her on, when all at once she fell
down. "Run, Heathcliff, run!" she whispered. "They have let the bull-dog
loose, and he holds me!" The devil had seized her ankle, Nelly: I heard
his abominable snorting. She did not yell out--no! she would have
scorned to do it, if she had been spitted on the horns of a mad cow. I
did, though: I vociferated curses enough to annihilate any fiend in
Christendom; and I got a stone and thrust it between his jaws, and tried
with all my might to cram it down his throat. A beast of a servant came
up with a lantern, at last, shouting--"Keep fast, Skulker, keep fast!"
He changed his note, however, when he saw Skulker's game. The dog was
throttled off; his huge, purple tongue hanging half a foot out of his
mouth, and his pendent lips streaming with bloody slaver. The man took
Cathy up; she was sick: not from fear, I'm certain, but from pain. He
carried her in; I followed, grumbling execrations and vengeance. "What
prey, Robert?" hallooed Linton from the entrance. "Skulker has caught a
little girl, sir," he replied; "and there's a lad here," he added,
making a clutch at me, "who looks an out-and-outer! Very like the
robbers were for putting them through the window to open the doors to
the gang after all were asleep, that they might murder us at their ease.
Hold your tongue, you foul-mouthed thief, you! you shall go to the
gallows for this. Mr. Linton, sir, don't lay by your gun." "No, no,
Robert," said the old fool. "The rascals knew that yesterday was my
rent-day: they thought to have me cleverly. Come in; I'll furnish them a
reception. There, John, fasten the chain. Give Skulker some water,
Jenny. To beard a magistrate in his stronghold, and on the Sabbath, too!
Where will their insolence stop? Oh, my dear Mary, look here! Don't be
afraid, it is but a boy--yet the villain scowls so plainly in his face;
would it not be a kindness to the country to hang him at once, before he
shows his nature in acts as well as features?" He pulled me under the
chandelier, and Mrs. Linton placed her spectacles on her nose and raised
her hands in horror. The cowardly children crept nearer also, Isabella
lisping--"Frightful thing! Put him in the cellar, papa. He's exactly
like the son of the fortune-teller that stole my tame pheasant. Isn't
he, Edgar?"
'While they examined me, Cathy came round; she heard the last speech, and
laughed. Edgar Linton, after an inquisitive stare, collected sufficient
wit to recognise her. They see us at church, you know, though we seldom
meet them elsewhere. "That's Miss Earnshaw?" he whispered to his mother,
"and look how Skulker has bitten her--how her foot bleeds!"
'"Miss Earnshaw? Nonsense!" cried the dame; "Miss Earnshaw scouring the
country with a gipsy! And yet, my dear, the child is in mourning--surely
it is--and she may be lamed for life!"
'"What culpable carelessness in her brother!" exclaimed Mr. Linton,
turning from me to Catherine. "I've understood from Shielders"' (that
was the curate, sir) '"that he lets her grow up in absolute heathenism.
But who is this? Where did she pick up this companion? Oho! I declare
he is that strange acquisition my late neighbour made, in his journey to
Liverpool--a little Lascar, or an American or Spanish castaway."
'"A wicked boy, at all events," remarked the old lady, "and quite unfit
for a decent house! Did you notice his language, Linton? I'm shocked
that my children should have heard it."
'I recommenced cursing--don't be angry, Nelly--and so Robert was ordered
to take me off. I refused to go without Cathy; he dragged me into the
garden, pushed the lantern into my hand, assured me that Mr. Earnshaw
should be informed of my behaviour, and, bidding me march directly,
secured the door again. The curtains were still looped up at one corner,
and I resumed my station as spy; because, if Catherine had wished to
return, I intended shattering their great glass panes to a million of
fragments, unless they let her out. She sat on the sofa quietly. Mrs.
Linton took off the grey cloak of the dairy-maid which we had borrowed
for our excursion, shaking her head and expostulating with her, I
suppose: she was a young lady, and they made a distinction between her
treatment and mine. Then the woman-servant brought a basin of warm
water, and washed her feet; and Mr. Linton mixed a tumbler of negus, and
Isabella emptied a plateful of cakes into her lap, and Edgar stood gaping
at a distance. Afterwards, they dried and combed her beautiful hair, and
gave her a pair of enormous slippers, and wheeled her to the fire; and I
left her, as merry as she could be, dividing her food between the little
dog and Skulker, whose nose she pinched as he ate; and kindling a spark
of spirit in the vacant blue eyes of the Lintons--a dim reflection from
her own enchanting face. I saw they were full of stupid admiration; she
is so immeasurably superior to them--to everybody on earth, is she not,
Nelly?'
'There will more come of this business than you reckon on,' I answered,
covering him up and extinguishing the light. 'You are incurable,
Heathcliff; and Mr. Hindley will have to proceed to extremities, see if
he won't.' My words came truer than I desired. The luckless adventure
made Earnshaw furious. And then Mr. Linton, to mend matters, paid us a
visit himself on the morrow, and read the young master such a lecture on
the road he guided his family, that he was stirred to look about him, in
earnest. Heathcliff received no flogging, but he was told that the first
word he spoke to Miss Catherine should ensure a dismissal; and Mrs.
Earnshaw undertook to keep her sister-in-law in due restraint when she
returned home; employing art, not force: with force she would have found
it impossible.
|
null | cliffnotes | Generate a succinct summary for chapter 19 with the given context. | chapter 16|chapter 19 | Edgar sends a letter from London announcing that Isabella is dead and that he will be returning with her son, Linton Heathcliff. They finally arrive, and Cathy excitedly meets her cousin, a "pale, delicate, effeminate boy" . Joseph comes down from the Heights to take Linton home to his father. Edgar feels terrible, because he had promised Isabella that he would watch over her son. But he has no choice--Heathcliff is the boy's father, after all. Edgar tells him the boy will come to the Heights the next day. |
----------CHAPTER 16---------
About twelve o'clock that night was born the Catherine you saw at
Wuthering Heights: a puny, seven-months' child; and two hours after the
mother died, having never recovered sufficient consciousness to miss
Heathcliff, or know Edgar. The latter's distraction at his bereavement
is a subject too painful to be dwelt on; its after-effects showed how
deep the sorrow sunk. A great addition, in my eyes, was his being left
without an heir. I bemoaned that, as I gazed on the feeble orphan; and I
mentally abused old Linton for (what was only natural partiality) the
securing his estate to his own daughter, instead of his son's. An
unwelcomed infant it was, poor thing! It might have wailed out of life,
and nobody cared a morsel, during those first hours of existence. We
redeemed the neglect afterwards; but its beginning was as friendless as
its end is likely to be.
Next morning--bright and cheerful out of doors--stole softened in through
the blinds of the silent room, and suffused the couch and its occupant
with a mellow, tender glow. Edgar Linton had his head laid on the
pillow, and his eyes shut. His young and fair features were almost as
deathlike as those of the form beside him, and almost as fixed: but _his_
was the hush of exhausted anguish, and _hers_ of perfect peace. Her brow
smooth, her lids closed, her lips wearing the expression of a smile; no
angel in heaven could be more beautiful than she appeared. And I partook
of the infinite calm in which she lay: my mind was never in a holier
frame than while I gazed on that untroubled image of Divine rest. I
instinctively echoed the words she had uttered a few hours before:
'Incomparably beyond and above us all! Whether still on earth or now in
heaven, her spirit is at home with God!'
I don't know if it be a peculiarity in me, but I am seldom otherwise than
happy while watching in the chamber of death, should no frenzied or
despairing mourner share the duty with me. I see a repose that neither
earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the endless and
shadowless hereafter--the Eternity they have entered--where life is
boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in its
fulness. I noticed on that occasion how much selfishness there is even
in a love like Mr. Linton's, when he so regretted Catherine's blessed
release! To be sure, one might have doubted, after the wayward and
impatient existence she had led, whether she merited a haven of peace at
last. One might doubt in seasons of cold reflection; but not then, in
the presence of her corpse. It asserted its own tranquillity, which
seemed a pledge of equal quiet to its former inhabitant.
Do you believe such people are happy in the other world, sir? I'd give a
great deal to know.
I declined answering Mrs. Dean's question, which struck me as something
heterodox. She proceeded:
Retracing the course of Catherine Linton, I fear we have no right to
think she is; but we'll leave her with her Maker.
The master looked asleep, and I ventured soon after sunrise to quit the
room and steal out to the pure refreshing air. The servants thought me
gone to shake off the drowsiness of my protracted watch; in reality, my
chief motive was seeing Mr. Heathcliff. If he had remained among the
larches all night, he would have heard nothing of the stir at the Grange;
unless, perhaps, he might catch the gallop of the messenger going to
Gimmerton. If he had come nearer, he would probably be aware, from the
lights flitting to and fro, and the opening and shutting of the outer
doors, that all was not right within. I wished, yet feared, to find him.
I felt the terrible news must be told, and I longed to get it over; but
how to do it I did not know. He was there--at least, a few yards further
in the park; leant against an old ash-tree, his hat off, and his hair
soaked with the dew that had gathered on the budded branches, and fell
pattering round him. He had been standing a long time in that position,
for I saw a pair of ousels passing and repassing scarcely three feet from
him, busy in building their nest, and regarding his proximity no more
than that of a piece of timber. They flew off at my approach, and he
raised his eyes and spoke:--'She's dead!' he said; 'I've not waited for
you to learn that. Put your handkerchief away--don't snivel before me.
Damn you all! she wants none of your tears!'
I was weeping as much for him as her: we do sometimes pity creatures that
have none of the feeling either for themselves or others. When I first
looked into his face, I perceived that he had got intelligence of the
catastrophe; and a foolish notion struck me that his heart was quelled
and he prayed, because his lips moved and his gaze was bent on the
ground.
'Yes, she's dead!' I answered, checking my sobs and drying my cheeks.
'Gone to heaven, I hope; where we may, every one, join her, if we take
due warning and leave our evil ways to follow good!'
'Did _she_ take due warning, then?' asked Heathcliff, attempting a sneer.
'Did she die like a saint? Come, give me a true history of the event.
How did--?'
He endeavoured to pronounce the name, but could not manage it; and
compressing his mouth he held a silent combat with his inward agony,
defying, meanwhile, my sympathy with an unflinching, ferocious stare.
'How did she die?' he resumed, at last--fain, notwithstanding his
hardihood, to have a support behind him; for, after the struggle, he
trembled, in spite of himself, to his very finger-ends.
'Poor wretch!' I thought; 'you have a heart and nerves the same as your
brother men! Why should you be anxious to conceal them? Your pride
cannot blind God! You tempt him to wring them, till he forces a cry of
humiliation.'
'Quietly as a lamb!' I answered, aloud. 'She drew a sigh, and stretched
herself, like a child reviving, and sinking again to sleep; and five
minutes after I felt one little pulse at her heart, and nothing more!'
'And--did she ever mention me?' he asked, hesitating, as if he dreaded
the answer to his question would introduce details that he could not bear
to hear.
'Her senses never returned: she recognised nobody from the time you left
her,' I said. 'She lies with a sweet smile on her face; and her latest
ideas wandered back to pleasant early days. Her life closed in a gentle
dream--may she wake as kindly in the other world!'
'May she wake in torment!' he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping
his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion.
'Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not _there_--not in
heaven--not perished--where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my
sufferings! And I pray one prayer--I repeat it till my tongue
stiffens--Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living;
you said I killed you--haunt me, then! The murdered _do_ haunt their
murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts _have_ wandered on earth. Be
with me always--take any form--drive me mad! only _do_ not leave me in
this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I
_cannot_ live without my life! I _cannot_ live without my soul!'
He dashed his head against the knotted trunk; and, lifting up his eyes,
howled, not like a man, but like a savage beast being goaded to death
with knives and spears. I observed several splashes of blood about the
bark of the tree, and his hand and forehead were both stained; probably
the scene I witnessed was a repetition of others acted during the night.
It hardly moved my compassion--it appalled me: still, I felt reluctant to
quit him so. But the moment he recollected himself enough to notice me
watching, he thundered a command for me to go, and I obeyed. He was
beyond my skill to quiet or console!
Mrs. Linton's funeral was appointed to take place on the Friday following
her decease; and till then her coffin remained uncovered, and strewn with
flowers and scented leaves, in the great drawing-room. Linton spent his
days and nights there, a sleepless guardian; and--a circumstance
concealed from all but me--Heathcliff spent his nights, at least,
outside, equally a stranger to repose. I held no communication with him:
still, I was conscious of his design to enter, if he could; and on the
Tuesday, a little after dark, when my master, from sheer fatigue, had
been compelled to retire a couple of hours, I went and opened one of the
windows; moved by his perseverance to give him a chance of bestowing on
the faded image of his idol one final adieu. He did not omit to avail
himself of the opportunity, cautiously and briefly; too cautiously to
betray his presence by the slightest noise. Indeed, I shouldn't have
discovered that he had been there, except for the disarrangement of the
drapery about the corpse's face, and for observing on the floor a curl of
light hair, fastened with a silver thread; which, on examination, I
ascertained to have been taken from a locket hung round Catherine's neck.
Heathcliff had opened the trinket and cast out its contents, replacing
them by a black lock of his own. I twisted the two, and enclosed them
together.
Mr. Earnshaw was, of course, invited to attend the remains of his sister
to the grave; he sent no excuse, but he never came; so that, besides her
husband, the mourners were wholly composed of tenants and servants.
Isabella was not asked.
The place of Catherine's interment, to the surprise of the villagers, was
neither in the chapel under the carved monument of the Lintons, nor yet
by the tombs of her own relations, outside. It was dug on a green slope
in a corner of the kirk-yard, where the wall is so low that heath and
bilberry-plants have climbed over it from the moor; and peat-mould almost
buries it. Her husband lies in the same spot now; and they have each a
simple headstone above, and a plain grey block at their feet, to mark the
graves.
----------CHAPTER 19---------
A letter, edged with black, announced the day of my master's return.
Isabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me get mourning for his daughter,
and arrange a room, and other accommodations, for his youthful nephew.
Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming her father back; and
indulged most sanguine anticipations of the innumerable excellencies of
her 'real' cousin. The evening of their expected arrival came. Since
early morning she had been busy ordering her own small affairs; and now
attired in her new black frock--poor thing! her aunt's death impressed
her with no definite sorrow--she obliged me, by constant worrying, to
walk with her down through the grounds to meet them.
'Linton is just six months younger than I am,' she chattered, as we
strolled leisurely over the swells and hollows of mossy turf, under
shadow of the trees. 'How delightful it will be to have him for a
playfellow! Aunt Isabella sent papa a beautiful lock of his hair; it was
lighter than mine--more flaxen, and quite as fine. I have it carefully
preserved in a little glass box; and I've often thought what a pleasure
it would be to see its owner. Oh! I am happy--and papa, dear, dear papa!
Come, Ellen, let us run! come, run.'
She ran, and returned and ran again, many times before my sober footsteps
reached the gate, and then she seated herself on the grassy bank beside
the path, and tried to wait patiently; but that was impossible: she
couldn't be still a minute.
'How long they are!' she exclaimed. 'Ah, I see, some dust on the
road--they are coming! No! When will they be here? May we not go a
little way--half a mile, Ellen, only just half a mile? Do say Yes: to
that clump of birches at the turn!'
I refused staunchly. At length her suspense was ended: the travelling
carriage rolled in sight. Miss Cathy shrieked and stretched out her arms
as soon as she caught her father's face looking from the window. He
descended, nearly as eager as herself; and a considerable interval
elapsed ere they had a thought to spare for any but themselves. While
they exchanged caresses I took a peep in to see after Linton. He was
asleep in a corner, wrapped in a warm, fur-lined cloak, as if it had been
winter. A pale, delicate, effeminate boy, who might have been taken for
my master's younger brother, so strong was the resemblance: but there was
a sickly peevishness in his aspect that Edgar Linton never had. The
latter saw me looking; and having shaken hands, advised me to close the
door, and leave him undisturbed; for the journey had fatigued him. Cathy
would fain have taken one glance, but her father told her to come, and
they walked together up the park, while I hastened before to prepare the
servants.
'Now, darling,' said Mr. Linton, addressing his daughter, as they halted
at the bottom of the front steps: 'your cousin is not so strong or so
merry as you are, and he has lost his mother, remember, a very short time
since; therefore, don't expect him to play and run about with you
directly. And don't harass him much by talking: let him be quiet this
evening, at least, will you?'
'Yes, yes, papa,' answered Catherine: 'but I do want to see him; and he
hasn't once looked out.'
The carriage stopped; and the sleeper being roused, was lifted to the
ground by his uncle.
'This is your cousin Cathy, Linton,' he said, putting their little hands
together. 'She's fond of you already; and mind you don't grieve her by
crying to-night. Try to be cheerful now; the travelling is at an end,
and you have nothing to do but rest and amuse yourself as you please.'
'Let me go to bed, then,' answered the boy, shrinking from Catherine's
salute; and he put his fingers to remove incipient tears.
'Come, come, there's a good child,' I whispered, leading him in. 'You'll
make her weep too--see how sorry she is for you!'
I do not know whether it was sorrow for him, but his cousin put on as sad
a countenance as himself, and returned to her father. All three entered,
and mounted to the library, where tea was laid ready. I proceeded to
remove Linton's cap and mantle, and placed him on a chair by the table;
but he was no sooner seated than he began to cry afresh. My master
inquired what was the matter.
'I can't sit on a chair,' sobbed the boy.
'Go to the sofa, then, and Ellen shall bring you some tea,' answered his
uncle patiently.
He had been greatly tried, during the journey, I felt convinced, by his
fretful ailing charge. Linton slowly trailed himself off, and lay down.
Cathy carried a footstool and her cup to his side. At first she sat
silent; but that could not last: she had resolved to make a pet of her
little cousin, as she would have him to be; and she commenced stroking
his curls, and kissing his cheek, and offering him tea in her saucer,
like a baby. This pleased him, for he was not much better: he dried his
eyes, and lightened into a faint smile.
'Oh, he'll do very well,' said the master to me, after watching them a
minute. 'Very well, if we can keep him, Ellen. The company of a child
of his own age will instil new spirit into him soon, and by wishing for
strength he'll gain it.'
'Ay, if we can keep him!' I mused to myself; and sore misgivings came
over me that there was slight hope of that. And then, I thought, how
ever will that weakling live at Wuthering Heights? Between his father
and Hareton, what playmates and instructors they'll be. Our doubts were
presently decided--even earlier than I expected. I had just taken the
children up-stairs, after tea was finished, and seen Linton asleep--he
would not suffer me to leave him till that was the case--I had come down,
and was standing by the table in the hall, lighting a bedroom candle for
Mr. Edgar, when a maid stepped out of the kitchen and informed me that
Mr. Heathcliff's servant Joseph was at the door, and wished to speak with
the master.
'I shall ask him what he wants first,' I said, in considerable
trepidation. 'A very unlikely hour to be troubling people, and the
instant they have returned from a long journey. I don't think the master
can see him.'
Joseph had advanced through the kitchen as I uttered these words, and now
presented himself in the hall. He was donned in his Sunday garments,
with his most sanctimonious and sourest face, and, holding his hat in one
hand, and his stick in the other, he proceeded to clean his shoes on the
mat.
'Good-evening, Joseph,' I said, coldly. 'What business brings you here
to-night?'
'It's Maister Linton I mun spake to,' he answered, waving me disdainfully
aside.
'Mr. Linton is going to bed; unless you have something particular to say,
I'm sure he won't hear it now,' I continued. 'You had better sit down in
there, and entrust your message to me.'
'Which is his rahm?' pursued the fellow, surveying the range of closed
doors.
I perceived he was bent on refusing my mediation, so very reluctantly I
went up to the library, and announced the unseasonable visitor, advising
that he should be dismissed till next day. Mr. Linton had no time to
empower me to do so, for Joseph mounted close at my heels, and, pushing
into the apartment, planted himself at the far side of the table, with
his two fists clapped on the head of his stick, and began in an elevated
tone, as if anticipating opposition--
'Hathecliff has sent me for his lad, and I munn't goa back 'bout him.'
Edgar Linton was silent a minute; an expression of exceeding sorrow
overcast his features: he would have pitied the child on his own account;
but, recalling Isabella's hopes and fears, and anxious wishes for her
son, and her commendations of him to his care, he grieved bitterly at the
prospect of yielding him up, and searched in his heart how it might be
avoided. No plan offered itself: the very exhibition of any desire to
keep him would have rendered the claimant more peremptory: there was
nothing left but to resign him. However, he was not going to rouse him
from his sleep.
'Tell Mr. Heathcliff,' he answered calmly, 'that his son shall come to
Wuthering Heights to-morrow. He is in bed, and too tired to go the
distance now. You may also tell him that the mother of Linton desired
him to remain under my guardianship; and, at present, his health is very
precarious.'
'Noa!' said Joseph, giving a thud with his prop on the floor, and
assuming an authoritative air. 'Noa! that means naught. Hathecliff maks
noa 'count o' t' mother, nor ye norther; but he'll heu' his lad; und I
mun tak' him--soa now ye knaw!'
'You shall not to-night!' answered Linton decisively. 'Walk down stairs
at once, and repeat to your master what I have said. Ellen, show him
down. Go--'
And, aiding the indignant elder with a lift by the arm, he rid the room
of him and closed the door.
'Varrah weell!' shouted Joseph, as he slowly drew off. 'To-morn, he's
come hisseln, and thrust _him_ out, if ye darr!'
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Subsets and Splits